“Oh no, thank you,” said Leslie, in a curiously high, artificial voice. “I dined with some people and we went to a show.”
Philip at once hated and despised the people, but so far constrained himself as to hope the show was good.
Leslie said she hadn’t much enjoyed it. It was all very symbolic, about a young man who didn’t believe in patriotism and got converted by a street-walker just as they were killed in a blitz. Philip said it sounded pretty mouldy, but not much mouldier than having to play bridge with Captain Hooper, Wagstaffe of Signals, and Major Spender, who would talk about his children all the time.
They then continued their walk, each with a strong impulse to take the other’s hand, but thinking it might be considered forward; both very glad that Lady Waring was so late. After a few minutes of this ecstasy Philip, who had already tried six times to speak and found himself quite unequal to it, said:
“Leslie, there’s something I want to tell you. I really oughtn’t to but I don’t care.”
He stopped, as if the works had suddenly run down. Leslie felt that something was coming which she had spent her whole life going to meet; something that had been coming towards her from the beginning of the world. But what it was she did not know, or would not let herself think. She only gave him a quick look and turned her head away.
“Have I made you angry?” asked Philip, nervously addressing his love’s lost profile.
“Oh, of course not,” said Leslie. “I think that’s Uncle Harry looking for us.”
She began to walk towards her uncle, followed by Philip with hope and despair jostling in him to that extent that there didn’t seem to be much room for his breath.
“Come along, Leslie,” said Sir Harry. “Your aunt’s there. Can we give you a lift, Winter?”
Philip looked at Leslie to see if she wished to be incommoded by his presence, but owing to the darkness could see nothing but a pale oval which was her face.
“Thank you so much, sir,” he said with calm despair, “but the local hasn’t gone yet and I’ve got a big suitcase, so I won’t trouble you.”
He saluted and went away. Leslie, realizing that she had deliberately shattered her life’s happiness as well as probably driving Philip to suicide on the first German gun he met, followed her uncle meekly. Lady Waring was in the car with Sergeant Hopkins in the back. Her husband got in beside the sergeant, Leslie sat beside her aunt, and they drove away.
“Most extraordinary thing just happened, my dear,” said Sir Harry. “Of course this is entirely between ourselves. You know that porter, Bill Morple, from Melicent Halt. It seems there has been a lot of petty thieving at the station here, and Beedle had his suspicions, just as he did about the cup that was stolen, but he couldn’t say anything as he had no proof. But our friend Hopkins here has caught the fellow red-handed.”
“Good gracious!” said Lady Waring, quite moved from her accustomed calm. “What happened, sergeant?”
Sergeant Hopkins, who found consecutive speech very difficult unless his hands were occupied, looked wildly round, for discipline forbade him to take off his cap and roll it. His hand found something soft, he picked it up and began to twist it.
“It was this way, my lady,” he said. “I was alone in Mr. Beedle’s office by the fire till your ladyship and the car came, and I was doing the football pool, not that you would be interested in that though it’s surprising the way the Barchester Roamers are doing in spite of the war, and I felt a draught, though I was on the other side of the fire, so I looked, my lady, and there was a hand came round the door.”
“You see, my dear,” said Sir Harry, acting as chorus, “the office is always empty just then, when the 6.25 is in the station, so if the door isn’t locked anyone can get in.”
“What did you do?” asked Leslie. “I would have screamed.”
“I watched that hand,” said the sergeant, who was enjoying himself deeply, “and it crope round the corner of the door, miss, and began feeling in the pocket of Mr. Beedle’s jacket that was hanging behind the door.”
The exclamations that burst from his female hearers were of a gratifying nature.
“Whoever it was thought the room was empty, you see, my dear,” said Sir Harry.
“I watched that hand,” said the sergeant, “and just as it came out of the pocket I made a jump and grabbed it and pulled the fellow in and put my back against the door.”
“And it was Morple,” said Sir Harry, who could not bear to keep silence any longer, “with three and twopence worth of loose change in his hand and an envelope.”
