“A secret!” echoed Wynne.
Dane nodded. “A secret that I have never told anyone before. Can you keep a secret from Sophie?”
“You know I can,” replied Wynne, a trifle indignantly. “You know quite well I have all sorts of secrets from Sophie. She’s a darling pet, of course, but it wouldn’t do to tell her everything.”
“Yes … well, I’m not sure that I approve of that. This secret is rather different. It’s got to be kept from Sophie because it would make her very unhappy.”
“It’s about Elsie—Frank’s mother?” Wynne inquired.
He nodded. “I was very very fond of Elsie. I wasn’t in love with her, Wynne, so don’t get that into your head. I was in love with someone else, but Elsie was my very dear friend. She knew about it and encouraged me and did what she could to help me. I was very miserable for a time and she was extraordinarily kind and understanding.”
“But, Dane, who was it?”
“No,” said Dane, shaking his head. “No, Wynne. That’s a different story. I shan’t say any more about that so you needn’t try to drag it out of me. I only told you about it so that you should understand what I felt about Elsie. This is Elsie’s story.”
“But Dane—”
“This is Elsie’s story,” he repeated firmly. “You know a good deal of it already—how she married and went to Germany and how the war came and we heard nothing of her for years.”
“Yes,” agreed Wynne, “but I always wondered why nobody did anything about her after the war was over.”
“Somebody did. I did as a matter of fact. I went over to Germany and saw her. I didn’t say I was going—I just went. I thought I would find out all about her and come back and tell Sophie how she was. It was really partly for Sophie’s sake that I went—Sophie was so worried about her.”
“But you never told Sophie!”
“No, I never told her. I never told anyone at all. Listen Wynne … I found the Von Heiden’s house quite easily and I went and called. I took Elsie a big bunch of pink roses—they were her favourite flowers and I wanted to take her something that would make her think of old times, I didn’t know whether she would be pleased to see me … I didn’t know whether she might have been turned against her old friends. It was rather a dangerous experiment to walk in on her like that without finding out whether she wanted to see me, but I was young then and I took the risk. As a matter of fact I thought it would be rather fun to surprise Elsie …”
“Yes,” said Wynne eagerly. “Yes, what fun!”
Dane went on somewhat doggedly and without much expression in his voice. He was finding it even more difficult than he had expected to tell the story to Wynne. “I went up the stairs to the apartment—or flat as we should call it—and I rang the bell. Elsie opened the door—she knew me at once.”
“Why, of course she knew you!” cried Wynne. “You were friends … it was only five years, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t know her,” said Dane in a quiet voice.
“Dane!”
“No,” said Dane, shaking his head. “No, I didn’t know it was Elsie … not at first. I couldn’t believe it was Elsie. She was an old woman—old and weary—she had shrunk to half her size, her hair was streaked with grey and her skin was wrinkled and pallid. There was no life in her eyes—they had wept too much.”
“Oh, what had they done to her!” cried Wynne.
“Nothing,” he said, almost sternly. “They had done nothing to her. It was what she had done to herself.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Wynne. “Oh Dane, what do you mean?”
“It’s so difficult to explain … she had married Otto von Heiden because she loved him, and she had ruined him. The mere fact that he had an English wife had ruined him politically and socially and he wasn’t strong enough to bear it and make the best of it. There was no harm in the man, he was just weak and he let Fate get him down. He had loved Elsie—we all knew that—but his love hadn’t stood the test. The test was too great—he was a proud man, you see, proud of his lineage and his position, and now he was completely broken. Elsie knew that the only thing she could do for Otto was to die and be forgotten. She had known this all along of course. When Franz was born she had been very ill but the doctors and nurses had dragged her back from the Gates of Death—it was her own expression …
“She wanted to die,” he continued in a low, strained voice. “I’ve heard other people say that they wanted to die but it wasn’t true—they only thought they wanted to die which is quite a different thing—Elsie wanted it. Perhaps you will say that she wasn’t quite sane, that the suffering had turned her brain, but to me she was perfectly sane. I understood. She loved Otto, but Otto had ceased to love her. She loved her little son but she was actually a handicap to him and it would be still worse as he grew up and went to school … an English mother!
