It was now the morning of Friday, the third day of war, and Mrs. Otway
allowed the newspaper she had been holding in her hands to slip on to
the floor at her feet with an impatient sigh.
From where she sat, close to the window in her charming sitting-room,
her eyes straying down to the ground read in huge characters at the top
of one of the newspaper columns the words:
"THE FLEET MOBILISED."
"MOTOR RUSH FOR VOLUNTEERS."
"HOW THE NAVAL RESERVE RECEIVED THEIR NOTICES."
"OUR SAILORS' GOOD-BYE."
Then, at the top of another column, in rather smaller characters, as
though that news was after all not really so important as the home news:
"DEFEAT OF THE GERMANS AT LIÉGE."
"COMPLETE ROUT."
"GERMANS REPULSED AT ALL POINTS."
Finally, in considerably smaller characters:
"ALLEGED GERMAN CRUELTIES IN BELGIUM."
She raised her eyes and looked out, over the Close, to where the
Cathedral rose like a diamond set in emeralds. What a beautiful day--and
how quiet, how much more quiet than usual, was the dear, familiar,
peaceful scene! All this week, thanks in a great measure to the
prolonged Bank Holiday, Witanbury had been bathed in a sabbatical calm.
Oddly enough, this had not been as pleasant as it ought to have been. In
fact, it had been rather unpleasant to find nearly all the shops shut
day after day, and it had become really awkward and annoying not to be
able to get money as one required it. At this very moment Rose was out
in the town, trying to cash a cheque, for they were quite out of petty
cash.
During the last three days Major Guthrie, who so seldom allowed more
than a day and a half to slip by without coming to the Trellis House,
had not called, neither had he written. Mrs. Otway was surprised, and
rather annoyed with herself, to find how much she missed him. She
realised that it was the more unreasonable of her, as at first, say all
last Wednesday, she had shrunk from the thought of seeing him, the one
person among her acquaintances, with the insignificant exception of
young Jervis Blake, who had believed in the possibility of an
Anglo-German conflict. But when the whole of that long day, the first
day of war, had gone by, and the next day also, without bringing with it
even the note which, during his infrequent absences, she had grown
accustomed to receive from Major Guthrie, she felt hurt and injured.
Major Guthrie was one of those rather inarticulate Englishmen who can
express themselves better in writing than in speech. When he and Mrs.
Otway were together, she could always, and generally did, out-talk him;
but often, after some discussion of theirs, he would go home and write
her quite a good letter. And then, after reading it, and perhaps smiling
over it a little, she would tear it up and put the pieces in the
waste-paper basket.
Yes, her rather odd, unconventional friendship with Major Guthrie was a
pleasant feature of her placid, agreeably busy life, and it was strange
that he had neither come, nor written and explained what kept him away.
And while Mrs. Otway sat there, waiting she knew not quite for what, old
Anna sat knitting in her kitchen on the other side of the hall, also
restlessly longing for something, anything, to happen, which would give
her news of what was really going on in the Fatherland. All her heart,
during these last three days, had been with Minna and Willi in far-off
Berlin.
A few moments ago a picture paper had been spread out on the table
before Anna. She always enjoyed herself over that paper. It was Miss
Rose's daily gift to her old nurse, and was paid for out of her small
allowance. The two morning papers read by her ladies were in due course
used to light the fires; but Anna kept her own _Daily Pictorials_ most
carefully, and there was an ever-growing neat pile of them in a corner
of the scullery.
But to-day's _Daily Pictorial_ lay in a crumpled heap, tossed to one
side on the floor of the kitchen, for poor old Anna had just read out
the words:
"FRENCH FRONTIER SUCCESSES."
"GERMAN DRAGOON REGIMENT ANNIHILATED."
"ONE THOUSAND GERMAN PRISONERS IN ALSACE."
Up to this strange, sinister week, Anna had contented herself with
looking at the pictures. She had hardly ever glanced at the rest of the
paper. She did not like the look of English print, and she read English
with difficulty. But this morning the boy who had brought the fish had
said, not disagreeably, but as if he was giving her a rather amusing bit
of information, "Your friends have been catching it hot, Mrs. Bauer; and
from what I can make out, they deserves it!" She had not quite
understood what he meant, but it had made her uneasy; and after she had
cleared away breakfast, and washed up, she had sat down with her paper
spread before her.
She had looked long at a touching picture of a big sailor saying
good-bye to the tiny baby in his arms. He was kissing the child, and
Anna had contemplated him with a good deal of sympathy. That big bearded
British sailor would soon be face to face with the German Navy. Thus he
was surely doomed. His babe would soon be fatherless. Kind old Anna
wiped her eyes at the thought.
