“Both Phillip and Desmond sent a field-postcard to Freddy, the landlord of their favourite house of call, Sergeant, and Freddy has the cards pinned up side by side, for all to see. Both will be home shortly, the cards say.”
“Well, that is news to me, Mr. Jenkins.”
He thought that Phillip might at least have sent a field-postcard to him at the office, rather than to a publican who, in the nature of things, was little more than a stranger. Before he could check himself, he said, “But there, Phillip has always shown more interest outside his home than in it.”
He regretted this admission the more when the other man said, “Well, I mean to say, Sergeant, to understand the younger generation, it is only necessary to remember our own young days, in regard to our fathers’ heavy attitude towards us, isn’t it?”
This remark affected Richard strongly. What did Mr. Jenkins know about his Father? Whence had he got his information? From Master Phillip, who apparently could not keep a still tongue in his head—where outsiders were concerned, at any rate? Had his own son told Mr. Jenkins, and others in that pot-house haunt of his, that his grandfather had been killed in an accident when under the influence of liquor?
“I cannot discuss such topics, Mr. Jenkins; but I will say this! If you are hoping to get any crops from your allotment this season, may I suggest that you are leaving your cultivations a little late? After all, rationing of food may come yet, you know. We have been warned.”
“There you go again, Sergeant! Your attitude is, well—always so disapproving. Why can’t you be human sometimes? I know you have your troubles at home; so do lots of other men. But does that give you sympathy for others in the same boat? Not likely! ‘Judge not that ye be not judged!’ We’re told that, aren’t we? But how many of us practise it, eh?”
“Mr. Jenkins,” said Richard, straightening his back, and feeling that his lumbago might be coming back, “I do not know why you are condemning me like his. And if you have any complaints about me as your sergeant on duty, I suggest that you lay them before the proper authorities. In the meantime I should be obliged if you would observe a common civility.”
“There you go, you see! I can’t make an ordinary remark to you, but you immediately take umbrage, Sergeant! It is the same with all the specials at the station! You put everyone’s back up, but don’t seem to know how or why. As Burns said, ‘If ye canna’ be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.’ Well, it is still a beautiful afternoon, and I came down here, I don’t mind telling you, very much looking forward to a neighbourly chat and to tell you the good news about Phillip, and what do I get? Not bread, but a stone!”
“Sailor” Jenkins then put on his yachting cap, gave Richard a salute, and taking his tools, walked back the way he had come, thinking with longing of Lily, who had refused his invitation to go with him to the New Cross Empire that evening, saying she would be working at the military hospital. He imagined himself kneeling before her, while she took his head tenderly upon her breast, and his weariness left him. For a moment he felt weak at the knees.
On her way back, as she walked up the asphalt path between the spiked iron railings of St. Cyprian’s churchyard—uncultivated, a genuine prairie of long wild grasses on the yellow clay of a prehistoric river-bed—Lily stopped to listen to organ music coming from behind stained-glass windows. The vox humana spoke to her like a heavenly voice, a voice of eternal love. So moving was the music, that she determined to do what hitherto even the idea of had made her quail: she would call on Mrs. Neville, in the hope that it would lead to the two friends, who had fallen out over her, making it up.
Mrs. Neville had heard about Lily from Desmond after Phillip had gone off into the night six weeks previously to report back to his regimental depôt. Coming out of the bedroom doorway where she had been listening, she had asked her son what he had meant by saying such dreadful things to his best friend: to learn that Phillip had not only broken his promise not to see Lily again, but had taken her into the country on the back of his motor-cycle.
Seeing how upset her son was, she had tried to reassure him, by saying that it was probably a harmless whim of Phillip’s: that he was a generous person, and might have wished to cut a figure with a pretty girl on the carrier of his motorcycle, as well as give her a view of his beloved countryside. If, as Desmond had inferred, it was for another reason, then it was the girl’s fault.
“What is this Lily, anyway? A girl who goes into public houses to find men is hardly the sort of girl that any son of mine, surely, would want to bring home to meet his mother?”
