Barrie, J M - Echoes Of The War

by Echoes Of The War

  They laugh, together, but when Dick says light-heartedly, 'That dog will be the death of me.' his father shivers. Dick does not notice this; his eyes have drawn him to the fishing-rods.

  'Hullo!'

  'Yes, those are your old fishing-rods.'

  'Here's the little hickory! Do you remember, father, how I got the seven-pounder on a burn-trout cast? No, you weren't there. That was a day. It was really only six and three-quarters. I put a stone in its mouth the second time we weighed it!'

  'You loved fishing, Dick.'

  'Didn't I? Why weren't you oftener with me? I'll tell you a funny thing, When I went a soldiering I used to pray--just standing up, you know--that I shouldn't lose my right arm, because it would be so awkward for casting.' He cogitates as he returns to the ingle-nook. 'Somehow I never thought I should be killed. Lots of fellows thought that about themselves, but I never did. It was quite a surprise to me.'

  'Oh, Dick!'

  'What's the matter? Oh, I forgot. Face!' He is apparently looking down at his father wonderingly. 'Haven't you got over it yet, father? I got over it so long ago. I wish you people would understand what a little thing it is.'

  'Tell me,' very humbly; 'tell me, Dick.'

  'All right.' He is in the chair again.

  'Mind, I can't tell you where I was killed; it's against the regulations.'

  'I know where.'

  Curiously, 'You got a wire, I suppose?'

  'Yes.'

  'There's always a wire for officers, even for 2nd Lieutenants. It's jolly decent of them.'

  'Tell me, Dick, about the--the veil. I mean the veil that is drawn between the living and the----.'

  'The dead? Funny how you jib at that word.'

  'I suppose the veil is like a mist?'

  'The veil's a rummy thing, father. Yes, like a mist. But when one has been at the Front for a bit, you can't think how thin the veil seems to get; just one layer of it. I suppose it seems thin to you out there because one step takes you through it. We sometimes mix up those who have gone through with those who haven't. I daresay if I were to go back to my old battalion the living chaps would just nod to me.'

  'Dick!'

  'Where's that pipe? Death? Well, to me, before my day came, it was like some part of the line I had heard a lot about but never been in. I mean, never been in to stay, because, of course, one often popped in and out.'

  'Dick, the day that you----'

  'My day? I don't remember being hit, you know. I don't remember anything till the quietness came. When you have been killed it suddenly becomes very quiet; quieter even than you have ever known it at home. Sunday used to be a pretty quiet day at my tutor's, when Trotter and I flattened out on the first shady spot up the river; but it is quieter than that. I am not boring you, am I?'

  'My boy!'

  'When I came to, the veil was so thin that I couldn't see it at all; and my first thought was, Which side of it have I come out on? The living ones lying on the ground were asking that about themselves, too. There we were, all sitting up and asking whether we were alive or dead; and some were one, and some were the other. Sort of fluke, you know.'

  'I--I--oh, Dick!'

  'As soon as each had found out about himself he wondered how it had gone with his chums, I halloo'd to Johnny Randall, and he halloo'd back that he was dead, but that Trotter was living. That's the way of it. A good deal of chaff, of course. By that time the veil was there, and getting thicker, and we lined up on our right sides. Then I could only see the living ones in shadow and hear their voices from a distance. They sang out to us for a while; but just at first, father, it was rather lonely when we couldn't hear their tread any longer. What are you fidgeting about? You needn't worry; that didn't last long; we were heaps more interested in ourselves than in them. You should have heard the gabbling! It was all so frightfully novel, you see; and no one quite knew what to do next, whether all to start off together, or wait for some one to come for us. I say, what a lot I'm talking!'

  'What happened, Dick?'

  'Oh!' a proud ring coming into the voice, 'Ockley came for us. He used to be alive, you know--the Ockley who was keeper of the fives in my first half. I once pointed him out to mother. I was jolly glad he was the one who came for us. As soon as I saw it was Ockley I knew we should be all right.'

  'Dick, I like that Ockley.'

  'Rather. I wish I could remember something funny to tell you though. There are lots of jokes, but I am such a one for forgetting them.'

  He laughs boisterously. We may be sure that he flings back h is head. You remember how Dick used to fling back his head when he laughed?--No, you didn't know him.

