Mufti

by Sapper

  Of course it was all quite wrong. No well brought up and decorous Englishman had any right to feel so annoyed with another man’s face that he longed to hit it with a stick. But Vane was beginning to doubt whether he had been well brought up; he was quite certain that he was not decorous. He was merely far more natural than he had ever been before; he had ceased to worry over the small things.

  And surely the two other occupants of the carriage were very small. At least they seemed so to him. For all he knew, or cared, they might each of them be in control of a Government Department; that failed to alter their littleness.

  Fragments of their conversation came to him over the rattle of the wheels, and he became more and more irate. The high price of whisky was one source of complaint – it appeared, according to one of them, that it was all going to France, which caused a shortage for those at home. Then the military situation… Impossible, grotesque… Somebody ought to be hanged for having allowed such a thing to happen. After four years to be forced back – inexcusable. What was wanted was somebody with a business brain to run the Army… In the meantime their money was being wasted, squandered, frittered away…

  Vane grew rampant in his corner as he listened; his mental language became impossibly lurid. He felt that he would willingly have given a thousand or two to plant them both into that bit of the outpost line, where a month before he had crawled round on his belly at dawn to see his company. Grey-faced and grey-coated with the mud, their eyes had been clear and steady and cheerful, even if their chins were covered with two days’ growth. And their pay was round about a shilling a day…

  It was just as the train was slowing down to enter Victoria that he felt he could contain himself no longer. The larger and fatter of the two, having concluded an exhaustive harangue on the unprecedented wealth at present being enjoyed by some of the soldiers’ wives in the neighbourhood – and unmarried ones, too, mark you! – stood up to get his despatch case.

  “It seems a pity, gentlemen, you bother to remain in the country,” remarked Vane casually. “You must be suffering dreadfully.”

  Two gentlemen inferred icily that they would like to know what he meant.

  “Why not return to your own?” he continued, still more casually. “Doubtless the Egyptian Expeditionary Force will soon have it swept and garnished for you.”

  The train stopped; and Vane got out. He was accompanied to the barrier by his two late travelling companions, and from their remarks he gathered that they considered he had insulted them; but it was only when he arrived at the gate that he stopped and spoke. He spoke at some length, and the traffic was unavoidably hung up during the peroration.

  “I have listened,” said Vane in a clear voice, “to your duologue on the way up, and if I thought there were many like you in the country I’d take to drink. As it is, I am hopeful, as I told you, that Jerusalem will soon be vacant. Good morning…”

  And the fact that two soldiers on leave from France standing close by burst into laughter did not clear the air…

  “Jimmy,” said Vane half an hour later, throwing himself into a chair in his club next to an old pal in the smoking-room, “I’ve just been a thorough paced bounder; a glorious and wonderful cad. And, Jimmy! I feel so much the better for it.”

  Jimmy regarded him sleepily from the depths of his chair. Then his eyes wandered to the clock, and he sat up with an effort. “Splendid, dear old top,” he remarked. “And since it is now one minute past twelve, let’s have a spot to celebrate your lapse from virtue.”

  With the conclusion of lunch, the approaching ordeal at Balham began to loom large on his horizon. In a vain effort to put off the evil hour, he decided that he would first go round to his rooms in Half Moon Street. He had kept them on during the war, only opening them up during his periods of leave. The keys were in the safe possession of Mrs Green, who, with her husband, looked after him and the other occupants of the house generally. As always, the worthy old lady was delighted to see him…

  “Just cleared them out two days ago, Mr Vane, sir,” she remarked. New-fangled Army ranks meant nothing to her: Mr Vane he had started – Mr Vane he would remain to the end of the chapter.

  “And, Binks, Mrs Green?” But there was no need for her to answer that question. There was a sudden scurry of feet, and a wire-haired fox-terrier was jumping all over him in ecstasy.

  “My son, my son,” said Vane, picking the dog up. “Are you glad to see your master again? One lick, you little rascal, as it’s a special occasion. And incidentally, mind my arm, young fellow-me-lad.”

  He put Binks down, and turned with a smile to Mrs Green. “Has he been good, Mrs Green?”

  “Good as good, sir,” she answered. “I’m sure he’s a dear little dog. Just for the first week after you went – the same as the other times – he’d hardly touch a thing. Just lay outside your door and whined and whined his poor little heart out…”

  The motherly old woman stooped to pat the dog’s head, and Binks licked her fingers once to show that he was grateful for what she’d done. But – and this was a big but – she was only a stop-gap. Now – and with another scurry of feet, he was once again jumping round the only one who really mattered. A series of short staccato yelps of joy too great to be controlled; a stumpy tail wagging so fast that the eye could scarcely follow it; a dog…

  “I believe, Mrs Green,” said Vane quietly, “that quite a number of people in England have lately been considering whether it wouldn’t be a good thing to kill off the dogs…”

  “Kill off the dogs, sir!” Mrs Green’s tone was full of shrill amazement. “Kill Binks? I’d like to see anyone try.” …Vane had a momentary vision of his stalwart old landlady armed with a poker and a carving knife, but he did not smile.

