by E. F. Benson
“Concerning your friends the Gurtners. There is a general idea about that their sympathies are violently pro-German. As you had been there lately, I thought you might be able to give me some information about them.”
“I can,” she said. “I heard them both consistently express sentiments the very opposite of those which you say are attributed to them.”
He paused a moment.
“And there was nothing that led you to think that those sentiments were not quite sincere?” he asked.
She also paused over that question. The two were very good friends when they met, always polite, always anxious not to strain the cord of friendship. But she thought she might permit herself a further question in answer to that.
“And is your question quite sincere?” she said. “Is there not an irony behind it?”
He laughed.
“Robin always tells me you are so clever,” he said, “and I always agree. There is an irony. What I mean is are you sufficiently intimate with Lady Gurtner to know if she is sincere or not when she professes these pro-English sentiments?”
Already in her mind were the countless little incidents which had puzzled her: there was the odd affair of the children getting into trouble because they sang the “Watch by the Rhine:” there was the incident only known to her to-night, of Private Jelf calling Aline a Hunnish woman: there was the incident of Simpson saying that they were in a Hun’s house: there was the incident of Aline’s great high spirits on the day of the Russian reverse, and in that regard Mr. Boyton’s very acid comments. More vivid than all these was her own psychological surprise at finding that Aline was so tremendously English, and her own registration of Aline as an acquaintance, and not a friend. On the other hand, she was sure that Aline regarded her as a friend.
Rapidly reviewed, this last consideration seemed to her to take precedence of all the others. She had to rank as a friend of Aline’s.
“I have no reasonable reason for distrusting what Aline tells me,” she said. “I have no real doubt in my mind as to her sincerity.”
He thought over this a moment.
“You qualify what you say by saying ‘reasonable,’ and by saying ‘real,’” he said.
She looked at him, playing with her pearls. Her hand was quite steady now.
“Then I will leave out those words,” she said, “if you think they qualify my meaning. I have no intention of doubting the Gurtners’ sincerity.”
“Ah: intention,” he said.
That was another qualifying phrase, and she recognized it as such the moment she had uttered it.
“Let us come to the point,” she said. “What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to consider whether you had not better cease to have anything to do with the Gurtners,” he said. “There arc ugly rumours, which don’t concern only their sympathies. It is supposed that he has made a good deal of money by transactions in Germany and here which would not be considered very creditable. I am told he had private information of some sort, a fortnight before the war broke out. He bought shares in Krupp’s; he sold English Consols. I needn’t bother you with details.”
As she walked up and down her bedroom, still chinking the pearls in her hand, she thought desperately about what had been said, just because it chimed in with certain private impressions of her own to which she refused the admittance into her mind. But they all weighed light against one other fact.
“As long as Aline Gurtner considers me a friend,” she said, “I must remain one.”
“I don’t think you are wise,” said he. “In fact, I go further, Helen. I ask you not to see either her or him.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said. “I am sorry, Grote, but I must do what I feel right about it.”
“You must not ask them here when I am at home, then,” said he.
“Of course I shall not. You need not have suggested that.”
“No: I retract that, if you will let me,” he said. “But I warn you that there is a good deal of talk.”
“I think I can disregard that. I don’t suppose that people will accuse me of pro-German sympathies because I refuse to turn my back on Aline.”
He nodded.
“I don’t suggest that. I am sorry you do not see your way to doing what I want, but I believe, as a matter of fact, that if I were you, I should do as you are doing.”
She smiled.
“I am sure you would,” she said. “If people are going to be nasty to them, there is all the more reason why I shouldn’t be. I want to ask you one thing. Was Mr. Boyton your informant about this?”
“He spoke of it this evening at the club. In fact, he said he had been staying with the Gurtners when you were there, and his impressions did not agree with yours. He said that their pro-German sympathies were always cropping up.”
“Ah! If you ask me not to see Mr. Boyton again, I will promise not to. In fact, I will promise not to whether you ask me or not. Is that all, then?”
He glanced at the clock.
“If I am not keeping you up too late, there is something else I should like to speak about. It is this. Were you intending to be down at Grote this autumn?”
“I had been thinking of it. But only to-night I came to the conclusion that I should not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I feel that I ought to offer it to the Red Cross as a hospital. Several people have given their houses already, and I know that they are hard up for suitable accommodation. They want houses with big rooms for wards. Of course you could keep two or three rooms there for yourself in ease you wanted to go down.”
“Who would look after it?” she asked.
“Oh, they would have their own staff of nurses and doctors,” he said. “I should have to be there as general superintendent-commandant, I think they call it. It will mean giving up my work at the Censor’s office, but that can’t be helped.”
“You would dislike that,” she said. “Your work interests you.”
“Yes, but one has to do what is wanted in these days,” said he.
“I should have thought you could have got some sort of experienced housekeeper. It is more a woman’s work.”
Not until the words were actually spoken, did her mind make any suggestion to her. Then, all at once, that which had been seething and stirring in it all evening took form. The conclusion came suddenly, but it was but the moment of the crystallization of the forces that had been acting there.