Even as she said that, Mrs. Neville knew herself to be a hypocrite: for had she not met Desmond’s father in the same way, in the promenade of the Alhambra in Leicester Square? He was then living in chambers, and on the point of qualifying as a solicitor. His university degree had been the equivalent of the preliminary exam; he had passed his intermediate while articled to a firm in Lincoln’s Inn; and when she had met him, he had told her that he was about to spend the next six months with Gibson and Weldon, the coaches.
A girl of strong will and daring vitality, Hilda Carey had left her home in Brixton, and gone to live with him, feeling herself to be the New Woman.
What a disaster the marriage, precipitated by parental opposition on both sides, had been! Their ideas had kept them apart, as she knew now. He had left her six months after her baby had been born, and now he had another family in the county town of Essex, by a woman who had changed her name by deed-poll to Neville. He had wanted a divorce, of course, but as a good Catholic she had refused.
So tolerant and understanding of most other people, Mrs. Neville was adamant about the wrongs she had suffered from Desmond’s father. Her opinion of him, as Desmond had once overheard her to say to someone when he was little, was “the greatest cad I have ever known”.
The hours, the days, the months alone with her baby, on a mere pittance, living in a single room in a shut-away London square: yet in her clear moments she saw that it had been wrong from the start. What had she, a young girl from the suburbs of London, daughter of a warehouse clerk, known about life? His undergraduate friends had come to see them in their chambers after the marriage; he had complained afterwards that her laughter was too loud, that she was lacking in reserve, with no knowledge of how to carry on a conversation obliquely, so that one’s personal feelings were not obtruded upon others. Tears, remorse, reconciliations; he had ceased to invite his friends of Clifton and Trinity.
They moved to the flat in Red Lion Court, for economy. O, the loneliness! The only friend she had kept among all his friends had been Maude Hudson, of Highgate, who had a salon where writers, journalists, musicians, and actors used to congregate. And Maude had remained her only friend to this day; for she had grown away from those she had known before her marriage. She lived between two worlds.
How true it was that a woman might marry beneath her, and adjust herself to her husband’s life and environment; but not when she married above her.
And now this girl Lily setting her cap at her son, barely seventeen years old! And meeting Phillip, promptly attaching herself to him! In all probability she had got herself into trouble, and was fancying herself as a war-bride! If she met the precious hussy, she would soon settle her hash! She had half a mind to go down to Freddy’s bar and give her a piece of her mind; but she must not do that, of course, for it would add to Desmond’s embarrassment, when he came back.
When Desmond had gone overseas, Mrs. Neville had known what it was to lead a life in suspense; but she also lived steadily in her faith that life was a spiritual thing; and on the Saturday afternoon she was about to go out (having watched “Father”, otherwise Mr. Maddison, out of the way with his wheel-barrow) to call on Mrs. Maddison, when she saw a strange young woman looking up at windows, and thought to herself that she must be Lily.
*
“I feel ever so nervous, Mrs. Neville, please excuse me daring to call on you like this.”
“What can I do for you?” r
eplied Mrs. Neville, in a voice of polite condescension. Relenting as soon as she saw the pulse beating in the girl’s neck, the widening of the most amazing blue eyes she had ever seen, and their long childish lashes when her glance dropped in nervousness, Mrs. Neville went on, “You are Lily, aren’t you? Then come along upstairs, my dear, where we can be more comfortable than on a door-step! You go first, will you? I’m rather slow nowadays, with my weight.” She looked at the girl’s legs and clothes as she followed behind her. Neat ankles, black stockings, well-brushed boots, no spots on her blue serge skirt, small waist (thank heaven, nothing unusual under it), neat jacket pressed under a clean damp cloth with no threads of cotton left anywhere, worn lining carefully darned under the hem of her jacket.
“Round to the left and up the three steps into the drawing—well, it’s really a sitting room! Here we are! Now sit down and make yourself comfortable. You know, I expect, that both Phillip and Desmond have been in the fighting, and got themselves wounded?”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Neville! I have just come from seeing Mr. Maddison on his allotment, and he told me, too.”
“Really? Do you know Phillip’s father, then?”