“That’s right, my lady,” said Sergeant Hopkins, who had a generous nature and did not resent Sir Harry’s poaching on his story. “So I said, ‘Everything you say will be taken down against you, my lad,’ and I waited till Mr. Beedle come back and I told him what had occurred, and then Sir Harry was calling me, so I came along.”
“You don’t think Morple will hurt Mr. Beedle, do you?” said Lady Waring anxiously.
“He was as white as a jelly and his knees shaking, my lady,” said Sergeant Hopkins. “But I passed the word to Doris Phipps to stand by. She and that Lily-Annie are as good as a couple of men any day.”
The story was discussed with pleasurable horror all the way back by the Warings and Sergeant Hopkins. Leslie sat in her corner thinking how she had driven the one love of her life out into the snow to perish miserably. If there had been a telephone in the car she would have rung him up at once. She would have given the world to have the last half-hour again, but she could not, and none of us can. When they got to the Priory, Sergeant Hopkins took the car into the garage and went away to report to Matron, not without a caution from Sir Harry to say nothing of what had happened, a caution which he scrupulously respected.
“What an extraordinary state my muffler is in,” said Sir Harry. “I laid it on the seat in the car and it looks as if it had been twisted into a rope.”
No one could account for this, though Lady Waring offered some very improbable explanations.
“Nothing from Cecil,” said Leslie, who had been looking through her accumulation of letters in the hall.
“I expect his letters will all come in a rush now,” said Lydia, who had stood sympathetically by. “I haven’t heard from Colin yet, but I’m sure they’ll all come in a bunch.”
The Warings also spoke words of comfort, but Leslie, her face suddenly small and peaked, said she was so sorry but she was tired; it had been a tiring day in London; the party the night before had been rather tiring; would no one mind if she went upstairs.
Lydia picked up Leslie’s suitcase and followed her. She overtook Leslie at the door of her bedroom, put the suitcase on the floor, lighted the gas-fire for her and helped her off with her coat, for Leslie looked incapable of doing anything for herself.
“Cheer up,” said Lydia very kindly, thinking that conventional words of comfort would be as good as any other. “I’m perfectly sure you’ll get heaps of letters from Cecil soon. Probably he and Colin have met each other among the oranges if Colin has gone where I think he has.”
“I know something has happened,” said Leslie. “I can’t bear it. I know something has happened to Cecil. And I was beastly to Philip. I wish I were dead.”
She began to cry in a desolate way.
“Look here,” said Lydia, half-guessing what might have happened between Leslie and Philip. “If you are going to have a breakdown I’ll tell Selina to bring you up some dinner and tell your aunt you were overtired. But if you could possibly not have a breakdown it would really be better. I don’t know what Philip’s done, and I can’t ring up the camp because a lorry skidded into a telegraph-post and the Dower House is cut off, but I swear I’ll get at him to-morrow if it’s important. Try to have a bath quickly and come down to dinner.”
“All right,” said Leslie, with real heroism choking back the hysteria that she longed to indulge in. “I expect I’ll be all right to-morrow. I was really a bit tired, not much—but not
getting Cecil’s letter—I’d been waiting so long. I wish I knew what had happened. Thanks awfully, Lydia.”
Lydia went away and Leslie drank a greal deal of cold water, had a bath and told herself not to be a fool. Luckily the affair of Bill Morple overshadowed all other conversation and she was able to go to bed early without disturbing her uncle and aunt.
When Sergeant Hopkins had left the office, Mr. Beedle sat down and looked at Bill Morple.
“You’ve not got anything on me, Mr. Beedle,” said Bill Morple suddenly.
“There’s the three-and-twopence I had in my pocket,” said Mr. Beedle, pointing sadly to his desk.
“There’s no one can say it’s yours,” said Bill Morple sullenly. “I s’pose you go marking all your money.”
“And there’s that envelope,” said Mr. Beedle, still looking at his porter. “It’s Henry’s last letter from Germany. I wouldn’t have liked to lose it.”
Bill Morple looked at the floor, the ceiling, the desk, anywhere but at Mr. Beedle.
