“You haven’t given me a chance … This is Frank Hyde, Colonel Carter.”
The Colonel held out his hand and Frank took it. They shook hands gravely.
“Frank Hyde,” said Colonel Carter. “I don’t know whether this very extraordinary mutual friend of ours has told you anything about me, but he’s told me a good deal about you, and, as I said before, I’ve come five hundred miles for the pleasure of a little chat with you. I’m staying at the hotel in Dalfinnan and I shall come back tomorrow about eleven, if that suits you. Meanwhile perhaps our mutual friend will put you wise about me.”
“I think I can guess,” said Frank. “I shall be ready at eleven.”
It was just as well that Frank was so much better and stronger now for the little chat which Colonel Carter had arranged was neither short nor easy. It was a private chat; Dane was banished from the room, and the nurse was informed that her presence would not be welcome. Frank was somewhat alarmed at Colonel Carter’s high-handed manner with his nurse—he had a wholesome respect for this benign autocrat—but she took her dismissal quite meekly and merely remarked as she closed the door, that there would be trouble with Doctor Duthie or she was a Dutchman.
Colonel Carter opened the door again and looked out. “Nurse!” he said. “Nurse, I shouldn’t like you to be a Dutchman or a Dutchwoman either—you’re quite nice as you are—but if there’s trouble with Doctor Duthie send him to me. I’ll deal with Doctor Duthie.” He hesitated a moment and then repeated the words as if he were pleased with their sound. “I’ll deal with Doctor Duthie,” he declared. Then he shut the door again and drew a chair up to the table and sat down opposite Frank.
“Now we can talk,” he said. “You can tell me everything. Begin at the beginning and go straight on. When you get to the end we’ll go back to the beginning and fill the gaps. I shall take a few notes, of course, but don’t worry about that. Just go full steam ahead.”
The interview lasted for two hours and when it was over Frank felt as if he had been turned inside out; he felt as if there was nothing left in him that Colonel Carter had not seen. In a way it was a tremendous relief to get rid of all the secrets, and to hoist all his responsibilities on to Colonel Carter’s broad shoulders.
“That’s all,” said Colonel Carter at last. “You’re free now—do you understand what I mean? You’re perfectly free. I don’t want you to do anything more. I shall get in touch with these friends of yours in Germany. You’ve given me all the information you possess.”
“You mean I’m to—”
“Leave it all to me. You can do anything you like as long as you keep in touch with Dane. I don’t want to lose sight of you, and, as a matter of fact you might encounter difficulties. You aren’t registered as a British Subject—”
“No,” said Frank, smiling. “I don’t exist, but I’m used to that, of course.”
“Dane will look after you,” declared the Colonel, returning the smile very kindly. “Dane will see that you’re all right … and you must put all these secrets out of your head. Play about and feed up and get well and strong. You’ve done quite enough for the time being and you’re a free man.”
Frank stretched his arms. He felt as if he had been relieved of a heavy burden.
Chapter Fifteen
Sophie and Wynne were waiting in Fernacres drawing-room for the car to arrive. Hartley had taken Dane’s car to Kingsport to meet the travellers and he was due back at any moment now. Several times they heard a car approaching and Sophie got up and peered out into the black darkness … and the car passed the gate and sped on.
“He’ll be tired,” Sophie said—she had said it so often in the last hour—“Poor boy, how tired he’ll be! He must go straight to bed, Wynne. I wonder if I remembered to tell Rose about the hot water bottles.”
“You’ve told her three times,” said Wynne.
“Silly of me!” declared Sophie with a sigh.
They had waited and listened, and then, when the car did at last arrive, they were taken by surprise. The bell rang and they rushed into the hall.
It was dark in the hall for the front door was open and, for a wonder, Barber had remembered the black-out and had put out the hall light before throwing open the door. The car was standing at the steps and Dane was getting out. Behind Dane was the tall figure which Wynne had been waiting to see. She had waited so long—eighteen months—and it seemed a lifetime.
