THE END OF THE ROAD.
I.
One noonday in the November of 1918 a taxi-cab drew up at the
Washington Inn, a hostelry erected in St. James's Square for American
officers. An officer emerged, and walking with the aid of a stout
Malacca cane, followed his kit into the place.
It was Austin Selwyn, who a few days before had come from France, where
he had hovered for a long time in the borderland between life and
death. Although he had been severely wounded, it was the nervous
strain of the previous four years that told most heavily against him.
Week after week he lay, listless and almost unconscious; but gradually
youth had reasserted itself, and the lassitude began to disappear with
the return of strength. The horrors through which he had passed were
softened by the merciful effect of time, and as the reawakened streams
of vitality flowed through his veins, his eyes were kindled once more
with the magic of alert expression.
Having secured a cubicle and indulged in a light luncheon, he went for
a stroll into the street. Looking up, he saw the windows of the rooms
where he had spent such lonely, bitter hours crusading against the
world's ignorance. It was all so distant, so far in the past, that it
was like returning to a boyhood's haunt after the lapse of many years.
Going into Pall Mall, he felt a curiosity to see the Royal Automobile
Club again. He entered its busy doors, and passing through to the
lounge, took a seat in a corner. The place was full of officers, most
of them Canadians on leave; but here and there in the huge room he
caught a glimpse of sturdy old civilian members, well past the sixty
mark, fighting Foch's amazing victories anew over their port and cigars.
Inciting his eyes roam about the place, Selwyn noticed a group of six
or seven subalterns surrounding a Staff officer, the whole party
indulging in explosive merriment apparently over the quips of the
betabbed gentleman in the centre. Selwyn shifted his chair to get a
better view of the official humorist, but he could only make out a
tunic well covered with foreign decorations. A moment later one of the
subalterns shifted his position, and Selwyn could see that the
much-decorated officer was wearing an enormous pair of spurs that would
have done admirably for a wicked baron in a pantomime. But his knees!
Superbly cut as were his breeches, they could not disguise those
expressive knees.
Selwyn called a waitress over. 'Can you tell me,' he said, 'who that
officer is in the centre of the room--that Staff officer?'
'Him? Oh, that's Colonel Johnston Smyth of the War Office.'
'Colonel--Johnston Smyth!' Selwyn repeated the words mechanically.
'That's him himself, sir. Will you have anything to drink?'
'I think I had better,' said Selwyn.
About ten minutes later, after perpetrating a jest which completely
convulsed his auditors, the War Office official rose to his feet,
endeavoured to adjust a monocle--with no success--smoothed his tunic,
winked long and expressively, and with an air of melancholy dignity
made for the door, with the admiring pack following close behind.
'Good-day, colonel,' said Selwyn, crossing the room and just managing
to intercept the great man.
The ex-artist inclined his head with that nice condescension of the
great who realise that they must be known by many whom it is impossible
for themselves to know, when he noticed the features of the American.
'My sainted uncle!' he exclaimed; 'if it isn't my old sparring-partner
from Old Glory!--Gentlemen, permit me to introduce to you the brains,
lungs, and liver of the American Army.'
The subalterns acknowledged the introduction with the utmost
cordiality, suggesting that they should return to the lounge and
inundate the vitals of the American Army with liquid refreshment; but
Selwyn pleaded an excuse, and with many 'Cheerios' the happy-go-lucky
youngsters moved on, enjoying to the limit their hard-earned leave from
the front.
'May I offer my congratulations?' said Selwyn.
'Come outside,' said the colonel.
They adjourned to the terrace, and Smyth placed his hand in the other's
arm. 'Do you know who I am?' he said.
'Eh?' said Selwyn, rather bewildered by the mysterious nature of the
question.
'I, my dear Americano, am A.D. Super-Camouflage Department, War
Office.' The colonel chuckled delightedly, but checking himself,
reared his neck with almost Roman hauteur. 'I have one major, two
captains, five subalterns, and eleven flappers, whose sole duty is to
keep people from seeing me.'
