“If the man isn’t going to amuse me,” she said, “I shall go for a walk.”
And the tone was the tone of Dolly. If taken aback, Courtier was visibly relieved.
“I like that,” he began. “You go and—”
“I dare say I do. Why shouldn’t I? I am Dolly.”
“That’s the devil of it.”
“What I really want to know,” said my lady, “is why my host and hostess were not here to receive me.”
“Probably because, as you said, you are Dolly. By the way, did you bring a paper?”
With a faint smile, his companion shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said slowly. “I’m so sorry. It’s awful not having anything to read sometimes, isn’t it? Here,” she added suddenly, picking up her novel, “you can have this. I’m going—”
“From bad to worse,” said Courtier, taking the book, to send it skimming the length of the verandah. “Pretty rapidly, too. There are times when I almost fear for you.”
“You don’t?” said Dolly with sudden interest. “How awfully exciting! Do your knees knock together? When you’re fearing, I mean? By the way, that novel cost six shillings, and now you’ve broken its back.”
“Have you change for a sovereign?” said Courtier, feeling in his pocket.
“No, but you can pay me tomorrow,” said Dolly. “This is splendid. Isn’t there anything else you can destroy? I’m saving up for a new sponge, you know.”
“I absolutely refuse to contribute towards your aquatic ventures,” said Bill firmly. “To my great personal inconvenience, you have occupied bathrooms for an outrageous time all over England on more occasions than I like to remember. The six shillings must be spent upon another copy of the same novel. I have long wanted to see you turn over a new leaf.”
“Good old Bill,” said Dolly, laying a small hand upon his sleeve with a maddening smile. “And he’s never said how he likes my nice new brogues.”
“Who looks at the moon before sunset?” said Courtier gallantly. “My eyes never get any further down than your ankles.”
Dolly Loan broke into a little peal of laughter.
“A compliment!” she cried delightedly. “When did he think it out? Oh, Bill, you’ll be worthy of your name yet.”
Courtier laughed.
“If you’re like this at twenty-four, what’ll you be in ten years’ time? “he said.
“Thirty-four,” said Dolly pensively. “By that time I shall probably have one husband and two children, and instead of saying I’m pretty, they’ll call me handsome. But that’s a long way ahead. A long, long way… So you got here on Sunday?” she added suddenly.
The other nodded.
“After starting on Thursday, too. Nothing but trouble with the car after I crossed the border. When Tag comes, I’ll have the engine down.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow, won’t he?” said Dolly, gazing into the distance over the sunlit woods.
Courtier nodded.
“Complete with papers,” he said.
“More papers” – musingly.
“Well, Doll, I haven’t seen one for five days, and—”
“Neither have I. We only get two posts a week at Ferret. And I didn’t look at Saturday’s lot when they came. Somehow, I don’t want papers when I’m up North. I like to forget there’s any news or any roar or bustle going on in the world.”
“I’ll be like that in a week,” said Bill. “But the spirit of town life takes a little while to die.”
He paused and let his eyes wander luxuriously over the prospect before them. The solemn peace over all lent the scene something more than dignity. Natural grandeur had taken on the majesty that is of silence alone. After a moment:
“It’s wonderful to think the buses are still swinging down Piccadilly, isn’t it?”
“They’re not,” said Dolly with conviction. “London’s been a great dream. That’s all. And now we’ve woken up.”
“But they are,” said Courtier. “And the traffic’s writhing through the City, and the pavements of Regent Street are crammed, and taxis are crawling up Bond Street, and queues are beginning to form up for theatres and music-halls, and—”
“‘But I’m here.
And you’re here,
So what do we care?’”
Dolly flung out the words of the song with inimitable abandon. She had a sweet voice. Bill Courtier joined in.
“‘Time and place
Do not count…’”
As they finished the chorus: “As sung on the London – if you please – music-hall stage, Edison Bell Record,” said Bill. “Much virtue in dreams.”
