Sunday, the 30th of August. But oh, what a different Sunday from that of
a week ago! The morning congregation in Witanbury Cathedral was larger
than it had ever been before, and over every man and woman there hung an
awful pall of suspense, and yes, of fear, as to what the morrow might
bring forth.
Both the post and the Sunday papers were late. They had not even been
delivered by church time, and that added greatly, with some of those who
were gathered there, to the general feeling of anxiety and unease.
In the sermon that he preached that day the Dean struck a stern and
feeling note. He told his hearers that now not only their beloved
country, but each man and woman before him, must have a heart for every
fate. He, the speaker, would not claim any special knowledge, but they
all knew that the situation was very serious. Even so, it would be a
great mistake, and a great wrong, to give way to despair. He would go
further, and say that even despondency was out of place.
Only a day or two ago he had been offered, and he had purchased, the
diary of a citizen of Witanbury written over a hundred years ago, and
from a feeling of natural curiosity he had looked up the entries in the
August of that year. Moved and interested indeed had he been to find
that Witanbury just then had been expecting a descent on the town by
the French, and on one night it was rumoured that a strong force had
actually landed, and was marching on the city! Yet the writer of that
diary--he was only a humble blacksmith--had put in simple and yet very
noble language his conviction that old England would never go down, _if
only she remained true to herself_.
It was this fine message from the past which the Dean brought to the
people of Witanbury that day. What had been true when we had been
fighting a far greater man than any of those we were fighting to-day--he
meant of course Napoleon--was even truer now than then. All would be,
must be, ultimately well, if England to herself would stay but true.
A few of those who listened with uplifted hearts to the really
inspiriting discourse, noted with satisfaction that, for the first time
since the declaration of war, Dr. Haworth paid no tribute to the enemy.
The word "Germany" did not even pass his lips.
And then, when at the end of the service Mrs. Otway and Rose were
passing through the porch, Mrs. Otway felt herself touched on the arm.
She turned round quickly to find Mrs. Haworth close to her.
"I've been wondering if Rose would come back with me and see Edith? I'm
sorry to say the poor child isn't at all well to-day. And so we
persuaded her to stay in bed. You see"--she lowered her voice, and that
though there was no one listening to them--"you see, we hear privately
that the cavalry were very heavily engaged last Wednesday, and that the
casualties have been terribly heavy. My poor child says very little, but
it's evident that she's so miserably anxious that she can think of
nothing else. Her father thinks she's fretting because we would not
allow--or perhaps I ought to say we discouraged the idea of--a hasty
marriage. I feel sure it would do Edith good to see some one, especially
a dear little friend like Rose, who has no connection with the Army, and
who can look at things in a sensible, normal manner."
And so mother and daughter, for an hour, went their different ways, and
Mrs. Otway, as she walked home alone, told herself that anxiety became
Mrs. Haworth, that it rendered the Dean's wife less brusque, and made
her pleasanter and kindlier in manner. Poor Edith was her ewe lamb, the
prettiest of the daughters whom she had started so successfully out into
the world, and the one who was going to make, from a worldly point of
view, the best marriage. Yes, it would indeed be a dreadful thing if
anything happened to Sir Hugh Severn.
Casualties? What an odd, sinister word! One with which it was difficult
to become familiar. But it was evidently the official word. Not for the
first time she reminded herself of the exact words the Prime Minister in
the House of Commons had used. They had been "Our casualties are very
heavy, though the exact numbers are not yet known." Mrs. Otway wondered
uneasily when they would become known--how soon, that is, a mother, a
sister, a lover, and yes, a friend, would learn that the man who was
beloved, cherished, or close and dear as a friend may be, had
become--what was the horrible word?--a casualty.
She walked through into her peaceful, pretty house. Unless the household
were all out, the front door was never locked, for there was nothing to
steal, and no secrets to pry out, in the Trellis House. And then, on
the hall table, she saw the belated evening paper which she had missed
this morning, and two or three letters. Taking up the paper and the
letters, she went straight through into the garden. It would be
pleasanter to read out there than indoors.
With a restful feeling that no one was likely to come in and disturb her
yet awhile, she sat down in the basket-chair which had already been put
out by her thoughtful old Anna. And then, quite suddenly, she caught
sight of the middle letter of the three she had gathered up in such
careless haste. It was an odd-looking envelope, of thin, common paper
covered with pale blue lines; but it bore her address written in Major
Guthrie's clear, small, familiar handwriting, and on the right-hand
corner was the usual familiar penny stamp. That stamp was, of course, a
positive proof that he was home again.
