“How do you know?”
“I know him,” said Dane. “He has always hated and despised us, and you can tell from the apologetic note in the letter that the news will be unpalatable—poor Franz!”
“Yes,” agreed Colonel Carter thoughtfully, “a very conscientious young man. Have you met him before?” he added, tapping the letter with his finger.
“Only once, and he was a child at the time. It’s curious that he should remember me.”
“What is he like?”
“A nice boy. There’s something very disarming about him. He’s considerate and kind—kindness is a virtue which you often find in the best type of German—that’s what makes it so incomprehensible, so incredible—”
“Yes,” agreed Colonel Carter thoughtfully, “yes, they’re a strange people—a strange mixture, Dane. You have the best type of German, kind and good and talented—you have Goethe and Schiller, Wagner and Strauss, who saw so much beauty in life and had the genius to convey this beauty to their fellow men and you have the other side of the picture, the German who is dominated by an inferiority complex, who thinks he’s being unfairly treated and sees insults where none are intended. It is these men who are taught to believe that, compared with other races, the German is a god and can do no wrong.”
“Dangerous,” said Dane.
“Dangerous, yes, for they’re ready to believe it. They’re good soil for it, and always have been. Froissart realised that; he says of them, ‘They are a covetous people above all other and they have no pitie if they have the upper hand and are harde and yvele handelers of their prisoners!’ ”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Dane. “Did Froissart say that?”
They were silent for a few moments thinking their own thoughts. At last the Colonel said in a different tone, “Well, Dane, I think we are agreed that this particular German isn’t dangerous, so we can relax our precautions. I’m glad of this—particularly glad—because I want you to go over to Vienna next week.”
“Vienna!” exclaimed Dane. “Oh no, I can’t. I couldn’t possibly.”
The Colonel looked up in amazement.
“Don’t ask me to go,” Dane said, “I couldn’t leave Fernacres as long as Von Heiden is there.”
“I could order you to go.”
“I hope you won’t do that.”
Colonel Carter shook his head. “No,” he said, “no, I shan’t order you to go. We’re past that, Dane. I haven’t forgotten the good work you’ve done for us … at the same time I wish you could go over to Vienna. It’s a delicate job and you’re the man to do it. Vienna is in a hell of a mess.”
“I can well believe it,” declared Dane, “but my mind is made up.”
“What on earth—” began Colonel Carter.
“I’m sorry,” said Dane, interrupting him firmly. “It’s extremely kind of you to say I’ve done good work, and perhaps you won’t misunderstand me if I remind you that I’m an amateur.”
“I’m willing to give you professional status,” declared Colonel Carter.
“I know,” nodded Dane, and indeed they had thrashed out this question before, “I know that, and I’m grateful for the honour, but I can do better work on my own. I don’t need the pay and I like the feeling that I’m perfectly free, so a roving commission suits me down to the ground. You can’t say I take advantage of the fact that I’m unpaid.”
“You are taking advantage of it now.”
They smiled at each other.
“Never mind, Dane,” said Colonel Carter, “I know exactly what you mean and I agree. I acknowledge here and now that you’ve done better work for us than most of my regular staff. You can do things that they can’t do, and you can get in touch with people … I don’t know how you manage it. I wish I had half a dozen amateurs working for me.”
They had finished dinner now and they rose and sat down in the comfortable arm-chairs by the window while Hartley cleared the table.
“Well, Hartley,” said Colonel Carter, “I think I shall have to send you to Vienna—Major Worthington refuses to go.”
“I wouldn’t be much use without the Major,” Hartley replied. “We work together, you see.”
“Yes, we work together,” nodded Dane. “It was Hartley who managed to get that letter for us. He’ll tell you how he managed it.”
“I got it out of the Postmaster at Chellford,” said Hartley. “He’s a friend of mine, you see.”
“It can’t have been very easy.”
“It wasn’t, sir. I had to explain a good bit—more than I wanted to—but we wanted to keep an eye on the young gentleman’s correspondence and that was the only way I could do it. He posts his own letters.”
“Nasty suspicious sort of mind!”
Hartley smiled. “That’s right, sir,” he agreed, “but not quite suspicious enough, if you know what I mean. If the young gentleman had posted his letters in Kingsport we couldn’t have got hold of them anyhow. I’ve noticed that the Germans are a bit apt to underrate other people’s intelligence.”
“I’ve noticed it, too,” agreed Colonel Carter.
“For instance,” continued Hartley, “for instance, Mr. Heiden makes a practice of meeting the postman at the gate—he does it every morning before breakfast—but he doesn’t burn his letters when he’s read them.”
“What does he do with them?”
Hartley went through the motion of tearing a letter to pieces. “That’s all,” he said, “I imagine he’s under the impression that nobody in the house can read German.”
“Very likely.”
“There has been nothing of interest in them,” added Hartley, sweeping the crumbs off the table with a folded napkin. “Nothing of any interest at all.”
“There won’t be,” declared Colonel Carter. “There won’t be anything of interest, but it’s quite good practice for you—carry on, Hartley.”
“Is there anything more, sir?” inquired Hartley, looking at Dane.
