THE GOOD COMRADE
Rawson-Clew was very busy that autumn, so busy that the events which
had taken place in Holland were rather blotted out of his mind; he had
not exactly forgotten them, only among the press of other things he
did not often think about them and they soon came to take their proper
unimportant place among his recollections. Julia he thought of
occasionally, but less and less in connection with the foolish
holiday, more in connection with some chance saying or doing. Things
recalled her, a passage in a book, a sentiment she would have shared,
an opinion she would have combated. Or perhaps it was that some one he
met set him thinking of her shrewd swift judgments; some scene in
which he played a part that made him imagine her an amused spectator
of its unconscious absurdity. He had turned her thyme flowers out of
his pocket; he had no sentiment about them or her, but he did not
forget her; their acquaintance had, to a certain extent, been a thing
of mind, and in mind it seemed he occasionally came in contact with
her still. Also there is no doubt she must have been one of those
virile people who take hold, for though one could sometimes overlook
her presence, in absence one did not forget.
Of herself and her doings he never heard; at first he had half thought
he might have some communication from Mr. Gillat, but as the autumn
went on and he heard nothing, he came to the conclusion that she
really must have arranged something satisfactorily and there was an
end to the whole affair. He settled down to his own concerns and
became very thoroughly absorbed in them, to the exclusion of nearly
everything else. For women he never had much taste, and now, being
busy and preoccupied, he got into the way of scanning them more
critically than ever when he did happen to come across them. Not
comparing them with any ideal standard, but just finding them
uninteresting, whether they were the cultivated, well-bred girls of
the country, or the smart young matrons and wide-awake maidens of the
town.
That autumn the young Rawson-Clew, Captain Polkington's acquaintance,
came into a fortune and took a wife. The latter was, perhaps, on the
whole, a wise proceeding, for, though the wife in question would
undoubtedly help him in the rapid and inevitable spending of the
fortune, she was likely also to enable him to get more for his money
than if he were spending alone. Rawson-Clew was not introduced to this
lady till the winter, then, one evening, he met her at a friend's "at
home."
She was very pretty, small and fair and plump, with childish blue
eyes, and an anything but childish mind behind them. She had dainty
little feet, as well shaped as any he had ever seen, and she was
perfectly dressed, her gown a diaphanous creation of melting colours
and floating softness, which suggested more than it revealed of her
person, like a nymph's drapery. She was the centre of attraction and
talked and laughed a great deal, the latter in little tinkles like a
child of five, the former from the top of her throat with the faintest
lisp and in the strange jargon that was the slang of the moment. She
knew no more of Florentine art or Wagner or Egyptology than Julia
did, and cared even less. She set out to be intelligently ignorant--to
be anything else was called "middle-class" in her set--and she
achieved her end, although she could do some things extremely
well--play bridge, gamble in stocks and shares and anything else, and
arrange lights and colours with the skill of an artist when a suitable
setting for her pretty self was concerned. She had all the charms of
womanly weakness without any old-fashioned and grandmotherly
narrowness; she was quite free and emancipated in mind and manners, no
man had to modify his language for her; she preferred a double meaning
to a single one, and a _risque_ story to a plain one. She had an
excellent taste in dinners, a critical one in liqueurs, and a catholic
one in men.
She was most gracious to Rawson-Clew when he was introduced, breaking
up her court and dismissing her admirers solely to accommodate him.
The instant she saw him, before she heard who he was, she picked him
out as the game best worthy of her prowess, and she lost no time in
addressing herself to the chase with the skill and determination of a
Diana--though that perhaps is hardly a good comparison, enthusiasm for
the chase being about the only quality she shared with the maiden
huntress.
Rawson-Clew did not show signs of succumbing at once to her charms;
she hardly expected that he would, for she gave him credit for knowing
his own value and was not displeased thereby; where is the pleasure of
sport if the quarry be captured at the outset? But if he did not
succumb he did all that was otherwise expected of him, standing in
attendance on her and sitting by her when he was invited to the settee
she had chosen in a quiet corner. So well, indeed, did he comport
himself that by the time they parted she felt fairly satisfied with
her progress.
Perhaps she would have been less satisfied if she had heard something
he said soon after. A man he knew left the house at the same time he
did and persuaded him to come to the club. On the way the little lady
came in for some discussion; the other man chiefly gave his opinion
though he once asked Rawson-Clew what he thought of his young cousin's
wife.
"As a wife?" he answered; "I should not think of her. If I wanted, as
I certainly do not, the privilege of paying that kind of woman's
bills, I should not bother to marry her."
The other man laughed, but if he quarrelled with anything in the
answer, it appeared to be the taste rather than the judgment. He
maintained that the lady was charming; Rawson-Clew merely said--
"Think so?" and did not even trouble to defend his opinion.