“I stayed with her for a little and we talked. She cried hopelessly and helplessly. There was so little strength in her that she wasn’t ashamed of her tears and they just dripped down her cheeks like rain. I realised more and more how much she had suffered. The lies that had hurt her, too, lies about Britain, about our cruelty to prisoners, things that she knew must be untrue but were accepted as facts by those around her. ‘People looked at me,’ she said, ‘people looked at me, Dane.’ I knew then why she seemed to have shrunk. I guessed she had not been out of the house for months—perhaps years.”
“Oh Dane!” cried Wynne. “Oh Dane, I understand exactly how she felt … it’s horrible! Why are you telling me all this now?”
“I don’t know,” he said, turning his head away so that she should not see his face. “I don’t know why … Of course it has been on my mind, Wynne … and seeing Franz here … I saw him that day …”
“Did you?”
“Yes, he was quite a small child, of course—a dear little chap. He stood beside her and leant against her knee and once, when he saw her tears, he reached up and patted her cheek. She said, ‘Franz loves me but he doesn’t understand. When he begins to understand he won’t love me so much’.”
“Dane, I can’t bear it!”
“Poor Wynne, I won’t tell you any more.”
“But I must know. What did you talk about?”
“Old times,” said Dane, “happy times. She liked my roses. I asked her to write to Sophie but not to mention my visit and she said she would try to write cheerfully—she said she would send Sophie a little photograph of Franz. I would have stayed longer but I didn’t want to meet her husband. I had never liked him and I liked him even less than before … that’s all, really,” added Dane. “She died a few months later … it was pneumonia. I was glad when I heard she was dead.”
Wynne sat very still and gazed out to sea. The clouds were racing before the wind and there were big patches of blue sky between them. “Dane, why did you tell me all this?” she asked again.
“Perhaps I wanted you to understand,” he replied thoughtfully “I like you to be happy and carefree, but … but nobody ought to live in a fool’s Paradise. There is so much suffering in the world … Europe is in a queer state of unrest.”
“There could never be another war!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with horror at the thought. “Dane, you don’t mean that, do you?”
“No,” he said, “no, Wynne, of course not.”
She stood up and stretched herself. “It’s cold,” she said. “Summer is nearly over, Dane.”
“Yes,” said Dane. “Summer is nearly over.”
There was a verse from Shakespeare which came into Dane’s mind as he followed Wynne up the path …
“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May
And Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”
Dane said it over softly, beneath his breath. Wynne was his darling bud of May; she had enjoyed her lease of summer—every moment of it—but he was afraid that it was nearly over now.
Chapter Sixteen
Dane had said that Europe was in a “
state of unrest” and he had said a good deal less than the truth. He had wanted to prepare Wynne for the worst and then, at the last minute, he had felt such a strong desire to protect her and shield her as long as possible from distress and anxiety that he had drawn back. It was September now—September, 1938—and the Czechoslovakian crisis was at hand. Dane could not see how war was to be averted. He had met Herr Hitler and spoken to him, he had read his book, and had listened to some of his speeches, and he realised that the German Chancellor was a dangerous man—a man who was a mixture of long-sighted calculation and violent impulses which arose from a temper which he did not attempt to control. This man held the fate of Europe in his hand—it was not a pleasant thought. Dane had nothing to do at the moment, for the Vienna mission had been entrusted to someone else. He was at a loose end and he found it very trying.
Outwardly things went on much the same and Dane had the doubtful satisfaction of knowing that neither Sophie nor Wynne was aware of the tremendous issues at stake. There was no radio at Fernacres (for Dane had always disliked what he called potted music, and was wont to declare that the radio had broken up more happy homes than any other device of man) so the only way in which news came to the house was in the papers or over the telephone. During that tense week Dane almost changed his mind about radio for it would have been a relief to hear the news and to be able to watch the situation developing hour by hour.