“I will undertake it,” she said, “if you think I can manage it.”
He stared at her in blank surprise.
“My dear Helen, it is impossible for you,” he said. “It will mean being down there for weeks together, and giving your whole time to it. You would have no time to yourself at all. Besides, I know how you shun anything connected with the war. There it would be forced on your attention all day long.”
“I realize that,” she said.
She came a step forward towards him, and the humility which had always been as characteristic of her as her self-centredness and her splendour flooded her and these.
“I don’t want to have any time to myself,” she said. “I haven’t been successful in my use of it since this horrible catastrophe happened. And all my shunning of the war hasn’t enabled me to escape from it. I want to try another plan. I’ve known lately what it means to feel utterly lonely. And there’s another thing.”
She east down her eyes a moment; then raised them again.
“I have an idea that Robin is ashamed of my doing nothing for the war,” she said. “I only realized that to-night, and I did not like it. Do let me see whether I cannot manage this. If I find I cannot, if I make a muddle of it, I will promise to give it up. But I have had a good many years’ experience in running a big house. I think I could soon learn.”
If you realize what it means, of course you shall try,” said he. “And as for your being able to do it, I don’t feel the slightest doubt about it. But it will
be hard work.”
“That is exactly why I want to do it,” said she.
“I will make the offer, then, to the Red Cross in the morning,” said he. Now I won’t keep you up longer.”
On his way to the door he paused.
“I wonder if Robin will be more pleased than me?” he said.
She had analysed her reasons for undertaking this work very sincerely. She was willing to be busy all day in order to escape from herself. She could not, for she had tried it without success, escape from the thought of the war, and it was no use persevering in so barren an attempt. She wanted her time taken up by some exigent pursuit, for she had failed to devise for herself any way of spending it that was profitable and yielded dividends of pleasure. That, and the intolerable suspicion that Robin was ashamed of her accounted in completeness for her motive.
The work was in no sense a work of love, and she did not for a moment pretend to herself that it was. Once, only a few months ago, she had longed to be able to purchase the precious unattainable time that others, with no interest in the absorbing joys of life, found to hang heavy on their hands. But for these last two months she would have been willing to part with all the time that was hers for a very small consideration; indeed, she would have paid anybody to east it away like rubbish, and apart from the sentimental motive connected with Robin, this work of running Grote as a hospital was little more than a means of getting rid of her time, and of losing consciousness of herself. She did not want to get rid of herself from any sense that it was a nobler way of life to devote herself to other people; it was simply due to the fact that she no longer seemed capable of amusing herself. The mainspring of her enjoyment of life had run down; it was no longer tightly coiled, and the key with which she had been wont to wind it up no longer fitted the keyhole. She was but trying another key.
A telephone message arrived next morning from Aline Gurtner, saying that she and the family had come up to town for the winter, and hoping that Helen could come and lunch with her that day. Helen found her alone and in one of her rather excited and very voluble moods, full of projects and grievances and egoisms.
“Dearest Helen, it’s delightful to see you,” she streamed out. “Let’s go in to lunch at once, for I am so hungry, and I said half-past one, didn’t I? — and it’s a quarter to two. Never mind, it doesn’t matter in the least. There’s no one else coming. Everyone seems so busy, for I asked half a dozen people to meet you, and they all had something to do. The children have got colds, poor darlings, and so they are having their dinner upstairs, and Hermann has gone down to Richmond to play golf. He has just given another ten thousand pounds to the Red Cross. I think that is so noble of him, when you consider that it will all be spent on men who have been wounded in trying to kill Germans. Perhaps a lot of them have killed Germans: they may have killed relations and friends of Hermann. I think he is wonderful.”
Helen glanced hastily up. There was a butler and a couple of footmen in the room, and she saw one glance at the other and back again.
“And the children have got colds, do you say?” she asked, clutching wildly at some less impossible topic. —
“Yes, and would you believe it, when I sent out for a clinical thermometer to see if Freddy was feverish, there wasn’t one to be had at the chemist’s. They were all sold out, and they couldn’t get a fresh supply, because they were made in Germany. It seems to me that Germany has supplied us with everything we use. Dyes, hock — Hermann could not get any more hock, and his doctor forbids him to drink anything else. I don’t know what we shall all do if the war goes on. But don’t let us talk about it. It has become like a nightmare to me. That was partly why I came up to town. There is more going on here, one can go to theatres and have people to dinner. Oh, and a great plan. There are so many people in London that I am going to give a dance next week. A real big dance, a regular ball. I am going to send out invitations at once. People will be glad to have me back again, as there is so little entertaining going on on the big scale. I daresay I shall give more than one. You will help me, won’t you, Helen? Will you let me have your list? I want to ask all your friends, and give them all a good time.”
Helen was spared the embarrassment of discussing this insane plan for the moment, for the door opened and Sir Hermann came in. Instantly Aline began talking to him in German.