“Yes, Mrs. Neville. He is ever so nice and kind.”
“Do forgive my curiosity, Lily, but was there any special reason for going to see Phillip’s father?”
She saw faint colour come in the girl’s cheeks, as she lowered her eyes. Mrs. Neville waited, and when Lily said nothing further, she said, “Well, I expect you would like a cup of tea? I’ll go and put on the kettle. Don’t get up, I’ll be back in a moment.”
This needed some thought. What was coming next? How long had the girl known Phillip? Under two months: absurd! Hilda, my dear, she said to herself, do not force the pace! Leaving the kettle on the small burner, she went back to her drawing room. “It won’t be long, Lily! Now tell me, how was Phillip when you last heard from him? He does write such an interesting letter, doesn’t he? Did you hear from Desmond also? No? Well, I expect he was underground most of the time, tunnelling, you know, and he had time only to write to his mother.”
“Mrs. Neville!”
“Yes, Lily?”
“I came to say that I am very sorry I came between them, but I did not mean any harm. I hope that Desmond, if you don’t mind me calling him that——”
“Why of course not! I hope you don’t mind my calling you Lily? Anyway, you know how young they both are, in their ways, I mean, and I am sure when they meet again they will be as if nothing had happened. And, after all, what has happened? Nothing but a little jealousy over a pretty girl! What else, indeed?”
What a beautiful expression she has, her eyes seem to glow, they have a look of Phillip in them, so gentle and—young. She is a good girl. So she had a crucifix among the charms on her bracelet!
“Lily, dear, look at me. I want to be your friend,” she heard herself saying, against the catch in her voice. What was the matter with her? The girl’s eyes were tender and, yes, they too were brimming with tears.
“Here, give us a kiss, ducks!” cried Mrs. Neville. “I’m as soppy as you!” she shrieked, wiping her eyes. “And not a drop of drink have either of us had! Wait a moment, I’ll shift the kettle to the big ring, then we’ll have a proper talk, dear! Are you a Catholic? Not yet; well, I can only say I have found comfort and direction in the Faith. I’ve got a gooseberry tart, I’ll bring it in. Play the gramophone if you like, it’s Phillip’s, he would like to know we are enjoying ourselves. Here! Come on in the kitchen and help me get the things on a tray, there’s a good girl!”
So Lily confided in Mrs. Neville, that she had decided to go away and find work elsewhere before the two friends came home again. She told about the jaunt to Reynard’s Common, the search for the nightingale in the evening. Before this, she said she had gone out with Desmond, and—eye-lashes on cheeks—she had felt sorry for him.
“Are you trying to tell me that you love Phillip, dear?”
“I don’t matter, Mrs. Neville. I know he loves someone already, somebody good——”
She told Mrs. Neville what she had told Phillip, about her trouble when she was a servant girl.
“Yes, of course, of course! I see the reason for everything now, Lily. You’ve never forgotten your baby, have you?”
*
Richard walking up Hillside Road, pushing his barrow of tools, all carefully cleaned, as befitted a countryman, met Mrs. Rolls coming down. She was her usual gay and friendly self, and when she said, “What big boots you are wearing, to be sure, Mr. Maddison!” and he replied, “Yes, Mrs. Rolls, these are the boots my son wore in France!” the pride she saw in his face made her exclaim, “Yes, we are all proud of Phillip! He was so charming when we saw him last, when he came to tell us about his cousin Bertie. So modest and considerate! I hope we shall see something of him when he is well again. Are you going to the Seven Fields Rifle Range now? Gerard is going, I left him oiling his precious three-o-three, as he calls it, whatever that may mean. Do give Phillip all our very best wishes for a speedy recovery when you write to him next, won’t you? The success upon the Somme is wonderful news, isn’t it, wonderful! Helena now has some of the men back from July the first, in the Military Hospital. We are proud of them all. Goodbye, goodbye!” and with a wave of her hand, Flora Rolls tripped on down the road, just as Lily was saying goodbye to Mrs. Neville.