“I ought rightly to ring up the police,” said Mr. Beedle. “You’re giving the Line a bad name, Bill Morple. It’s bad enough to see the station the way it is now, without having a thief on the station staff.”
Bill Morple was heard to mumble that he was going to put it back.
“What Mrs. Beedle would say if she knew, I hardly like to think,” said Mr. Beedle. “Nor Doris and Lily-Annie. A nice example you’re setting them. On your last night here, too.”
Bill, now sniffing as well as mumbling, said he owed some chaps eleven shillings and was afraid they’d write to the Army and get him into trouble.
“Well,” said Mr. Beedle, unlocking his desk, “there’s eleven shillings. Hold your tongue and no one will be the wiser. I’m not going to touch that three-and-twopence. Put it into the box for Prisoners of War in the general waiting-room. Good-bye, Bill, and good luck.”
Bill Morple, his face a disagreeable compound of fear, defiance, mortification, dirt and a tear or two, ignored Mr. Beedle’s hand, turned and slouched out of the office. Mr. Beedle’s face showed no emotion. He carefully smoothed the letter that Bill had crumpled, put it in his pocket-book, and applied himself to his papers.
Outside the office Bill found Doris Phipps and Lily-Annie Pollett sitting on a truck smoking.
“So long,” said Bill, affecting a devil-may-care air. “It’s the Army for me to-morrow. Glad to get there.”
“You’ve been long enough thinking about it,” said Doris.
“Waiting to grow the moustache I expect,” said Lily-Annie.
“All right, you girls,” shouted Bill Morple, “I s’pose you think I’m a thief. Old Beetle’s been talking to you.”
Doris said she didn’t think anything.
“Well, let me tell you old Beetle called me in to say good-bye and wish me good luck,” said Bill angrily. “And if you think I’m a thief, I’ll show you something. Just you wait till Monday. If he was in Russia——”
“There wouldn’t be no football pools,” said Lily-Annie, finishing his sentence for him.
“That’s enough, Lily-Annie,” said Doris Phipps, putting out her hand to the porter. “Good-bye, Bill. Mind your step and don’t trouble to write.”
Cowed by his fair and muscular friends who each stretched out a slightly threatening hand, Bill Morple sulkily shook them both, looked sheepish and turned away.
“You just wait till Monday morning,” he repeated. “If you think I’m a thief, I’ll just show you I am a thief. You look out the day after to-morrow and you’ll see something.”
“See the last of you,” shrieked Lily-Annie.
Hoots of laughter followed the ex-porter as he went away to take off his official jacket for the last time. Seeing no further call for their services the girls applied themselves to their usual duties with a great deal of talk about what Bill Morple had meant, but getting no nearer any explanation. When the platform was clear Bill Morple came out of the porters’ room and went into the general waiting-room. He came out again almost at once and disappeared from Winter Overcotes station into the darkness.
CHAPTER XII
THE second post, which had not brought Cecil’s letter to Leslie on the Saturday, had brought to the Mertons letters containing the delightful news, first that everything was in train for them to buy back Lydia’s old home of Northbridge Manor, and secondly that the bailiff was staying in the Army and would be very glad if they would live in his little house for an indefinite period. An old housemaid had been kept on as caretaker at the Manor and the Keiths’ old nurse Mrs. Twitcher was only a short distance away, so Lydia saw no great difficulties about housekeeping and said she could go back to the Barchester General Hospital. Her only regret, she added, was that she would have to give the Warings notice and would feel like a murderess. She was however cheered by Noel, who reminded her that the Carters would now be within easy reach by bicycle and her mother would be able to stay with them after or before her annual visit to Kate. Fortified by these reflections, Lydia was able to go down to breakfast on Sunday morning without feeling too murderous, having arranged with Noel that she would break the news to Lady Waring when the fit moment arrived.
