OF LABOUR AND PROMOTION
The months went by quickly enough, as David Linton and his daughter
settled down to their work at the Home for Tired People. As the place
became more widely known they had rarely an empty room. The boys’
regiment sent them many a wearied officer, too fagged in mind and body
to enjoy his leave: the hospitals kept up a constant supply of
convalescent and maimed patients; and there was a steady stream of
Australians of all ranks, who came, homesick for their own land, and
found a little corner of it planted in the heart of Surrey. Gradually,
as the Lintons realized the full extent of the homesickness of the lads
from overseas, Homewood became more and more Australian in details.
Pictures from every State appeared on the walls: aboriginal weapons and
curiosities, woven grass mats from the natives of Queensland,
Australian books and magazines and papers—all were scattered about the
house. They filled vases with blue-gum leaves and golden wattle-blossom
from the South of France: Norah even discovered a flowering boronia in
a Kew nurseryman’s greenhouse and carried it off in triumph, to scent
the house with the unforgettable delight of its perfume. She never
afterwards saw a boronia without recalling the bewilderment of her
fellow-travellers in the railway carriage at her exquisitely-scented
burden.
“You should have seen their wondering noses, Dad!” said Norah,
chuckling.
No one, of course, stayed very long at Homewood, unless he were
hopelessly unfit. From ten days to three weeks was the average stay:
then, like ships that pass in the night, the “Once-Tireds,” drifted
away. But very few forgot them. Little notes came from the Fronts, in
green Active Service envelopes: postcards from Mediterranean ports;
letters from East and West Africa; grateful letters from wives in
garrison stations and training camps throughout the British Isles. They
accumulated an extraordinary collection of photographs in uniform; and
Norah had an autograph book with scrawled signatures, peculiar drawings
and an occasional scrap of very bad verse.
Major Hunt, his hand fully recovered, returned to the Front in
February, and his wife prepared to seek another home. But the Lintons
flatly refused to let her go.
“We couldn’t do it,” said David Linton. “Doesn’t the place agree with
the babies?”
“Oh, you know it does,” said Mrs. Hunt. “But we have already kept the
cottage far too long—there are other people.”
“Not for that cottage,” Norah said.
“It really isn’t fair,” protested their guest. “Douglas never dreamed
of our staying: if he had not been sent out in such a hurry at the last
he would have moved us himself.”
David Linton looked at her for a moment.
“Go and play with the babies, Norah,” he said. “I want to talk to this
obstinate person.”
“Now look, Mrs. Hunt,” he said, as Norah went off, rather
relieved—Norah hated arguments. “You know we run this place for an
ideal—a dead man’s ideal. _He_ wanted more than anything in the world
to help the war; we’re merely carrying on for him. We can only do it by
helping individuals.”
“But you have done that for us. Look at Douglas—strong and fit, with
one hand as good as the other. Think of what he was when he came here!”
“He may not always be fit. And if you stay here you ease his worries by
benefiting his children—and saving for their future. Then, if he has
the bad luck to be wounded again, his house is all ready for him.”
“I know,” she said. “And I would stay, but that there are others who
need it more.”
“Well, we haven’t heard of them. Look at it another way. I am getting
an old man; it worries me a good deal to think that Norah has no woman
to mother her. I used to think,” he said with a sigh, “that it was
worse for them to lose their own mother when they were wee things; now,
I am not sure that Norah’s loss is not just beginning. It’s no small
thing for her to have an influence like yours; and Norah loves you.”
Mrs. Hunt flushed.
“Indeed, I love her,” she said.
“Then stay and mother her. There are ever so many things you can teach
her that I can’t: that Miss de Lisle can’t, good soul as she is.
They’re not things I can put into words—but you’ll understand. I know
she’s clean and wholesome right through, but you can help to mould her
for womanhood. Of course, she left school far too early, but there
seemed no help for it. And if—if bad news comes to us from the
Front—for any of us—we can all help each other.”
Mrs. Hunt thought deeply.
“If you really think I can be of use I will stay,” she said. “I’m not
going to speak of gratitude—I tried to say all that long ago. But
indeed I will do what I can.”
“That’s all right: I’m very glad,” said David Linton.
“And if you really want her taught more,” Mrs. Hunt said—“well, I was a
governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She could
come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris. Her
music, too: she really should practise, with her talent.”
“I’d like it above all things,” exclaimed Mr. Linton. “Norah’s
neglected education has been worrying me badly.”
