AN OLD GENERAL
I
General Carden, V.C., C.B., D.S.O., was sitting at breakfast in his
house in Sloane Street. He was not a young man--in fact, he had just
passed his seventy-seventh birthday--but there was about him an air
of trim spruceness, an uprightness that many a younger man might have
envied. His height in his stockinged feet was exactly six feet one.
He was handsome, too, with his fine aquiline features, his snow-white
hair, and his drooping moustache. His blue eyes, under shaggy eyebrows,
were perhaps a trifle faded from the colour of their youth, yet they
struck a very decided note in contrast to his face, which was like old
ivory, and to the pallor of his hair.
A little pile of letters lay on the table beside him, also a small
silver paper-knife. Ten minutes previously he had cut the envelopes
with careful precision and glanced through the contents. Apparently
he had found in them little of interest, and now his attention was
entirely absorbed by a couple of frizzled rolls of bacon on the plate
before him.
The door opened noiselessly and the butler entered. He carried a tray
on which was a plate, and on the plate was a small brown egg in a
silver egg-cup. General Carden was somewhat particular as to the size
and colour of the eggs of which he partook. The butler placed the
plate on the table, then stood in an attitude suggestive of military
attention.
"Any orders for the car, sir? Alcott is here, sir."
"The car at eleven," said General Carden, still busy with the bacon.
"And, Goring, see that those library books are put in."
"Very good, sir. Is that all, sir?"
"Yes; nothing else."
The butler withdrew, and General Carden continued his breakfast.
Marmalade and a second cup of coffee followed the egg. General Carden
made a good deal of the fact that he enjoyed his breakfast. It was to
him a sign that old age was not yet encroaching.
Breakfast over, he crossed the hall to a small study, where he took
a cigarette from a silver box and lighted it. Then he sat down in a
chair near the window with the morning paper. It seldom afforded him
much satisfaction, however. England, in his opinion, was going to the
dogs, and it only annoyed him to see the printed record of its progress
towards that deplorable end.
After a few moments he threw the paper from him with a faintly muttered
"Damn it, sir!" He had seen that in a by-election a seat had been won
by one of the Labour party.
"Going to the dogs, sir; entirely to the dogs!" he muttered. And then
he looked out of the window at the people in the street, which street
was bathed in May sunshine.
The gardens opposite looked extraordinarily green and spring-like, and
nurses with perambulators and children of various sizes were passing
along the pavement by the iron railings. They and the sunshine struck
a very definite note of buoyancy and youth, and for a moment General
Carden felt not entirely as young as he could wish. The room seemed a
little lonely, and the house rather large for one occupant--servants,
naturally, did not count. General Carden did not exactly express this
thought to his mind in words. He was not a man given to sentimentality
either in thought or speech. It was merely represented by a little
indefinite and not very pleasant impression. He wheeled his chair round
to his writing-desk, which he unlocked, and began looking through
various letters with a show of businesslike energy.
* * * * *
Some half-hour or so later he appeared in the hall. The butler was
there already with an overcoat, a silk hat, and an air of reserved
dignity. He put General Carden into the overcoat and handed him the hat.
"Have you put the books in the car?" asked General Carden.
"Yes, sir," replied Goring. There was the faintest suspicion of reproof
in the reply.
"Ah! yes, of course, of course; I mentioned it at breakfast." General
Carden took up his gloves and passed into the sunshine down the steps,
an upright figure in grey overcoat, white spats, and hat shining
glossily in the light.
"Good morning, Alcott; the car running well?"
"First rate, sir."
"That's right; that's right. You can take a turn in the Park and
afterwards go to Mudie's."
"Very good, sir."
General Carden got in, and the car purred gently up the street.
He settled himself comfortably into a corner, and glanced at the books
on the seat opposite to him. He had a subscription at Mudie's, and kept
himself thoroughly up in the present-day novel. He did not care to
hear a new book mentioned and have to allow that he had not read it.
