There are times in life when everything is out of focus, when events
take on the measure, not of what they really are, but of the mental
state of the people affected by them. Such a time had now come to the
mistress of the Trellis House. For a while Mrs. Otway saw everything,
heard everything, read everything, through a mist of aching pain and of
that worst misery of all--the misery of suspense.
The passion of love, so hedged about with curious and unreal
conventions, is a strangely protean thing. The dear old proverb,
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," is far truer than those who
believe its many cynical counterparts would have us think, and
especially is this true of an impulsive and imaginative nature.
It was the sudden, dramatic withdrawal of Major Guthrie from her life
which first made the woman he had dumbly loved realise all that his
constant, helpful presence had meant to her. And then his worldly old
mother's confidences had added just that touch of jealousy which often
sharpens love. Lastly, his letter, so simple, so direct, and yet, to one
who knew his quiet, reserved nature, so deeply charged with feeling, had
brought the first small seed to a blossoming which quickened every pulse
of her nature into ardent, sentient life. This woman, who had always
been singularly selfless, far more interested in the lives of those
about her than in her own, suddenly became self-absorbed.
She looked back with a kind of wonder to her old happy, satisfied, and
yes, unawakened life. She had believed herself to be a woman of many
friends, and yet there was now not one human being to whom she felt even
tempted to tell her wonderful secret.
Busily occupied with the hundred and one trifles, and the eager,
generally successful little excursions into philanthropy--for she was an
exceptionally kind, warm-hearted woman--which had filled her placid
widowhood, she had yet never made any real intimate. The only exception
had been Major Guthrie; it was he who had drawn her into what had seemed
for so long their pleasant, quiet garden of friendship.
And now she realised that were she to tell any of the people about her
of the marvellous change which had taken place in her heart, they would
regard her with great surprise, and yes, even with amusement. All the
world loves a young lover, but there is not much sympathy to spare in
the kind of world to which Mary Otway belonged by birth, position, and
long association, for the love which appears, and sometimes only attains
full fruition, later in life.
As the days went on, each bringing its tale of exciting and momentous
events, there came over Mrs. Otway a curious apathy with regard to the
war, for to her the one figure which had counted in the awful drama now
being enacted in France and Flanders had disappeared from the vast stage
where, as she now recognised, she had seen only him. True, she glanced
over a paper each day, but she only sufficiently mastered its contents
to be able to reply intelligently to those with whom her daily round
brought her in contact.
And soon, to her surprise, and ever-growing discomfort, Anna Bauer--her
good, faithful old Anna, for whom she had always had such feelings of
affection, and yes, of gratitude--began to get on her nerves. It was not
that she associated Anna with the War, and with all that the War had
brought to her personally of joy and of grief. Rather was it the sudden
perception that her own secret ideals of life and those of the woman
near whom she had lived for close on eighteen years, were utterly
different, and, in a deep sense, irreconcilable.
Mrs. Otway grew to dislike, with a nervous, sharp distaste, the very
sight of Anna's favourite motto, "_Arbeit macht das Leben süss, und die
Welt zum Paradies_" ("Work makes life sweet and the world a paradise").
Was it possible that in the old days she had admired that lying
sentiment? Lying? Yes, indeed! Work did _not_ make life sweet, or she,
Mary Otway, would now be happier than ever, for she had never worked as
hard as she was now working--working to destroy thought--working to dull
the dreadful aching at her heart, throwing herself, with a feverish
eagerness which surprised those about her, into the various war
activities which were now, largely owing to the intelligence and
thoroughness of Miss Forsyth, being organised in Witanbury.
Mrs. Otway also began to hate the other German mottoes which Anna had
put all about the Trellis House, especially in those rooms which might
be regarded as her own domain--the kitchen, the old nursery, and Rose's
bedroom. There was something of the kind embroidered on every single
article which would take a _Spruch_, and Anna's mistress sometimes felt
as if she would like to make a bonfire of them all!
Every time she went into her kitchen she also longed to tear down, with
violent hands, the borders of fine crochet work, the _Kante_, with which
each wooden shelf was edged, and of which she had been almost as proud
as had been Anna. This crochet work seemed to haunt her, for wherever it
could be utilised, Anna, during those long years of willing service, had
sewn it proudly on, in narrow edgings and in broad bands.
Not only were all Mrs. Otway's and Rose's under-clothing trimmed with
it, but it served as insertion for curtains, ran along the valance of
each bed, and edged each pillow and cushion. Anna had worked miles of it
since she first came to the Trellis House, for there were balls of
crochet work rolled up in all her drawers, and when she was not occupied
in doing some form of housework she was either knitting or crocheting.
The old German woman never stirred without her little bag, itself gaily
embroidered, to hold her _Hand Arbeit_; and very heartily, as Mrs. Otway
knew well, did she despise the average Englishwoman for being able to
talk without a crochet-hook or a pair of knitting-needles in her hands.