“We’ll have to get a set, Hartley,” said Dane at last, and Hartley replied, “Yes, we’ll need it when the war starts.”
War—it was a ghastly thought! Chamberlain was straining every nerve to prevent it, and if anyone could avert war Chamberlain would do it, but Dane was doubtful whether it was possible now—there were so many conflicting interests involved. Knowing rather more of the inside condition of Europe than the ordinary citizen, Dane was at once, less optimistic and more prepared. He had seen the cloud appear on the horizon when it was no larger than a man’s hand, and he had watched it spreading and darkening and blotting out the sun.
One evening Dane was sitting by his fire thinking and smoking—he had been smoking far too much these last few days—he had thought and smoked until his brain positively reeled but he could see no way out of the impasse which had arisen. Chamberlain was doing all that he could—more than anyone could have asked him to do—he had flown to Germany twice … he had now gone again for the third time. What was happening there, Dane wondered. Was there any hope at all, or would we be plunged into a prolonged and bloody struggle, unarmed and unprepared.
Dane was tired, but he knew that if he went to bed he would not sleep. He was filling his pipe again when he heard the sound of a motor bicycle coming up the road. It was not a very unusual sound of course, but Dane’s nerves were so stretched and his perceptions so heightened that he felt an inner conviction that the rider was coming to Fernacres. His face sharpened into an intense expression, and his hand, outstretched for the tobacco-jar, was frozen into immobility. He was a little like a bird as he listened; his head on one side, his eyes alert.
The bicycle came up to the gate and stopped … and, after a few moments, there was a crunching sound on the gravel outside the window … then Dane came to life. He rose quickly and ran down the stairs to the side door.
His first idea was that this was a messenger from Colonel Carter (though why Colonel Carter should send a messenger instead of using the telephone was not quite clear) and he put on the light and opened the door and inquired in a firm voice—
“Who’s there? What do you want?”
A tall figure in a mackintosh coat stepped out of the shadows into the stream of light and Dane saw that it was Frank.
“Frank!” he exclaimed in surprise, “Frank, what has happened?”
“Good news!” cried Frank, coming towards him with his hands outstretched. “Marvellous news, Dane.”
“What is it?” asked Dane again.
“It’s over!” cried Frank, his breath catching in his throat with excitement, “it’s all over. We’re friends, my country and yours—my two countries—we shall never fight each other again.”
Dane took his arm and drew him into the house. “My dear boy,” he said, “my poor Frank … this has been a bad week for you—”
“But it’s all right,” Frank cried, pushing a sheaf of evening papers into Dane’s hands. “Look what it says. Read them, Dane.”
They were in the sitting-room now and Frank was still talking excitedly, incoherently, “Chamberlain is back … I saw him … yes, I was in Downing Street when he drove up in the car … he had been to the Palace … he waved his hand to us. Oh, you should have seen how he looked—how happy and young … you should have heard the cheers. I shall never forget it … never … never …”
Dane had taken the papers and was scanning the headlines.
“You see!” cried Frank. “You see what it says! They’ve signed a pact—my Leader and yours—Germany and Britain are friends.”
“It’s wonderful news,” Dane said.
“It’s marvellous!” Frank declared, his eyes shining like stars. “It’s a miracle … it’s the most stupendous thing that ever happened. He was like a victorious general … but much greater, much more wonderful, much more worthy of gratitude … He has won a peace, Dane.”
“Grand!” agreed Dane, stirred with the boy’s enthusiasm. “Grand, Frank.”
“Oh, grand!” cried Frank, stretching his arms above his head. “Oh, splendid! There aren’t words, Dane—I think I went mad when I heard the news … I spoke to people in the street … I told them I was a German … we were shaking hands with each other. Somehow or other I found myself in a bar and we were drinking each other’s healths. It was unforgettable!” cried Frank. “We were all crazy with excitement … with joy and friendship. Nobody wants war, and nobody who had seen what I’ve seen could make any mistake about it. All the week people have been going about with haggard, anxious faces, and I have been going about with a leaden heart. I had been living in a sort of nightmare, and then, suddenly, I had wakened and the sun was shining—it was like that, Dane.”