'Why?' asked the American.
'I don't know,' said the colonel; 'but it's a fine system.'
'You have done wonderfully well.'
'Moderately so,' said the A.D. Super-Camouflage Department. 'I have
been decorated by eleven foreign Governments and given an honorary
degree by an American university. I also drive the largest car in
London.'
'You amaze me.'
'As an opener,' said the colonel, forgetting his dignity in the recital
of his greatness, 'I am in enormous demand. I can open a ball, a
bottle, or a bazaar with any man in the country.'
'But,' said Selwyn, 'how did it all come about?'
'Ah!' exclaimed Smyth, glancing up and down the terrace after the
manner of a stage villain. 'Three years ago I was an officer's
servant. I polished my subaltern-fellow's buttons, cleaned his boots,
and mended his unmentionables. One day this young gentleman and myself
were billeted on an old French artist. When I saw those canvases, I
felt the old Adam in me thirsting for expression. Before all I am an
artist! I made a bargain with the old Parley-vous--a pair of my young
officer's boots for two canvases and the use of his paints. Agreed.
On the one I did a ploughman wending his weary thingumbob home--you
know. The following day happened to be my precious young officer's
birthday, and we celebrated it in style. I would not say he was an
expert with his Scotch, but he was very game--very game indeed. After
I had put him to bed, I determined to paint my second masterpiece, "St.
George to the Rescue!" I did it--and fell asleep where I sat. When I
woke next morning, imagine my astonishment! I had done both paintings
on the one canvas! The ploughman was toddling along to the left, and
St George was hoofing it to the right, but the effect one got was that
a milk-wagon was going straight up the centre. It gave me an idea. I
waited for my leave, and took the painting to the War Office. I told
them if they would give me enough paint I could so disguise the British
Army that it would all appear to be marching sideways. That tickled
the "brass hats." They could see my argument in a minute. They knew
that if you could only get a whole army going sideways the war was won.
I was put on the Staff and given a free hand, and in a very short time
was placed in complete charge of the super-camouflage policy of the
Allies. The testimonials, my dear chap, have been most gratifying. We
have undisputed evidence of an Australian offering a carrot to a
siege-gun under the impression it was a mule. There was a Staff car
which we painted so that it would appear to be going backwards, and the
only way that a certain Scottish general would ride in it was by
sitting the wrong way, with his knees over the back. In fact, my dear
sir, if the war only lasts another year, I shall reduce the whole thing
to a pastime, blending all the best points of "Blind Man's Buff" with
"Button, button, who's got the button?"'
Having reached this satisfactory climax, the worthy colonel shifted his
cap to the extreme side of his head, and walked jauntily along with his
knees performing a variety of acrobatic wriggles.
'I am most gratified,' said Selwyn, repressing a smile. 'I had no
idea, when I saw you and poor Dick Durwent marching away together, that
you would rise to such fame.'
'Alas, poor Durwent!' cried Smyth, pulling his cap forward to a
dignified angle. 'I never knew who he was until we got to France. You
passed him along as Sherwood, you know. His people are frightfully cut
up about him.'
'They heard of his death, of course?'
'It isn't that, old son; it's the horrible disgrace. It only leaked
out a couple of weeks ago from one of his battalion, but it's common
property now. The old boy was absolutely done in--looked twenty years
older.'
'What has leaked out?' said Selwyn, stopping in his walk.
'Didn't you hear? Durwent was shot by court-martial--drunk, they say,
in the line.'
Selwyn's hand gripped his arm. 'Where is Lord Durwent now?' he said
breathlessly.
'In the country, I believe. But why so agitated, my Americano?'
There was no answer. As fast as his weary limbs could take him, Selwyn
was making for the door.
II.
It was nearly eight o'clock that night when Selwyn alighted from a
train at the village where he and Elise had heard the fateful
announcement of war. He walked through the quaint street, silent and
deserted in the November night. Except for two or three people at the
station, there was no one to be seen as his footsteps on the cobbled
road knocked with their echo against the casement windows of the
slumbering dwellings. Reaching the inn, he bargained for a conveyance,
and after taking a little food, and arranging for a room, he went
outside again, and climbed into a dogcart which had been made ready.