  “So would I, Mrs Green… So would I…” And with a short laugh he took the key from her and went upstairs.

  The room into which he went first was such as one would have expected to find in the abode of a young bachelor. Into the frame of the mirror over the fireplace a score of ancient invitations were stuck. Some heavy silver photo frames stood on the mantelpiece, while in the corner a bag of golf clubs and two or three pairs of boxing gloves gave an indication of their owner’s tastes. The room was spotlessly clean, and with the sun shining cheerfully in at the window it seemed impossible to believe that it had been empty for six months. A few good prints – chiefly sporting – adorned the walls; and the books in the heavy oak revolving bookcase which stood beside one of the big leather chairs were of the type generally described as light…

  For a time Vane stood by the mantelpiece thoughtfully staring out of the window; while Binks, delirious with joy, explored each well-remembered corner, and blew heavily down the old accustomed cracks in the floor. Suddenly with a wild scurry, he fled after his principal joy – the one that never tired. He had seen Vane throw it into the corner, and now he trotted sedately towards this wonderful master of his, who had so miraculously returned, with his enemy in his mouth. He lay down at Vane’s feet; evidently the game was about to begin.

  The enemy was an india-rubber dog which emitted a mournful whistling noise through a hole in its tummy. It was really intended for the use of the very young in their baths – to enable them to squirt a jet of water into the nurse’s eye; but it worried Binks badly. The harder he bit, the harder it whistled. It seemed impossible to kill the damn thing…

  For a while he bit the whistling atrocity to his heart’s content; then with it still between his fore paws he looked up into Vane’s face. Surely his master had not forgotten the rules of the game. Really – it was a little steep if it was so. But Vane, as far as Binks could see, was looking at one of the photographs on the mantelpiece with a slight smile on his face. One or two mournful whistles produced no apparent result. So Binks decided it was time for desperate measures. He stood up; and, with his head on one side, he contemplated his hated adversary,
prone on the carpet. Then he gave a short sharp bark – just as a reminder…

  It was quite sufficient, and Vane apologised handsomely. “Beg your pardon, old man,” he remarked. “For the moment I was thinking of trivialities.” He moved his foot backwards and forwards close to the india-rubber dog, and Binks, with his ears pricked up, and his head turning slightly as he followed the movement of his master’s foot, waited. Shortly, he know that this hereditary enemy of his would fly to one side of the room or the other. The great question was – which? It would hit the wall, and rebound on to the floor, where it would be seized, and borne back with blood curdling growls for the process to be repeated… The game, it may be said, was not governed by any foolish time limit…

  Suddenly the swinging leg feinted towards the left, and Blinks dashed in that direction. Curse it – he was stung again. His adversary flew to the right, and was comfortably settled on the floor before Binks appeared on the scene. However, his tail was still up, as he brought it back, and he gave it an extra furious bite, just to show that he would tolerate no uppishness on account of this preliminary defeat… Vane laughed. “You funny old man,” he said. He stopped and picked up the toy, replacing it on the mantelpiece. “That ends the game for today, Binks, for I’ve got to go out. Would you like to come, too?” The brown eyes looked adoringly up into his. Binks failed to see why the first game after such a long time should be so short; but – his not to reason why on such matters. Besides his master was talking and Binks liked to have his opinion asked.

  Once again Vane’s eyes went back to the photograph he had been studying. It was one of Margaret – taken years ago… And as he looked at it, a pair of grey eyes, with the glint of a mocking smile in them, seemed to make the photo a little hazy.

  “Come on, old man. We’re going to Balham. And I need you to support me.”

  Culman Terrace was not a prepossessing spectacle. A long straight road ran between two rows of small and dreary houses. Each house was exactly the same, with its tiny little plot of garden between the front door and the gate. In some of the plots there were indications that the owner was fond of gardening; here a few sweet peas curled lovingly up the sticks put in for them – there some tulips showed signs of nightly attention. But in most the plot was plain and drab as the house – a dead thing; a thing without a soul. Individuality, laughter – aye, life itself – seemed crushed in that endless road, with its interminable rows of houses.

  As Vane walked slowly up it looking for No. 14, the sun was shining. For the moment it seemed clothed in some semblance of life; almost as if it was stirring from a long sleep, and muttering to itself that love and the glories of love were abroad today… And then the sun went behind a cloud, and everything was grey and dead once more.

  Vane pictured it to himself on damp dark mornings in the winter – on evenings when the days were shortening, and the gas lamps shone through the gloom. He saw the doors opening, and each one disgorging some black coated, pallid man, who passed through the gate, and then with quick nervous steps walked towards the station. The 8.30 was their train; though in some very rare cases the 9.03 was early enough… But as a rule the 9.03 crowd did not live in Culman Terrace. Just a few only, who had come there young and eager, and had died there. True, they caught the 9.03, but they were dead. And the pretty laughing girls who had married them when the lamp was burning with the divine fire of hope, had watched them die…hopelessly, helplessly… Love will stand most things; but the drab monotony of the successful failure – the two hundred pound a year man who has to keep up appearances – tries it very high…

