But no one was aboard. The well and the cabin seemed dead. He dried himself slowly, had breakfast, and then went ashore at Clewer and walked back through Windsor town and out again along the towing path. The lock was upstream beyond Eton.
The lock-keeper said he knew nothing of any lady. The boat-builder’s men had found the tub among their rowing-boats, punts, and canoes, and were anxious to have it moved. Harben took over his property and recompensed them for their trouble. The tank was almost empty, and a little of the food had been used; otherwise all was exactly as he had left it. He searched in vain for anything Leda had left—a message; even a handkerchief. There was nothing; not even a few stray hairs from that baffling green-gold head. But the old pennon was still on his boat. He put the new one tenderly into the flag-locker.
He watched the papers for weeks, but there was no reference to the death of the old man. The house by the river, and the death which had occurred in it, might both have been the figments of a dream. He returned his friend’s motor-boat, returned for the tub, and, in spite of an instinct of danger, went back to the house by the river and took up his moorings again.
For weeks he looked out for the police. For weeks he looked in the agony columns of the newspapers for another message from Leda. All day, and for hours after dark and at early morning, he watched the house. He saw nothing, but could not believe that nothing was happening there; for he had the impression that there were comings and goings, although who came and went, and why, he could not discover. One day it would be a chance remark made by his friend the boat-builder or by one of the boat-builder’s men; sometimes a woman from one of the barges had some sing-song word about lights of various colours in a house ashore which misled the tug-boats into thinking they had got to the bridge; sometimes it was his own instinct which told him that the house was not always uninhabited.
In spite of his anxieties his book made progress. He ceased, by the end of July, to watch the agony columns in the newspapers. The newspapers, in fact, had become disquieting, not from the point of view of his narrow field, but upon wider issues. War stalked near. At last September came.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Nuns
When war broke out the tub was lying far up-river, beside the main road to the little riverside town of Helsey Marsh.
Harben had been there for three days before the Sunday on which the first air-raid alarm sounded thrillingly but abortively over London. He had brought the tub upstream to accommodate that same friend whose boat he had borrowed to follow Leda, but the friend had been called away at the last moment, and Harben had made the lazy man’s decision to stay where he was rather than bother to go downstream again to his old moorings. In any case, the tub would be laid up soon, he had reflected, particularly if the autumn turned suddenly cold.
He rose at six on the morning war was declared, and was in the water before the mist had cleared. He seemed to be swimming as much in the mist as in the river. All the green banks and the heavy green of the trees seemed to swim in the water with him. He might have been under the water instead of in it. It was a baffling, beautiful, exquisitely strange experience. He remembered no morning quite like it. He had had his third dream of Leda, and, as he swam, he half-expected to meet her swimming towards him out of the green mist, her green hair part of it.
The water was bitterly cold; colder than he remembered it even in the days of early spring when the willow-catkins were mystical pointers to Easter and the lesser celandine was still in bud on the banks.
He struck out into the middle of the stream until he could see neither shore. Then he swam fast, and felt warmth tingling back to his shoulders and flowing back into his loins. His hands and feet remained cold. Suddenly the green of the water grew deeper and thicker, and his fingers, reaching downward, felt the slime of the sloping bank. He swung out a little, kept parallel with the bank, and then began to cross the stream again.
Suddenly, when, as he judged, he was near enough to the middle of the stream, he heard a motor boat approaching. How far off it was he found himself unable to tell. He raised himself in the water, and shouted, at the top of his lungs:
“Ahoy there! Swimmer! Look out!” Then he listened, and, to his relief, the motor boat shut off her engine. There was no other response to his hail, so he swam for the bank; but, before he could reach it, a rowing-boat loomed up beside him. A voice said:
“Now!” And a boat-hook chopped down almost on top of his head. Harben duck-dived away, then, turning, swam under the boat and came up on the opposite side. Immediately it was swallowed up in the mist. Soundlessly paddling with his hands, he propelled himself onwards, away from the point of peril, and got to the bank, but not the bank by which the tub was moored. He dared not get out of the water. He deduced that there were at least two men in the boat, and he felt that the odds of two men armed with boat-hook and oars against himself, naked and defenceless, were likely to prove too long.
Submerged to the nostrils, he held by a little bush and waited. He heard the sound of their oars, but could not see anything but the thick mist over the water and the dark little shrub to which he clung. Then the sound of the oars died away.
He listened and waited, and strained his eyes. The cold of the water began to seep into his bones. It petrified his muscles and then his mind. He could not feel his feet, and the hand that clutched the bush seemed frozen stiffly to the branches. At last he heard the motor boat engine again, and was not surprised to hear the sounds die away.
Even then he did not stir, and it was well for him that he did not, for, after another few minutes, during which he wondered whether he would ever be able to force his petrified limbs to propel him across the river and down to the tub, he heard the boatmen coming back. They actually let their craft drift near him by the bank, at which they were slashing with the oars and cursing when the clumsy dinghy grounded and they had to stop to shove her off again. But they missed him this time by a yard or two, and one of them was cursing as they went by. The other voice argued that they had certainly killed him.