After three or four futile attempts at conversation, the driver retired
behind his own thoughts, and left the American to the reverie forced on
him by every familiar thing looming out of the shadows. There was not
a turn of the road, not one rising slope, that did not mean some memory
of Elise. The very night itself, drowsy with the music of the breeze
and the heavy perfume of late autumn, was nature's frame encircling her
personality. He had dreaded going because of the longings which were
certain to be reawakened, but he had not known that in the secret
crevices of his soul there had been left such sleeping memories that
rustling bushes and silent meadows would make him want to cry aloud her
name.
He told himself that she must be in London, and had forgotten him--and
that it was better so. But the night and the darkened road would not
be denied. They held the very essence of her being, and left him weak
with the ecstasy of his emotion.
At the lodge gate they found a soldier, who allowed them to pass, and
they drove on towards the house. So vivid was the sense of her
presence that he almost thought he saw her and himself running
hand-in-hand together again down the road. By that oak he had picked
her up in his arms--and he wondered at the human mind which can find
torture and joy in the one recollection.
Driving into the courtyard, he told the man to wait, and knocked at the
great central door. An orderly admitted him, and took him to a nurse,
who offered to lead him to the wing occupied by Lord and Lady Durwent.
With wondering eyes he glanced at the transformation of the rooms once
so familiar to him. There were beds even in the halls, and everywhere
soldiers in hospital-blue were combining in a cheerful noise which was
sufficient indication that their convalescence was progressing
favourably. In the music-room a local concert-party (including the
organist who had tried to teach Elise the piano) were giving an
entertainment, with the utmost satisfaction to themselves and the
patients.
The nurse led him upstairs and knocked at a door. On receiving a
summons to enter she went in, and a moment later emerged again.
'Will you please go in?' she said.
Thanking her for her trouble, Selwyn stepped into the room, which was
lit only by the light from a log-fire, beside which Lord Durwent and
his wife were seated. Lady Durwent, who had just come from her nightly
grand-duchess parade of the patients, was busying herself with her
knitting, and was in obvious good spirits. Lord Durwent rose as Selwyn
entered, and the good lady dramatically dropped her knitting on the
floor.
'Mister Selwyn!' she exclaimed. 'This is an unexpected pleasure!'
The American bowed cordially over her proffered hand; but when he
turned to acknowledge the old nobleman's greeting he was struck silent.
No tree withered by a frost ever showed its hurt more clearly than did
Lord Durwent. Although he stood erect in body, and summoned the gentle
courtesy which was inseparable from his nature, his whole bearing was
as of one whom life has cut across the face with a knotted whip,
leaving an open cut. He had thought to live his days in the seclusion
of Roselawn, but destiny had spared him nothing.
'Have you had dinner?' asked Lord Durwent. 'We are strictly rationed,
but I think the larder still holds something for a welcome guest.'
'Isn't the war dreadful?' said Lady Durwent gustily.
'I had something to eat at the inn,' said Selwyn, 'so I hope you won't
bother about me.'
The older man was going to press his hospitality further, but as it was
obvious from the American's manner that he had come for a special
purpose, he merely indicated a chair near the fire.
'You move stiffly,' he said. 'Have you been wounded?'
'Yes,' said Selwyn, continuing to stand; 'but there are no permanent
ill effects, luckily. Lord Durwent, I came from London to-day to speak
about your son Dick.'
At the sound of the name Lady Durwent checked a violent sob, which was
of double inspiration--grief for her son and pity for her own pride.
Her husband showed no sign that he had heard, but ran his hand slowly
down the arm of his chair.
And, for the first time, Selwyn became conscious of her presence--Elise
had come noiselessly into the room, and was standing in the shadows.
She walked slowly towards him.
'Is it necessary,' she said, with an imperious tilt of her head, 'to
talk of my brother? We all know what happened.'