Of course, the present-day literature could not compare with that of
the older novelists--that was hardly to be expected. Scott, Dickens,
Thackeray--he ran through them in his mind--where was the writer of
the moment who could compare with them? Who could touch the romance of
Scott, the humour of Dickens, the courtliness of Thackeray? Where was
there a man in present fiction able to stand beside the fine old figure
of General Newcome? No; romance, humour, courtliness, had vanished, and
in their place were divorce accounts, ragging--an appalling word,--and
suffragettes. The world was not what it had been in his young days.
He did not, however, express this opinion blatantly; to do so would
have savoured of old-fogyism. Oh, no; he flattered himself he kept
abreast of the times, and only deplored certain modern innovations,
as they were deplored by all those who still held to the fragments of
refinement and courtliness that remained in the world.
As the car turned into the Park, General Carden sat rather more
upright. He watched the carriages and their occupants with attention,
his old eyes keen to observe and note any of them he knew. And when
he did, off came that glossy silk hat with a bow and a gesture worthy
of a courtier. However much abreast of the times he might choose to
consider himself, in his heart he knew he was of the old school, and
one even older than that of his own youth. He belonged, this courtly
old man, to the delightful old school where men treated women with
chivalry and protection, and where women in their turn accepted these
things with delicate grace and charm; where conversation had meant a
pretty display of wit, a keen fencing of words, where brusquerie was
a thing unknown; and where a fine and subtle irony had stood in the
place of a certain curt rudeness noticeable in the present day. Yet all
that was of the past. It would be as out of place now as would be one
of those dainty ladies of old years, in powder and brocade, among the
tight-skirted women in Bond Street. But very deep down in his heart
General Carden knew it was the school which he loved, and of which
he allowed himself occasionally to dream. Those dreams were dreamt
mainly on winter evenings in a chair before the study fire. And then,
very surreptitiously, General Carden would bring a tiny gold box from
his pocket--a dainty octagon box with an exquisite bit of old enamel,
blue as a sapphire, let into the lid--and, opening it, he would take
an infinitesimal pinch of brown powder between his first finger and
thumb. He was always most extremely careful that no single grain of
it should fall on his white shirt-front. Goring's eyes were at times
unaccountably sharp. He was not going to be caught snuff-taking by a
man who might look upon it as a sign of old age advancing. The little
gold box, when not on his own person, was kept locked in a small
antique cabinet in his dressing-room.
Apparently there were many people in the Park that morning whom General
Carden knew. A big car hummed past with a small woman in it, a woman
who looked almost tiny in the car's capacious depths. She had a pointed
little face and masses of fair hair. Off came General Carden's hat.
This was Muriel Lancing. He had known her as Muriel Grey, when she was
a small girl in short skirts. She had married a certain Tommy Lancing
a refreshing young man with red hair and freckles and a comfortable
private income. General Carden's eyes smiled at the girl. In spite of
a certain airy up-to-dateness, he liked her. She was so dainty, so
piquante, and such an inscrutable mixture of child, woman of the world,
and elfin. One never knew which of the three might not appear on the
surface. Also he liked Tommy, who always contrived to put a certain
air of deference into his manner towards the General, which secretly
pleased that critical white-haired, old veteran immensely.
After a few moments he saw another of his friends, and again the hat
came off, this time with perhaps even something more of courtliness.
The woman in the victoria was very nearly a contemporary his. Quite
a contemporary, General Carden reflected--ignoring the fifteen years
which lay between them, and which were, it must be stated, to the
advantage of Mrs. Cresswell. She was a woman with white hair rolled
high, somewhat after the style of a Gainsborough portrait, and a
clear-cut aristocratic face. She belonged unquestionably to his
school, and their conversations were an invariable delicate sword-play
of words. Even if she were generally the victor--and in the art of
conversation he was willing to concede her the palm--yet he flattered
himself he was no mean opponent, and he had a pleasurable memory of
some very pretty turns of repartee on his own part. She was a friend of
long standing, and one he valued.