As soon as the dinghy had disappeared in the mist, Harben thrust off quietly from the bank, submerged himself within a yard of the bush to which he had been clinging, and, head under water and swimming a slow, strong breast stroke to keep himself down, he made for the opposite shore.
He came up to breathe, reached forward, and found his hands in the roots of a tree. At this he turned cautiously, and kept under the bank, where the river, on that side, was deep, and swam back to the tub.
He was unable to hold his towel when he got out, so regardless of water dripping quickly onto the floor, he dried and dressed in the cabin. Even as he pushed the door open, his heart jumped, half-expecting somebody there. But the cabin was empty. Among his kit of tools he had a hammer. He placed it in a handy position.
The morning passed with its slow beauty. The mist cleared away about nine, and he sat in the well and smoked and pondered until twelve. Then he got out his manuscript and devoted himself to his book.
He had no wireless set, and did not hear the declaration of war, but at just after two in the afternoon he was surprised and amused to see small processions of children, all carrying bags and bundles, walking along the lane which led from the main road into the sleepy little town.
He did not immediately relate the sight of these children to the heavy tidings of war, but thought, at first, that several Sunday schools had decided to hold their summer outings on the same day. Then it occurred to him that Sunday schools did not, as a general rule, hold their annual treats on a Sunday, and he began to wonder, idly, what explanation there could be.
He analysed the impression which had given rise to the idea of Sunday school treats—for he was accustomed to amuse himself with this sort of semi-silly introspection—and came to the conclusion that it was the sight of two nuns which had engendered the theory in his mind.
These nuns were not, of course, the only adults in charge of the parties of children, but, whereas the other
parties only passed by once, these nuns and their little group of boys must have gone by half a dozen times.
Each time the party went by it seemed to have become a little smaller. He began to count the children, and, by four in the afternoon, their number had dropped from seventeen down to five.
As they came to a stretch of short grass very close to the tub, one of the nuns, an elderly woman, grey in the face with fatigue, told the boys to sit down. They had taken rest several times before, but not close to where Harben was seated. The nuns themselves remained standing, their hands folded neatly away in the wide white sleeves of their habits. They were, he guessed, Dominicans.
There was nowhere to sit, except on the grass itself. Harben, his chivalry provoked by the sight of the patient women, went ashore, approached them, bowed and said:
“Good afternoon. Won’t you come and sit in my boat?”
He did not remember having spoken to nuns before. These smiled, and the older one answered gravely and graciously:
“Thank you. You are kind.”
He handed them on board. The older nun was heavy and, although she disguised it, nervous of taking the step between the shore and the boat. Harben held her hand firmly, and, as naturally as his mother might have done, she clasped his strong fingers and let him support and direct her.
The younger nun was not much more than a girl. Her eyes were the colour of harebells, and she took the long stride as though she had lived on boats for the whole of her life. They would not enter the cabin, but seated themselves, very upright and soldierly, in the well. Suddenly the older nun gave a slight moan and pitched forward.
Her head struck the door of the cabin. She fell in, and lay stretched in the narrow space between the narrow berths, completely blocking the entrance.
Harben, moving carefully, bestrode the prostrate woman, took her under the armpits and heaved her upwards. There was not sufficient room to bring her, unconscious as she was and a dead weight on his arms, completely clear of the cabin, and the young nun could not get inside to help him, but he managed to get the sick nun to one of the bunks. He covered her with a rug and came out again to her young and lovely companion.
“She’ll be all right in there,” he said. “We must just let her rest for a bit.” The young nun, entering the cabin, knelt down and began to chafe her companion’s hands.
“Do you think you can manage? Call if you want me, please. I’ll be just outside. I shall hear you,” Harben said.
“You are so good,” she answered. He pointed to the water-jar.
“That’s fresh. My tooth-glass is the only tumbler, I’m afraid, but it’s perfectly clean.”
He went back to the well of the boat. One or two of the boys had come up.
“Hungry?” asked Harben. They shook their heads.
“We’ve had plenty to eat,” said the biggest boy. “Only, we’ve no place to sleep.”
“They evacuated us this morning. We’re orphans,” volunteered another. “We’ve come from London.”
Light dawned on Harben. Part, at any rate, of his curiosity was satisfied.
“Oh, I see,” he said. “Aren’t there supposed to be billets?”
“No one will have us,” said the boy. “They see the sisters, and they think we want charity. But the Government pays for us just like anybody else. The sisters say so. They tell the people. Some of them took the little ’uns, but no one will bother with us. The Government do pay, don’t they, sir?”
“Sure,” said Harben, who knew nothing whatever about it. “Sure they do. Why not? Which convent orphanage do you come from?”
“It’s called St. Vincent’s Hospice, attached to the Dominican Convent,” said the boy. “It’s in Soho, near Drury Lane.”
“What are the nuns called?”
“The Third Order of Preachers, Dominicans.”
“No. I mean—their own names.”
“Nuns don’t use their own names,” said the second boy. “The old one is Sister Mary Sebastian, and the young one is Sister Mary Dominic. She is really a nurse, but Sister Mary James the Less had to have all her teeth out yesterday, so, of course, she couldn’t come.”