Something--not much, but just a little--of what her mistress was feeling
with regard to Major Guthrie gradually reached Anna's perceptions, and
made her feel at once uncomfortable, scornful, and angry.
Anna felt the deepest sympathy for her darling nursling, Miss Rose; for
it was natural, warming-to-the-heart, that a young girl should feel
miserable about a young man. In fact, Rose's lack of interest in
marriage and in the domesticities had disturbed and puzzled good old
Anna, and to her mind had been a woeful lack in the girl.
So she had welcomed, with great sympathy, the sudden and surprising
change. Anna shrewdly suspected the truth, namely, that Rose was Jervis
Blake's secret betrothed. She felt sure that something had happened on
the morning young Mr. Blake had gone away, during the long half-hour the
two young people had spent together. On that morning, immediately after
her return home, Rose had gone up to her room, declaring that she had
had breakfast--though she, Anna, knew well that the child had only had
an early cup of tea....
But if Anna sympathised with and understood the feelings of the younger
of her two ladies, she had but scant toleration for Mrs. Otway's
restless, ill-concealed unhappiness. Even in the old days Anna had
disapproved of Major Guthrie, and she had thought it very strange indeed
that he came so often to the Trellis House. To her mind such conduct was
unfitting. What on earth could a middle-aged man have to say to the
mother of a grown-up daughter?
Of course Anna knew that marriages between such people are sometimes
arranged; but to her mind they are always marriages of convenience, and
in this case such a marriage would be very inconvenient to everybody,
and would thoroughly upset all her, Anna's, pleasant, easy way of life.
A widower with children has naturally to find a woman to look after his
house; and a poor widow is as a rule only too pleased to meet with some
one who will marry her, especially if the some one be better off than
herself. But on any betrayal of sentiment between two people past early
youth Anna had very scant mercy.
She had also noticed lately, with mingled regret and contempt, that Mrs.
Otway now had a few grey threads in her fair, curling hair. If the
gracious lady were not careful, she would look quite old and ugly by the
time Major Guthrie came back!
* * * * *
At intervals, indeed every few days, Rose received a short, and of
course read-by-the-censor letter from Jervis Blake. He had missed the
first onrush of the German Army and the Great Retreat, for he had been
what they called "in reserve," kept for nearly three full weeks close to
the French port where he had landed. Then there came a long, trying
silence, till a letter written by his mother to Mrs. Otway revealed the
fact that he was at last in the fighting-line, on the river Aisne.
"You have always been so kind to my dear boy that I know you will be
interested to learn that lately he has been in one or two very dangerous
'scraps,' as they seem to be called. They are not supposed to tell one
anything in their letters, and Jervis as a matter of fact no longer even
writes postcards. But my husband knows exactly where he is, and we can
but hope and pray, from day to day, that he is safe."
It was on the very day that Mrs. Otway read to Rose this letter from
Lady Blake that there arrived at the Trellis House a telegram signed
Robert Allen: "Have ascertained that Major Guthrie is alive and prisoner
in Germany. Letter follows."
But when the letter came it told tantalisingly little, for it merely
conveyed the fact that the name of Major Guthrie had come through in a
list of wounded prisoners supplied to the Geneva Red Cross. There was no
clue as to where he was, or as to his condition, and Mr. Allen ended
with the words: "I am trying to get in touch with the American Embassy
in Berlin. I am told that it is the best, in fact the only, medium for
getting authentic news of wounded prisoners."
"The gracious lady sees that I was right. Never did I believe the Major
to be dead! Officers are always behind their soldiers. They are in the
safe place." Such were the words, uttered of course in German, with
which Anna greeted the great news.
As Mrs. Otway turned away, and silently left the kitchen, the old woman
shook her head with an impatient gesture. Why make all that fuss over
the fact that Major Guthrie was a prisoner in Germany? Anna could
imagine no happier fate just now than that of being in the
Fatherland--even as a prisoner. She could remember the generous way in
which the French prisoners, or at least some of them, had been treated
in 1870. Why, the then Crown Princess--she who was later known as "the
Englishwoman"--had always visited those wards containing the French
prisoners first, before she went and saw the German wounded. Anna could
remember very clearly the angry remarks which had been provoked by that
royal lady's action, as also by her strange notion that the wounded
required plenty of fresh air.
Some time ago Anna had seen in an English paper, in fact it had been
pointed out to her by Mrs. Otway herself, that the German Government had
had to restrain the daughters and wives of the Fatherland from
over-kindness to the French.
Still, when all was said and done, good old Anna was genuinely glad that
Major Guthrie was safe. It would make her gracious lady more cheerful,
and it also provided herself with a little bit of gossip wherewith to
secure a warmer welcome from Alfred Head when she went along to supper
with him and his Polly this very evening.