A step on the verandah made them look round. The next moment a man-servant was at Courtier’s side with a telegram.
“For me?” said Bill surprisedly.
“Yes, sir.”
“A wire for someone at Yait!” yawned Dolly. “The population of seven will faint with excitement. How on earth did it come?”
As the servant opened his mouth to reply:
“My God!” said Bill quietly. And then “My God!” again.
Then he stood up quickly.
“Bill, what’s the matter?” cried Dolly, laying hold on his sleeve. There was that in his face that frightened her.
Courtier turned to the servant.
“There’s no answer,” he said. “And I want my things packed at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the man left the verandah, Courtier handed Dolly the form.
It ran:
Return instantly France and Germany at war England certain to declare on Germany tonight Tag.
“Oh, Bill!” breathed Dolly, rising.
For a moment the two stood looking at one another. Then Courtier broke into a light laugh and crossed to the balustrade.
“Quick work,” he said, knocking out his pipe on the rail. “And now don’t talk for a minute, Doll. I want to think.”
Leisurely he began to fill his pipe, and a moment later he fell a-whistling the refrain whose words they had been singing together. Abstractedly, though, for his brain was working furiously. Dolly Loan never took her eyes from his face. He did not look at her at all.
When the pipe was filled, he pressed down the tobacco, folded his pouch very carefully, and slipped them both into his pocket. Then he turned to the girl.
“I shall go straight for Edinburgh,” he said. “Will you lend me your car?”
“Of course. In fact, I’ll come—”
“No. You’ll stop here. Your chauffeur can come to take the car back. If I can’t get a train at Edinburgh, perhaps I’ll go for Carlisle. And now may I tell him to get her ready?”
“Yes.”
He passed quickly across the verandah to the room behind. At the wide-open door he turned.
“So it’s come at last,” he said, with a great light in his eyes. “‘Made in Germany.’ ’M! They make a lot of rotten things there; we’ll see how they can make war.” Here his glance met Dolly’s. “Good little girl,” he said gently. “I’ll write to you on a drum. Don’t go away. I’m coming back to say ‘Goodbye.’”
Dolly stared after him. Then she sat down in a chair and tried to think. She read the telegram over again dazedly. All the time the lilt of the music-hall ditty danced in her head mercilessly. War! Yes, of course. What of it? There had been wars before. The war in South Africa, for instance. But this…not twenty hours from England. Perhaps not ten. And all among the places she knew. Rheims, Strassburg with its red roofs and its old cathedral, the one spire looking like some lonely twin; Cologne and the curling Rhine; Frankfurt with its proud Palm Garden; Dresden, the dear sleepy place where she had been at school. Her thoughts leaped for a second to the cool house in Lessing Strasse, with the plane-trees along its front and the old stone fountain that never played. War! Still, it was not the thought of the ‘area’ that wrought the catch in her breath. Familiarity with places made it exciting, rather. But… Courtier was her very good friend. He was – well, he was
Bill – Bill Courtier. No, Bill. That was all; but it was a great deal. As for Tag…
She got up and leaned over the balustrade. ‘So what do we care? Time and place do not count.’ The mockery of the words blazed at her, while at the back of her brain the haunting number ramped tirelessly on. There rose and fell the sunlit landscape, calm and exquisite as ever, but not for her eyes, so black the magic of the flimsy form in her hand. Looking now, she found the sunlight brazen, the smile upon the face of Nature grim, the almighty peace of the place nought but a giant satire, bitter indeed. ‘So what do we care? Time and place–’
“I like that man,” said Courtier, stepping out of the smoking-room. “He uses his brain. Most servants would have started packing my trunk. He’s pushed the things I’ll want into a suitcase, and says he’ll send the other luggage after me. Your chauffeur’s a good sort, too. Simply spreading himself. As soon as he’s ready, he’s going to sound the horn. I’ve just about got time for a cigarette. One for you, Doll?”
Mechanically she took a cigarette from his case. When he had lighted it for her:
“Sorry I shan’t see the others. Just show them the wire, and they’ll understand.”