  Some of them turned into shrews and nagged; some of them ran to fat and didn’t care; but most of them just sank quietly and imperceptibly into the dreariness and smallness of their surroundings. At rare intervals there flashed across their horizon something of the great teeming world outside; they went to a bargain sale, perhaps, and saw the King drive past – or they went to the movies and for a space lived in the Land of Make Believe… But the coils of Culman Terrace had them fast, and the excitement was only momentary – the relapse the more complete. And, dear Heavens, with what high ideals they had all started… It struck Vane as he walked slowly along the road that here, on each side of him, lay the Big Tragedy – bigger far than in the vilest slum. For in the slum they had never known or thought of anything better…

  Odd curtains were pulled aside as he walked, and he felt conscious of people staring at him. He pictured them getting up from their chairs, and peering at him curiously, wondering where he was going – what he was doing – who he was… It was the afternoon’s excitement – a wounded officer passing the house.

  A familiar singing noise behind him made him look round and whistle. Long experience left no doubt as to what was happening, and when he saw Binks on his toes, circling round a gate on which a cat was spitting angrily, he called “Binks” sharply once, and walked on again. It was the greatest strain Binks was ever called on to face, but after a moment of indecision he obeyed as usual. Cats were his passion; but ever since he had carried the Colonel’s wife’s prize Persian on to parade and deposited it at Vane’s feet he was discreet in the matter. The infuriated pursuit by the lady in question on to the parade ground, armed with an umbrella in one hand and a poker in the other, had not tended towards steadiness in the ranks. In fact, something like alarm and despondency had been caused amongst all concerned – especially Binks…

  “Lord! old man,” muttered his master, “here we are.” Vane turned in at the gate of No. 14 and rang the bell. There was an unpleasant sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and he nervously dried his left hand on his handkerchief.

  “Pray Heaven she doesn’t cry,” he said to himself fervently, and at that moment the door opened. A pale, grave-eyed woman in black confronted him, and after a moment or two she smiled very slightly and held out her hand. Vane took it awkwardly.

  “It is good of you to take the trouble to come, Captain Vane,” she said in a singularly sweet voice. “Won’t you come inside?”

  He followed her into the small drawing-room and sat down. It was scrupulously clean, and it was more than that – it was homely… It was the room of a woman who loved beautiful things, and who had with perfect taste banished every single object which might jar on the fastidious mind. It struck Vane that it was probably a unique room in Culman Terrace; he felt certain that the rest of the house was in keeping…

  “What a charming room,” he said involuntarily, and it was only when she looked at him with a little lift of her eyebrows that he realised she might regard the remark as impertinent. Why shouldn’t the room be charming?

  But Mrs Vernon quickly removed his embarrassment.

  “It’s always been a passion of mine – my house,” she said quietly. “And now – more than ever… It’s a duty, even, though a pleasant one – After all, whatever may go on outside, whatever wretchedness worries one – it’s something to have a real sanctuary to come to. I want the children to feel that – so much. I want them to love the beautiful things in life,” she went on passionately, “even though they live in these surroundings.” She stared out of the window for a moment, and then she turned with a sudden quick movement to Vane. “But, forgive me. I don’t know why I should inflict my ideas on you. Will you tell me about Philip?”

  It was the moment he had been dreading, and yet, now that it had come, he found it easier than he had expected. There was something about this quiet, steadfast woman which told him that she would not make a scene. And so, gently and quietly, with his eyes fixed on the empty fireplace, he told her the story. There are thousands of similar stories which could be told in the world today, but the pathos of each one is not diminished by that. It was the story of the ordinary man who died that others might live. He did not die in the limelight; he just died and was buried and his name, in due course appeared in the casualty list…

  Not that Vane put it that wa
y. He painted his picture with the touch of glamour; he spoke of a charge, of Vernon cheering his men on, of success. Into the peaceful drawing-room he introduced the atmosphere of glory – unwittingly, perhaps, he fell back on the popular conception of war. And the woman, who hung on every word, silent and tearless, thrilled with the pride of it. Her man, running at the head of others – charging – dying at the moment of victory… It would be something to tell her two boys, when their turn came to face the battle of life; something which would nerve them to the success which her man would have won except for…

  Vane’s voice died away. He had finished his story, he had painted his picture. No suspicion had he given that a stray bit of shell had torn Vernon to bits long after the tumult and the shouting had ceased. After all, he was dead …it was the living who counted. No man could have done more. Surely he deserved the white lie which pictured his death more vividly – more grandly…

  “He died in my arms,” went on Vane after a little pause, “and his last words were about you.” He told her the few simple sentences, repeated to her the words which a man will say when the race is run and the tape is reached. God knows they are commonplace enough – those short disjointed phrases; but God knows also that it is the little things which count, when the heart is breaking…

  And, then, having told her once, perforce he had to tell her again – just the end bit… With the tears pouring down her cheeks she listened; and though each word stabbed her to the heart afresh – woman-like, she gloried in her pain.

  “‘God bless you, Nell,’ and then he died,” she said softly to herself, repeating Vane’s last sentence. “Ah! but you made good, my man. I always knew you would some day…”