  'Father, do you remember little Wantage who was at my private and came on to Ridley's house in my third half? His mother was the one you called Emily.'

  'Emily Wantage's boy.'

  'That's the card. We used to call him Jemima, because he and his mother were both caught crying when lock-up struck, and she had to clear out.'

  'She was very fond of him, Dick.'

  'Oh, I expect no end. Tell her he's killed.'

  'She knows.'

  'She had got a wire. That isn't the joke, though. You see he got into a hopeless muddle about which side of the veil he had come out on; and he went off with the other ones, and they wouldn't have him, and he got lost in the veil, running up and down it, calling to us; and just for the lark we didn't answer.' He chuckles, 'I expect he has become a ghost!' With sudden consideration, 'Best not tell his mother that.'

  Mr. Don rises, wincing, and Dick also is at once on his feet, full of compunction.

  'Was that shabby of me? Sorry, father. We are all pretty young, you know, and we can't help having our fun still.'

  'I'm glad you still have your fun,' the father says, once more putting his hands on Dick's shoulders. 'Let me look at you again, Dick. There is such a serenity about you now.'

  'Serenity, that's the word! None of us could remember what the word was. It's a ripping good thing to have. I should be awfully bucked if you would have it, too.'

  'I'll try.'

  'I say, how my tongue runs on! But, after all, it was my show. Now, you tell me some things.'

  'What about, Dick? The war?'

  'No,' almost in a shout. 'We have a fine for speaking about the war. And you know, those fellows we were fighting--I forget who they were?'

  'The Germans.'

  'Oh yes. Some of them were on the same side of the veil with us, and they were rather decent; so we chummed up in the end and Ockley took us all away together. They were jolly lucky in getting Ockley. There I go again! Come on, it's your turn. Has the bathroom tap been mended yet?'

  'I'm afraid it is--just tied up with that string still, Dick. It works all right.'

  'It only needs two screw-nails, you know.'

  'I'll see to it.'

  'Do you know whether any one at my tutors got his fives choice this half?'

  'I'm sorry, Dick, but----'

  'Or who is the captain of the boats?'

  'No, I----'

  'Whatever have you been doing?' He is moving about the room. 'Hullo, here's mother's work-box! Is mother all right?'

  'Very sad about you, Dick.'

  'Oh, I say, that isn't fair. Why doesn't she cheer up?'

  'It isn't so easy, my boy.'

  'It's pretty hard lines on me, you know.'

  'How is that?'

  'If you are sad, I have to be sad. That's how we have got to work it off. You can't think how we want to be bright.'

  'I'll always remember that, and I'll tell your mother. Ah, but she won't believe me, Dick; you will have to tell her yourself.'

  'I can't do that, father. I can only come to one.'

  'She should have been the one; she loved you best, Dick.'

  'Oh, I don't know. Do you ever,' with a slight hesitation, 'see Laura now?'

  'She is staying with us at present.'

  'Is she? I think I should like to see her.'

  'If Laura were to s
ee you----'

  'Oh, she wouldn't see me. She is not dressed in black, is she?'

  'No, in white.'

  'Good girl! I suppose mother is in black?'

  'Surely, Dick.'

  'It's too bad, you know.'

  'You weren't exactly--engaged to Laura, were you, Dick?' A bold question from a father, but the circumstances were unusual. Apologetically, 'I never rightly knew.'

  'No!' Dick has flung back his head again. Confidentially, 'Father, I sometimes thought of it, but it rather scared me! I expect that is about how it was with her, too.'

  'She is very broken about you now.'

  Irritated, 'Oh, hang!'

  'Would you like her to forget you, Dick?'

  'Rather not. But she might help a fellow a bit. Hullo!'

  What calls forth this exclamation, is the little table at which the seance had taken place. The four chairs are still standing round it, as if they were guarding something.

  'Here's something new, father; this table.'

  'Yes, It is usually in the drawing-room.'

  'Of course. I remember.'

  Mr. Don sets his teeth. 'Does that table suggest anything to you, Dick?'

  'To me? Let me think. Yes, I used to play backgammon on it. What is it doing here?'

  'Your mother brought it in.'

  'To play games on? Mother!'

  'I don't--know that it was a game, Dick.'

