“You women,” said Sir Harry, looking intently at her. “One never knows where to have you. A moment ago you looked done in, now you are looking as pretty as ever. Well, well, varium et mutabile semper.”
“Yes, Uncle Harry,” said Leslie. “Good night.”
CHAPTER VI
WHEN Sir Harry came down to his early breakfast next morning he was much surprised to find Mrs. Merton already drinking her coffee. On hearing that she intended to accompany him as far as Winter Overcotes in the hope of catching one more glimpse of her brother he inwardly disapproved. A soldier’s life was made of partings and the less womenfolk bothered him the better. He ate his breakfast behind the newspaper, which was what he called a penny-halfpenny rag, for The Times in its stately march did not come till later, too polite to tell his guest he didn’t want her company, yet unable to be perfectly cordial to her. Lydia, more sensitive to fine shades than of old, felt less and less comfortable. She had told Noel the night before what her plan was.
“I can’t stop you,” said Noel, his heart wrenched by the sight of her controlled distress, “and I suppose I wouldn’t if I could. Is it really worth while, darling, just for a few minutes at the station?”
To which Lydia had replied that she knew it wasn’t worth it, but go she must. Noel, who was the only child of his parents, could not understand the peculiar link of brother and sister when the link is there. Often it does not exist, but when it does it is a very strong and enduring sentiment; and an elderly brother and sister who have lived together for many years are often more devoted than husband and wife. But though he could not share the sentiment from his own experience, he recognized its importance to his Lydia and loved her for it; though to be fair he would have loved her just as much without it. So he gave his blessing to her morning pilgrimage, on the one condition that she should do her best not to wake him at an unearthly hour next morning, for it was quite bad enough, he said, to get up in any case in this weather. And, though he did not say this aloud, he did not wish to see his Lydia go off in the cold and dark on a journey which would but turn the knife in the wound. Then he blamed himself for being morbid and wishing selfishly to keep Lydia to himself, and so went to sleep.
“I’d have ordered Coxon’s taxi if I’d known you were coming, young lady,” said Sir Harry, throwing the mangled body of his newspaper on to the floor. “Are you ready?”
Lydia was ready. They walked together to the station almost in silence. It was a black, blustering morning. No warmth of light shone from the Priory or the village. The station was cheerless and only half awake. Presently the London train came in. Sir Harry and Lydia got into the nearest carriage. As their eyes became accustomed to the faintly illumined gloom they saw a man in some kind of uniform half-asleep in a corner. The train stopped with a jerk, and with a loud shriek began to go backwards. The man woke up.
“Hullo, Waring,” he said, leaning forward into the dim light.
Sir Harry looked at him and recognized Mr. Dean, brother-in-law of Mr. Palmer at Worsted. Mr. Dean, a wealthy retired engineer, and his wife had spent a summer at the Dower House before the war and so fallen in love with the country that they had bought a house near Winter Overcotes and settled there. He and Sir Harry met from time to time on committees and county war work, where his practical sense was extremely useful.
“Morning, Dean” said Sir Harry. “I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re wearing a boiler-suit like the P.M.”
“I might take offence, but I won’t,” said Mr. Dean. “It’s Observer Corps.”
Sir Harry apologized handsomely, saying his eyes weren’t as young as they used to be.
“I thought of saying that myself when you were so offensive about my uniform,” said Mr. Dean, who was on very good terms with Sir Harry, “but it might have sounded personal. I’ve been up at the Observation Post all night. When I say all night I slept a good deal, but it was just as uncomfortable, or even more so. Well, it’s about the only thing old fellows like myself are fit for, and now we hear some talk about our being too old and being sacked. Not much sympathy for the elderly who want to help nowadays, Waring.”
“I mustn’t complain,” said Sir Harry, “for I’m probably ten years older than you are, but old generals are about the most useless thing this war has brought up. We’d be more use dead, or just as much use as we are alive.”