“We’ll plan it out,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Now I feel much happier.”
Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay at
the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the plan—helped
by the fact that she was always a little afraid of failing to come up
to Jim’s standard. A fear which would considerably have amazed Jim, had
he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit hours of study into her
day. She rose early to practise, before the Tired People were awake;
and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs. Hunt or chattering French,
while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and the babies slept in their
white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr. Linton’s heels, either on Brecon
or afoot. The big Australian squatter and the little English boy had
become great friends: there was something in the tiny lad that recalled
the Jim of long ago, with his well-knit figure and steady eyes.
One man alone, out of all Tired People, had never left Homewood.
For a time after his arrival Philip Hardress had gained steadily in
strength and energy; then a chill had thrown him back, and for months
he sagged downwards; never very ill, but always losing vitality. The
old depression seemed to come back to him tenfold. He could see nothing
good in life: a cripple, a useless cripple. His parents were dead; save
for a brother in Salonica, he was alone in the world. He was always
courteous, always gentle; but a wall of misery seemed to cut him off
from the household.
Then the magnificent physique of the boy asserted itself, and gradually
he grew stronger, and the hacking cough left him. Again it became
possible to tempt him to try to ride. He spent hours in the keen wintry
air, jogging round the fields and lanes with Mr. Linton and Geoffrey,
returning with something of the light in his eyes that had encouraged
Norah in his first morning, long ago.
“I believe all he wants is to get interested in something,” Norah said,
watching him, one day, as he sat on the stone wall of the terrace,
looking across the park. “He was at Oxford before he joined the Army,
wasn’t he, Dad?”
Mr. Linton assented. “His people arranged when he was little that he
should be a barrister. But he hated the idea. His own wish was to go
out to Canada.”
Norah pondered.
“Couldn’t you give him a job on the farm, Dad?”
“I don’t know,” said her father. “I never thought of it. I suppose I
might find him something to do; Hawkins and I will be busy enough
presently.”
“He’s beginning to worry at being here so long,” Norah said. “Of
course, we couldn’t possibly let him go: he isn’t fit for his own
society. I think if you could find him some work he would be more
content.”
So David Linton, after thinking the matter over, took Hardress into his
plans for the farm which was to be the main source of supply for
Homewood. He found him a quick and intelligent helper. The work was
after the boy’s own heart: he surrounded himself with agricultural
books and treaties on fertilizers, made a study of soils, and took
samples of earth from different parts of the farm—to the profound
disgust of Hawkins. War had not done away with all expert agricultural
science in England: Hardress sent his little packets of soil away, and
received them back with advice as to treatment which, later on,
resulted in the yield of the land being doubled—which Hawkins
attributed solely to his own skill as a cultivator. But the cure was
worked in Philip Hardress. The ring of hope came back into his voice:
the “shop-leg” dragged ever so little, as he walked across the park
daily to where the ploughs were turning the grass of the farm fields
into stretches of brown, dotted with white gulls that followed the
horses’ slow plodding up and down. The other guests took up a good deal
of Mr. Linton’s time: he was not sorry to have an overseer, since
Hawkins, while honest and painstaking, was not afflicted with any undue
allowance of brains. Together, in the study at night, they planned out
the farm into little crops. Already much of the land was ready for the
planting, and a model poultry-run built near the house was stocked with
birds; while a flock of sheep grazed in the park, and to the tiny herd
of cows had been added half a dozen pure-bred Jerseys. David Linton had
taken Hardress with him on the trip to buy the stock, and both had
enjoyed it thoroughly.
Meanwhile the boys at the Front sent long and cheery letters almost
daily. Astonishment had come to them almost as soon as they rejoined,
in finding themselves promoted; they gazed at their second stars in
bewilderment which was scarcely lessened by the fact that their friends
in the regiment were not at all surprised.
“Why, didn’t you have a war on your own account in Ireland?” queried
Anstruther. “You got a Boche submarine sunk and caught half the crew,
didn’t you?”
“Well, but that was only a lark!” said Wally.
“You were wounded, anyhow, young Meadows. Of course _we_ know jolly
well you don’t deserve anything, but you can’t expect the War Office to
have our intimate sources of information.” He patted Wally on the back
painfully. “Just be jolly thankful you get more screw, and don’t
grumble. No one’ll ever teach sense to the War Office!”
