The Rise of Henry Morcar

by Phyllis Bentley

  “Will you and Jessopp go to the First Aid Post now or wait till nightfall? There’s a bit of a strafe going on,” said Captain Oldroyd to Morcar in the officers’ dug-out, where Charlie, wrapped in a blanket whose folds partly covered his face, lay on a stretcher on the floor.

  “Somebody’ll have to go to take Corporal Shaw, sir, so Jessopp may as well get down too,” urged Morcar. “As for me, I’m not badly hurt; it’s just as you think, sir.”

  The Company Officer was silent for a moment.

  “I’m afraid there’s no hurry for Corporal Shaw,” he said at length in a kindly tone.

  “Shaw’s seriously wounded and ought to have attention at once, sir,” urged Morcar, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

  “I’m afraid it’s too late, Morcar,” said Captain Oldroyd. “It was too late when he was first hit, I should think.”

  He stopped and drew back the blanket. Morcar looked down. Charlie’s face was leaden, gaping, drained of colour. There was a bullet-hole in the forehead; the lips protruded oddly. It was— yes, it was—the face of a dead man.

  Corporal Shaw, who had received a bullet through the head, died before reaching the First Aid Post.

  III. Defeat

  14. Winnie

  “YOU look very nice in your officer’s uniform and your ribbon, Harry,” said Mrs. Shaw wistfully.

  “Worsted,” muttered Mr. Shaw in an explanatory tone.

  “Charlie would have looked nice in that kind of uniform,” continued Mrs. Shaw.

  “Mother!” exclaimed Winnie painfully.

  “You’re right, he would, Mrs. Shaw,” agreed Morcar. “If he’d lived, Charlie would have been an officer sooner than me, you know.”

  Mrs. Shaw set her rocking-chair moving slowly backwards and forwards in satisfaction. That she looked ten years older than when he had last seen her was not due only to her deep mourning. An expression of harassed perplexity marred the comeliness of her face; her eyebrows were perpetually raised, her fine hazel eyes stared out in perpetual bewilderment. Her left hand, work-roughened, with its rather broad gold wedding-ring, symbol of so many griefs, so many joys, so many toils, wandered vaguely over her ample breast. Harry wished heartily that Mr. Shaw and Winnie would go away and leave Charlie’s mother and himself so that they might grieve for Charlie together. He should not at all mind shedding tears with Mrs. Shaw, and this open expression of sorrow would probably ease the hearts of both, for they were both simple creatures. But in the presence of those two restless critical perverse spirits, Charlie’s father and sister, simple open grief was not possible; they would in some obscure way feel it to be insincere, an insult.

  “Your mother must be very proud of you, Harry,” said Mrs. Shaw, still rocking.

  “I daresay she is,” said Mr. Shaw sardonically, his small features quivering.

  “Well, love, I’m sure she is,” said his wife, contending against his tone. “Why, I should think Harry’s proud of himself. He has a right to be. It’s one thing to be made an officer straight out of school because they’re so short of them, as they are now, and another being promoted for merit. I only hope he’ll be spared to enjoy it.”

  “I don’t enjoy anything much now Charlie’s gone, Mrs. Shaw,” said Morcar.

  “I had a beautiful letter from that Captain Oldroyd,” continued Mrs. Shaw in the same childlike placid manner. “Winnie, where’s that beautiful letter from Captain Oldroyd about Charlie?”

  “It’s on the table at your elbow, Mother,” said Winnie.

  “Oh, yes, so it is,” agreed Mrs. Shaw placidly. She handed the envelope, worn and soiled with much fingering, to Morcar.

  “Open it—read it, Harry,” she urged. “It’s a beautiful letter.”

  With a sick heart Harry read the conventional phrases, written a thousand thousand times in officers’ dug-outs by the light of candles: keen and capable … a great favourite … will be much missed … you will be relieved to know that his death was instantaneous …

  “How will they get on at Syke Mills without Captain Oldroyd?” wondered Mrs. Shaw.

  “How do we get on at Prospect without Charlie?” said her husband bitterly.