This led to an interesting discussion of their exact ages, from which it transpired that Sir Harry, who was seventy-six, though he didn’t look it, was eight years older than Mr. Dean. Each gentleman then commiserated the other’s misfortunes under the discouraging attitude of a world that had no use for age, while secretly thinking, nay knowing, that his lot was much the harder and more persecuted. The train, after banging backwards and forwards in an aimless way so that the teeth of every coach rattled in its head, had now settled down on the stretch between Lambton and Winter Overcotes. Lydia in her dark corner had not taken any part in the conversation. To tell the truth she still felt mildly in disgrace with Sir Harry and was not sorry to remain in obscurity.
The other occupants of the carriage having, owing to excess of courtesy on both sides, left the battle of grievances drawn, were now circling warily for fresh points of attack.
“I’ve got my niece Leslie down at the Priory,” said Sir Harry. “She has had a bad breakdown, poor girl. Worked to death on that committee of hers—very useful work she does—and then torpedoed coming back from America. We are worried about her brother too. He is at sea again, and we have heard nothing for more than two months. It makes me think of the last war. You know we lost our boy in ’eighteen,” he added.
Now Mr. Dean was a kind man and respected Sir Harry, and if it gave the old general (for as such he thought of him) any pleasure to boast about a niece with a breakdown and a nephew at sea, he should. But to bring up the son who was killed in France in the last war was a hitting below the belt which could not be tolerated.
“Yes, it is worrying to have anyone at sea,” he remarked. “We heard from the twins last week, I am glad to say. You know they are in the same squadron—I mustn’t say any more—and seem to be enjoying life and seeing a lot of each other. Laurence is still in Scotland, I am glad to say, doing liaison with the Poles, and Margaret and the babies are with him. Helen in driving for the Wrens as you doubtless know, while her husband is seconded from Oxford for special work at the Censor’s Office. We get airgraphs quite often from Gerald in India, and Robin has passed out top from his O.C.T.U. Betty—you know she married an American—has been doing good work for the American Red Cross and may be coming over here with her husband, as he is on a commission to inquire into the reorganization of the peanut industry after the war. They will fly, of course. Susan is working for the prisoners of war at Oxford, and we only have Jessica at home, but she collects salvage in her holidays and is learning ju-jitsu. Yes, Waring, it does make one feel old to see all the young people are doing.”
This was an undoubted defeat for Sir Harry, and we may say, well deserved, for if ever a man asked for it, that man was he. But Sir Harry, going on the general principle of never knowing when he was defeated, looked round for his reserves, camp-followers and sutlers, and brought them all into action in the shape of Lydia, whose existence, sitting as she was in a far corner in the dark, he had honestly half-forgotten.
“By the way, Dean,” he said carelessly, “I should have introduced you before. Mrs. Merton, this is our neighbour, Mr. Dean. Mrs. Merton, Dean, who is staying with us, she and her husband, Major Merton, who was in France when the Belgians ratted on us and was all through Dunkirk. Her brother is just ordered abroad and she is going to see him off at Winter Overcotes.”
By the introduction of Colin, Mr. Dean was temporarily checkmated. The train stopped at Winter Underclose and Mr. Dean got out. After a few words with the stationmaster he came back and opened the door.
“There was an accident higher up the line,” he said. “That’s why we were delayed. A shunting engi
ne ran into a truck and derailed it. Nobody hurt. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Harry. “And remember me to your wife. I hope she is well.”
“Rachel? Never been better,” said Mr. Dean. “She runs the Land Army for these parts, you know.”
He shut the door and went off. Sir Harry was silent, reflecting upon the Deans’ large, competent family; upon his own childless old age. And, being an honest man, he had to admit that only very rarely did his childlessness weigh upon him. The wound had healed, and he could not truly say that he would have wished it otherwise. He wondered if Dean’s anxiety with five sons serving was greater than his own had been with one; whether to lose all with one swoop, or to view the possibility of losing a child at a time was the more cruel. And to this he could give no answer. Then as the unpleasant daylight came into the carriage he saw Lydia’s face, and his heart smote him for lack of courtesy to a guest who was not happy.
“I dare say this accident will mean a delay at the junction,” he said. “If so, you ought to have more time with your brother, Mrs. Merton. What a nice fellow he is.”
This amende at once raised Lydia’s spirits and they talked on and off in a friendly way till they got to Winter Overcotes.
Here Doris and Lily-Annie, much excited by the accident, though regretting that there had been no loss of life, were having the pleasure of yelling “All change” up and down the platform. Mr. Beedle was on the platform and opened the carriage door.