* * * * *
"That sort of letter may be very valuable in our business--I know best
its worth to me."
The owner of the Witanbury Stores was speaking English, and addressing
his pretty wife.
Anna, just arrived, had at once become aware that the atmosphere was
electric, that something very like a quarrel was going on between Alfred
Head and Polly. Mrs. Head looked very angry, and there was a red spot on
each of her delicately tinted cheeks.
Only half the table had been laid for supper under the bright pendant
lamp; on the other half were spread out some dirty-looking letters. In
each letter a number of lines had been heavily blacked out--on one
indeed there was very little left of the original writing.
"It's such rubbish!" Polly said crossly. "Why, by spending a penny each
Sunday on _The News of the World_ or on _Reynolds's_, you'd see a lot
more letters than you've got there, and all nicely printed, too!"
She turned to the visitor: "Alfred can't spare me half a sovereign for
something I want really badly, but he can give seven-and-sixpence to a
dirty old woman for a sight of all that muck!" Snatching one of the
letters off the table, she began reading aloud: "My dear Mum, I hope
that this finds you as well as it does me. We are giving it to the
Allemans, as they call them out here, right in the neck." She waved the
sheet she was reading and exclaimed, "And then comes four lines so
scrubbed about that even the Old Gentleman himself couldn't read them!
Still, it's for that Alfred here is willing to pay----"
Her husband interrupted her furiously: "Put that down at once! D'you
hear, Polly? I'm the best judge of what a thing's worth to me in my
business. If I give Mrs. Tippins seven-and-sixpence for her letters,
they're worth seven-and-sixpence to me and a bit over. See? I shouldn't
'a thought it was necessary to tell _you_ that!"
He turned to Anna, and said rapidly in German: "The man who wrote these
letters is a sergeant. He's a very intelligent fellow. As you see, he
writes quite long letters, and there are a lot of little things that I
find it well worth my while to make a note of. In fact, as I told you
before, Frau Bauer, I am willing to pay for the sight of any good long
letter from the British Front. I should much like to see some from
officers, and I prefer those that are censored--I mean blacked out like
these. The military censors so far are simple folk." He laughed, and
Anna laughed too, without quite knowing why. "I should have expected
that Major whose mother died just after the war broke out, to be writing
to your ladies. Has he not done so yet?"
"The news has just come this very day, that he is a prisoner; but they
do not yet know where he is imprisoned," said Anna eagerly.
"That is good news," observed her host genially. "In spite of all my
efforts, I could never obtain that dratted Major's custom. But do not
any of the younger officers write to your young lady, in that strange
English way?" and he fixed his prominent eyes on her face, as if he
would fain look Anna through and through. "I had hoped that we should be
able to do so much business together," he said.
"I have told you of the postcards----" She spoke in an embarrassed tone.
"Ach! Yes. And I did pay you a trifle for a sight of them. But that was
really politeness, for, as you know, there was nothing in the postcards
of the slightest use to me."
Anna remained silent. She was of course well aware that her young lady
often received letters, short, censored letters, from Mr. Jervis Blake.
But Rose kept them in some secret place; also nothing would have tempted
good old Anna to show one of her darling nursling's love-letters to
unsympathetic eyes.
Alfred Head turned to his wife. "Now, Polly," he said conciliatingly,
"you asked me for what I am paying." He took up the longest of the
letters off the table. "See here, my dear. This man gives a list of what
he would like his mother to send him every ten days. As a matter of fact
that is how I first knew Mrs. Tippins had these letters. She brought one
along to show me, to see if I could get her something special. Part of
the letter has been blacked out, but of course I found it very easy to
take that blacking out," he chuckled. "And what had been blacked out was
as a matter of fact very useful to me!"
Seeing that his wife still looked very angry and lowering, he took a big
five-shilling piece out of his pocket and threw it across at her.
"There!" he cried good-naturedly--"catch! Perhaps I will make it up to
the ten shillings in a day or two--if, thanks to these letters, I am
able to do a good stroke of business!"
Anna looked at him with fascinated eyes. The man seemed made of money.
He was always jingling silver in his pocket. Gold was rather scarce just
then in Witanbury, but whenever Anna saw a half-sovereign, she always
managed somehow to get hold of it. In fact she kept a store of silver
and of paper money for that purpose, for she knew that Mr. Head, as he
was now universally called, would give her threepence over its face
value if it was ten shillings, and fivepence if it was a sovereign. She
had already made several shillings in this very easy way.
As she walked home, after having enjoyed a frugal supper, she told
herself that it was indeed unfortunate that Major Guthrie was wounded
and missing. Had he still been with his regiment, he would certainly
have written to Mrs. Otway frequently. Anna, in the past, had
occasionally found long letters from him torn up in the waste-paper
basket, and she had also seen, in the days that now seemed so long ago,
letters in the same hand lying about on Mrs. Otway's writing-table.