Wynne had thought about Frank so much that her intimacy with him had outrun realities—she knew that he was hers but he did not know it yet—so his greeting seemed cold. It was certainly a good deal cooler than she had expected. He came out of the misty darkness and stood for a moment in the doorway. It was such a long moment that it seemed to Wynne as if he had always stood there and had only just become visible to her eyes. There was bustle all round her, Dane greeting Sophie and answering questions about their journey, and the servants bringing in the luggage, but Wynne did not notice it. She had eyes for one person only.
“Hullo Frank!” she said.
He came forward and shook hands with her and they went into the drawing-room together. The others were there too, of course, and Wynne greeted Dane in her usual way, but he was not real to her. Frank had come back and he filled her thoughts. Wynne looked at him … and looked … he had changed, she thought, he was thinner—he had been very ill of course—and he was more self possessed. He was a man. She saw the lines of his features, firm and resolute, and the clean-cut lines of his jaw and forehead. His eyes shone … it was almost as if he had fever, his eyes were so bright.
Sophie bustled him off to bed with hot milk and hot water bottles and he seemed pleased to go.
Wynne was happy now, for it was lovely to have Frank here under Fernacres roof, to know he was safe. It gave her a warm feeling as she went about her hospital duties, to know that when she went home Frank would be there. She had thought in those first few moments that Frank had changed and she saw that she had been right. He had been solemn before, and now he was grave. Sometimes he laughed quite heartily, but his usual expression was one of sadness. He seemed to like Sophie’s company best—perhaps he was more comfortable with Sophie than with anyone else—Sophie was a comfortable person. She was kind, but not too kind; she fussed over him, but fussed in a pleasant way. Sophie was so unselfconscious herself that it was impossible to feel awkward with her.
With others, Frank felt a trifle awkward. He felt awkward with Wynne because he was obliged to watch himself so carefully when she was there, and he felt very awkward indeed with Wynne’s friends. They were exceedingly nice to him and it was obvious that they were aware of his changed views, but he felt that he was in a false position and his long illness had made him shy. When people dropped in—as they always did at Fernacres—he was apt to disappear.
There was nothing for Frank to do except listen to the radio. He listened to every news bulletin in every language that he could understand—and unfortunately he understood a good many languages.
“You listen too much,” said Dane one day when he came in and found Frank listening.
“Yes,” agreed Frank somewhat wearily. “Yes, I listen too much for my peace of mind—but I must listen. Dane, it’s frightful!”
“All war is frightful.”
“The attacks on fishing boats; the sinking of unarmed trawlers, of neutrals, the laying of mines, indiscriminately—these are crimes against humanity, unforgivable crimes. Ships are sunk without warning; there was a lightship attacked. Surely there must be something fundamentally wrong with people who can do these things.”
“They’re obeying their orders, I suppose,” said Dane uncomfortably.
“Should one obey orders which are against all moral laws?” inquired Frank thoughtfully. “That’s the question, Dane. That was what Max asked me and I couldn’t answer him. I didn’t realise all that was happening until I came here and began to listen to the radio, but now I’m beginning to wonder …”
Frank had left the sent
ence half-finished, and Dane was anxious to know how it would end.
“What are you beginning to wonder?” he inquired.
“I’m beginning to think there’s more wrong with my country than its Government,” said Frank in a low voice.
He was silent for a few moments, but Dane felt that there was more coming and he waited.
“I’m well now,” Frank continued, “and I can’t—I simply can’t sit here doing nothing. Everyone is doing something except me—there’s no place for me here.” He got up, and began to walk up and down the room. “There’s no place for me anywhere, Dane,” he said.
“Colonel Carter might find you something to do.”
“I thought of that; but it wouldn’t satisfy me. I’m young and strong, and I’m a trained soldier. I want to go to Finland … It isn’t a new idea,” explained Frank gravely. “I’ve been thinking about it for some time, and this morning I had a letter from my friends in Helsinki—I told you I had friends there, didn’t I?”
