In the early morning sunshine--for it was only a quarter-past
seven--Rose Otway stood just within the wrought-iron gate of the Trellis
House.
It was Saturday in the first week of war. She had got up very early,
almost as early as old Anna herself, for, waking at five, she had found
it impossible to go to sleep again.
For the first time almost in her life, Rose felt heavy-hearted. The
sudden, mysterious departure of Major Guthrie had brought the War very
near; and so, in quite another way, had done Lord Kitchener's sudden,
trumpet-like call, for a hundred thousand men. She knew that, in
response to that call, Jervis Blake would certainly enlist, if not with
the approval, at any rate with the reluctant consent, of his father; and
Rose believed that this would mean the passing of Jervis out of her
life.
To Rose Otway's mind there was something slightly disgraceful in any
young man's enlistment in the British Army. The poorer mothers of
Witanbury, those among whom the girl and her kind mother did a good deal
of visiting and helping during the winter months, were apt to remain
silent concerning the son who was a soldier. She could not help knowing
that it was too often the bad boy of the family, the ne'er-do-weel, who
enlisted. There were, of course, certain exceptions--such, for instance,
as when a lad came of a fighting family, with father, uncles, and
brothers all in the Army. As for the gentleman ranker, he was _always_
a scapegrace.
Lord Kitchener's Hundred Thousand would probably be drawn from a
different class, for they were being directly asked to defend their
country. But even so, at the thought of Jervis Blake becoming a private,
Rose Otway's heart contracted with pain, and, yes, with vicarious shame.
Still, she made up her mind, there and then, that she would not give him
up, that she would write to him regularly, and that as far as was
possible they would remain friends.
How comforted she would have been could an angel have come and told her
with what eyes England was henceforth to regard her "common soldiers."
Rose Otway was very young, and, like most young things, very ignorant of
life. But there was, as Miss Forsyth had shrewdly said, a great deal in
the girl. Even now she faced life steadily, unhelped by the many
pleasant illusions cherished by her mother. Rose was as naturally
reserved as her mother was naturally confiding, and Mrs. Otway was
therefore far more popular in their little world than her daughter.
Rose, however, was very pretty, with a finished, delicately fresh and
aloof type of beauty which was singularly attractive to the intelligent
and fastidious. And so there had already appeared, striking across the
current of their placid lives, more than one acute observer who,
divining certain hidden depths of feeling in the girl's nature, longed
to probe and rouse them. But so far such attempts, generally undertaken
by men who were a good deal older than Rose Otway, had failed to inspire
anything but shrinking repugnance in their object.
But Jervis Blake was different. Jervis she had known more or less
always, owing to that early girlish friendship between his mother and
her mother. When he had come to "Robey's" to be coached, Mrs. Otway had
made him free of her house, and though she herself, not unnaturally, did
not find him an interesting companion, he soon had become part of the
warp and woof of Rose's young life. Like most only children, she had
always longed for a brother or a sister; and Jervis was the nearest
possession of the kind to which she had ever attained.
Yes, the War was coming very near to Rose Otway, and for more than one
reason. As soon as she got up she sat down and wrote a long letter to a
girl friend who was engaged to a naval officer. She had suddenly
realised with a pang that this girl, of whom she was really fond, must
now be feeling very miserable and very anxious. Every one seemed to
think there would soon be a tremendous battle between the British and
the German fleets. And the Dean, who had been to Kiel last year,
believed that the German sailors would give a very good account of
themselves.
The daily papers were delivered very early in Witanbury Close. And after
she had helped old Anna as far as Anna would allow herself to be helped
in the light housework with which she began each day, Rose went out and
stood by the gate. She longed to know what news, if any, there was.
But the moments went slowly by, and with the exception of a milk cart
which clattered gaily along, the Close remained deserted. Half-past
seven in the morning, even on a fine August day, saw a good many people
still in bed in an English country town. To-day Rose Otway, having
herself risen so early, was inclined to agree with Anna that English
people are very lazy, and lose some of the best part of each morning.
And then, as she stood out there in the sunshine, her mind reverted to
Major Guthrie and to his sudden disappearance. Rose liked Major Guthrie,
and she was sorry she had missed him yesterday morning, when out on her
fruitless quest for money.