  'But to play anything! I'm precious glad she can do that. Was Laura playing with her?'

  'She was helping her.'

  'Good for Laura.' He is looking at some slips of paper on the table. 'Are those pieces of paper used in the game? There is writing on them: "The first letter is H--the second letter is A--the third letter is R." What does it mean?'

  'Does it convey no meaning to you, Dick?'

  'To me? No; why should it?'

  Mr. Don is enjoying no triumph. 'Let us go back to the fire, my boy.'

  Dick follows him into the ingle-nook. 'But, why should it convey a meaning to me? I was never much of a hand at indoor games.' Brightly, 'I bet you Ockley would be good at it.' After a joyous ramble, 'Ockley's nickname still sticks to him!'

  'I don't think I know it.'

  'He was a frightful swell, you know. Keeper of the field, and played against Harrow the same year. I suppose it did go just a little to his head.'

  They are back in their old seats, and Mr. Don leans forward in gleeful anticipation. Probably Dick is leaning forward in the same way, and this old father is merely copying him.

  'What did you nickname him, Dick?'

  'It was his fags that did it!'

  'I should like to know it. I say, do tell me, Dick.'

  'He is pretty touchy about it now, you know.'

  'I won't tell any one. Come on, Dick.'

  'His fags called him K.C.M.G.'

  'Meaning, meaning, Dick?'

  'Meaning "Kindly Call Me God!"'

  Mr. Don flings back his head; so we know what Dick is doing. They are a hilarious pair, perhaps too noisy, for suddenly Mr. Don looks at the door.

  'I think I heard some one, Dick!'

  'Perhaps it's mother!'

  'She may,' nervously, 'have heard the row.'

  Dick's eyes must be twinkling. 'I say, father, you'll catch it!'

  'I can't believe, Dick,' gazing wistfully into the chair, 'that she won't see you.'

  It is a sadder voice than his own for the moment that answers, 'Only one may see me.'

  'You will speak to her, Dick. Let her hear your voice.'

  'Only one may hear me. I could make her the one; but it would mean your losing me.'

  'I can't give you up, Dick.'

  Mrs. Don comes in, as beautiful as ever, but a little aggrieved.

  'I called to you, Robert.'

  'Yes, I thought--I was just going to----'

  He has come from the ingle-nook to meet her. He looks from her to Dick, whom he sees so clearly, standing now by the fire. An awe falls upon Mr. Don. He says her name, meaning, 'See, Grace, who is with us.'

  Her eyes follow his, but she sees nothing, not even two arms outstretched to her. 'What is it, Robert? What is the matter?'

  She does not hear a voice say, 'Mother!'

  'I heard you laughing, Robert; what on earth at?'

  The father cannot speak.

  'Now you're in a hole, father!' says a mischievous, voice.

  'Can I not be told, Robert?'

  'Something in the paper,' the voice whispers.

  Mr. Don lifts the paper feebly, and his wife understands. 'Oh, a newspaper joke! Please, I don't want to hear it.'

  'Was it my laughing that brought you back, Grace?'

  'No, that would only have made me shut my door. If Dick thought you could laugh!' She goes to the little table. 'I came back for these slips of paper.' She lifts them and presses them to her breast. 'These precious slips of paper!'

  Dick was always a curious boy, and forgetting that she cannot hear him, he blurts out, 'How do you mean, mother? Why are they precious?'

  Mr. Don forgets also and looks to her for an answer.

  'What is it, Robert?'

  'Didn't you--hear anything, Grace?'

  'No. Perhaps Laura was calling; I left her on the stair.'

  'I wish,' Mr. Don is fighting for Dick now, 'I wish Laura would come back and say good-night to me.'

  'I daresay she will.'

  'And,' valiantly, 'if she could be--rather brighter, Grace.'

  'Robert!'

  'I think Dick would like it.'

  Her fine eyes reproach him mutely, but she says, ever forgiving, 'Is that how you look at it, Robert? Very well, laugh your fill--if you can. But if Dick were to appear before me to-night----'

  In his distress Mr. Don cries aloud to the figure by the fire, 'Dick, if you can appear to your mother, do it.'

  There is a pause in which anything may happen, but nothing happens. Yes, something happened: Dick has stuck to his father.