And then? And then she had slowly spelled out the incredible, the
dreadful news about the German Dragoon Regiment. Her father, forty-four
years ago, had been a non-commissioned officer in a Dragoon Regiment.
Yes, both mistress and maid felt wretched on this, the third day of the
war, which no one, in England at least, yet thought of as the Great War.
Mrs. Otway was restless, quite unlike herself. She wondered, uneasily,
why she felt so depressed. Friday was the day when she always paid her
few household books, but to-day, as it was still Bank Holiday, the books
had not come in. Instead, she had had three letters, marked in each case
"Private," from humble folk in the town, asking her most urgently to pay
at once the small sum she owed to each of them. In every case the writer
expressed the intention of calling in person for the money. It was
partly to try and get the cash with which to pay these accounts that
Rose had gone out with a cheque. It was so odd, so disagreeable, to find
oneself without the power of getting any ready money. Such a thing had
never happened to Mrs. Otway before! It would be really very
disagreeable if Rose, after all, failed to cash that cheque.
Then it suddenly occurred to her that James Hayley might bring her down
some money to-morrow. Nothing would be easier, or so she supposed, than
for _him_ to get it. She went over to her writing-table by the window
and hurriedly wrote a note. Then she made out a cheque for twenty
pounds.
Oh yes, it would be quite easy for James, who was in a Government
office, to get her the money!
Mrs. Otway, like most English people, had a limitless belief in the
powers of any one connected with the Government. Twenty pounds? It was a
good deal of money. She had never had so much cash in the house before.
But what was happening now had taught her a lesson. The Dean had said
that all the banks would be open again on Monday. But the Dean was not
quite infallible. How often had he and she agreed that Germany would
never, _never_ dream of going to war with any of her peaceful
neighbours!
She read over the letter she had written:
"DEAR JAMES,--I enclose a cheque for twenty pounds. Would you
kindly get it cashed for me, and would you bring down the
money to-morrow when you come? Of course I should like the
money, if possible, in gold, but still it will do if you can
get me two five-pound notes and the rest in gold and silver. I
find that several people to whom I owe small amounts are
anxious to be paid, and they do not seem to care about taking
cheques. What strange times we live in! Both Rose and I long
to see you and hear all the news.
"Your affectionate aunt,
"MARY OTWAY."
James Hayley always called her "Aunt Mary," though as a matter of fact
he was the child of a first cousin.
She got up from her table, and began folding up the sheets of newspaper
lying on the floor. She did not want poor old Anna to see the great
staring headlines telling of the defeat of the Germans. Having folded
the paper, and put it away in an unobtrusive corner, she went upstairs
for her hat. She felt that it would do her good to go out into the air,
and post the letter herself.
And then, as she came downstairs, she heard the gate of the Trellis
House open and swing to. Rose coming back, no doubt. But no, it was not
Rose, for instead of the handle of the door turning, there was a ring
and a knock.
It was a ring and a knock which sounded pleasantly familiar. Mrs. Otway
smiled as she turned into her sitting-room. It was the first time she
had smiled that day.
Major Guthrie at last! It was half-past eleven now; they could have a
good long, comfortable talk, and perhaps he would stop to lunch. Of
course she would have to eat humble pie about the war, but he was the
last man to say "I told you so!"
There were so many things she wanted to know, which now she could ask
him, secure of a sensible, true answer. Major Guthrie, whatever his
prejudices, was a professional soldier. He really did know something of
military matters. He was not like the people who lived in the Close, and
who were already talking such nonsense about the war. Mrs. Otway was too
intelligent not to realise the fact that they, whatever their boasts,
knew nothing which could throw real light on the great adventure which
was beginning, only beginning, to fill all her thoughts.
Suddenly the door opened, and Anna announced, in a grumpy tone, "Major
Guthrie."
"I thought I was never going to see you again!"
There was an eagerness, a warmth of welcome in Mrs. Otway's manner of
which she was unconscious, but which gave a sudden shock of pleasure,
aye, and perhaps even more than pleasure, to her visitor. He had
expected to find her anxious, depressed, troubled--above all, deeply
saddened by the dreadful thing having come to pass which she had so
often vehemently declared would never, never happen.
They shook hands, but before she could go on to utter one of the many
questions which were on her lips, Major Guthrie spoke. "I've come to say
good-bye," he said abruptly. "I've had my marching orders!" There was a
strange light in the dark blue eyes which were the one beautiful feature
he had acquired from his very handsome mother.
"I--I don't understand----" And she really didn't.
What could he mean? His marching orders? But he had left the Army four
or five years ago. Besides, the Dean had told her only that morning that
no portion of the British Army was going to the Continent--that on
England's part this was only going to be a naval war. The Dean had heard
this fact from a friend in London, a distinguished German professor of
Natural Theology, who was a very frequent visitor to the Deanery.