Rose had been surprised at the way her mother had spoken of Major
Guthrie's departure. Mrs. Otway had declared the fact to be a secret--a
secret that must at all costs be kept. As a matter of fact the girl had
already heard the news from Anna, and she had observed, smiling, "But,
mother, you seem to have told Anna all about it?" And Mrs. Otway, her
gentle temper for once ruffled, had answered sharply, "I don't count
Anna! Major Guthrie particularly mentioned the Dean. He did not wish the
Dean to know. He said his going was to be kept secret. So I beg you,
Rose, to do as I ask."
Anna came out of the front door, and began polishing the brass knob.
"Ach!" she exclaimed. "Come in, child--do! You a chill will take. If it
is the postman you want, he gone by already has."
Rose smiled. Dear old Anna had never acquired the British love of fresh
air. "I'm waiting for the papers," she said. "I can't think why the man
doesn't begin with us, instead of going all round the other way first!
But I'm going to catch him this morning."
And Anna, grumbling, went back into the house again.
All at once Rose heard the sound of quick footsteps to her right, on the
path outside. She moved back into the paved court in front of the
Trellis House, and stood, a charming vision of youth and freshness, in
her pale mauve cotton frock, by a huge stone jar filled with pink
geraniums.
And then, a moment later, the tall figure of Jervis Blake suddenly swung
into view. He was very pale, and there was an eager, absorbed, strained
look on his face. In his hand was a white telegraph form.
Rose ran forward, and once more opened the gate. "Jervis!" she cried.
"What is it? What's the matter? Have you had bad news from home?"
He shook his head, and she saw that he was trying to smile. But there
was still that on his face which she had never seen before--a rapt,
transfigured look which made her feel--and she both disliked and
resented the feeling--as if he were, for the moment, remote from
herself. But he stayed his steps, and came through the gate.
For a moment he stood opposite to her without speaking. Then he took out
of his breast pocket a large sheet of notepaper folded in four. He
opened it, and held it out to her. It was headed "War Office, Whitehall,
London," and in it Jervis Blake, Esquire, was curtly informed that, if
he still desired to enter the Army, he was at liberty to apply for a
commission. But in that case he was asked to report himself as soon as
possible.
Rose read the cold, formal sentences again and again, and a lump rose to
her throat. How glad she was! How very, very glad! Indeed, her gladness,
her joy in Jervis's joy, surprised herself.
"And it's all owing to you," he exclaimed in a low voice, "that I didn't
go and make an ass of myself on Wednesday. If it hadn't been for you,
Rose, I should have enlisted. This would have come too late. It _is_
luck to have seen you now, like this. You're the very first I've told."
He was wringing her hand, his face now as flushed as it had been pale.
And as they stood there together, Rose suddenly became aware that Anna,
at the kitchen window, was looking out at them both with a rather
peculiar expression on her emotional German face.
A feeling of annoyance swept over the girl; she knew that to her old
nurse every young man who ever came to the Trellis House was a potential
lover. But even Anna might have left Jervis Blake out of the category.
There was nothing silly or--or sentimental, in the real, deep friendship
they two felt for one another.
And then Rose did something which surprised herself. Withdrawing her
hand from his, she exclaimed, "I'll walk with you to the corner"--and
led the way out, through the gate, and so along the empty roadway.
They walked along in silence for a few moments. The Close was still
deserted. Across the green, to their right, rose the noble grey mass of
the Cathedral. In many of the houses the blinds were even now only
beginning to be pulled up.
"I rather expected yesterday that you would come in and tell me that you
were going off to be one of the hundred thousand men Lord Kitchener has
asked for," she said at last.
"Of course I meant to be, but Mr. Robey thought I ought to communicate
with my father before actually joining," he answered. "In fact, I had
already written home. That's one reason why I'm going to get this wire
off so early."
"I suppose you'll be at Sandhurst this time next week?"
And he frowned, for the first time that morning.
"Oh no, I hope not! Mr. Robey heard last night from one of our
fellows--one of those who passed last time--and he said he was being
drafted at once into a regiment! You mustn't forget how long I was in
the O.T.C. It seems they're sending all those who were in the O.T.C.
straight into regiments."