For quite a minute she simply held the envelope in her hand. She felt so
relieved, and yes, so ridiculously happy, that after the first moment of
heartfelt joy there came a pang of compunction. It was wrong, it was
unnatural, that the safety of _one_ human being should so affect her.
She was glad that this curious revulsion of feeling, this passing from
gloom and despondency to unreasoning peace and joy, should have taken
place when she was by herself. She would have been ashamed that Rose
should have witnessed it.
And then, with a certain deliberation, she opened the envelope, and drew
out the oddly-shaped piece of paper it contained.
This is what she read:
"FRANCE,
"_Wednesday morning._
"Every letter sent by the usual channel is read and, very
properly, censored. I do not choose that this letter should be
seen by any eyes but mine and yours. I have therefore asked,
and received, permission to send this by an old friend who is
leaving for England with despatches.
"The work has been rather heavy. I have had very little sleep
since Sunday, so you must forgive any confusion of thought or
unsuitable expressions used by me to you. Unfortunately I have
lost my kit, but the old woman in whose cottage I am resting
for an hour has good-naturedly provided me with paper and
envelopes. Luckily I managed to keep my fountain-pen.
"I wish to tell you now what I have long desired to tell
you--that I love you--that it has long been my greatest, nay,
my only wish, that you should become my wife. Sometimes,
lately, I have thought that I might persuade you to let me
love you.
"In so thinking I may have been a presumptuous fool. Be that
as it may, I want to tell you that our friendship has meant a
very great deal to me; that without it I should have been,
during the last four years, a most unhappy man.
"And now I must close this hurriedly written and poorly
expressed letter. It does not say a tenth--nay, it does not
say a thousandth part of what I would fain say. But let me,
for the first, and perhaps for the last time, call you my
dearest."
Then followed his initials "A. G.," and a postscript: "As to what has
been happening here, I will only quote to you Napier's grand words:
'Then was seen with what majesty the British soldier fights.'"
Mrs. Otway read the letter right through twice. Then, slowly,
deliberately, she folded it up and put it back in its envelope.
Uncertainly she looked at her little silk handbag. No, she could not put
it there, where she kept her purse, her engagement book, her
handkerchief. For the moment, at any rate, it would be safest elsewhere.
With a quick furtive movement she thrust it into her bodice, close to
her beating heart.
Mrs. Otway looked up to a sudden sight of Rose--of Rose unusually
agitated.
"Oh, mother," she cried, "such a strange, dreadful, extraordinary thing
has happened! Old Mrs. Guthrie is dead. The butler telephoned to the
Deanery, and he seems in a dreadful state of mind. Mrs. Haworth says she
can't possibly go out there this morning, and they were wondering
whether you would mind going. The Dean says he was out there only
yesterday, and that Mrs. Guthrie spoke as if you were one of her dearest
friends. Wasn't that strange?"
Rose looked very much shocked and distressed--curiously so, considering
how little she had known Mrs. Guthrie. But there is something
awe-inspiring to a young girl in the sudden death of even an old person.
Only three days ago Mrs. Guthrie had entertained Rose with an amusing
account of her first ball--a ball given at the Irish Viceregal Court in
the days when, as the speaker had significantly put it, it really _was_
a Court in Dublin. And when Rose and her mother had said good-bye, she
had pressed them to come again soon; while to the girl: "I don't often
see anything so fresh and pretty as you are, my dear!" she had
exclaimed.
Mrs. Otway heard Rose's news with no sense of surprise. She felt as if
she were living in a dream--a dream which was at once poignantly sad and
yet exquisitely, unbelievably happy. "I have been there several times
lately," she said, in a low voice, "and I had grown quite fond of her.
Of course I'll go. Will you telephone for a fly? I'd rather be alone
there, my dear."
Rose lingered on in the garden for a moment. Then she said slowly,
reluctantly: "And mother? I'm afraid there's rather bad news of Major
Guthrie. It came last night, before Mrs. Guthrie went to bed. The butler
says she took it very bravely and quietly, but I suppose it was that
which--which brought about her death."
"What _is_ the news?"
Mrs. Otway's dream-impression vanished. She got up from the basket-chair
in which she had been sitting, and her voice to herself sounded
strangely loud and unregulated.
"What is it, Rose? Why don't you tell me? Has he been killed?"
"Oh, no--it's not as bad as that! Oh! mother, don't look so
unhappy--it's only that he's 'wounded and missing.'"