have a share in a—little deal some friends of mine are interested in. I
need hardly tell you it’s all fair and above-board, or of course _I_
shouldn’t have anything to do with it. Still—” he dropped his voice.
“Naturally, anything I say remains strictly between the two of us.”
“Of course,” said Peter.
“It’s like this,” went on Rawlings. “I, we, happen to know that there
will shortly be a big demand for a certain article.” Encouraged by
Peter’s non-committal attitude, he waxed confidential. “I may as well
tell you what the article is. It’s overcoats.”
“Overcoats?”
“Yes. For Kitchener’s Army. You know, I presume, that owing to shortage
of dye, there has been a delay in the deliveries of khaki. A very
serious delay. So the men are to be provided, as a temporary expedient,
with civilian great-coats. Ready-made. Do you follow me so far?”
“Perfectly,” said Peter stiffly. The other, had he been looking, might
have noticed a dangerous quietness in his brother-in-law’s attitude.
“Now I, we, have an option on ten thousand of these overcoats. There are
four of us in the deal so far. The coats work out, for cash, at fifteen
shillings. . . . The War Office is paying twenty-five. That”—the voice
became unctuous—“means a profit of. . . .”
“Five thousand pounds,” snapped Peter. For a moment, old habits asserted
themselves; he was tempted. A thousand more for Nirvana! Then all the
emotions of four weeks blazed into cold flame. He got up from his chair,
eyes black with rage; controlled himself in time; and said slowly:—
“Don’t slam the door as you go out, Rawlings.”
“But surely . . .” began the other.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Damn your eyes, will you get out of this office before I throw you out?
. . .”
Rawlings went.
§ 6
Two nights later—at the very moment when the Beasts in Gray, muttering
“_Grosses Malheur_” as they shuffled through darkling towns, were
reeling back to the Aisne before the Armies of France and a handful of
Englishmen—Peter Jameson and his wife sat over their coffee in the
drawing-room at Lowndes Square.
All through dinner, he had been absorbed and reticent. Now, he put down
his empty cup on the little table by the side of his armchair; took a
long pull at his cigar; began to speak. For a month she had watched him;
speculated about him; hoped; doubted; realized his difficulties. But she
had given no hint of her feelings: this was a matter for a man’s own
conscience; no woman, not even his wife, possessed the right to
influence him.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Yes, dear.” A little of what he must say, she knew. Her eyes kindled to
the prospect of it.
“Pat,” he began, “I don’t think I can keep out of this thing any longer.
It wouldn’t be”—he fumbled for the expression—“quite playing the game.
But if I go, there are risks. . . .”
“Naturally.” She schooled her voice to calmness.
“I don’t mean those sort of risks. If anything happened to me, the
Insurance would be paid. I went round to see the Phoenix People about
that this morning.” Unaccountably, the reasonableness of the view
irritated her. “I mean business risks. To begin with, there’s the
factory.”
He began to talk about Nirvana; tried to show her only the financial
position. His personal feelings, he felt, must not be allowed to
complicate a simple issue. But the intonation of his voice betrayed the
feelings behind it; and she realized, for the first time, how much
Nirvana meant to him.
“You would hate to give it up,” she interrupted.
“It would be rather,” he hesitated for a moment, “a wrench. Still I’ve
discounted that. Of course, the whole thing’s a gamble. But I’m not
going to quit yet. After all, I shan’t go out for some time. Meanwhile,
I can keep in touch. Only I won’t put any more capital in. If Reid and
Bramson between them—I saw Reid yesterday and he’ll do his best—can
manage to keep her going: well and good. If not, we must cut our
losses.”
“Will they be very heavy?”
“They might be. But that isn’t all. . . .”
“Oh, what do you care about losses?” her heart cried out in her. “He’s
going. He’s a _man_. What else matters?” And then, suddenly, fear held
her, battling down reason, patriotism, pride, everything except
itself. . . .
But the man’s voice went on talking—coolly, logically, impersonally.
That he was voicing the spirit of a great sacrifice, that Patricia
realized the sacrifice, loved him for it, that the “pal” he had known
for eight years existed no longer, had become at a word his mate, his
woman to do with as he would—these things were hidden both then and for
long after from Peter Jameson, cigar merchant. . . .
“So you see,” he said, summing up the case as he saw it, “it means a big
risk. If the factory goes down, if Jameson’s business doesn’t improve,
if Simpson won’t renew the partnership agreement in January, if one or
any of these things happen, it might mean giving up this house. . . .”
