And when I see thy beauty
It sets my heart alight.
I’ll lay my hands in blessing
Upon thy golden hair,
Praying that God will keep thee
As bright and pure and fair.”
Frank read it over several times and was rather pleased with it. Save for the fourth line, which baffled all attempts at literal translation, he had managed to translate it almost word for word. He had kept the spirit of the thing and it actually went quite nicely with the music. On the whole Frank liked his own fourth line better than the original one, for he did not feel “Wehmut” when he looked at Wynne but rather an uplifting of the spirit. He put the poem away in a drawer and locked the drawer carefully … and then he opened the drawer again and took the poem out and tore it up into little pieces. He could never show it to Wynne, he could never tell her that he loved her. It was the height of folly to think of marrying an English girl.
Frank fought and struggled. Sometimes he imagined that he had succeeded in his attempt to tear Wynne out of his heart and then he looked at her and she walked straight into his heart and took possession of it again … and the world was transformed … and he knew that nothing mattered except Wynne, for she was the other part of himself that he had been looking for all his life. He dreamed about her constantly, dreamed that he was fighting bands of desperadoes single-handed, vanquishing them with his own strong right arm, rescuing her and carrying her to safety … and then he woke and knew that he could never carry her to safety. If he took her anywhere it would be into danger and misery—the kindest thing he could do would be to go away quickly, as quickly as he could.
Migs loved Wynne—this was another thing that Frank discovered. He saw Migs look at Wynne and, because he loved Wynne himself, he knew what the look meant. Migs loved Wynne. There was nothing to prevent them from coming together. They were both English; they shared the same ideals. These thoughts did not comfort Frank at all. They distressed him more than ever. They tortured him. All that evening he kept pushing these thoughts away out of his mind, but when he went up to bed they were still there. He was almost certain that Wynne did not love Migs—not yet—but if he went away, if his presence was removed they would see more of each other. Wynne would have more time to spare for Migs, and Migs would be there waiting for her.
Frank did not sleep much that night. He slept in short snatches which were full of uneasy dreams. Each time he woke he expected to see the sun shining in at his window and was amazed to find it still dark. He slept and woke again and this time it was light. He lay and listened and heard the garage clock striking five. He was hot and uncomfortable and he felt as if he had been in bed for weeks; there was no more sleep in him. After a few minutes he flung off the bedclothes and rose and leaned out of the window. It was quiet and peaceful. The garden flamed with colour in the early morning sun. There had been heavy dew in the night and the lawn sparkled and steamed gently; a faint breeze blew the light clouds hither and thither in the blue sky. It was so peaceful and beautiful and he had got to leave it all and go away. When he had gone it would look just the same—everything would be just the same—but he would not be here to see it.
“Warum?” said Frank softly under his breath. “Warum?” Why had it got to be like this? Why must he leave this place and these people that he had begun to love? Why couldn’t everybody in the world be friendly and kind and loving to each other?
Frank searched in the past for some answer to these questions and the answer came. He remembered a big bare schoolroom with desks and high windows. It was full of boys. They were sitting there, wide-eyed, listening to a speech on the radio—listening to a voice which was so strident, so emotional, that it seemed to reverberate in some inner part of one’s body. Some of the boys had been unable to endure the strain on their emotions and had wept openly. One of them had fainted. They had sat and listened for hours, but afterwards Frank found that he had only a very confused idea of what the voice had said. They were to keep themselves fit so that they would be prepared … it was in their hands to make the Fatherland great … German blood was pure and untainted … the world was jealous of Germany … the world was against them.…
Frank remembered this as he leant out of the window and for the first time a small wind of doubt blew in his mind. Was it true? Was Britain jealous of Germany, and, if so, why? Was all this stirring up necessary? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if the Leader allowed them to settle down and become peaceful and friendly with their neighbours? These were extraordinary ideas and Frank did not entertain them for more than a moment. They merely brushed across his mind and were gone … the Leader was always right.
Frank was cold by this time and he crept back to bed, though not to sleep. The Leader was always right, but whether he was right or wrong it was absolutely essential that Frank should leave Fernacres. There was a constriction in his throat at the thought and it was not only because of Wynne—though she was the chief reason of course—he was fond of them all, Cousin Sophie and Roy and Dane—yes, even Major Worthington had a place in his heart.
After breakfast Frank followed Major Worthington to his sitting-room and knocked on the door. He remembered the last time he had been here. He had wanted to borrow some books.
“Come in,” said Dane. “Come in, Frank. Do you want another book?”
“No, thank you,” said Frank, “I have come to tell you that I must go away. I want you to tell the others. I find it too difficult to tell them.”
“I’m sorry,” Dane said, and strangely enough he really was sorry. “I’m sorry, Frank. Are you going home?”
Frank shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. “My father has written to say I’m to come home but I’m not ready yet. I don’t want to leave England until I have done what I came to do.”
“What you came to do, Frank?”
“I think you know,” said Frank with a faint smile. “There isn’t anything wrong in what I came to do. It was just to see what you were like—all of you—and what you thought about things. There isn’t anything wrong in that.”