“Yes,” said Dane, watching him.
Frank made a despairing gesture with his hands. “They’re homeless,” he said in a low voice. “Their house is in ruins … they’ve nothing left. The little girl—I knew her as a baby—was killed …”
“Terrible! Ghastly!”
“Words!” said Frank. “Words … what use are words? I shall go and fight for Finland. I can do that wholeheartedly. Yes, my heart is with her in her struggle.”
“Frank, are you sure you want this?”
“Quite sure,” said Frank, looking at him with steady eyes. “Quite, quite sure. It’s the best thing I could do. In fighting for her I shall not be fighting against either of my countries, but only for what is right. I shall be fighting for an idea, for freedom and justice and liberty … Can you arrange it for me, Dane?”
It was Colonel Carter who made the necessary arrangements with the Finnish Legation in London, and Frank hurried them on as much as he could. At first he had been very content at Fernacres, and had thoroughly enjoyed Sophie’s petting, the comfort, the security and the good food. At first he had enjoyed seeing Wynne and watching her and had wanted nothing more. But that phase had not lasted long, it had lasted only while he felt weak and ill. Now he was fit and strong again and the mere fact of seeing Wynne was not enough. He loved her more than ever, he adored her. She had changed a little (Frank thought) but then, so had he. It was right that people should widen their ideas and expand their personalities. In the eighteen months of their separation both of them had grown and developed, but they had advanced in the same direction and they were more in harmony than ever before. Wynne had been a charming child, now she was a lovely woman, lovely in every sense of the word. She was still gay and laughter-loving, but there was a new gravity in her, a new graciousness, an added poise. Frank loved her so deeply, with every fibre of his being, that it had become torture to look at her and to know that she could never be more to him than a friend. She was his friend and always would be—so Frank hoped—but he found small comfort in that.
It was now the end of February and Frank felt as fit as ever. He was eager to be off. He had got all his kit—Dane had given it to him—and he was waiting for the telegram from the Finnish minister which would give him his orders. A considerable number of volunteers had come forward and arrangements were being made to send them over to Finland. Frank was impatient at the delay. He listened to the news bulletins with growing concern. The Finns had now been obliged to retreat before the advancing hordes of fresh Russian troops, they had evacuated their island fort of Koivisto, they were falling back upon Viipuri. They were still undefeated and were fighting bravely and wisely but they needed men. Frank was only one man, not a very formidable reinforcement perhaps, but he was a trained soldier and an expert skier—one man, but a useful one he hoped. As a matter of fact he felt so strong (strong not only in physical strength but also in determination) that it seemed to him that he would be able to render valuable assistance. The idea was somewhat fatuous and he was fully aware of that, but the feeling remained—the feeling that if only he could get there in time it would make a difference to them.
It was a Thursday afternoon and Frank was sitting in the drawing-room listening to a foreign broadcast which was giving an account of the fighting in Finland. He was alone because everyone else in the household was busy. Sophie always went to Mrs. Audley’s work-party on Thursday afternoons. Dane was shut up in his sitting-room, writing, and Wynne was not due to return from the Hospital until six o’clock. Frank knew the times of her comings and goings very well indeed and he was surprised when the door opened and she walked in.
“Hullo, did you get away early?” he inquired. He realised as he said the words that it was a foolish question to ask for it was obvious that Wynne had left the Hospital a good deal earlier than usual.
“Yes,” said Wynne, “I just walked out. I just told Sister I was going home. She was rather surprised, but she didn’t say much—perhaps she realised it wouldn’t be any use.” She walked over to the radio and turned it off. “I want to talk to you,” she said.
“But you can talk to me any time,” said Frank.
“No,” replied Wynne, “I never get the chance to talk to you properly, there’s always someone about … and I specially want to talk to you today,” she added somewhat mysteriously.
Frank was surprised. “Today?” he inquired.
“Yes,” said Wynne, nodding. “Yes. Do you know what today is, Frank?”