Inwardly, the bathos of it made her laugh. If he could give up so much,
surely she could give up her little. Reason and the training of years
came to her aid. To him, she was still the pal, only the pal. Nothing
more than that!
“I quite follow, dear,” she said.
“But we won’t consider the black side, old thing. Don’t let’s panic. The
War may be over by Christmas. Till then, we’ll carry on just as we are.
I shan’t even get rid of the motor.”
Now that the awkward task of putting the position before his wife was
over, optimism held him. For a moment, the sense of having done the
right thing blurred his business judgment.
“You’re a topping pal, Pat,” he said to her as they kissed
good-night. . . . But Patricia, waking to the first shimmer of dawn
through the chinks of the silk curtains, felt herself, for the first
time, woman indeed. For now she loved him, utterly, beyond friendship:
and lying there, quite still in her own narrow bed, she vowed this new
love to his service in whatsoever guise he most should need it. . . .
§ 7
“The whole thing’s a farce, Pat.”
It was already three weeks since Peter had been promised his commission;
two since his “kit” had been delivered from his tailors.
Outwardly the situation between husband and wife had not altered. Reason
told her that this new love she felt for him could win its reward only
by patience. And she needed all her patience those days. Disorganization
held no humour for Peter Jameson. His patriotism, if it could have found
expression, would have vented itself in few words: “There’s a job to be
done. A rotten job. Let’s do it, and get back to our businesses.” He was
still—in the intervals of importuning the War Office—running those
businesses; hearing telephoned reports; suggesting this, vetoing that.
But more than a fraction of the old-time keenness had evaporated. The
blind spirit of War had caught him, was carrying him onwards. . . .
He walked over to the bureau between the windows; picked out a
telegraph-form from the racked paper-holder; began to write.
She looked at him across the breakfast-débris—calm, golden-haired, very
fresh in her white blouse, her blue walking-skirt; guessed, from the
bent back, the concentration in his taut brain. Looking, love leaped
into her dark eyes, moistening them.
“I think this’ll do,” he said, turning so suddenly that she scarcely had
time to drop her lashes: “_Colonel Thompson. Room 154. War Office.
Reference our recent interview am now ready and shall be glad of
instructions to report for duty. Reply paid. Jameson. 22a, Lowndes
Square, W._”
“You can’t send that,” said Patricia.
“Can’t I?” He rang for Smith, gave instructions for immediate dispatch
of the wire.
§ 8
Patricia, coming in from her afternoon walk with the children, found a
tawny envelope on the hall table. The telegram was addressed “Jameson,”
and she opened it casually; felt her heart stop as though two fingers
had clutched it; heard Primula’s voice: “What’s the matter, Mummy?”
. . .
“Nothing’s the matter, dear,” she said calmly. “You and Evelyn had
better go upstairs to Nanny.”
She watched them, running up the broad stone staircase, out of sight.
Then she read the pencilled message again: “_Report for duty 10th
Chalkshires Shoreham Camp immediately. Thompson. War Office._”
* * * * *
“What a fool I am,” she said to herself. “What a selfish unpatriotic
fool!”
PART SIX
PLAYING AT SOLDIERS
§ 1
Except for the newness of his “Cavalry-cord” tunic and a slight lack of
suppleness in the carefully-browned belt, nothing about the quiet
gray-eyed young man in the otherwise-empty first-class compartment on
the London, Brighton & South Coast Railway betrayed the civilian of a
day ago. The battered valise and an old-fashioned Army basin,
leather-covered—relics of a trip to the East—did not smack of the
newly-joined. Close-cut dark hair, clipped moustaches, correctly-wound
puttees and dubbined shooting-boots, completed the illusion. But Peter
Jameson’s mind had not yet cast off its old allegiances.
Rather, as he whirled Sussexwards, did those discarded problems assume
acuter import. One by one he conned over the arrangements
made—fortnightly reports from Lime Street, weekly statements and a
bi-weekly letter from Bramson, accurate statistics from Reid; wondered
if they might have been improved upon. And speculating on these things,
Peter began to feel—for the first time—the real pang of parting from
Nirvana. It was as though he had cut the main interest out of life; as
if the entity of his creating had died. Symbolically, he seemed to see
his two flashing signs, as they had been before the new lighting
restrictions; “NIRVANA OR NOTHING,” they had blazed. Now, they blazed no
more. Nothing!
He pulled his “Infantry Training” from his pocket; began to study
Battalion Drill. “A battalion in mass. . . .”