By the firelight he saw that, only less noticeably than in her father's
case, she too had been stricken. Her rich-hued beauty, which had
become so intense with her spiritual development, bore the marks of
silent agony. In her eyes there was pain.
'Without wishing to appear discourteous,' said Lord Durwent, 'I think
my daughter is right. My family has been one that always put honour
first. My son Malcolm maintained that tradition to the end. My
younger son broke it. And it is perhaps as well that our title becomes
extinct with my death. If you don't mind, we would rather not speak of
the matter further.'
'He was such a kind boy--they both were,' sobbed Lady Durwent in an
enveloping hysteria, 'and so devoted to their mother.'
Putting Elise gently to one side, Selwyn faced her father.
'Lord Durwent,' he said, 'I was with your son when he was killed. In
the long line of your family, sir, not one has died more gloriously.'
Lord Durwent's hands gripped the arms of his chair, and Lady Durwent
looked wildly up through her tears. Elise stood pale and motionless.
'It is true,' said Selwyn. 'I tell you'----
'There is nothing,' said the older man-- 'there can be nothing for you
to tell that would make our shame any the less. My son was shot'----
'Lord Durwent'----
'----shot for disgracing his uniform. That he was brave or fearless at
the end cannot alter that truth.'
'Elise!' Selwyn turned from Lord Durwent, and his clenched hands were
stretched supplicatingly towards her. 'Your brother was not shot by
the British. He was killed as he went out alone and in the open
against the German machine-guns.'
'What are you saying?' Lord Durwent half rose from his chair. 'Why do
you bring such rumours? What proof is there'----
'Would I come here at this time,' said Selwyn desperately, 'with
rumours? Do you think I have so little sympathy for what you must
feel? I saw your son killed, sir. It was in the early morning, and he
went to his death as you would have had him go. As you know he did go,
Elise.'
III.
In a voice that shook with feeling he told of the fight for the bridge;
how Dick, and Mathews, who had saved him, reached the Americans; of the
desperate hand-to-hand fighting; how the groom had guarded his young
master; the impending disaster; and the death of Dick.
'It meant more than just our lives,' he concluded, in a silence so
acute that the crackling of the logs startled the air like
pistol-shots, 'for as Dick fell we went forward and gained the
brushwood. Less than three hours afterwards the French arrived, and
largely by the use of that bridge a heavy counter-attack was launched.
We buried Dick where he fell--and, Lord Durwent, it is not often that
men weep. The French general, to whom the tank officer had made his
report, pinned this on your son's breast, and then gave it to me to
have it forwarded to you. He asked me to convey his message: "That the
soil of France was richer for having taken so brave a man to its
heart."'
He handed a medal of the _Croix de Guerre_ to Lord Durwent, who held it
for several moments in the palm of his hand. From the distant parts of
the house came the noise of singing soldiers, and a gust of wind
rattled the windows as it blew about the great old mansion. Elise had
not moved, but through her tears an overwhelming triumph was shining.
'And Mathews?' asked Lord Durwent slowly.
'We found him after the attack,' the American answered. 'He must have
dragged himself several yards after he had been hit, and was lying
unconscious, with his hand stretched out to touch Dick's boot. Have
you heard nothing from him, sir?'
'Nothing.'
Again there was a silence fraught with such intensity that Selwyn
thought the very beating of his pulses could be heard. At last Lord
Durwent rose, and with an air of deepest respect placed the medal in
the hands of his wife. Her theatricalism was mute in a sorrow that was
free from shame.
'Captain Selwyn,' said Lord Durwent, 'we shall never forget.'
Feeling that his presence was making the situation only the more acute,
Selwyn pleaded the excuse of the waiting horse to hasten his departure.
'But you will stay here for the night?' said Lady Durwent.
'No--thank you very much. I have left my haversack at the inn; and,
besides, I must catch the 7.45 train to London in the morning to keep
an important appointment. Good-night, Lady Durwent.'
Amidst subdued but earnest good wishes from the peer and his wife, he
wished them good-bye and turned to Elise.