She nodded.
“Don’t look so serious, Doll,” he said suddenly. “It’s only going to be another dream, you know, and when it’s all over we’ll come back here and wake up.”
She raised her eyes at that and swung round. So they stood facing one another.
“I can’t laugh, Bill,” she said quickly. “I don’t believe you’ve appreciated it yet. Perhaps you never will. Soldiers are like that. Besides, it’s – it’s their show now. Only lookers-on… And I think I’ve appreciated it – realized what it means – all at once. And it’s awful.”
For a moment Courtier looked at her – the thick dark hair parted above the left temple, sweeping over the right, and rippling as no coiffeur could ordain, the steady brown eyes strangely solemn for once, the lips that were made for laughter unnaturally set; below them, the lift of the chin, very dainty, and the soft white throat standing for tenderness. Then he threw his cigarette away and laid his hands upon her shoulders.
“Doll,” he said.
Her lips formed the word “Yes?”
“Doll, I’m going away for a while, but I’m coming back, and then we’ll have better times than ever we had before. And – oh, Doll, I love you better than anything in the world. I always have. And I want to marry you when I come back…” He stopped, dropped a hand from her shoulder, and turned to gaze at the woods and the glen and the sinking sun. And a great smile swept into his face, a boy’s smile, the smile of a child. “There!” he went on triumphantly. “I’ve wanted to say that for years, and somehow I never could.”
He seemed to speak with pride, almost with defiance.
The Hon. Dolly Loan never moved.
“You’ve – wanted – to say that – for years,” she repeated dully. “You’ve wanted… Oh, why–” She checked the wail in her voice suddenly. “Bill, you mustn’t speak to me like this. Not now, or ever again. You see, I just can’t, Bill. Not marry you. I’m awfully fond of you, but… It’s difficult to explain. I’ll tell you one day, and then you’ll – you’ll understand. I mean – oh, Bill, I’m so sorry.”
The words came with a rush at the last, anyhow.
Courtier stood motionless, staring into the distance, his one hand still on her shoulder. Then he took a deep breath. She could feel him pull himself together. A moment later the hand slipped away, and he turned.
“That’s all right, Doll,” he said simply.
“Oh, Bill.”
He laughed easily.
“Anyway,” he said, smiling. “I’ll write to her. On a drum, too.”
The gruff hoot of a motor-horn came from the other side of the lodge.
Very gently he raised her slim right hand to his lips, smiled and nodded. Then for a moment he held the fingers tight.
“Goodbye, dear,” he said.
As he turned:
“Bill,” said Dolly.
“Yes, dear?”
“I’d like you to kiss me, all – all the same.”
He would have kissed her cheek, but she put up her warm red mouth and slid her arms round his neck.
The stuff had to be fetched somehow. That was clear. And there it was, waiting at Lence, twenty-three kilometres away. Nitro-glycerine.
“Let me go, sir,” said Courtier. “It’s an officer’s job, and you can’t ask a raw chauffeur chap to take it on. Not that he wouldn’t, every time. But… And Ewing’ll come with me. He’s a better mechanic than I am, supposing she did break down.”
“My two Englishmen?” said the French general. “How should I spare you?”
“For less than an hour and a half, sir.”
“I would have sent Pierrefort,” muttered the other. But the daring driver lay face upwards in the white moonlight, with one foot twisted under him and his eyes wide and staring as never in life. Beside him sprawled the ruin of a great automobile.
“We ought to go now, sir, if we’re to get it tonight,” said Ewing.
For a moment the general stared at the two young Guardsmen who were attached to his staff. Then:
“After all,” he said slowly, “it is Englishmen’s work. Listen. I am not sending you. Only I give you the leave to go. But I bid you return safe. That I command. Take Librand with you. He is a good soldier, though he does not know the front from the back of a car.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Frenchman rose to his feet suddenly.
“After all, the good God is in heaven,” he said.