But the subconscious mind would not visualize battalions either in mass
or other formations. The mind returned to its old love, refused to be
comforted. The mind did not recall the morning’s partings—with
Patricia, careful to display no emotion,—with the children, excited at
their first vision of “Daddy in khaki.” Instead, it called up figures
from balance-sheets, the factory working at full pressure, that dim-lit
back-office in the City: till gradually, came recollection of Mr.
“Raymond P. Sellers.” . . .
Peter had already posted two of the letters to Prout, visited the
Bloomsbury flat as promised, found everything in order. Only a
photograph, a girl’s photograph, was missing. And that, Peter had not
noticed. But from Francis Gordon himself had come no word. The War
seemed to have swallowed him up, utterly, mysteriously.
So Peter sped on, through the bright countryside, thinking of his
cousin. . . . And at that very moment thousands of miles away, in a
great hotel at Los Angeles, California, a girl said to herself: “Even if
he has gone to the war, it’s mean of him not to write and tell me so.”
She stood at the window for a moment, looking out onto the sunlit lawn.
Till suddenly, the lawn seemed to grow dark. “He can’t have been
killed,” she whispered. “He can’t have been killed.”
It is not easy for “agents in enemy countries” to keep up a regular
correspondence with the young women whose photographs they carry in
their pocket-books!
§ 2
To get from London to Shoreham, you must change trains at Brighton.
Peter used the opportunity to lunch at the Royal York Hotel. Seeing him
alone at a table by the window, Harry Preston, most vigilant of
proprietors, came over; proffered an old brandy in celebration of the
new uniform.
“That’s the Chalkshire badge you’re wearing, isn’t it?” asked Harry
Preston.
“Yes, I’m joining them at Shoreham this afternoon.”
The little man whistled.
“What’s the joke?” queried Peter.
“Not for me to say, of course. But I’ve been doing business with your
firm for some years; and if you’ll take my advice—don’t play cards with
a gentleman named Locksley-Jones.”
“Who’s he?”
“You’ll find out when you get there.”
“Thanks for the hint,” smiled Peter. “Have a cigar, won’t you?”
§ 3
Colonel Andrews, a diffident, not unkindly man of the pre-Boer-War
school, expressionless of face, and stocky of figure, stood talking to
his Adjutant in the recently-occupied camp on the flat fields near
Shoreham Railway Station. Rattled a taxi down the road; stopped at the
gate.
“Another officer, I suppose,” said the Colonel. “Might be a ‘regular’ by
his old valise. You’d better go and look after him. I’m off home for
tea. Send up to the house if you want me for anything.” He strode back
across the parade-ground, through the lines of tents; and disappeared.
Peter acknowledged the salute of a sentry, still in civilian clothes
except for a swagger-cane; paid his taxi; gave instructions for his kit
to be dumped at the guard-tent till further orders.
“That’s the Adjutant, Sir,” said the sentry, pointing to a bow-legged
figure in khaki making his way across the parade-ground towards them.
Peter—saluting although the newcomer only wore the two stars of a full
lieutenant,—saw a pair of puffy eyes under a thatch of sandy hair, two
ears rather full in the lobe, a goodish nose, and a set of bad teeth
between thin lips. “And what can I do for you?” said the other,
carelessly acknowledging the compliment.
“Are you the Adjutant of the 10th Chalkshires?”
“I’m Lieutenant Locksley-Jones, at present acting in that capacity.”
“The deuce you are,” thought Peter; then aloud, “My name’s Jameson. I’ve
been ordered by the War Office to join this battalion.”
“_I_ don’t know anything about you. The W.O. haven’t sent _us_ any
instructions.” Locksley-Jones fingered scraggy moustache doubtfully;
scrutinized the telegram Peter produced.
“All right,” he said. “You’ll have to share a tent with the other
fellows. Meanwhile you’d better come and have some tea. Those are the
officers’ lines,” he pointed to a row of tents by the road, “the men are
over there,” his stick switched across the parade-ground, “and we mess
in this big marquee.”
“I don’t wonder Harry Preston whistled,” thought Peter, as they picked
their way across the tent-ropes to Mess; passed through the deserted
“ante-room” where a red stove glowed welcome, into the main part of the
marquee.
Scattered about in groups at the trestle-tables under the swinging
oil-lamps, little knots of officers sat eating and drinking. Civilian
waiters bustled about, serving them.
“Hello, Adjutant,” exclaimed a tall thin Major, twinkling face
red-veined with port and the open air. “What’s this? Another budding
Napoleon?”
Locksley-Jones introduced Peter deferentially; the Major shook hands;
asked the usual “Done any soldiering before?”; was told “Yes, Sir. Eton
Volunteers”; apologized for talking shop in Mess; and buried his nose in
a large cup of boiling tea.