  'Really, Robert!' Mrs. Don says, and, without a word of reproach, she goes away. Evidently Dick comes to his father, who has sank into a chair, and puts a loving hand on him. Mr. Don clasps it without looking up.

  'Father, that was top-hole of you! Poor mother, I should have liked to hug her; but I can't.'

  'You should have gone to her, Dick; you shouldn't have minded me.'

  The wiser boy says, 'Mother's a darling, but she doesn't need me as much as you do.'

  'I don't know.'

  'That's all right. I'm glad she's so keen about that game, though.'

  He has returned to the ingle-nook when Laura comes in, eager to make amends to Dick's father if she hurt him when she went out.

  Softly, 'I have come to say good-night, Mr. Don.'

  'It's nice of you, Laura,' taking both her hands.

  Dick speaks. 'I want her to come nearer to the fire; I can't see her very well there.'

  For a moment Mr. Don is caught out again; but Laura has heard nothing. He becomes quite cunning in Dick's interests.

  'Your hands are cold, Laura; go over to the fire. I want to look at you.'

  She sits on the hearthstone by Dick's feet.

  Shyl y, 'Am I all right?'

  It is Dick who answers. 'You're awfully pretty, Laura. You are even prettier than I thought. I remember I used to think, she can't be quite as pretty as I think her; and then when you came you were just a little prettier.'

  She has been warming her hands. 'Why don't you say anything?' she asks Mr. Don.

  'I was thinking of you and Dick, Laura.'

  'What a pretty soul she has, father,' says the boy; 'I can see right down into it now.'

  'If Dick had lived, Laura, do you think that you and he--?'

  With shining eyes, 'I think--if he had wanted it very much.'

  'I expect he would, my dear.'

  There is an odd candour about Dick's contribution. 'I think so, too, but I never was quite sure.' They are a very young pair.

  Laura is tre
mbling a little. 'Mr. Don--'

  'Yes, Laura?'

  'I think there is something wicked about me. I sometimes feel quite light-hearted--though Dick has gone.'

  'Perhaps, nowadays, the fruit trees have that sort of shame when they blossom, Laura; but they can't help doing it. I hope you are yet to be a happy woman, a happy wife.'

  'It seems so heartless to Dick.'

  'Not a bit; it's what I should like,' Dick says.

  'It's what he would like, Laura.'

  'Do you remember, Laura,' Dick goes on, 'I kissed you once. It was under a lilac in the Loudon Woods. I knew at the time that you were angry, and I should have apologised. I'm sorry, Laura.'

  His sweetheart has risen, tasting something bitter-sweet. 'What is it, Laura?' Mr. Don asks.

  'Somehow--I don't know how--but, for a moment I seemed to feel the smell of lilac. Dick was once--nice to me under a lilac. Oh, Mr. Don--' She goes to him like a child, and he soothes and pets her.

  'There, there! That will be all right, quite all right.' He takes her to the door. 'Good-night, my dear.'

  'Good-night, Mr. Don.'

  'Good-bye, Laura,' says the third voice.

  Mr. Don is looking so glum that the moment they are alone Dick has to cry warningly, 'Face!' He is probably looking glum himself, for he says candidly, 'Pretty awful things, these partings. Father, don't feel hurt though I dodge the good-bye business when I leave you.'

  'That's so like you, Dick!'

  'I'll have to go soon.'

  'Oh, Dick! Can't you--'

  'There's something I want not to miss, you see.'

  'I'm glad of that.'

  'I'm not going yet; but I mean that when I do I'll just slip away.'

  'What I am afraid of is that you won't come back.'

  'I will--honest Injun--if you keep bright.'

  'But, if I do that, Dick, you might think I wasn't missing you so much.'

  'We know better than that. You see, if you're bright, I'll get a good mark for it.'

  'I'll be bright.'

  Dick pops him into the settle again.

  'Remember your pipe.'

  'Yes, Dick.'

  'Do you still go to that swimming-bath, and do your dumb-bell exercises?'

  'No, I--'

  'You must.'

  'All right, Dick, I will.'

  'And I want you to be smarter next time. Your hair's awful.'

  'I'll get it cut, Dick.'

  'Are you hard at work over your picture of those three Graces?'