  “What Francis Oldroyd knows about textiles would go on a sixpenny-bit,” said Morcar mechanically. He was astonished to find these words, ghosts from another world, on his lips. Textiles seemed so remote from the blood and the mud, the lines of poplar trees, the shelling, the dead bodies, the trench feet, the rats, the boredom and the danger, which were his realities nowadays. It struck him suddenly, with surprise, that the ruined Ypres Cloth Hall had been a cloth hall. “But he’s a good officer as officers go. He’s been promoted twice lately.”

  “I hear his new works manager is feathering his own nest nicely,” observed Mr. Shaw in a tone of satisfied malice.

  “When you get back, Harry, you might thank him for that beautiful letter he wrote about Charlie,” said Mrs. Shaw.

  “He’s not with us now—he’s been taken off to be a colonel in some other regiment,” said Morcar.

  “You look very nice in your officer’s uniform. Charlie would look nice in that kind of uniform,” said Mrs. Shaw placidly.

  “Mother!” cried Winnie. She sprang up. “You’d better be going, Harry,” she said. “Mother’ll go on for hours like this now she’s got started.”

  “Well, goodbye, Mrs. Shaw,” said Morcar, rising. On an impulse he bent forward and kissed her awkwardly. She kissed him warmly in return, and her tears suddenly ran over.

  “Goodbye, Harry,” she said. “Come and see me again soon. You were always a good boy, Harry, and a good friend to my Charlie.”

  “Come along” whispered Winnie in a tone of savage impatience.

  Morcar shook hands with Mr. Shaw, who gave him a couple of cold dry fingers, and followed Winnie into the hall. Winnie took down his British warm from the peg and helped him into it, then turning him round towards her began to fasten the buttons.

  “I congratulate you on your medal, Harry,” she said in a high trembling voice.

  “Now, Winnie!” protested Morcar, wretched.

  Suddenly Winnie’s face was convulsed, and tears poured down her cheeks. She buried her face in Morcar’s coat and sobbed bitterly. Morcar put his arms round her and patted her shoulder.

  “Now, love, now!” he said, at the same time urging her towards the empty drawing-room. “Think of your mother, you don’t want her to hear you.” Winnie, shaken by sobs, yielded to his touch, and with his arm round her waist he drew her across the threshold and pushed the door shut with one foot. Winnie put her arms about him, leaned her head against his breast and wept with passion.

  “Why didn’t you bring him back to us?” she sobbed frantically.

  “I did my best, love,” said Morcar.

  “You were with him—you were with him in that shell-hole. You should have rescued him—you should have brought him back to us.”

  “I did bring him back, Winnie,” said Morcar. “It wasn’t my fault that he was dead before we started.” Although he knew in his soul that this was true and that Charlie had fallen dead on the lip of the crater, he could not help feeling at the same time an entirely inconsistent and unjustified resentment against Captain Oldroyd, who had not sent Charlie off at once to the First Aid Post—medical aid might have saved him, thought Morcar obstinately, at the same time as he told Winnie what he knew to be the truth.

  “You should have prevented him from climbing out of the shell-hole,” said Winnie angrily.

  “Perhaps I should. But you know Charlie, how quick and impatient he was. He wanted to get Jessopp in—Jessopp was losing so much blood.”

  “Jessopp!” whispered Winnie in a fury.

  “Well, Charlie was Corporal, you see. He was responsible for us. We were under his orders,” said Morcar.

  “All that is nonsense,” said Winnie fiercely. “You should have prevented him! I don’t mean it, Harry,” she wept again. “Don’t take any notice. But Charlie——”r />
  “I know, I know, love,” soothed Morcar, stroking her thin sob-shaken shoulders. “I feel just the same.” He laid his cheek against her temple, brushed back her hair and kissed her tenderly. Suddenly she was very quiet and still in his arms. “You’re all worn out with looking after your mother,” he told her. “Come and sit down.”