Frank shook his head. He tried to remember the date—was it somebody’s birthday? He looked at Wynne and saw that her small face was paler than usual, and there was a determined air about her.
“What is it, Wynne?” he asked.
She did not answer at once, but came over to the sofa and sat down beside him.
“Now we can talk,” she said.
He agreed that they could—“But what do you want to talk about?” he asked, smiling at her.
“Frank,” said Wynne earnestly. “This is the 29th of February. It’s leap year. I know it’s rather silly but I thought I’d wait till today. Will you marry me, Frank?”
“Wynne!” exclaimed Frank in amazement.
“We love each other so much,” said Wynne going ahead steadily—or as steadily as she was able—“We’ve loved each other for such a long time now. It’s nearly two years since you came here first, isn’t it? I want to marry you, Frank. I want us to belong to each other properly. Of course we do belong to each other already, but I want it to be an outward as well as an inward belonging.”
“Oh Wynne!” he said, and that was all he could say.
“Darling Frank,” said Wynne, turning her head and looking into his face. “Darling Frank … it hasn’t been easy … you might help me.…”
He saw that her eyes were full of tears and her lips were trembling, and he was so shaken at the sight of Wynne in distress that all the good and wise resolutions he had made vanished into thin air.
“Oh Wynne, darling!” cried Frank, and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her again and again, on her hair, on her dear soft cheek, on her darling mouth …
“We’re engaged now, aren’t we?” said Wynne, when Frank had finished kissing her. “We’re properly engaged, and you can give me that ring you wear on your little finger … just to show that we’re properly engaged.”
She pulled it off his finger as she spoke and slipped it on to her own—it was the little signet-ring which Tant’ Anna had given him, his mother’s ring—
“But Wynne—” he began.
“Darling Frank,” she said, burrowing her fair head into his shoulder. “Darling Frank, I’m so glad we’re engaged.”
“We must be sensible,” said Frank, but he said it in a very feeble tone, for it was extremely difficult to be sensible with Wynne in his arms, and Wynne’s golden hair tickling his cheek, and the fragrance of Devonshire Violet bath powder in his nostrils.
“We are sensible,” declared Wynne in a muffled voi
ce. “We’re frightfully sensible, really.”
“No, we aren’t,” Frank told her. “Honestly, Wynne, this is sheer madness. There are all sorts of reasons why we can’t be engaged.”
“We are engaged, darling,” replied Wynne, flaunting the ring before his eyes.
“But, Wynne, I’m going to Finland,” he reminded her.
She was silent for a moment and then she said gravely, “Yes, I know you are. I’m terrified, of course, but I wouldn’t dream of trying to prevent you. I understand what you feel about it; I believe it’s the right thing for you to do, and—and I’m rather proud. I shall be waiting for you when you come back.”
His arm tightened round her, and he leant his cheek against her hair, and for a few moments there was silence.
“There’s Dane,” said Frank at last. “What will Dane say?”
“He won’t mind,” murmured Wynne in a dreamy voice. “Dane thinks the world of you, Frank. He said your broadcasting in Germany was one of the bravest things he ever heard of.”
“Dane said that?”
“Yes, he did.”
“But, Wynne, I promised Dane—”
“Oh, did you?” she asked, sitting up and looking at him. “Oh, that was why … but, Frank, you didn’t ask me to marry you. I asked you. So it’s all right—you’ve kept your promise beautifully.”
He could not help smiling—but it was rather a sad smile—“Wynne, you don’t understand,” he told her. “I’m a German, and some day I may have to go back to my own country.”
“I’ll go with you,” she said, looking at him with steady eyes. “We’ll always do everything together. It doesn’t matter what happens, I can bear anything as long as I’m with you. If you want to go back to Germany we’ll go together, Frank … if you want to go back.”
It was really a question, and Frank, examining himself, found that he could not answer it. He had always intended to go back, but, just lately, he had begun to wonder whether the Germany which was enshrined in his heart, had any existence save in his fond imagination.
The English Air Page 28