Next came a much younger woman in a car, with a small boy beside her.
This was Millicent Sheldon; the boy was her nephew. General Carden's
blue eyes were a little hard as he observed her, and there was just a
suspicion of stiffness in his arm as he raised his hat. She responded
with a slightly frigid bow, her face entirely immovable. There were
reasons--most excellently good reasons--why there was a certain
chilliness between these two. They need not, however, be recorded at
the moment.
Many other carriages and cars passed whose occupants General Carden
knew, also a few foot-passengers, grey-haired veterans like himself,
who walked upright and rather stiff, or younger men slightly insouciant
of manner.
As his car was turning out of the Park another carriage turned in. In
it was a young woman and an older one--much older; in fact, rather
dried up and weather-beaten. This time General Carden did not raise his
hat, though he observed the two women with interest. He had frequently
noticed the carriage and its occupants during his morning drives in
the Park. The younger woman attracted him. It was not merely the fact
that she was beautiful, but there was an air of distinction about her,
a well-bred distinguished air, that appealed to this old critic of
women and manners. The men on the box wore cockades in their hats and
plum-coloured livery. There was also a tiny coronet on the panel of the
carriage door. In spite of the fact that General Carden's sight was not
entirely what it once had been, he noticed the coronet. He noticed,
too, that the woman's hair was black with blue lights in it, that her
skin was a pale cream, and her mouth a delicious and quite natural
scarlet; also that her small well-bred head was exquisitely set on a
slender but young and rounded throat, and that it, in its turn, was set
quite delightfully between her shoulders. There is no gainsaying the
fact that General Carden was a very distinct connoisseur in matters
feminine. He wondered who she was, and even after the carriage had
passed he thought of her very finished appearance with pleasure. And it
was by no means the first time that he had wondered, nor the first that
he had experienced the feeling of pleasure at the sight of her.
In two or three minutes, so swift are the ways of cars, he was stopping
opposite Mudie's in Kensington High Street. A carriage with a pair of
bay horses was waiting beyond the broad pavement outside the shop.
General Carden recognized it as belonging to Mrs. Cresswell. Evidently
she had left the Park before him.
He got out of the car and crossed the pavement to the shop. Mrs.
Cresswell was also changing library books. She saw him approaching
and gave him a smile--a smile at once brilliant, gay, and charmingly
intimate, as was the privilege of an old friend.
"So we meet again," she said in her crisp, pleasantly decided voice,
and she held out her hand. "And how are you this fine May morning?"
"In most excellent health, thank you," replied General Carden, taking
the hand held out to him. "There is no need for me to ask how you are.
You look, as you always do, radiant." He accompanied the words with a
gesture almost suggestive of a bow.
"How charming of you!" sighed Mrs. Cresswell, a little laugh in her
eyes. "I always feel at least ten years younger when I meet you. And
you are on the same errand bent as I. Well, here is one book I can
certainly recommend. I am just returning it myself. It is by a new
author, and is quite delightful--finished, light, and with a style all
its own." She held up a green-covered book as she spoke, and General
Carden read the gold-lettered title, _Under the Span of the Rainbow_.
Now, to be perfectly candid, the title did not appeal to him who read
it. In General Carden's mind it suggested fairy-tales--light, airy,
soap-bubbly things, iridescent and pretty enough for the moment, but
quite unable to withstand the finger of criticism he would inevitably
lay upon them. Yet the book was recommended by a woman, and that woman
Mrs. Cresswell.
"Any recommendation of yours!" said General Carden gallantly. And he
put the book aside while he looked for a second one.
A young shopman made various deferential suggestions, and presently
Mrs. Cresswell and General Carden were out again in the sunshine,
General Carden bearing four library books.
"I shall expect to hear what you think of my recommendation," said Mrs.
Cresswell, as he handed her to her carriage and placed two of the books
on the seat beside her. Her voice held perhaps the faintest intonation
of significance. "Come and see me next Tuesday; I am at home, you know."