“I am so sorry, Sir Harry,” he said, “that you will have the trouble of changing. There was a slight accident on the loop to the main line and we cannot run the London train through this morning. It does seem a shame to trouble a gentleman like you, Sir Harry, but you will have go to the high level for your train. In the old days we would have had the breakdown gang out at work and everything clear by the time you came along, but times aren’t what they were.”
Sir Harry quite agreed, and knowing that without Mr. Beedle’s presence the London train would not go, lingered to talk to the stationmaster. But Lydia, on hearing the news, fled like a deer to the steps, mounted them two at a time, took one comprehensive glance up and down the platform and made straight for Colin. He was as surprised to see his sister as anyone could have wished, and much touched by her affectionate devotion, though at the same time fearing that a second parting might be even harder for her than the first.
As they talked, feverishly, not knowing how soon the train would come, Lydia was conscious of someone hovering in their immediate neighbourhood. She also noticed that Colin moved away a step or two from time to time, or turned in a slightly different direction.
“I think,” said a not very attractive voice at her elbow, “Mrs. Merton and I ought to be introduced.”
“Oh, Hooper,” said Colin, trying to look surprised at the appearance of that officer with whom he had driven in from the camp. “Lydia, this is Captain Hooper.”
“Pleased to know you,” said Captain Hooper. “Nasty sort of day for the last of England and all that. Still, Keith will be having wine, women and song in sunny we-won’t-say-where, while you and I, Mrs. Merton, are the girls he left behind him.”
Colin wondered for a moment if, in view of the need for good officers and he knew Hooper was one, intentional brother-officercide would be overlooked by the Army Council. Feeling that it would not, he regretfully stifled his wish to push Captain Hooper onto the line and tried to edge away.
“And how is the old general?” said Captain Hooper. “A fine old boy, Mrs. Merton, quite the old English gentleman, isn’t he? But quite a relic, we don’t want his type now. We want to be progressive, up-in-the-morning-early, like Russiaris.”
At this moment Sir Harry and Mr. Beedle came up the platform. Mr. Beedle was telling Sir Harry about the latest letter he had received from his prisoner-of-war son, and Sir Harry was giving a kind, heartfelt, sympathetic attention that was balm to Mr. Beedle’s spirit.
“Good morning, sir,” said Captain Hooper jauntily. “Are you off to the gay metropolis like me? Take my tip, and it’s worth having, if you want a good lunch go to the Poubelle in Hentzau Street. It’s run by Les Free Frogs and there’s a spot of pre-war Dubonnet if you ask Mademersell Rose at the bar.”
Sir Harry had hardly ever been deliberately rude in his life, but undoubtedly he would have snubbed Captain Hooper in a way even that thick-skinned officer would feel, had not Mr. Beedle, with the tact that is given only to the officials of the Best Line in England, spoken to the general.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Harry,” he said, “but I’ve a message for you. Would you mind stepping this way, Sir Harry, and you too, sir,” he said to Colin, “and the young lady.”
Detaching them with a masterly flank movement from Captain Hooper he shepherded them to his office, led them in and shut the door.
“You’ll excuse me, Sir Harry,” he said, “but you’ll be warmer here and I shall come and fetch you myself when the train is in. Is the lady going to London, Sir Harry?”
“Thank you so much, but I’m only seeing my brother off,” said Lydia.
Mr. Beedle looked compassionately at her and went away. Sir Harry considerately read a number of recent railway regulations, strictly private, to himself, while Lydia and Colin stood together with little to say.
“You know you were an old goose to come, Lydia,” said Colin.
“I had to,” said Lydia. “Oh, Colin, do you remember the Grand Opening when we used to tidy the boat-house and get the punt and the boat ready and the coracle? All hundreds of years ago. And last time I had the Grand Closing I did it with Noel, before we were married, because you were away in the Army. This is the real Grand Closing, isn’t it. Promise not to be killed, or missing, or a prisoner, or anything.”
“All right, I’ll promise,” said Colin. “Take care of yourself, old goose. Give Noel my love.”