“Yes,” said Dane—he had been living in a nightmare too.
“And then …” continued Frank, “then, in the middle of all the excitement I knew that I must come here … to my first English friends, to my real friends … I couldn’t wait till morning. I couldn’t wait a moment. I had to come.”
“My dear boy …” said Dane in a moved voice.
“We’re friends now,” Frank said earnestly. “Not only for a little while, but for always. Our countries are never going to war with each other again, so … so …” he broke off and made a gesture with his hands. “You know how it is, Dane … I thought of Wynne. I think of her all the time … Wynne.”
“But, Frank—”
“I know all that you are going to say,” declared Frank excitedly, “I’ve said it to myself a hundred times. I’ve tried to put her out of my heart … but Dane, everything has changed—this, this marvellous thing has changed everything. We’re friends.”
Dane was looking into the fire. It was nearly out, but a core of red-hot coal still glowed amongst the grey ashes. He watched that red-hot core and did not speak.
“Dane!” said Frank in a lower voice, “I love her too much to risk hurting her … that’s why I went away. I knew the danger and I had seen the dreadful mess that my father and mother had made of things. Wynne is so lovely, she’s so gay and fearless … I wouldn’t hurt her for worlds. I had made up my mind to go away and not come back … but now, now it’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about any more.…”
“No,” said Dane at last, “no, Frank, I can’t give my consent. It’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because …” began Dane and then he stopped for he did not know how to go on. He saw that if this pact was really a true pact on both sides there was no real reason against the marriage, and yet he was against the marriage with all his heart and mind.
&n
bsp; “Dane, why won’t you consent?” Frank was asking.
“Because it’s such a risk,” Dane said, “it’s such a terrible risk, Frank. These mixed marriages are rarely successful.”
“But if we love each other … and I do love her most dearly. Please, Dane, please reconsider it. Think about it for a little—perhaps you would get used to the idea,” said Frank hopefully.
He shook his head. “No,” he said, “Germany is not a fit place for an English girl. Wynne has been brought up in a free country.”
“You’re thinking of the Gestapo—the Secret Police—” said Frank eagerly. “But they don’t interfere with people like us—people who are loyal to the Nazi Régime—”
“No,” said Dane again, “no, Frank, there is only one way in which you could gain my consent.”
“I would do anything—”
“You would have to live in this country. You would have to become naturalized—you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
Frank’s eyes flashed. “That’s too much!” he declared. “You’ve got no right to ask me to give up my country.”
“No right at all,” agreed Dane calmly, “and I’m not asking you to do it, Frank. I’m only telling you that this would be the only way to gain my consent. You can’t marry without my consent because Wynne is my ward and she is under age.”
“You dislike me!”
Dane smiled at him. “No, I like you very much. I have only one objection to you—you aren’t an Englishman.”
“I can’t help that.”
“I must think of Wynne,” Dane continued. “It’s too big a risk, I know, far better than you do, what your mother suffered and endured. Your father was ruined and broken. It was a tragedy, the whole thing. I’m not going to risk another tragedy in this generation.”
“But, Dane—”
“Have you thought of your father? Have you considered his point of view?”
Frank did not answer. He was sitting, bent forward in the chair with his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Your father would be even less willing than I am,” Dane continued. “He would be dismayed if he had any idea of this. He has managed to live down his own marriage but if you were to marry an English girl it would revive the old story. You know as well as I do that it would affect his position very seriously and would be a bar to his advancement. Do you imagine for a moment, that the Nazi leaders would allow him to remain in his present post if his son married an Englishwoman? Herr Hitler wouldn’t tolerate an adviser with such pronounced leanings towards England.”
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