“No, it was a good idea.”
“It was my father’s idea but he doesn’t think I have carried it out properly. That’s why he wants me to come home.”
“I thought there was a post in London waiting for you.”
“That’s closed,” said Frank. “It’s closed to me because they want me to come home.”
He took a letter out of his pocket and showed it to Dane. “It came this morning,” he added.
Dane put out his hand to take it. “I am to read it, Frank?” he said.
“It’s in German!” exclaimed Frank in a surprised tone.
“Naturally,” agreed Dane, smiling.
They stood perfectly still for a moment, Dane holding out his hand and Frank hesitating in perplexity.
“Yes,” said Frank at last, “yes, I should like you to read it—I can translate it for you if you like.”
“I can read it,” said Dane.
The letter contained the information which Frank had already given and not much more. It was couched in a somewhat grumbling tone. Franz had been sent to England with a certain object in view. He had been idle and extravagant. It was no use for him to ask for more money to be sent because he had already been given sufficient for his needs. (“You are aware that it is uneconomic to spend German money in another land,” Herr Von Heiden pointed out.) Franz need not apply to the legation as the post which had been intended for him had been filled. He must return to Germany as soon as possible.
“Yes,” said Dane, handing it back.
“You see?” said Frank eagerly, “you understand what he says? I am to go home … but I’m not going. It isn’t fair to give a person something to do—a task to accomplish—and then break it off in the middle. I’m not ready to go home yet. I’m just beginning to understand. I am interested.”
“What do you propose?” inquired Dane.
“I want to get a post in London,
” said Frank. “I thought you could help me. I can translate and type letters or add up figures. I could be useful to a big firm with foreign trade.”
“I think that could be managed but what would your father say? Won’t he be annoyed if you refuse to go home?”
“I can square him,” declared Frank (it was an expression he had picked up from Roy and he used it with an air of nonchalance which made Dane smile), “I can square my father—he isn’t really so stern as he pretends—and if I get a post and require no more German money he can have no objections, can he?”
“You’ve thought it all out, I see.”
“Yes,” said Frank. He had thought about it for several days but it was only this morning, when his father’s letter had arrived, that he had suddenly seen the solution to his problem. He must leave Fernacres but he need not go so very far away and if he went to London there might be a chance of seeing Wynne occasionally. She might come up to London, or he might come to Fernacres for a week-end. He realised that it would be very much better if he did not see her, but he wanted to see her. He realised that it would be much wiser to go straight home but he did not want to go home.
Dane was watching his face. “Wouldn’t it be more sensible to go back to Germany as your father says?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Frank. “I mean—perhaps it would be more sensible but I’m not ready to go … so if you would be so very kind as to find me a post … and there’s just one thing more. My father doesn’t call himself Von Heiden now. The particle means nothing. So I’m just Frank Heiden.” He blushed and added, “There was no need to tell you before, but now that I am to be in an office it will be better.”
Dane was rather amused, but he did not show it. He sat down and drew out a sheet of notepaper—“Frank Heiden,” he said, writing it down as he spoke, “German, English, book-keeping—is that right?”
“I speak Swedish, too,” said Frank, “and Finnish, of course. We have some great friends in Helsinki and I stayed with them often when I was a child. I can read and write in French but I don’t speak very well. I have a little Italian too. I like languages,” he added apologetically.
“Obviously,” said Dane, looking at him with a friendly smile. “Well, Frank, I think I can promise to find you a job. I’ll get hold of a friend of mine in London who knows about these things.”
“And you’ll explain it to Cousin Sophie,” Frank urged him. “You’ll explain how it is, and how much I don’t want to go away … and Wynne too.”
“We’ll wait and do that when it’s all fixed up,” said Dane.
Chapter Fourteen
The anxiety and distress which Frank had been through, and the pitched battles which he had been fighting within himself had made him a somewhat difficult companion. Wynne was certain that there was something the matter with Frank. He had been so happy and gay and friendly, and then, quite suddenly and for no apparent reason, he had begun to behave in the most extraordinary manner. He was moody and inattentive, he sat and stared into vacancy and jumped when you spoke to him. He had periods of feverish gaiety and periods of hopeless gloom. Sometimes his eyes followed her and dwelt upon her with almost dog-like devotion, and sometimes he would scarcely look at her, and answered her curtly when she spoke to him. There was something the matter—Wynne was sure of it—and so she bore with him as patiently as she could. Perhaps he would tell her about it, and she should be able to help him, or perhaps the trouble would pass and they would be happy again. Wynne was obsessed with Frank and his peculiar moods; she was even more unconscious than usual of her own feelings, so the tremendous discovery which she made was all the more astonishing. It was one of those great discoveries which are so immensely important that it seems as if nobody had ever discovered anything before. Wynne discovered that she loved Frank … she loved him dearly … it didn’t matter whether he was in a good mood or a bad one. It didn’t matter whether he was kind and considerate, or as cross as a bear … she loved him just the same.