Chapter 21
THE HOME FRONT
One day towards the end of the month Richard was visited in his office by his younger brother, Hilary, who wore the uniform of a captain of the Royal Naval Reserve. Captain Hilary Maddison, R.N.R., had returned from the Far East, in a convoy through the Red Sea and Suez Canal to the Mediterranean, where his ship, the Phasiana, carrying troops, had been torpedoed. Hilary, a fine swimmer and well-covered, had remained twenty-four hours in the sea before being picked up. He was far from well, but made nothing of his heaviness of spirit. He was staying a few days in London to attend a Board of Trade enquiry, and other affairs at the Ministry of Shipping.
His old chief, the Earl of Capewroth, had arranged for Hilary Maddison to be placed in the Ministry, in order to watch over his interests in the MacKarness line; so Hilary had two jobs at the same time, an official position under the Admiralty, and an unofficial one for the rugged ex-Glaswegian who had started his career at twelve years of age as an office boy in a house of East Indiamen which later was amalgamated with others to fly the MacKarness house flag.
Hilary had his own side-line, as well. German submarines were sending tonnage to the bottom at an increasing rate; and in sympathy, as the term went, freight rates were rising fast. Speculators in all the great ports—clerks in shipping offices and agencies, with a sprinkling of ship’s-chandlers and petty lawyers—were beginning to form into groups to charter rusty old tubs, obsolescent piston-engined tramps, most of them held together by paint, for the Atlantic run, carrying munitions. Hilary had some of his money in two Maritime Investment Companies that bought up such sea-coffins (as the crews called them); one registered at Bristol, the other at Cardiff. The Treasury indemnified the owners against loss. Hilary’s investments were immensely profitable.
The freight rate of grain from Argentina, for example, had been 12s. 6d. per ton in July 1914, to the Port of London; now it was 183s. 6d. Excess profit taxation at sixty per cent, imposed by the Government, had stimulated the rise; even so, the profit was more than seven-fold. Coal from Cardiff and Swansea to Genoa in Italy had been carried for 7s. 6d. a ton; now it was 100s.
At the moment Hilary felt that his life was a failure. On arrival at his club, he had found a letter awaiting him, from his wife in Hampshire. It told him that she could not live with him any longer; that she wanted her freedom. She asked if he would be a gentleman, and let her divorce him. Just that; no other details; written on one side of a piece of writing paper. She had waited, she added in a postscript on the other side, until the children were grown up.
Hilary at once went to see his solici
tor, who called in a private enquiry agent. He knew his wife Beatrice did not know when he would be home again, now he was part of what was called the Silent Service.
The upshot was that he secured immediate evidence of his wife’s misconduct. Now, at fifty, he would have to rearrange his life. There was his sister Victoria; she was a lonely woman; he might buy a smaller house somewhere, and start again. With this in mind, he went to see his brother Richard in Thread-needle Street one morning, walking up from MacKarness House in Cockspur Street.
Hilary reckoned that since the war his capital had increased to six figures. His regret that he had no children of his own was increased proportionately. There was, of course, his step-son from the previous marriage of his wife Beatrice, and a step-daughter, but he did not care much for either. He had done his duty, provided the means for their education; but neither had shown any real interest in the home he had given them. The boy had left Winchester and was now at Sandhurst; the girl at a finishing school in the Isle of Wight.
“I don’t know what it is, it must be the stock,” said Hilary. “Bee, as you know, is a Lemon, and you don’t need me to tell you what happened to George, our late lamented brother-in-law. Well, now she’s gone and kicked over the traces with some young whippersnapper half her age, in the Navy. She turned the house into a convalescent home for officers, you know.”
“Well, I can only say that I am extremely sorry, Hilary, that it should have happened, particularly so in war-time, to add to your other worries.”
“I shall divorce her, Dick. Look at this!” He showed his brother an envelope, containing a single sheet of writing paper with one word written on it, Forgive.
“It arrived at my club this morning. She knows I have got evidence that she’s been carrying on behind my back for a long time, while I was away at sea. She’s turned of forty, and won’t find it easy to begin a new life. But she should have thought of that before. Well, how are things with you, Dick?”
The Golden Virgin Page 40