The Warings and the Mertons walked across the park to church as they had done when the Mertons arrived, nearly three months ago. The days in February are not so very much longer than the days in early November, but the new year has begun and the light is winning, the darkness losing. Primroses or catkins no longer seemed unseasonable and the world was turning to the sun. Leslie, who had made heroic efforts to conquer her depression, did her very best to appear normal and certainly succeeded in making her uncle and aunt feel less anxious about her. After taking their seats in the Waring pew and indulging in the usual moment of silent thought whose vagaries it is so difficult to control, the Priory party looked discreetly about them and were rewarded by seeing Nannie Allen, in her best Sunday grey coat and skirt and her uncompromising black hat trimmed with white roses, escorted by Mr. Needham. Nannie was looking out the hymns and psalms for the day and inserting bookmarkers, made very badly in cross-stitch on perforated cardboard by various ex-charges, in the right places. Mr. Needham, who knew all the hymns for the day by heart and the one psalm which is the most a degenerate age can stomach, was bearing it all very well.
Canon Tempest then entered in an angry way, hurled a sentence about the wicked man at his congregation and launched into Dearly beloved brethren, giving it the effect of an anathema, but not, we are glad to inform our readers, curtailing it as is the present reprehensible and lazy practice. As he reached the words “saying after me,” there was a slight noise from the direction of the church porch and an officer came in. Nannie, recognizing him as the gentleman that came to tea the day the new curtain-rod was put up, beckoned to him to come into her pew, and Philip would no more have dared to refuse than he would have brawled in church. The party in the Warings’ pew were by now kneeling and did not turn to look, so it was not till Canon Tempest had blessed and dismissed them with ill-suppressed rage that Leslie saw Colonel Winter in Nannie’s pew.
Although she had thought of him till she fell asleep, although she had woken to a thought of him, it had never occurred to her that she would see him again so soon and her heart bounded violently. She saw Philip leaving the church with Nannie Allen and Mr. Needham, but it was impossible to hurry down the aisle, for she was on the inside of the pew near the wall. Gradually her uncle and aunt moved towards the door and at last they were out in the faint sunshine. She saw Philip at the churchyard gate, but Canon Tempest came out to speak to the Warings and courtesy bade Leslie stay and greet him, while Noel and Lydia, not wishing to intrude, walked slowly on. She saw them join Nannie and her party, she saw Philip say something to Lydia and then she had to drag her attention back to Canon Tempest who, having been informed by Sir Harry under the seal of secrecy that he hoped to have an excellent new Vicar as soon as possible in a young Mr. Needham, an Army chaplain engaged to Dr. Cr
awley’s youngest daughter, took the wind completely out of his sails by turning out to be Octavia’s godfather and knowing all about Mr. Needham, whom he thoroughly approved; for the Canon had been a great oarsman in his time. Then Sir Harry called to Mr. Needham to come and be introduced to Dr. Tempest, Noel came with him, one or two other important parishioners joined them, and Leslie, quite hopeless now, saw Philip and Lydia disappear by the lane into the Priory woods. By the time the little group had dispersed they were lost to sight, so Leslie walked back by the road with her uncle and aunt, being very pleasant, and wondering how much longer she could bear her anxiety about Cecil and her need of Philip.
Meanwhile Philip and Lydia walked up the lane through the woods where the young trees, though no green appeared, seemed to vibrate with life, as if with a motion of their branches they might shake out their spring leafage.
“Anything wrong?” said Lydia, using the same direct methods with Colonel Winter as Miss Lydia Keith would have used with the assistant master at Southbridge School.
“Everything,” said Philip.
“Well then, you’d better tell me,” said Lydia. “Is it about Leslie?”
Philip, looking straight in front of him, said he supposed it was.
“She said she was beastly to you yesterday,” said Lydia, by way of a delicate hint.
“So she was,” said Philip furiously. “She wouldn’t listen to a thing I said. I told her I wanted to tell her something important and she simply walked off to Sir Harry and left me feeling like a fool.”
“Was it that you want to marry her?” said Lydia, interested.
“Good God, no!” said Philip, standing still and prodding violently in a bank with his stick. “I mean I’d marry her to-morrow, or to-day for that matter, but I know it’s no good trying. I only wanted to tell her I’m off to-morrow. It’s all secret and I mayn’t say where, not even to you, but I expect I’ll see Colin soon.”
“Oh, Philip!” said Lydia, her whole face lighting at the thought.
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