“Peter Jameson?” he said, emerging. “Let me think. Name sounds familiar
somehow. You’re not Tessa Bradley’s son, by any chance, are you? She
married a man named Jameson.”
“My father, Sir,” said Peter.
“Good Gad,” said Major Fox-Goodwin, “why I was at their wedding.
Thirty-five years ago or I’m a Dutchman. Fancy, little Tessa having a
grown-up son. I say, Jones,—beg pardon, Locksley-Jones. . . .”
“Yes, Major.” The Adjutant was visibly irritated; firstly by his
superior’s reception of the newcomer, secondly at the mistake (which he
knew intentional) in his own name.
“Young Jameson will be posted to my company. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Major.”
“And if he knows his drills, you’re not to put him ‘on the square.’
See?”
“Quite, Major.” The acting adjutant finished his tea hurriedly; went
out.
“Between you and me and the gatepost,” whispered Fox-Goodwin, “Andrews
will make the mistake of his life if he keeps that young bounder in the
Orderly Room much longer.”
Peter nodded comprehension; and the old man—he was, as he informed his
new subaltern, “rising sixty-five”—began to reminisce. He had soldiered
under “Chips” Bradley in the late seventies, or was it the early
eighties? “Damned if he knew, but Chips Bradley had the best eye for a
pretty gal . . . and as for his two daughters, Tessa and Dolores: bit
Jewish-looking though . . . they got that from their mother of course.”
He rambled on for nearly ten minutes; then called across the room.
“Here, Bromley, come and be introduced to our latest.”
Harold Bromley lounged over with the unmistakable gait of the
ex-Cavalryman. A tall unsmiling fellow, heavy-moustached, light-blue of
eye and auburn-haired, who wore the two South African ribbons,
yellow-red-black green-white, across his rather crumpled tunic.
“Leave you two youngsters alone,” announced the Major, introductions
over; and wiping his gray moustache with a brown bandanna handkerchief,
withdrew to the ante-room.
“Marvellous old chap,” commented Bromley. He spoke rather slowly but
without any drawl. “Always reminds me of a character in Thackeray. Do
you read Thackeray?”
“I’m not much of a bookworm,” said Peter; and waited for more
information. He had knocked about the world enough to learn the
advantage of listening much and talking little on first acquaintance.
But his liking for the grave man—whom in spite of the single star on
the shoulders of his high-collared tunic, he judged to be nearly
forty—was instinctive.
“I’m glad you’re coming to ‘B’ Company,” went on Bromley. “The Major’s a
great sport—but he doesn’t know a word of his drill; and now that he’s
acting second-in-command, most of the work falls on myself and the
Sergeant-Major. I suppose you know enough to come on parade right away,
without bothering about recruit-drill.”
“Oh, I think so,” said Peter; and proffered his inevitable cigar-case.
Bromley accepted a cigar; and the two sat talking for a few minutes.
Characteristically, neither spoke of his life before joining the army;
their conversation confined itself to generalities.
“Let’s go into the ante-room,” suggested Bromley.
They found two comfortable basket-chairs near the stove. Locksley-Jones,
returned from the Orderly-room, had established himself at one of the
baize-covered tables, was tearing the wrapper from a fresh pack of
cards. “Care for a game, Jameson?” he called across the room.
Bromley looked sideways at his new friend (the instinctive liking had
been mutual); saw his eyelashes just flicker; heard him say, “No,
thanks, not tonight.” The ante-room began to fill up; grew loud with
talk, hazy with tobacco-smoke. The Adjutant’s rubber soon filled.
Bromley, in a discreet undertone, began pointing out various worthies.
There was Captain Mosely, a great ox of a fellow, ex-Regular
newly-rejoined, who sat by himself in a far corner, writing letters—the
flimsy chair creaking each time he dived for ink (“O. C. ‘D’ Company,”
whispered Bromley): and Simcox who commanded “A”—a fat stockbroker of
forty, looking curiously out of his element among a group of very junior
subalterns. There was Fanshawe (“son of Judge Fanshawe”) beetle-browed,
black-locked, long of leg and short of temper, discussing Military Law
with Bareton, a tall clean-shaven young lawyer, light-haired, stubborn
in temperament, a puritan fanatic with a tendency to dreaming, (“they’re
running ‘C’ between ’em, rather efficient fellows,” confided Bromley):
and Peabody, a brown-faced kid of eighteen, looking the child in his
converted cadet tunic; Arkwright, tall and lank with the unmistakable
stoop of the junior master in an English Public School; Mackenzie, a
round-faced Scotch boy who had been studying for “the Ministry” when war
broke out—and many others. A curious team to be driven by a Colonel of
limited outlook, who had made his first mistake when he decided to live
out of Mess, his second when he confided the acting-Adjutancy to the
astute but unscrupulous Locksley-Jones.