At the club he found a box that had come for him by parcels post. A
wooden one with the address printed on a card and nailed to the lid,
which was screwed down. It did not look particularly interesting; he
told one of the club servants to unscrew it for him. When he came to
examine the contents he found, first a lot of damp packing, and then a
wide-necked stoppered bottle, two-thirds full of white powder. It bore
a label printed neatly like the address--
"Herr Van de Greutz's Explosive.
"Formula as he said it...."
For a moment Rawson-Clew held the bottle, staring at it in blank
astonishment; so tense was his attitude that it caught the other man's
attention.
"Hullo!" he said, "some one sent you an infernal machine?"
Rawson-Clew roused himself. "No," he answered shortly.
He put the bottle back in the box after he had felt in the packing and
found nothing, then he fastened it up with more care than was perhaps
necessary. He looked at the address on the lid, but it told him
nothing more than it had at first; neither that nor the name of the
post-office from which it was sent gave any clue to the sender. And
yet he felt as if Julia were at his elbow with that mute sympathy in
her eyes which had been there when they talked of failure in the wood
on the Dunes.
He rose, and taking the box, went towards the door; the other man
watched him curiously. "One would think you had found a ghost in your
box," he said.
"I'm not sure that I have not," Rawson-Clew looked back to answer;
"the ghost of a good comrade."
Then he went home.
When he was alone in his chambers and secure from interruption, he
opened the box again and took out all the packing, carefully sorting
it. But he found nothing, no scrap of paper, no clue of any sort; he
took off the linen rag that fastened in the bottle stopper, but that
betrayed nothing either; and yet he thought of Julia.
She was the only person who could know about the explosive. It had
never been actually spoken of last summer, but the chances were she
knew. She was the only person who could have known or who could have
got it. It was like her, so like that he was as sure as if her name
were in the box that she was the sender. How she had got the stuff he
could not think, he knew the difficulties in the way; but she had done
it somehow, and now she had sent it to him, without name for fear of
embarrassing him, without clue, with no desire for thanks--loyal,
generous, able little comrade! He looked up again; he felt as if she
were bodily present; the whole thing, astounding as he had found it at
first, was somehow so characteristic of her. And because of her
presence he suddenly wished he had not been to that evening's
entertainment and sat close by his cousin's wife and heard the things
she said, and answered the things she looked. He felt as if he were
not clean, as if he had no right to entertain even the ghost of the
good comrade.
Rawson-Clew was not self-conscious; it never occurred to him to think
if he appeared ridiculous, whether he was alone or in company. He took
off his dress coat and flung it aside with a feeling of disgust; its
sleeve had brushed that woman's bare arm; he could almost fancy that a
suggestion of the scent she used clung to it. He put it out of sight
and fetched some other garment before he came back to the thing which
had recalled Julia. And yet the girl was no lily-child with the dew of
dawn upon her; he did not for one instant think she was; probably, had
she been, she would not have been the good comrade. The facts of life
were not strange to her, she knew them, good and bad; was not above
laughing at what was funny even if it was somewhat coarse, but she had
no taste for lascivious wallowing no matter under what name disguised.
A man could be at home with her, he could speak the truth to her; but
he would not make a point of taking her into the society of that
woman, any more than he would invite a friend to look at the sink,
unless there was some purpose to serve.
Rawson-Clew took up the bottle and looked at it, and looked at the
address card on the lid, all over again; and there grew in his mind
the conviction that he been a remarkable and particular fool. Not
because he had taken that holiday on the Dunes, nor yet because he had
failed to get the explosive and Julia had succeeded--he believed that
a man might have average intelligence and yet fail there, for he
thought she had more than average. But because he had failed to
recognise a fact that had been existent all the time--the need he had
for the good comrade. Why had he a better liking for his work than of
old? Because it was such as she would have liked, could have done
well, every now and then he fancied her there. Why did he find new
pleasure in the hours he spent reading Renaissance Italian, old
memoirs, the ripe wisdom of the late Tudors and early Stuarts? Because
he found her in the pages, saw her laugh sometimes, heard her
contradict at others; felt her, invisible and not always recognised,
at his elbow.
He looked round; why should not the presence be fact instead of fancy?
He would go to Mr. Gillat and find her whereabouts; if Julia was in
England, as she probably was, seeing that the box was posted in
London, the old man would know where she was. He would go to Berwick
Street--he looked at the clock--no, not now; it was too late, or
rather too early; he would have to wait till the morning was a good
deal older.
Unfortunately the carrying out of the plan did not prove very
successful. Berwick Street he found, and No. 31 he found, but not Mr.
Gillat; he was gone and had left no address. Mrs. Horn did not seem
troubled by the omission; he had paid everything before he went away,
and he practically never had any letters to be sent on; why, she
asked, should she bother after his address?
Rawson-Clew could not tell her why she should, nor did he give any
reason why he himself should. He went away and, reversing the order of
his previous search, went to Marbridge.
But failure awaited him there, too. When he came to the Polkingtons'
house he found it empty, the blinds down, the steps uncleaned, and
bills announcing that it was to let in the windows. He stood and
looked at it in the grey afternoon, and for a moment he was conscious
of a feeling of desolation and disappointment which was almost absurd.