“Just be about in the passage,” Dane said, “we don’t want anyone hanging about out there.”
There was a little silence when the man had gone. The window was wide open and the foliage of the plane trees in the square was outlined against the sky. The roar of London came faintly to the ears of the two men sitting there—it was like the far-off roar of the sea.
“So it was a false alarm,” Colonel Carter said.
“Yes—in a way—but I’m glad I came home. I want to thank you for releasing me and replacing me so quickly.”
“Why were you so worried when you heard that this boy was expected at Fernacres?” inquired the Colonel with interest, “and what are you afraid of now? … you needn’t answer if you don’t want to.”
Dane smiled at him. “I always forget how extremely perspicacious you are! Yes, I’m still anxious about Franz von Heiden, but … but if you don’t mind I’ll keep the reason to myself for the present. It’s a purely private reason.”
Blue smoke floated upwards from the two cigars.
“About Vienna …” Colonel Carter said, “I’m not going to try to persuade you to go, but you know the place so well—and the people. I’m worried, Dane. All our communications have been interrupted and I’ve got to reorganise everything.”
“There’s Mosenstein—”
“That’s the worst of it. Mosenstein has vanished. I’m afraid they’ve got the old man, Dane … and he knows too much. He knows all our people and he knows our code.”
“Mosenstein!” exclaimed Dane. “I liked the old fellow—it’s bad news, isn’t it?”
“Damnable news.”
The problem was discussed and debated far into the night and the London dawn had broken before Dane’s guest departed. Dane stood on the doorstep of the club and watched him walk briskly down the street and turn the corner and disappear.
Chapter Eleven
Wynne had not forgotten her intention of taking Frank to see the Roman Villa at Ashbourne—as a matter of fact she had not seen it herself.
/> “It’s always the way,” she said seriously, “people come long distances to look at interesting things but people who live quite near haven’t the time or the energy to bother. We must make time, Frank. We’ll go today, because I feel if we don’t go at once we’ll never go. We’ll take our lunch with us and be back for tea—Migs and Nina are coming to tea.”
Sophie agreed to the plan with her usual affability. “It’s a lovely day,” she said, “and dear Franz—Frank, I mean—will enjoy seeing the country. Don’t forget to point out all the interesting things, will you? Be sure to show him Castle-hill—of course it isn’t a bit the same as it was when we lived there, but he would like to see it. Show him the gates, Wynne, and you can see the house from the road if you stop at the top of the hill and look back.”
They were soon on their way and their way took them past the big cross-roads at the end of the village where Sergeant White happened to be on point duty. Wynne stopped immediately and, drawing in to the side of the road, she beckoned to him.
“Hullo, are you on point duty?” she inquired.
It was quite obvious that he was, but Sergeant White understood what she meant, and he answered her meaning rather than her actual question.
“We’re short-handed,” he said.
“How’s the baby?” Wynne inquired, “and how’s the kitten? Has Mrs. White thought of a name for it yet?”
The sergeant leaned on the roof of the small car and looked in at the window. His face was larger and redder than ever.
“It’s to be John Martin,” he said.
“What!” exclaimed Wynne in surprise.
“John after me and Martin after my brother—John Martin, see?”
“Yes,” said Wynne doubtfully, “yes, but—but—”
“He’s to be christened on Sunday,” continued Sergeant White, “and we wondered if you would come, Miss. Mrs. White and I would be very pleased if you would. It’s to be at two-thirty just before the Children’s Service.”
Fortunately Wynne realised in time that it was the baby, and not the kitten, that was to be christened John Martin on Sunday at two-thirty.
“Oh yes,” she said, rearranging her ideas, “oh yes—yes, I’d love to come. I’ll bring my cousin too, shall I?”
“If he would like it—” began Sergeant White in a doubtful voice.
Wynne was not listening. The thing was fixed. She continued, “John—yes, it’s a very nice name. I didn’t know you were called John. Have you got another—”
Two cars were now approaching the cross-roads from different directions and the sergeant, observing them out of the corner of his eye, left the conversation in the air and returned to his post.
“Bother,” said Wynne, “that’s the worst of policemen, isn’t it? He never told me what they were going to call the kitten.”
“He is busy,” Frank pointed out in a soothing voice.
“Bother!” said Wynne again. She let in her clutch and drove on.
They left the village and the sea behind them and striking inland were suddenly in the heart of the country. There were fields and meadows here, and huge old trees, the narrow lane turned and twisted amongst the fields, and the hedges were full of flowers. They passed villages, clustering in sleepy hollows, and fine old inns, and cottages with bright gardens. There was a silver stream, scarcely moving between its rushy banks, and cows standing knee-deep in the cool water. They passed Castle-hill where Sophie’s people had lived and Frank’s mother had spent so many happy hours, and here Wynne, remembering her instructions, stopped at the top of the hill so that Frank might look back.
He looked back in more ways than one and it seemed queer to him that this fine old house which had been so familiar to his mother should be so utterly foreign to him.
“You would think,” he said, as he settled back in his seat and they drove on, “you would think that somehow I ought to remember it a little, or at least that it should seem to me a friendly place.”