“Care to come round the lines?” asked Bromley. “I usually go about now.”
They found their caps and canes, sauntered out.
§ 4
Already, it was dusk—a chill dry night, moonless. Under the shadows of
the trees in front of them, tents glowed—warm orange cones in the
darkness. Figures passed them as they walked across the dry grass;
touched caps awkwardly; muttered “Good-night, sir.”
Bromley made way towards a light that shone out like an eye from the
open doorway of the first tent. Approaching, Peter saw, under it, a head
in a khaki cap, bowed over an open book. The head lifted to the sound of
their footsteps; the body underneath jerked itself to attention.
“Good-evening, sir,” said Company-Sergeant-Major Gladeney—a fierce
little alert-eyed man with the waxed moustaches of the old-time non-com.
“Evening, Colour Sergeant,” Bromley acknowledged the salute. “May we
come in?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
They stepped over the tent-fly; and were made welcome on two
packing-cases.
“This is Mr. Jameson, one of our new officers, Colour Sergeant”—it must
be explained that Bromley had not yet accustomed himself to the new
title of “Company-Sergeant-Major”—“do you think you can find him a good
servant?”
“I think so, sir. There’s a man here, name of Priestley, who was with us
in South Africa. He ought to take a stripe but he won’t. . . .”
“Knows the game too well, I suppose,” suggested Bromley.
“That’s about the size of things, sir. He’s out now; but if your batman
could look after Mr. Jameson for tonight, I’ll send him over first thing
in the morning.”
“Very well, Colour Sergeant. How are the boys?”
“All right, sir. They’re shaking down pretty well.” He relaxed a little,
put a match to his pipe. “Wonderful thing to me, sir, how they put up
with things. Those boots you bought in Brighton were a God-send, sir.
They may be able to march now. Before, half of them couldn’t do more
than hobble. And tomorrow we’ll be serving out the new uniforms.”
“What, khaki?” interrupted Peter.
“No, sir. Workhouse stuff, sir—at least that’s what they look like to
me. Blue slops and forage-caps for the most part. And a few of our old
militia uniforms.”
“Not the old scarlet-runners.” This from Bromley.
“The identical, sir, with the old white facings. Don’t know what they’ll
look like when we get ’em dressed up, sir. But it’ll be better than
their civvies anyway.” He patted his own be-ribboned khaki tunic, pulled
hard at his pipe.
“Any need for me to go round the lines, Colour Sergeant?”
“I don’t think so, sir. Mr. Fanshawe is Orderly Officer tonight.”
Bromley got up; said “Thank you, Colour Sergeant. I think that will be
all then”; acknowledged Gladeney’s salute, and stepped back into the
darkness. Peter followed.
Walking back, Bromley linked arms; said, “Look here, old chap, you’d
better come into my tent tonight. I’m a quiet old stick—but you’ll find
the kids a bit trying.”
§ 5
So began a real friendship.
Began too, for Peter Jameson, a new life—the life which every untrained
gentleman of the Empire who could spoof a recruiting doctor into passing
him young enough or fit enough for service, was then living. A life
neither of comfort nor—as many wrote and made much money by their
writing—of good humour. A life of adults gone back to the irritation of
school: save that for school-house they had sodden camps; for
dining-hall, a draughty tent where fleecing contractors served half-cold
meals; for schoolmasters, the incompetence of brave fellows wrongly
employed.
But neither Peter nor Bromley concerned themselves over much, in those
first weeks, with generalities. They realized, none better, that all was
not well with the “Voluntary System,” with the Chalkshires; that
Locksley-Jones’ influence with their Colonel continued to grow, that his
pernicious example had already affected the junior officers. They
realized—and went on with their work. For them, as for Fanshawe and
Bareton in “C” Company, nothing save their men existed. And for every
minute they lavished on their men, their men repaid them a hundredfold.
Those _men_! For, of the officers, one does not write. The
well-educated, the well-off, the comfortable classes, must needs defend
the country from which they draw their riches and their education: and
he who did not do so—voluntarily, without compulsion or fear of
compulsion—whatever his fancied responsibilities to his profession, to
his businesses, to his housen, to his women or his children, is surely
anathema maran atha, the moral leper, the pariah among his kind.