  Winnie gave a deep trembling sigh and allowed him to lead her to the sofa. They sat down side by side; Morcar gently pressed her head against his shoulder so that she might rest. A few convulsive sobs shook her at increasing intervals; then she lay there quietly, his arm about her.

  At last she gave another sigh, sat up and began drying her eyes with a wisp of a handkerchief. Morcar proffered his own and she took it; its khaki colour made her weep again, but more calmly than before.

  Mr. Shaw suddenly opened the door and looked in. His glance sought and found them as they sat together in the twilight; his little eyes, burning, fixed them sardonically.

  “Winnie’s a bit upset,” said Morcar.

  “So I see,” said Mr. Shaw. He waited a moment, then as neither of them spoke, withdrew abruptly.

  “I’d best be going,” said Morcar, rising.

  Somewhat to his surprise, Winnie remained seated on the sofa. She gave him a strange fiery glance as he stood in front of her, his newly acquired officer’s manners obliging him to wait her pleasure. Then she broke out harshly:

  “Are we engaged or aren’t we? Because if we are,” she added in an angry tone: “I think you ought to say something to Father.”

  “Engaged?” repeated Morcar in sheer astonishment.

  “You kissed me,” murmured Winnie, hanging her head.

  “We are engaged, of course, if you want to be, Winnie,” said Morcar at once staunchly.

  “Nay!” cried Winnie, springing up, her eyes, red-rimmed and glazed with weeping, suddenly renewing their sparkle, her round cheeks fiery: “It’s for you to say, Harry Morcar! I’ll not be beholden to you! Make up your mind!”

  An, immense tenderness filled Morcar’s heart. Winnie! Charlie’s sister!

  “We are engaged, love,” he said in his kindest tone, and drawing her to him, he kissed her lips gravely. Her slender body trembled within his arm—he found that very touching.

  “I always loved you, Harry,” murmured Winnie, burying her face in his trench-coat.

  Morcar was astonished. Winnie with her endless supply of admirers! Winnie who, from her twelvemonths’ vantage, had always scoffed at himself and Charlie, pretending to regard them as hopelessly immature and juvenile! He felt tremendously flattered and exhilarated, suddenly proud for Winnie’s sake of his medal, his war service, his manhood. How suitable, how altogether proper, that he should marry Charlie’s sister! He kissed her again in a much more lover-like fashion, and cried cheerfully:

  “We’ll be married on my next leave.”

  “The next? Why not on this leave?” pouted Winnie.

  15. Wedding

  Morcar could not imagine why his friends all joked so much about feeling nervous at their weddings. He himself did not feel in the least nervous. Everything was going well and without a hitch. He stood before the minister with Winnie at his side in Hurst Congregational Chapel, on a winter’s afternoon, plighting his troth to her in a steady voice which to his relief sounded neither too shrill nor too much of a growl. It was fairly loud, he admitted, but then, Morcar had always believed that the man should speak louder at his wedding than the woman. Winnie’s voice was the merest thread; her customary assurance was quite gone from her—but that too was proper. The sun was shining and the polished wood of the galleries and pews gleamed cheerfully golden. His mother, in brown moiré with a bunch of dark red chrysanthemums, sat on his right amid a group of young men in khaki, his friends of the tennis court and the trench. On his left amid masses of Shaw relations sat Mrs. Shaw, in a new black musquash fur coat and a large black hat slightly awry, carrying a bouquet of bright pink carnations. Her mild vacant gaze seemed to rest more often on Morcar than on her daughter, and Morcar understood why it was so—she was thinking of Charlie. Mr. Shaw in a new morning-coat which looked too large for him hovered restlessly in the rear. Winnie had elected to be married in navy-blue, as so many people thought a white dress inappropriate in wartime. Morcar rather regretted this decision, for he thought he would have taken an innocent pleasure in seeing his wife in flowing white silk and lace, tulle and veil and orange-blossom; but of course Winnie must do as she chose; the matter was of small importance. He did not like her navy blue coat and skirt much, and her angular black velvet hat did not suit her, but such details were, again, of small importance. His wedding present to her was a fur coat and cap of grey squirrel, and these suited her well enough. The poor child looked pale and red-eyed, as though she had been crying all night, which was very natural and proper, thought Morcar sympathetically, in view of what lay before her. He himself had never made love to a woman before, but had a modest confidence that he should acquit himself reasonably well—no worse, anyway, than other men. At any rate all should be done with the utmost kindness. He took Winnie’s cold little paw in his own—it trembled visibly—and placed the wedding ring on her fìnger in a firm steady movement. He would like to have given her hand a comforting squeeze to warm it, but supposed that would not be proper. The minister, looking particularly solemn and raising his voice, now pronounced the beautiful and moving words which made them man and wife for ever.