She discovered this world-shaking fact at breakfast when Dane announced that he had found a job for Frank in London and that Frank was going away, and it seemed very odd to Wynne that, despite this amazing discovery of hers, she was able to finish her coffee and leave the dining-room without the others noticing that anything remarkable had happened. Ellis had brought in the flowers as usual and had left the basket on the hall table, and Wynne took up the basket and carried it into the pantry. It was the middle of July so the flowers happened to be roses—roses of all shapes and sizes and colours—Wynne stood and stared at them for several minutes without seeing them at all. The basket might have been full of coal for all she knew.
“Frank,” said Wynne to herself, “frank,” and her heart sang within her. She knew now what had been the matter with Frank, he was in love, too. That’s why he was so strange and moody and so unlike himself … poor Frank, poor darling Frank!
She took a vase out of the cupboard and began to fill it with roses (there was no water in it but she did not notice that), she put two roses in it and then stopped and her hands fell to her sides. She leaned against the cupboard door and dreamed .…
The thought that Frank was going away, that he was going to London, did not worry her much. She had always known that he was going to London. He would go away, but he would come back and tell her that he loved her. Wynne had always been happy so she could not imagine any other condition. She had always had everything she wanted, and now she wanted Frank. Dear Frank, so big and splendid, so serious and little-boyish, so kind and good and considerate. Poor Frank, so unhappy because he loved her—how happy he would be when he found that she loved him! Wynne smiled to herself—it was a very sweet smile, mysterious and tender. She looked back and saw that this thing had grown up gradually in her heart. The seed of it had been sown at the very beginning of Frank’s visit when he had been so muddled and so hopelessly at sea. She had taken care of him and shielded him; she had taken his part when Migs and the others tried to make fun of him. She had thought that it was like having a very large child to look after—but she had fallen in love with her child.
Chapter Fifteen
Frank’s departure from Chellford was in the nature of a triumph. He found that he was a great deal more popular than he had imagined in his wildest dreams. All Wynne’s friends had grown to like him. They took leave of him with regret, and declared that they would let him know the next time they were in town and he must lunch with them. The Audleys gave him an immense box of cigarettes, Nina Corbett gave him a tie which she had knitted herself. Migs hit him on the back and said that he would be in town next week and would let Frank know … they would dine together at a little place Migs knew of where you could get snails. They would do a show together. Sophie wept quite openly when she said goodbye, and she put her arms round his neck and kissed him. Dane gave him five pounds and insisted that he should take it. “You may need it,” said Dane, “and be sure to let me know if you find yourself in any sort of difficulty—I mean this, Frank,” Wynne shook hands with him and said, “You’ll come back soon, won’t you?”
The house was very quiet after he had gone—even Dane felt the difference. He watched Wynne somewhat anxiously and noticed that she was more frequently to be seen about the house. The weather had broken and it was too wet for tennis—that might be the reason, or it might not. He suggested one morning that they should go for a walk together in the rain and Wynne assented with flattering eagerness.
“We haven’t been for a walk for ages,” she said. “It’s a lovely idea, Dane.”
Clad in waterproofs and stout shoes and armed with sticks they set off together along the cliffs. It rained softly but steadily, the skies were grey, and far below them the grey sea heaved and sank and broke against the rocks in white frills. Wynne was rather silent and Dane did not try to talk to her much. Their sense of companionship was too strong and of too old a standing to make silence uncomfortable. After they had gone some distance the slight breeze freshened and the clouds
began to disperse. They sat down in the shelter of an overhanging ledge of rock and watched the miracle take place.
“That’s why I love the sea,” Wynne said thoughtfully. “There’s so much weather to be seen, and it keeps changing.”
Dane agreed. He looked at her as she sat there beside him and saw the drops of rain like dew upon her eyelashes and upon the two fair curls which had escaped from beneath her black sou’ wester. Her expression was dreamy and yet alive as if her thoughts were far away, delightful and secret. What was she thinking about? How was he to find out what she was thinking?
“You know, Dane,” said Wynne suddenly, “I believe if I had been to Germany and seen it with my own eyes I should understand Frank better.”
“I expect you would,” agreed Dane. “Frank is very German in many ways.”
“He’s English on his mother’s side.”
“Yes, but does he think of himself as half English?”
Wynne considered this, “I don’t believe he does,” she said slowly. “He’s really and truly German at heart—you can’t blame him, can you?”
“Of course I don’t blame him,” Dane assured her. “He was born and bred a German and he doesn’t remember his mother … I remember her quite well.”
“You knew her, too?”
“Of course I knew her. We were all great friends—Elsie and Sophie and Tom and I. There were others, too, but we four did all sorts of amusing things together. We had tremendous times.” He was silent for a moment and then he continued in a tone of casual conversation, “Elsie was a charming girl—she was very like you, so you will realise what a delightful creature she was!”
“Oh Dane!” cried Wynne, turning and looking at him in surprise, “Oh, Dane, how nice of you!”
“Yes,” said Dane, “I don’t often pay you compliments (you get quite enough from other people) but I’m going to pay you an even greater compliment now. I’ve decided to tell you a secret.”
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