"Then by next week you'll be second lieutenant in the Wessex Light
Infantry!" she exclaimed. She knew that it was in that famous regiment
that General Blake had won his early spurs, and that it had been
settled, in the days when no one had doubted Jervis Blake's ability to
pass the Army Exam., that he would join his father's old regiment, now
commanded by one of that father's very few intimates.
"Yes, I suppose I shall," he said, flushing. "Oh, Rose, I can't believe
in my luck. It's so much--much too good to be true!"
They had come to the corner, to the parting of their ways. To the left,
through the grey stone gateway, was the street leading into the town; on
the right, within a few moments' walk, the Cathedral.
Rose suddenly felt very much moved, carried out of her reserved self. A
lump rose to her throat. She knew that this was their real parting, and
that she was not likely to see him again, save in the presence of her
mother for a few minutes.
"I wonder," said Jervis Blake hoarsely, "I wonder, Rose, if you would do
me a great kindness? Would you go on into the Cathedral with me, just
for three or four minutes? I should like to go there for the last time
with you."
"Yes," she said; "of course I will." Rose had inherited something of her
mother's generosity of nature. If she gave at all, she gave freely and
gladly. "I do hope the door will be open," she said, trying to regain
her usual staid composure. She was surprised and disturbed by the pain
which seemed to be rising, brimming over, in her heart.
They walked on in silence. Jervis Blake was looking straight before him,
his face set and grim. He was telling himself that a fellow would be a
cur to take advantage of such a moment to say anything, and that
especially was that the case with one who might so soon be exposed to
something much worse than death--such as the being blinded, the being
maimed, for life. War was a very real thing to Jervis, more real
certainly than to any other one of the young men who had been his
comrades at Robey's during the last two years.
But the most insidious of all tempters, Nature herself, whispered in his
ear, "Why not simply tell her that you love her? No woman minds being
told that she is loved! It can do no harm, and it will make her think of
you kindly when you are far away. This strange, secret meeting is yet
another piece of good fortune to-day--this glorious day--has brought
you! Do not throw away your chance. Look again down into her face. See
her dear eyes full of tears. She has never been moved as she is moved
to-day, and it is you who have moved her."
And then another, sterner voice spoke: "_You_ have not moved
her--presumptuous fool! Nay, it is the thought of England, of her
country, of all you stand for to-day, that has moved her. And the next
few minutes will show the stuff of which you are made--if you have the
discipline, the self-restraint, essential to the man who has to lead
others, or if--if you only have the other thing. You are being given now
what you could never have hoped for, a quiet, intimate time with her
alone; you might have had to say good-bye to her in her mother's
presence--that mother who has never really liked you, and whom you have
never really liked."
He held open the little wicket gate for her to pass through. They walked
up the stone path to the wide, hospitable-looking porch which is the
only part of Witanbury Cathedral that has remained much as it was in
pre-Reformation days.
To Jervis Blake, suffused with poignant emotion, every perception
sharpened by mingling triumph and pain, the "faire Doore" of Witanbury
Cathedral had never seemed so lovely as on this still August morning. As
they stepped through the exquisite outer doorway, with its deep
mouldings, both dog-toothed and foliated, marking the transition from
Norman to Gothic, a deep, intense joy in their dual solitude suddenly
rose up in his heart like a white flame.
The interior of the porch was little larger than an ordinary room, but
it was wonderfully perfect in the harmony of its proportions; and even
Rose, less perceptive than her companion, and troubled and disturbed,
rather than uplifted, by an emotion to which she had no clue, was moved
by the delicate, shadowed beauty of the grey walls and vaulted roof now
encompassing her.
For a moment they both lingered there, irresolute; and then Jervis,
stepping forward, lifted the great iron handle of the black oak,
nail-studded door. But the door remained shut, and he turned round with
the words, "It's still closed. We shan't be able to get in. I'm sorry."
He looked indeed so disappointed that there came over Rose the eager
determination that he should not go away baulked of his wish.
"I'm sure it opens at eight," she exclaimed; "and it can't be very far
from eight now. Let's wait here the few minutes! I'm in no hurry, if you
can spare the time?" Rose spoke rather quickly and breathlessly. She was
trying hard to behave as if this little adventure of theirs was a very
conventional, commonplace happening.
He said something--she was not sure whether it was "All right" or "Very
well."