“I see,” said Harben. “So you all want somewhere to sleep? We must see what we can do.”
As he uttered these rash words, Sister Mary Dominic came out of the cabin and smiled at him. Harben made room for her beside him, and she seated herself composedly, so that they were at an angle to one another, he on the starboard locker and she in the stern-sheets.
“How is Sister Mary Sebastian?” he asked. She smiled again.
“How clever of you to know her name. I think she will do now, but I wish I knew where to lodge her for the night. And these poor boys. I do not know what will become of them.”
“You should have the faith that removes mountains,” said Harben gravely. Then he added seriously, “If it comes to the worst we could bed the boys down on this boat. Or you and Sister Mary Sebastian could have it.”
“I must get something settled very soon,” she said, staring down at her white serge scapula so that all he could see were the long lashes resting on her cheek.
Harben stared down at his own brown hands which were dangling between his knees and then looked up and said:
“I’ll settle it for you. Don’t worry. I’ll go into the village and pull it about their ears if they don’t do what we want.”
“Will you?” she said, taking him at his word with the eagerness and simplicity of a child. “You are so good. Will you not tell me your name?” He laughed, but, when he had told her his name, she said:
“You write books. I know the name.”
“Very bad books, I’m afraid. Do they read novels in convents?”
“No, not often. But I have not always been in a convent. I am afraid your books are very bad. Not bad in the sense you mean, but your ideas are false, like your modesty—false and wrong.”
“They are true to life,” said Harben, “and life is a thing you know little about, I imagine.”
“They are not true to God.” She looked full at him. “I must not tell you how much I hate your ideas because God has put it into your heart to show us kindness, and that means He loves you, and you, I think, love Him, and perhaps your books don’t matter.”
“No,” said Harben, “I don’t love God. In fact, I don’t believe in Him. There isn’t any sense in it, you know.”
“Yes, oh yes, there is. Believe me, I do know that,” she answered gently. “I will pray for you. You have so good a heart that you must love God, whether you know it or not.”
Harben laughed, and, to change the subject, said:
“Which houses have you tried? The biggest ones?”
“Oh, no!” she answered. “Only the cottages! Rich people would not take our boys, I am afraid.”
“That’s where I think you’re wrong,” he answered. “I must remark again upon your lack of faith.” He looked her straight in the face, and went off whistling. Down-river lay a quiet, sandy lane which ran parallel to the water. In this lane were a number of large, pretentious, comfortable sorts of houses, each with a frontage to the river. Some were let for the summer; others were occupied by their owners. He did not know any of the people, so marched straight up to the first high wooden gate, walked up the gravel path, and knocked at the door. No one seemed to be at home, so, after having knocked three times, he gave up, and tried the next house. This was called The Island. It had a bright red door picked out with mouldings of white, a brilliant door-knocker, a letter-box and scraper of brass which looked like gold, geraniums in ornamental pots on either side of the porch, and a general air of middle-class cheerfulness and comfort.
Rather to Harben’s surprise, a manservant opened the door; a dark-haired, respectable fellow, probably over forty. He and Harben took one another in, and then Harben said, almost awkwardly:
“Do you think—can I see the owner of the house?”
“Why, yes, sir,” replied the man. “What name, please, w
ould it be?”
“Harben. David Harben. I represent a couple of Dominican nuns.”
“Please come in, sir,” said the man, betraying no surprise at this announcement.
Harben entered a white-walled, blue-carpeted room, and was admiring a finely-carved desk when the servant returned, observed, with correct composure, “This way, sir, if you please,” and led him to a dark-panelled dining-room which overlooked the river.
A small, ugly, curiously vital old lady, with sharp black eyes, a yellow skin, and a grin like that of an anticipatory crocodile, beckoned him forward. A table on which was a silver tray of tea-things was standing beside her chair, but she had finished tea and seemed to have been reading, for a book lay open on the table beside the tray. She was dressed in rose-colour. Her gown was unbecoming and not in the mode. Her hands were like claws, but her voice was deep and lovely. Harben bowed, with the sense that he must be in the presence of royalty, and remained at a discreet, respectful distance.
“I have heard of you, child,” said the old woman. “Come to the fire. You’re a novelist. Sit down. What’s all this about nuns?”
Harben explained, and besought her to offer the boys her hospitality, if only for one night. He painted a lurid picture of an air-raid on London, particularly on the district from which the lads had come. Almost before he had finished, however, he realized that the description was unnecessary. The old lady grinned.
“Do you suppose that the boys have toothbrushes?” she demanded. “The nuns, of course, chew bones. Go off and get them at once. Dominicans, you say? What’s a war, if we can’t have fun?”
Her laughter pursued him to the door. The manservant let him out. He ran back towards his boat like a boy with good news for his mother. A quarter of an hour later he was leading his flock up the road towards The Island. The procession had a strange, unlikely appearance. In the van came Harben, agent of God, supporting, as a courtier might a queen, the feeble steps of Sister Mary Sebastian. Following them came the boys; and in the rear of the company, walking alone, came Sister Mary Dominic.
Sunset Over Soho (Mrs. Bradley) Page 6