There was no lack of occupation in their part of the line. They saw a
good deal of fighting, and achieved some reputation as leaders of small
raids: Jim, in particular, having a power of seeing and hearing at
night that had been developed in long years in the Bush—but which
seemed to the Englishmen almost uncanny. There was reason to believe
that the enemy felt even more strongly about it—there was seldom rest
for the weary Boche in the trenches opposite Jim Linton’s section. Some
of his raids were authorized: others were not. It is probable that the
latter variety was more discouraging to the enemy.
Behind the fighting line they were in fairly comfortable billets. The
officers were hardworked: the daily programme of drill and parades was
heavy, and in addition there was the task of keeping the men interested
and fit: no easy matter in the bitter cold of a North France winter.
Jim proved a tower of strength to his company commander, as he had been
to his school. He organized football teams, and taught them the
Australian game: he appealed to his father for aid, and in prompt
response out came cases of boxing-gloves, hockey and lacrosse sets, and
footballs enough to keep every man going. Norah sent a special gift—a
big case of indoor games for wet weather, with a splendid bagatelle
board that made the battalion deeply envied by less fortunate
neighbours: until a German shell disobligingly burst just above it, and
reduced it to fragments. However, Norah’s disgust at the news was so
deep that the Tired People in residence at Homewood at the moment
conspired together, and supplied the battalion with a new board in her
name; and this time it managed to escape destruction.
The battalion had some stiff fighting towards the end of the winter,
and earned a pat on the back from high quarters for its work in
capturing some enemy trenches. But they lost heavily, especially in
officers. Jim’s company commander was killed at his side: the boy went
out at night into No-Man’s Land and brought his body in single-handed,
in grim defiance of the Boche machine-guns. Jim had liked Anstruther:
it was not to be thought of that his body should be dishonoured by the
touch of a Hun. Next day he had a far harder task, for Anstruther had
asked him to write to his mother if he failed to come back. Jim bit his
pen for two hours over that letter, and in his own mind stigmatized it
as “a rotten effort,” after it was finished. But the woman to whom it
carried whatever of comfort was left in the world for her saw no fault
in it. It was worn and frayed with reading when she locked it away with
her dead son’s letters.
Jim found himself a company commander after that day’s fighting—doing
captain’s work without captain’s rank. Wally was his subaltern, an
arrangement rather doubted at first by the Colonel, until he saw that
the chums played the game strictly, and maintained in working hours a
discipline as firm as was their friendship. The men adored them: they
knew their officers shirked neither work nor play, and that they knew
their own limitations—neither Jim nor Wally ever deluded themselves
with the idea that they knew as much as their hard-bitten
non-commissioned officers. But they learned their men by heart, knowing
each one’s nickname and something of his private affairs; losing no
opportunity of talking to them and gaining their confidence, and sizing
them up, as they talked, just as in old days, as captains of the team,
they had learned to size up boys at football. “If I’ve got to go over
the top I want to know what Joe Wilkins and Tiny Judd are doing behind
me,” said Jim.
They had hoped for leave before the spring offensive, but it was
impossible: the battalion was too shorthanded, and the enemy was
endeavouring to be the four-times-armed man who “gets his fist in
fust.” In that early fighting it became necessary to deal with a nest
of machine-guns that had got the range of their trenches to a nicety.
Shells had failed to find them, and the list of casualties to their
discredit mounted daily higher. Jim got the chance. He shook hands with
Wally—a vision of miserable disappointment—in the small hours of a
starlit night, and led a picked body of his men out of the front
trench: making a long _detour_ and finally working nearer and nearer to
the spot he had studied through his periscope for hours during the day.
Then he planted his men in a shell-hole, and wriggled forward alone.
The men lay waiting, inwardly chafing at being left. Presently their
officer came crawling back to them.
“We’ve got ’em cold,” he whispered. “Come along—and don’t fire a shot.”
It was long after daylight before the German guards in the main
trenches suspected anything wrong with that particular nest of
machine-guns, and marvelled at its silence. For there was no one left
to tell them anything—of the fierce, silent onslaught from the rear; of
men who dropped as it were from the clouds and fought with clubbed
rifles, led by a boy who seemed in the starlight as tall as a young
pine-tree. The gun-crews were sleeping, and most of them never woke
again: the guards, drowsy in the quiet stillness, heard nothing until
that swift, wordless avalanche was upon them.
In the British trench there was impatience and anxiety. The men waiting
to go forward, if necessary, to support the raiders, crouched at the
fire-step, muttering. Wally, sick with suspense, peered forward beside
the Colonel, who had come in person to see the result of the raid.