On each side of the porch ran a low and deep stone bench, from which
sprang the slender columns which seemed to climb eagerly upwards to the
carved ribs of the vaulted roof. But they both went on standing close to
one another, companioned only by the strange sculptured creatures which
grinned down from the spandrels of the arches above.
And then, after waiting for what seemed an eternity--it was really
hardly more than a minute--in the deep, brooding silence which seemed to
enwrap the Close, the Cathedral, and their own two selves in a mantle of
stillness, Rose Otway, bursting into sobs, made a little swaying
movement. A moment later she found herself in Jervis Blake's arms,
listening with a strange mingling of joy, surprise, shame, and, yes,
triumph, to his broken, hoarsely-whispered words of love.
He, being a man, could only feel--she, being a woman, could also think,
aye, and even question her own heart as to this amazing thing which was
happening, and which had suddenly made her free of the wonderful kingdom
of romance of which she had so often heard, but the existence of which
she had always secretly doubted. Whence came her instinctive response to
his pleading: "Oh, Rose, let me kiss you! Oh, Rose, my darling little
love, this may be the last time I shall see you!"
* * * * *
Was it at the end of a moment, or of an æon of time, that there fell
athwart their beating hearts a dull, rasping sound, that of the two
great inner bolts of the huge oak door being pushed back into their
rusty sockets?
They parted, reluctantly, lingeringly, the one from the other; but
whoever had drawn back the bolts did not open the door, and soon they
heard the sounds of heavy, shuffling feet moving slowly away.
"I expect it's Mrs. Bent, the verger's wife," said Rose, in a low,
trembling voice.
Jervis looked at her. There was a mute, and at once imperious and
imploring demand in his eyes. But Rose had stepped across the magic
barrier, she was half-way back to the work-a-day world--not very far,
but still far enough to know how she would feel if Bent or Mrs. Bent
surprised her in Jervis's arms. A few moments ago she would hardly have
cared.
"Let's go into the Cathedral now," she said, and, to break the cruelty
of her silent refusal of what he asked, she held out her hand. To her
surprise, and yes, her disappointment, he did not seem to see it.
Instead, he stepped forward to the door, and turning the weighty iron
handle, pushed it widely open.
Together, side by side, they passed through into the great, still,
peaceful place, and with a delicious feeling of joy they saw that they
were alone--that Mrs. Bent, having done her duty in unbolting the great
door, had slipt out of a side door, and gone back to her cottage, behind
the Cathedral.
Rose led the way into the nave; there she knelt down, and Jervis Blake
knelt down by her, and this time, when she put out her hand, he took it
in his and clasped it closely.
Rose tried to collect her thoughts. She even tried to pray. But she
could only feel,--she could not utter the supplications which filled her
troubled heart. And yet she felt as though they two were encompassed by
holy presences, by happy spirits, who understood and sympathised in her
mingled joy and grief.
If Jervis came back, if he and she both lived till the end of the War,
it was here that their marriage would take place. But the girl had a
strange presentiment that they two would never stand over there, where
so many brides and bridegrooms had stood together, even within her short
memory. It was not that she felt Jervis was going to be killed--she was
mercifully spared those dread imaginings which were to come on her
later. But just now, for these few moments only perhaps, Rose Otway was
"fey"; she seemed to know that to-day was her cathedral marriage day,
and that an invisible choir was singing her epithalamium.
The quarter past the hour chimed. She released her hand from his, and
touched him on the arm with a lingering, caressing touch. He was so big
and strong, so gentle too--all hers. And now, just as they had found one
another, she was going to lose him. It seemed so unnatural and so cruel.
"Jervis," she whispered, and the tears ran down her face, "I think you
had better go now. I'd rather we said good-bye here."
He got up at once. "Do you mean to tell your mother?" he asked. And
then, as he thought she was hesitating: "I only want to know because, if
so, I will tell them at home."
She shook her head. "No," she said brokenly. "I'd rather we said nothing
now--if you don't mind."
She lifted up her face to him as a child might have done; and, putting
his arm round her, he bent down and kissed her, very simply and gravely.
Suddenly, he took her two hands and kissed their soft palms; and then he
stooped very low, and lifting the hem of her cotton frock kissed that
too.
"Rose?" he cried out suddenly. "Oh, Rose, I do love you so!" And then,
before she could speak he had turned and was gone.