He turned away and began to make inquiries about the family. He soon
learnt all that was commonly known. They had been gone from East
Street some little time now; they must have left before the box
containing the explosive was posted. Julia had sent it to Aunt Jane's
lawyer, before she set out for the cottage, asking him to dispatch it
at a given date, and he had fulfilled her request, thinking it a
wedding present and the date specified one near the impending
ceremony. This, of course, Rawson-Clew did not find out; he found out
several things about the Polkingtons though, their debts and
difficulties, their sale and the break up of the family. He also found
out that the youngest Miss Polkington was married and the second, and
now only remaining one, had come home before the break up. As to where
the family were now, that was not quite so clear; Mrs. Polkington was
with one of her married daughters; her address was easily obtainable
and apparently considered all that any one could require, and quite
sufficient to cover the rest of the family. Captain Polkington--nobody
thought much about him--when they did, it was generally concluded he
was with his wife. As for Julia, she must have got a situation of some
sort--unless, which was unlikely, she was with her parents.
Rawson-Clew took Mrs. Polkington's address--it was all he could
get--and determined to write to her.
It did occur to him to write to Julia at her sister's house and
request that his letter was forwarded; but he did not do so; he was
not at all sure she would answer; he wanted to see her face to face
this time. He wrote to Mrs. Polkington and asked her for Julia's
address, introducing himself as a friend met in Holland, and
explaining his reason, vaguely to be connected with that time.
When Mrs. Polkington received the letter she thought it over a little;
then she showed it to Violet, and they discussed it together. At the
outset they made a mistake; they only knew of one person of the name
of Rawson-Clew--the Captain's young acquaintance; he had certainly
gone away from Marbridge last spring and so in point of time could
have met Julia in Holland, only it was not likely that he had, or that
he had become friendly with her. At least so Violet said; Mrs.
Polkington, who knew what remarkable things herself and family could
do in the way of getting to know people, was inclined to think
differently. On one point, however, they were agreed; it would be very
unpleasant to have to tell one in the position of Mr. Rawson-Clew
about Julia's present proceedings. Giving the address would be giving
the information, or something like it--one would have to
explain--"Miss Julia Snooks, White's Cottage, near Halgrave."
"We can't do that," Violet said with decision.
"I might say I would forward a letter, perhaps?" Mrs. Polkington
suggested.
But Violet did not think that would do either. "Julia would answer
it," she said; "and that would be quite as bad; you know, she is not
in the least ashamed of herself."
Mrs. Polkington did know it. "I believe you are right," she said, with
the air of one convinced against her will; "Julia has voluntarily cut
herself adrift from her own class; it would be unpleasant and
embarrassing for her as well as for other people to force her into any
connection with it again; I don't think any purpose can be served by
reopening an acquaintance with Mr. Rawson-Clew, we did not know him
at Marbridge"--she never forgot that his circle there did not think
her good enough to know. "I cannot imagine that it would be
advantageous for Julia to write to him or hear from him under the
present circumstances. He comes of a Norfolk family, too (Mrs.
Polkington always knew about people's families even when she did not
know them personally; it was the sort of information that interested
her); I don't know what part of the county his people belong to, very
likely nowhere near Julia; but supposing it were near enough for him
to know from the address what kind of a place Julia was in, it really
might be so awkward; we ought to be very careful for dear Richard's
sake, especially seeing his connection with the Palace. I really think
it would be wiser as you say, to be on the safe side."
So she kept on that side, which, being, interpreted meant leaving
Rawson-Clew's information much where it was before. She wrote very
nicely, somewhat involved, not at all baldly; but reduced to plain
terms her letter came to this--she was not going to tell Julia's
address or anything about her.
So Rawson-Clew read it, and very angry he was. And the worst of all
was that on the same night that he received this letter, he also
received orders to go at once to Constantinople. He had no time for
anything and no choice but to go and leave the search. But during his
journey across Europe an idea came to him with the suddenness of an
inspiration. He knew what Julia had done--she had "retired," even as
she had said she hoped to on the first day they walked together. She
had retired somewhere from shams and hypocrisy, from society and her
family; possibly even she had adopted the corduroy and onions part of
the ambition; if so, that would explain her mother's refusal, based
on some kind of pride, to give her address. She had retired, and she
had taken Johnny Gillat with her, and her own people had washed their
hands of her! He knew now what to look for when he should come back.
He might not be back for two months or even three, but when he did
come he would be able to find Julia and talk to her about the
explosive--and other things.
* * * * *
It may be here said that the wonderful explosive did not do what was
expected of it, either in England or Holland, for it was found to
decompose on keeping. It did everything else that was boasted of it,
but no one succeeded in keeping it more than fifteen months, an
irremediate defect in an explosive for military purposes. This, of
course, was not discovered at first, and the honour and glory of
obtaining the specimen was considerable, if only there had been some
one to take it. Rawson-Clew did not consider himself the person.