“I believe they’ve missed their way altogether,” muttered the Colonel
angrily. “There should hove been shots long ago. It isn’t like Linton.
Dawn will be here soon, and the whole lot will be scuppered.” He
wheeled at a sudden commotion beyond him in the trench. “Silence there!
What’s that?”
“That” was Jim Linton and his warriors, very muddy, but otherwise
undamaged. They dropped into the trench quietly, those who came first
turning to receive heavy objects from those yet on top. Last of all Jim
hopped down.
“Hullo, Wal!” he whispered. “Got ’em.”
“Got ’em!” said the Colonel sternly. “What? Where have you been, sir?”
“I beg your pardon, sir—I didn’t know you were there,” Jim said, rather
horrified. It is not given to every subaltern to call his commanding
officer “Wal,” when that is not his name. “I have the guns, sir.”
“You have—_what_?”
“The Boche—I mean, the enemy, machine-guns. We brought them back, sir.”
“You brought them back!” The Colonel leaned against the wall of the
trench and began to laugh helplessly. “And your men?”
“All here, sir. We brought the ammunition, too,” said Jim mildly. “It
seemed a pity to waste it!”
Which things, being told in high places, brought Jim a mention in
despatches, and, shortly afterwards, confirmation of his acting rank.
It would be difficult to find fitting words to tell of the effect of
this matter upon a certain grizzled gentleman and a very young lady
who, when the information reached them were studying patent manures in
a morning-room in a house in Surrey.
“He’s—why,” gasped Norah incredulously—“he’s actually Captain Linton!”
“I suppose he is,” said her father. “Doesn’t it sound ridiculous!”
“I don’t think it’s ridiculous at all,” said Norah warmly. “He deserved
it. I think it sounds simply beautiful!”
“Do you know,” said her father, somewhat embarrassed—“I really believe
I agree with you!” He laughed. “Captain Linton!”
“Captain Linton!” reiterated Norah. “Our old Jimmy!” She swept the
table clear. “Oh, Daddy, bother the fertilizers for to-night—I’m going
to write to Billabong!”
“But it isn’t mail-day to-morrow,” protested her father mildly.
“No,” said Norah. “But I’ll explode if I don’t tell Brownie!”
“And will the Captain be coming ’ome soon, Miss Norah?” inquired
Allenby, a little later. The household had waxed ecstatic over the
news.
“The Captain?” Norah echoed. “Oh, how nice of you, Allenby! It does
sound jolly!”
“Miss de Lisle wishes to know, miss. The news ’as induced ’er to invent
a special cake.”
“We’ll have to send it to the poor Captain, I’m afraid,” said Norah,
dimpling. “Dear me, I haven’t told Mrs. Hunt! I must fly!” She dropped
her pen, and fled to the cottage—to find her father there before her.
“I might have known you couldn’t wait to tell,” said Norah, laughing.
“And he pretends he isn’t proud, Mrs. Hunt!”
“I’ve given up even pretending,” said her father, laughing. “I found
myself shaking hands with Allenby in the most affectionate manner. You
see, Mrs. Hunt, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in the family
before.”
“Oh, but those boys couldn’t help doing well,” Mrs. Hunt said, looking
almost as pleased as the two beaming faces before her. “They’re so
keen. I don’t know if I should, but shall I read you what Douglas says
about them?” They gathered eagerly together over the curt words of
praise Major Hunt had written. “Quite ordinary boys, and not a bit
brainy,” he finished. “But I wish I had a regiment full of them!”
Out in Australia, two months later, a huge old woman and a lean
Irishman talked over the letter Norah had at length managed to finish.
“And it’s a Captin he is!” said Murty O’Toole, head stockman.
“A Captain!” Brownie echoed. “Don’t it seem only yesterday he was
tearing about in his first little trousis, and the little mistress
watching him!”
“And riding his first pony. She put him over her head, and I med sure
he was kilt. ‘Howld her, will ye, Murty,’ says he, stamping his little
fut, and blood trickling down his face. ‘Give me a leg up again,’ he
says, ‘till we see who’s boss!’ And I put him up, and off he went down
the paddock, digging his little heels into her. And he’s a Captin!
Little Masther Jim!”
“I don’t know why you’re surprised,” said Brownie loftily. “The only
wonder to _me_ is he wasn’t one six months ago!”