But how is it you are back, dearest?” she said. “What has happened? Why are you not playing golf?”
He frowned and shook his head at her.
“And why are you looking cross at me?” she said shrilly. “Just because I talk German? I cannot always remember, Hermann, and just when I am fortunate enough to forget about the war, and fall into old ways, you bring me back again by being cross with me. I think you are very unkind. There! It does not matter. Sit down, if you have not had lunch, and tell me why you are not playing golf.”
“I found no one who wanted a game,” he said. “I only drove down on the chance.”
“But you often do that, and you always find someone else who wants a game. It is very odd that you should not be able to get a game. Was there nobody down there?”
“Ah, do not go on about it, dearest,” he said. “I could not get a game, and so I returned. What does it all matter? You are settled in town, Lady Grote?”
“Yes, and Helen is going to help me with my ball,” interrupted his wife. “I was telling her about that when you came in. But you ought to get some exercise, Hermann. Will you not drive down again after lunch, and see if you cannot find someone? Or why do you not ring up somebody in town, and take him down? Perhaps Lord Grote would have a game with you. What a pity you did not bring him to lunch, Helen.”
“Oh, there’s no golf for poor Grote,” said she. “He is at the Censor’s office every day till seven.”
“That is horrible work for a gentleman to do,’ said Aline violently. “It is opening private letters, is it not, and interning the writers, or shooting them as spies? There was a spy shot yesterday, I am told. It made me feel quite sick to think of it, and it may have been your husband, Helen, who opened a letter from him. I should feel like a murderer, if I had done that. I daresay his letters were quite innocent, really, but they read into them all sorts of things he hadn’t meant. Don’t let us talk about it: it is too horrible, and in a country that calls itself Christian. I think—”
Her husband interrupted her.
“Do not think at all, Aline,” he said, “if you can only think such nonsense. Do you wish spies to be allowed to write any information they choose to an enemy’s country? You are childish.”
“And you are very unkind,” said she. “Helen, I know, agrees with me. Is it not horrible to kill men in cold blood? I should never have a moment’s peace again, if I had opened a man’s private letter, and he got shot for what it contained. I am sure they don’t do such horrible things in Germany. It is barbarous. But don’t let us talk about it: I have asked you before, Hermann, not to talk about it. I want no more lunch now that we have introduced such terrible topics, and I was so hungry.”
Helen felt that she was listening to the ravings of an unsound mind. It was clear that poor Aline was in a whirlwind of nervous tumult, and it required no great ingenuity to conjecture its origin. She had determined to profess the most English of attitudes, but at heart all her instincts were German, and they spouted and spirted like water through holes in a closed weir which had been shut against the force of the stream. She had suspected this down at Ashmore, though there Aline was able to keep a firmer hand on herself. Now, it was evident, her self-control was in rags, and she pitifully tried still to drape it round herself. She made such an effort now, as they rose, leaving Sir Hermann to finish his lunch by himself.
“We will not talk about these dreadful things,” she said for the third time. “We will talk about my ball. When shall we have it? Quite soon, I think, next week, perhaps. Nobody seems to be entertaining at all: I should think any night would do. I will give a big dinner first, you and Lord
Grote must both come. Do you remember my last big dinner when the Princess came and was so charming? What night shall I choose, Helen?”
Helen had been thinking what to say, should this very inconvenient topic come up again.
“Do you know, I don’t think I should give a ball, Aline, if I were you,” she said. “As you say, nobody is entertaining. People don’t feel like it: everything is too deadly and serious. Many of us have lost relations: we have all lost friends.”
But what is the difference between going to a ball and going to the theatre?” said Aline. “You told me you went to the theatre last night.”
“There is a difference.”
Aline grew excited and voluble again.
“I do not see it. You go to the theatre to amuse yourself. It is just the English hypocrisy that draws a line between such things.”
Helen laid her hand on Aline’s arm.
“You really must not talk like that,” she said. “You are doing yourself a great deal of harm when you say such things. You said other things at lunch which were very ill-advised. My dear, don’t be impatient with me. I am speaking as a friend. I know that your sympathies are being dragged this way and that, but if you want to keep your friends here, you must not talk about English hypocrisy, and English cruelty. People won’t stand it, you can’t expect them to. And for goodness’ sake don’t attempt to give a ball.”
“But I mean to. I feel sure you are wrong in your view. Everyone was glad enough to come to my house before, and I am sure they will be now. No one can have any doubt about my sympathies, or about Hermann’s either. Would he have given all those immense sums of money away to English charities, if he was not in sympathy with England? I think he has given too much: I think he ought, at any rate, to give to the German Red Cross too. It is horrible to think of English and Germans killing and wounding each other, and only helping the English. I did not think you would be so unkind and unfair, Helen. You used to be fond of Germans. You were devoted to Kuhlmann. Now Ï suppose you would turn your back on him, or on me, because I am partly German. If that is your idea of friendship, I am sorry for you. It is not mine. I would do anything for my friends.”