'Good-night,' he said, his face flaming suddenly red.
'Good-night,' she answered, taking his proffered hand.
'I shall go with you,' said Lord Durwent.
The two men walked through the corridors, which were growing quieter as
the night advanced, and, with another exchange of farewells, Selwyn
went out into the dark.
He was weak from the ordeal through which he had passed, and both his
mind and his body were bordering on exhaustion. He called to the
sleeping driver, who in turn roused the horse from a similar condition,
but just as the wheels grinding on the gravel were opposite him Selwyn
heard the door open and the rustle of skirts.
'Austin!' cried Elise, running through the dark.
He almost stumbled as he went towards her, and caught her arms in his
hands.
'I didn't want you to go,' she said breathlessly, 'without saying
thanks. If Boy-blue had really been shot as they said, I--I'----
She did not finish the sentence, but clasping his hand, pressed it
twice to her burning lips.
'Elise,' he cried brokenly--but she had freed herself and was making
for the door.
No longer weary, but with every artery of his body on fire with
uncontrollable love for her, he intercepted the girl. 'Elise,' he
cried, 'I thought I could go from here and carry my heart-hunger with
me--but now I can't. I can't do it.'
'You went away to America.' Her flashing eyes held his in a burning
reproach. 'You did not need me then--and you don't now.'
'But--you didn't care? You never came back to the hospital, and I
wrote to you every day. Tell me, Elise, did you really care--a little?'
'Yes, I did--more than I would admit to myself. But you didn't. All
you could think of was going back to America.'
'But, my dearest'--his heart was throbbing with a tumultuous joy--'if I
had only known. There was so much work for me to do in America'----
'You will always have work to do. You don't need me. I shouldn't have
come out to-night. Please let me go.'
'Then you don't care--now?'
'No. You have your work to do still. You said yourself that we come
of different worlds'----
'Elise, my darling'--he caught her hands in his and forced her towards
him--'what does that matter--what can anything matter when we need each
other so much? I have nothing to offer you--not so much as when we
first met--but with your help, dear heart, I'll start again. We can do
so much together. Elise--I hardly know what I am saying--but you do
understand, don't you? I can't live without you. Tell me that you
still care a little. Tell me'----
Her hands were pressed against his coat, forcing him away from her,
when, with a strange little cry, she nestled into his arms and hid her
face against his breast.
For a moment he doubted that it could be true, and then a feeling of
infinite tenderness swept everything else aside. It was not a time for
words or hot caresses to declare his passion. He stooped down and
pressed his lips against her hair in silent reverence. She was his.
This woman against his breast, this girl whose being held the mystery
and the charm of life, was his. The arms that held her to him pressed
more tightly, as if jealous of the years they had been robbed of her.
'I must go in,' she whispered.
He led her to the door, her hand in his, but though he longed to take
her in a passionate embrace, he knew instinctively that her surrender
was so spiritual a thing that he must accept it as the gift of an
unopened spirit-flower.
'Good-night, dear.' She paused at the door, then raised her face to
his.
Their lips met in the first kiss.
IV.
The following Saturday Selwyn met Elise at Waterloo, and with her hand
on his arm they walked through London's happy streets.
It was 9th November.
News had come that the Germans had entered the French lines to receive
the armistice terms, and hard on that was the official report that the
German Emperor had abdicated.
London--great London--whose bosom had sustained the shocks, the hopes,
the cruelties of war, was bathed in a noble sunlight. For all its
incongruities and jumbled architecture, it has great moments that no
other city knows; and as Selwyn and Elise made their way through the
crowds, there was an indefinable majesty that lay like a golden robe
over the whole metropolis.
Above St. Paul's there floated shining gray airships, escorted by
encircling aeroplanes. Hope--dumb hope--was abroad. Not in an
abandonment of ecstasy, or of garish vulgarity which was soon to
follow, but in a spirit of proud sorrow, Londoners raised their eyes to
the skies. Passengers on omnibuses looked with new gratitude at the
plucky girls in charge who had carried on so long. People stood aside
to let wounded soldiers pass, and old men touched their hats to them.