Major Guthrie slightly lowered his voice: "I had the telegram an hour
ago," he explained. "I thought you knew that I was in the Reserve, that
I form part of what is called the Expeditionary Force."
"The Expeditionary Force?" she repeated in a bewildered tone. "I didn't
know there was such a thing! You never told me about it."
"Well, you've never been interested in such matters." Major Guthrie
smiled at her indulgently, and suddenly she realised that when they were
together she generally talked of her own concerns, very, very seldom of
his.
But what was this he was now saying? "Besides, it's by way of being a
secret. That's the real reason I haven't been out the last few days. I
didn't feel I could leave home for even five minutes. I've been on
tenterhooks--in fact it will take me two or three days to get fit again.
You see, I couldn't say anything to anybody! And one heard such absurd
rumours--rumours that the Government didn't mean to send any troops to
the Continent--that they had been caught napping--that the transport
arrangements had broken down, and so on. However, it's all right now! I
report myself to-night; rejoin my old regiment to-morrow; and--well, in
three or four days, please God, I shall be in France, and in a week at
latest in Belgium."
Mrs. Otway looked at him silently. She was too much surprised to speak.
She felt moved, oppressed, excited. A British Army going to France--to
Belgium? It seemed incredible!
And Major Guthrie also felt moved and excited, but _he_ was not
oppressed--he was triumphant, overjoyed. "I thought you'd understand,"
he said, and there was a little break in his voice. "It's made me feel a
young man again--that's what it's done!"
"How does your mother take it?" asked Mrs. Otway slowly.
And then for the first time a troubled look came over his kind, honest
face. "I haven't told my mother," he answered. "I've thought a good deal
about it; and I don't mean to say good-bye to her--I shall simply write
her a note saying I've had to go up to town on business. She'll have it
when I'm gone. Then, when the news is allowed to be made public, I'll
write and tell her the truth. She felt my going to South Africa so much.
You see, the man to whom she was engaged as a girl was killed in the
Crimea."
There was a moment's silence between them, and then he asked, "And Miss
Rose?--I should like to say good-bye to her. Is she at home?"
"No, she's out in the town, doing some business for me--or rather trying
to do it! Have _you_ found any difficulty in getting cheques changed the
last few days, Major Guthrie?"
"No; for I've always kept money in the house," he said quickly. "And
glad I am now that I did. It used to annoy my mother--it used to make
her afraid that we should be burgled. But of course I never told any one
else." He looked at her rather oddly. "I've quite a lot of money here,
with me now."
"I wonder if you would be so kind as to cash me a cheque?" She grew a
little pink. She was not used to asking even small favours from her
friends. Impulsive, easy-going as she seemed, there was yet a very proud
and reticent streak in Mary Otway's nature.
"Of course I will. In fact----" and then he stopped abruptly, for she
had gone up to her table, and was opening the letter she had just
written to James Hayley.
"Could you really conveniently let me have as much as twenty pounds?"
and she held him out the cheque.
"Certainly. Then you're not expecting Miss Rose back for a minute or
two?"
"Oh, no! She only went out twenty minutes ago."
He was still standing, and Mrs. Otway suddenly felt herself to be
inhospitable.
"Do sit down," she said hurriedly. Somehow in the last few minutes her
point of view, her attitude to her friend, her kind, considerate,
courteous friend, had altered. She no longer looked at him with
indulgent half-contempt as an idle man, a man who, though he was very
good to his mother, and sometimes very useful to herself, had always
led, excepting during the South African War (and that was a long time
ago), an idle, useless kind of life. He was going now to face real
danger, perchance--but her mind shrank from _that_ thought, from that
dread possibility--death itself. Somehow the fact that Major Guthrie was
going with his regiment to France brought the War perceptibly nearer to
Mrs. Otway, and made it for the first time real.
He quietly took the easy chair she had motioned him to take, and she sat
down too.
"Well, I have to confess that you were right and I wrong! You always
thought we should fight the Germans." She tried to speak playfully, but
there was a certain pain in the admission, for she had always scorned
his quiet prophecies and declared him to be, in this one matter,
prejudiced and unfair.
"Yes," he said, "that's quite true! But, Mrs. Otway? I'm very, very
sorry to have been proved right. And I fear that you must feel it very
much, as you have so many German friends."
"I haven't many German friends now," she said quickly. "I had as a girl,
and of course I've kept up with two or three of them, as you know. But
it's true that the whole thing is a great shock and--and a great pain to
me. Unlike you, I've always thought very well of Germans."
He said quietly, "So have I."
"Ah, but not in my sense!" She could not help smiling a little ruefully.
"You know I never thought of them in your sense at all--I mean not as
soldiers."
There was a pause, a long and rather painful pause, between them.