"With all the pleasure in the world," replied General Carden.
And then she gave him another of her gracious smiles as the bays moved
off down the sunny street.
II
It was not till after dinner that night that General Carden opened the
book. He was then sitting in a large and comfortable armchair in his
study. A shaded electric lamp stood on a table at his elbow, and he was
experiencing the sense of well-being of a man who has just partaken of
a most excellently cooked dinner.
He fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on his finely chiselled nose and
opened the book, though with but faint anticipation of interest. After
a page or two, however, he became absorbed, almost fascinated. The
writing appealed to him; it was pleasant, cultured. There were here
and there some very neatly turned phrases. And then, quite suddenly,
one paragraph arrested his attention. It was in itself a quite
insignificant little paragraph and merely descriptive. Here it is,
however:
"Near one corner of the house, grey-walled, weather-beaten, stood a
great pear-tree, its branches almost touching the diamond-shaped panes
of the narrow window--the window of the octagon room which held for
him so many memories. In spring-time the tree was a mass of snowy
blossoms, and among their delicate fragrance a blackbird sang his daily
matins. Later in the year the tree would be full of fruit, many of
which fell to the ground, and, bruising in the fall, would fill the
air with a sweet and almost sickly scent. In the trunk of the tree was
a small shield-shaped patch, where the bark had been torn away, and
the initials R. and J. cut in the smooth underwood. They belonged, so
the boy had been told, to the twin brothers, whose gallant history had
fascinated him from childhood."
General Carden paused. There was a look of dim pain in his blue eyes.
After a moment he re-read the passage carefully, and with infinitely
more attention than the few sentences would appear to merit. Then he
turned to the title-page and read the name of the author. Apparently
it told him nothing he desired to know, and he continued his reading.
Much farther on he came to another paragraph at which he again paused
abruptly.
"'Cricket,' said the young man airily, 'is a universal game, and means,
speaking in general terms, the avoidance of anything which--well, hints
of meanness or unfair play to our neighbours.' They were his father's
exact words, and he knew it. At the moment, however, he chose to make
them his own."
General Carden put down the book. His hands were shaking slightly. He
told himself he was an old fool. Hundreds of fathers had used those
words to their sons. They represented the first principle learnt by
an Englishman. But then, there was the pear-tree, the shield-shaped
wound in its bark, the initials, the old weather-beaten house. Memory
began to exert her sway. He was sitting in a study window watching
a tall, slim woman as she laughed at a thin slip of a boy climbing,
monkey-like, among the branches of the old tree. He could hear the very
sound of her laugh and the exultant ring of the boy's voice.
He pulled himself together. That house--the old place down in the
country--was in the hands of caretakers. It did not do to think about
the past at his time of life. He was certainly perturbed to use that
phrase. He turned to the address of the publishers, then glanced at
the telephone on his writing-desk and from it to the clock. The hands
pointed to ten minutes to ten. Of course, it was too late to ring up
a business house, much too late. Besides, pseudonyms were sacred to
publishers, or should be. Quite possibly, too, it was not a pseudonym.
It was absurd that he should suppose that it was. It was a good book,
however, a very good book. He should like to see what the reviews had
to say about it. It was always interesting to hear public opinion on a
good book; and, to a certain extent, reviewers constituted the public.
There were places--he had heard of them--where reviews were collected.
He must find out the name of one of them. Yes; he would like to see
whether the reviewers did not endorse his own opinion. He would tell
Mrs. Cresswell he had appreciated her recommendation. Possibly he would
write a note to-morrow and tell her. It would please her to hear that
he had liked the book she had advised him to read.
And then another thought struck him, and he sat suddenly upright. Had
not she once seen that pear-tree--once, long ago? Surely she, too, did
not think--did not guess----
He would not write to her after all. Tuesday would be time enough to
tell her that he thought the book--yes, quite fairly promising for a
new author. Fairly promising, that was the expression.