  A sigh of relaxed tension came from the congregation, the organist broke into a wedding hymn and after standing through a verse or two Morcar and Winnie were led away into the vestry. There were tears in Winnie’s eyes and her mouth trembled as he kissed her; altogether she seemed more upset by the ceremony than anyone who knew her would have expected. This weakness made Morcar feel particularly tender towards her, and particularly determined to give her that strong protection, that love and care which were his duty as a husband. Friends and relatives now burst into the vestry and kissed Winnie and himself, some mildly weeping, others mildly hilarious. Mrs. Shaw laid her bouquet down somewhere and could not find it, and Winnie became more like herself again, throwing off a pert sharp sentence of her usual kind as she retrieved the flowers and straightened her mother’s hat. The organ pealed out the Mendelssohn wedding march and Morcar marched down the aisle with Winnie on his arm and in his heart a feeling of calm satisfaction. He had often wondered whether he should ever marry, what shape in general his life would take and whether it would be creditable and manly and like other people’s lives; now here he was, a lieutenant in the Army, with a ribbon up, practically a partner in Prospect Mills and a wife on his arm who was Charlie’s sister. It was all very satisfactory, and he did not feel nervous.

  The reception was like all other Annotsfield wedding receptions, with champagne and patties (rather meatless) and trails of smilax and Morcar’s throat growing tired with talking so long through the noise. Just for a moment there was a hush and a deeper feeling as Morcar in his speech replying to the toast blurted suddenly:

  “Only one thing could make my wife and myself happier to-day—and I think you can all guess what that would be— if my brother-in-law could be here to greet us.”

  Just for that one moment Morcar felt as though somebody was driving over his heart with harrows, as though all this allegedly happy scene were unreal except Mrs. Shaw’s mild staring eyes, which at that moment had a tragic beauty as they gazed into his own. Then he passed on rapidly to one of the usual bridal jokes, closing the curtains over his for-the-moment too openly exposed heart.

  The newly married pair were to spend their brief honeymoon in London in spite of Zeppelins, and a hired car was to take them to catch the afternoon express at Leeds. Winnie vanished and reappeared looking her best in the squirrel coat and cap; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, she joked with her friends in her usual pert bright way. The farewell scene at the door amid the usual hail of confetti seemed to entertain her, and as they drove off she was laughi
ng heartily. But in the car she took off her fur cap, saying that it was rather heavy, and she then exclaimed in a rather petulant tone:

  “You’ve never said whether you liked my hair.”

  Morcar, uncomprehending, gravely surveyed her head. Her hair certainly looked rather different to-day, he thought— shorter, curlier. “Oh! You’ve had it bobbed! Yes,” said Morcar, looking at it with his head on one side and rather pleased with the rapidity of his diagnosis: “I like it, Winnie love. It suits you.”

  “Poor Harry. You didn’t notice it before, did you? Poor Harry,” said Winnie strangely. She laid her hand on his for a moment and pressed it, then sat silent, her eyes averted, until they reached the station.

  They were not alone again till late that night. Then, just for a moment, for a moment only, there was beauty and rapture. She lay in his arms, this perverse and wilful Winnie, astonishingly acquiescent, and looked up at him with wide, liquid, shining eyes of love. Her hair so soft and silky, her little neck which he could almost span with one hand, her breast so warm and full and rich against his own—for a moment these were rapture, these were beauty. For a moment he forgot that she was Charlie’s sister.