The forty-horse-power Clement had seen better days – merrier ones, any way. Once she had carried a great touring body, rich in leather upholstery, its panels gleaming, the sheen of its fittings matchless – a dream, all blue and silver. Beauty had been handed out of her doors. Gallantry had sat at her wheel. Laughter and dainty voices had floated from under her hood. More than once love had been made above her floorboards. At Biarritz she had been the car of her year. So, for a while, she had flashed through life handsomely. To be exact, for some thirty months, and miles without number. Thereafter she had been purchased by a garage at Lyons. She had been given a landaulette body, built for another car, and the syndicate hired her out, as and when she was wanted. That was often. Never silent, she had become noisy, but she still went like the wind. Sometimes she was greedy, but so long as they gave her her fill, she never went wrong. So, for two years. Then one day they put a van-body on her, and she went to the war.
“What about head-lights?” said Courtier suddenly. “The moon—”
“Maybe able to do without them coming back,” said Ewing, wiping his hands on a rag, “but going – no; must have them. As for their attracting attention, they’d hear us, anyway.”
Courtier laughed.
“Right-o,” he said. “And here’s Librand.” The man came up panting. “Sergeant,” he added in French, “give me a hand with this petrol. No. Go and get some water in a can. We must give the old lady a drink.”
Ten minutes later they swung out of a side-street on to the Lence road. Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour. Half-past three. Three minutes later they were clear of the little town.
If the French could hold Otto, as they were holding Lence, for another three days, all would be very well, and the allied forces would be up to and in possession of the twenty odd kilometres of country that lay between. At the moment the enemy were attacking both the towns vigorously, for they were seemingly more than reluctant to advance between them – though there was nothing to bar their way – till one of the two, at any rate, had been reduced. For the time being, therefore, the road from Otto to Lence was no man’s land. In three days it would probably be in the hands of the Allies, anyway. Till then there was nothing to prevent the enemy taking it, if they pleased. According to aviators, they had not pleased up to six the evening before – nine and a half hours ago.
It was awfull
y cold. That was thanks to the pace at which they were going, as much as the night air. Courtier was ‘putting her along’ properly. By his side sat Ewing, his hands thrust deep into his greatcoat pockets, his eyes fixed, like the other’s, on the broad white ribbon of road ahead of them, straight for miles at a stretch. The sergeant sat on the foot-board, with his feet on the step. A strap had been buckled across to keep him in.
“Isn’t it glorious?” said Courtier suddenly. “Just the night for a joy ride. Wish I’d got some thicker gloves, though.”
“Joy ride?” said Ewing indignantly. “This is, without exception, the most horrifying experience I’ve ever had. I know you’re supposed to be a good driver, but why – why exploit the backlash? Why emulate the Gadarene swine? For Heaven’s sake, steady her for the corner, man.”
“No corner, old chap. It’s the shadow that cottage is throwing. See?” They flashed by the whitewashed walls. “And now don’t make me laugh, Tag. We’ve got to get there, you know.”
“That,” said Ewing, “is exactly my point. Besides, it’s all very well, but I came out here to be shot, not to have my neck broken. This isn’t Coney Island, you know.” Here they encountered a culvert, and the van leaped bodily into the air. “I warn you,” he added severely, “that if you do that again, you may consider yourself under arrest.”
He stopped. Courtier was shaking with a great silent laughter. Consciously or unconsciously his usually serious brother-officer was in form this night of the nights. At length:
“Oh, Tag,” he gasped, “you are a fool. How’s the sergeant getting on?”
“Died of fright at the culvert,” said Ewing gravely, “about three miles back. Thank Heaven, here’s a bit of a rise.”
They flew by cross roads and on up the long, slight gradient. It could not be called a hill.
“That’s the main road to Very,” said Courtier with a jerk of his head to the right. “I remember this part well. It’s flat again in a moment for about half a mile. Road runs through a wood. There you are. Then there’s a fairly steep hill with another wood at the top. There’s a corner there, I know.”
Courts of Idleness Page 10