Wynne did not answer but the silence between them was a companionable sort of silence and they both enjoyed it. Frank was busy using his eyes, he looked at everything and tried to take it all in. This country was quite different from his own—the very air had a different quality—but it had its charm. At the top of a steep rise, Wynne stopped the car again and here Frank had his first real view of England. He looked out over a plain and saw fields and trees and woods—green and golden in the strong sunshine. He saw the silver snake of a river wandering in a leisurely manner towards the sea, and, far away over the treetops, the land tilting up gently into hills. The air was very soft; the breeze fanned his cheek; the clouds moved slowly over the shallow, tilted bowl.
“Yes,” said Frank, with a little sigh, “yes, it is beautiful, Wynne. I think one could learn to love it very much …”
“You ought to love it,” Wynne said. “It’s your mother’s country.”
They found the Roman Villa in a field adjoining the road, and leaving the car they walked across to look at it. There was very little to see for the place was even less than a ruin and only the foundations had been laid bare by digging. Wynne and Frank were both disappointed, and they were poking about somewhat half-heartedly when a man appeared from a nearby cottage and came towards them. He was a small, middle-aged individual dressed in grey trousers and a grey tweed jacket so torn and shabby and dirty that at first they thought he was a tramp, but his voice disabused them of this idea.
“You are interested in the Villa?” he inquired in cultured accents.
Wynne replied quite frankly that she, for one, would be more interested if there were more to see.
“Oh, but you don’t understand!” cried the man eagerly. “Perhaps—perhaps you would allow me to tell you a little about it. My name is James.”
Wynne introduced herself and Frank and replied that if he was not too busy—
“But I am not busy at all!” cried Mr. James. “Let me tell you about it … have you ever been to Pompeii? … No? Oh you should go. If you are interested in the Romans—and of course you must be interested or you would not be here—Pompeii is the first place to see. You would understand this so much better if you had been to Pompeii. Let me describe it to you. It is an extraordinary sight… a whole town empty of any living soul … a monument to a great people—people who lived their lives like you and me. There it stands just as it was when they were alive … the greatest monument in the world. There are streets and shops and villas … the villas have gardens full of oleanders and there are fountains.”
“I should love to see it,” declared Wynne.
Frank felt that he would like to see it too, and perhaps to see it with Wynne. He believed that he could enjoy it more if Wynne were there, and, strangely enough, the idea seemed quite a natural one. Mr. James evidently thought that they would see it together and indeed he spoke as if he expected them to start off for Italy next week.
“There are guides of course,” he said, “but you must avoid them like poison if you want to feel the spirit of the place, and to me the spirit of the place is even more important than the actual history—but of course I know that this would be heresy to a true historian, to an earnest antiquarian. See it by moonlight,” Mr. James besought them, “walk down the Street of Tombs, you can get to it by the Herculaneum Gate.”
“Yes,” said Wynne, “yes, it must be marvellous.”
“The Patricians were burred there in their family vaults, and there are little altars over their graves … but you must see it all for yourselves.”
“Yes,” said Wynne again, “yes, we must.”
Mr. James smiled at her. “Come along,” he said, “I’ll show you what we’ve been doing here. Come and see the mosaic, it’s rather fine in its way.”
They followed him to the excavations and saw the piece of mosaic pavement which had been uncovered. Mr. James looked at it and then looked at Wynne. “I can’t tell you what I felt when I saw that,” he said. “I almost wept. It was too marvellous to be true. Do
you understand mosaics?”
“No,” said Wynne frankly, “as a matter of fact I’ve never seen one before.”
“I’ll try to explain,” said Mr. James. “Yes—er—I’ll try to explain. You realise of course that the Villa was built by a Roman—an exile from his own land—and he built it exactly, or as nearly as possible, like the houses of his own land. These people had their own mosaics made—they themselves designed them—or had them designed—and the mosaic shows who and what they were. Each family had its own—like a crest,” said Mr. James, trying to control himself and to confine himself to simple words of one syllable so that this utterly delightful—but alarmingly ignorant girl—could understand what he meant.
“I see,” said Wynne, and she bent over and examined the mosaic with added interest.
“This is the peristyle,” continued Mr. James, pointing to a broken piece of wall and the fragment of a pillar, “… and that, of course, is the atrium …”
Wynne and Frank gazed and nodded and agreed. It was quite different now that they had Mr. James to explain it to them—there seemed to be mote to see. He was full of enthusiasm and possessed the invaluable gift of being able to communicate his enthusiasm to his hearers. From the few small pieces of coloured pavement and the half-buried fragments of wall Mr. James reared the Roman Villa before their eyes. The man came alive, too—the man who had built it or caused it to be built—he moved about in the beautifully proportioned rooms, he stood at the window which looked out upon this alien unfriendly land and dreamed of Rome. Wynne put these thoughts into words and Mr. James agreed.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I expect so … only, of course, we wouldn’t talk of—er—rooms and windows—”
“But that’s what they are,” said Wynne.
When they had seen all that there was to see and absorbed all that Mr. James could tell them Frank and Wynne said goodbye to their new friend and thanked him heartily for his kindness.
“You have made it real,” said Frank.
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