“Sorry, sir, but the train is in,” said Mr. Beedle at the door. “I have locked a compartment for you, Sir Harry.”
Majestically he preceded them to the train and unlocked a door.
“It goes to my heart, Sir Harry, indeed it does, not to be able to offer you a first-class carriage. I call it a great shame and I hope it is one of the first things the directors will put right after the war. No, madam,” he said to a small, wiry woman with a mop of frizzled dark hair and a leopard-skin coat, accompanied by a yellow-faced man with dark sad eyes wearing a béret and huddled in a sheep-skin coat, “this carriage is reserved.”
“You can reserve carriages no longer,” said the woman, lighting a cigarette. “England is now entirely démocrate. Viens, mon petit Gogo.”
“Pardon me, madam,” said the unmoved Mr. Beedle. “There is plenty of room higher up. This carriage is reserved.”
“Ah-ha, see me this type which says reserved,” said the woman to her companion who, obviously terrified of authority, was shrinking further into his sheepskin coat at every fresh outburst. “I will tell you, Mr. Station-chief, that in Mixo-Lydia if you wish a voiture réservée which you say reserved carriage, you address yourself at the Touritza-Büro which you say Tourist Bureau for an affiche qui porte les mots Riservistza ce qui veut dire Réservé avec le nom which it is for Gogo and me Brownscu, et vous la collez à la fenêtre you steek her onto the window and if anyone tries to force an entrance you fight freely. You remember, Gogo, tu te rappelles quand ces deux types ont essayé de nous prendre notre voiture réservée et t’ont battu? Ah, combien je regrette nos chemins de fer Mixo-Lydiens! Et le chef de gare qui t’a giflé, tu te rappelles? Et le juge d’instruction qui t’a condamné à une amende?”
“Czy, pròvka, pròvka, pròvka,” said the wretched Gogo, nothing of him now visible but his despairing eyes.
“He says, ‘No, never, never, never,’” said Mme Brownscu, stubbing her cigarette out with much determination against her companion’s coat. “We will not lose our time to argue. Viens vite, Gogo.”
She seized her unhappy companion an
d choosing a carriage pushed him violently into it, nearly knocking over Captain Hooper as she did so.
“It is Russian you are? Yes?” she demanded, standing on tiptoe and thrusting her face alarmingly near his.
“Oh no, not at all,” said that officer. “But I’m all out for the Help for Russiar idear.”
“Montez donc, imbécile,” said Mme Brownscu, shoving Captain Hooper into the carriage and getting in almost on top of him. “Nous allons lui causer un peu des Russes, Gogo, n’estce-pas. Avez-vous jamais vu éventrer une femme par un Russe par exemple?” she added fiercely to her new friend. “On va vous en dire des nouvelles. En Mixo-Lydie——”
But here the engine let off steam and the rest of this interesting conversation was lost.
“It must be some of the Mixo-Lydians from Southbridge,” said Lydia, laughing in spite of herself. “No one knows if any of them are married or not. Oh, Colin. Good-bye, good-bye.”
The guard blew his whistle and waved his green flag. Colin, leaning from the window to Lydia, gave her a hasty hug. The train pulled out round the curve.
“I’m glad Colin didn’t wave to me,” said Lydia stoutly to herself. “And I’m glad the line goes round so that I can’t see him. Well, that’s that.”
She walked aimlessly down the platform, suddenly realizing that Colin had gone and that she did not know when there would be a train to Lambton. She tried to look at a time-table outside the booking-office, but the figures were slightly blurred and it did not seem to matter very much what they said. Perhaps it would be a good thing to go for a little walk along the platform. Then one could come back and ask a porter when the next train was.
Mr. Beedle, having as it were dismissed the train with his blessing, said a few words to Bill Morple at the barrier and looked round to see that all was well. The waiting passengers had gone by the train, the arrivals had all gone out into the town, only one figure was to be seen at the far end of the platform. A faint drizzle was now blowing across the line from the leaden sky and Mr. Beedle thought that the lady down the platform would be getting wet. Then he recognized the figure as the young lady who was with Sir Harry, the same young lady that had been seeing her brother off; and quite illogically he felt that she would somehow get wetter than other young ladies who weren’t staying at the Priory or seeing their brothers off.
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