The heart of London beat in unison with the great heart of humanity.
From crowded streets, from domes and spires and open parks, there
soared to heaven a mighty _Gloria--gloria in excelsis_.'
After a lunch, during which they were both shy and extraordinarily
happy, they took a taxi-cab and drove to a house in Bedford Square.
Leaving Elise, Selwyn knocked at the door, and was admitted to a room
where a girl in an American nurse's outdoor costume waited for him.
'I got your letter in answer to mine, Austin,' said she, giving him
both her hands, 'and I am all ready. Did you see him?'
'I did--yesterday afternoon. But, Marjory, I told him nothing of you,
and if you want to withdraw there is yet time. Have you really thought
what this means to you?'
Her only answer was a patient smile as she opened the door and led him
outside.
'Elise,' said Selwyn, as they entered the cab, 'I want to introduce
Miss Marjory Shoreham of New York.'
'Austin has told me all about you,' said Elise, 'and I think you are
wonderfully brave.'
She took the nurse's hand and held it tightly in hers as the car drove
towards Waterloo.
An hour later they reached a Sussex station, and hiring a conveyance,
drove to a charming country home which was owned by a Mr. Redwood, whom
Selwyn had met on board ship. A servant told them as they drove up to
the door that the master of the house had gone to the village, but that
they were to come in and make themselves at home.
As he helped the girls to alight Selwyn heard the nurse catch her
breath with a spasm of pain. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a
man standing on the lawn facing the sun, which was reaching the west
with the passing of afternoon.
'Please remain here,' said Selwyn, 'and I will motion you when to come.'
He walked towards the solitary figure, who heard him, and turned a
little to greet him.
'Is that you, Austin?'
'Yes, Van,' answered Selwyn. 'How could you tell?'
With his old kindly, tired smile the ex-diplomat put out his hand,
which Selwyn gripped heartily.
'I suppose it is nature's compensation,' said Van Derwater calmly.
'Now that I cannot see, footsteps and voices seem to mean so much more.
I was just thinking before you came that, though I have seen it a
thousand times, I have never _felt_ the sun in the west before.
Look--I can feel it on my face from over there. Sir Redwood tells me
that the news from France is excellent.'
'It is,' said Selwyn. 'I think the end is only a matter of hours.'
'A matter of hours; and after that--peace. Austin, I haven't much to
live for. It was in my stars, I suppose, that I should walk alone; but
there is one fear which haunts me--that all this may be for
nothing--for nothing. If I thought that on my blindness and the
suffering of all these other men a structure could be built where
Britain and America and France would clasp the torch of humanity
together, I would welcome this darkness as few men ever welcomed the
light. But it is a terrible thought--that people may forget; that
civilisation might make no attempt to atone for her murdered dead.'
He smiled again, and fumbling for Selwyn's shoulder, patted it, as if
to say he was not to be taken too seriously.
'The world must have looked wonderful to-day in this sunlight,' he went
on. 'Do you know, I hardly dare think of the spring at all. I
sometimes feel that I could never look upon the green of a meadow
again, and live.'
Selwyn had beckoned to the nurse, who was coming across the lawn
towards them.
'Van,' he said, taking his friend's arm, 'don't be too surprised, will
you? But--but an old friend has come back to you.'
'Who is it?' Van Derwater's form became rigid. 'I can hear a step,
Austin! Austin, where are you? What is this you're doing to me?
Speak, man--would you drive me mad?'
Without a sound the girl had clutched his hand and had fallen on her
knees at his feet.
'Marjory!' With a pitiful joy he felt her hair and face with his hand,
and in his weakness he almost fell. Vainly he protested that she must
go away, that he could not let her share his tragedy. Her only answer
was his name murmured over and over again.
Creeping silently away, Selwyn rejoined Elise. Once they looked back.
The girl was in Van Derwater's arms, and his face was raised towards
the sun which he was nevermore to see. But on that face was written a
happiness that comes to few men in this world.