Chapter VI

It was pouring with rain when Antoinette reached Haywards Heath, where she had to change for Eastwold. She had had considerable difficulty with her people before being allowed to undertake this journey. They were by now quite convinced that the Blackwoods were a bad influence for her, and that sooner or later she would contrive to become engaged to that very eccentric young man....

Antoinette did not think it necessary to mention that the very eccentric young man was in prison, but pleaded her friendship with Doreen, and her need of a change of air ... pleaded very gently, for these were not the days when she felt capable of facing a hard conflict of wills.

In the old days she had relished a good up-hill fight; the harder the battle the more valuable the victory. So she had thought years ago when she had met Hester. Hester....

“Sing before breakfast—cry before night”—Hester had been wise. Those early years had held enough song and laughter and sunshine. But now the years seemed drained for her of all song and laughter and sunshine, just as she herself felt drained of all the exuberant vitality that had once led her to rejoice in battle. She was tired now, and there was nothing left in all the world worth fighting for.

The train for Eastwold drew up at the platform, its windows so blurred with the rain that it was impossible to see into the compartments. Gripping her suit-case with one hand, Antoinette struggled to open the door nearest to her, and immediately a soldier from the far end of the compartment sprang forward, helped her to lift the suit-case on to the rack, and then resumed his seat beside the girl who sat huddled by the window. Antoinette wished that she could have drawn back and chosen a different compartment. It was a shame that she should have obtruded herself upon their solitude. But already the guard was blowing his whistle, and several other Tommies had entered the compartment too, so that in any case the couple in the corner would not have remained undisturbed. They sat without speaking, arms interlaced, occasionally looking at each other. And the girl had a pretty, pasty, tear-sodden face under a gaudy hat with red roses on it; and he had round boyish eyes and a rather stupid expression....

The other Tommies had disposed themselves and their kit about the compartment. Above the rattle of the wheels Antoinette caught scraps of their conversation.

“When we were way over home, we thought this war was a grand fine thing, and not one of us wanted to be left out of it,” a dapper young Canadian spoke, running his fingers through his upstanding brush of hair, “but now I’ve been out there a year, I tell you straight, _next_ time my King and Country call, I’m going to be lame, blind, dumb, _and deaf_. Yes, when you’ve bin out and seen some of the sights and smelt some of the smells, and lived in a trench full of ver-_mine_, you find war isn’t the gala garden-party you thought it was, with the band and the music and the flags flying.”

One of his companions, a long-limbed Irishman, grunted assent. “I’ve lost an eye in this bloody war, but do you think they’d be afther givin’ me my discharge? ‘Ho,’ sez the docthor, ‘you’re still plenty of use to your counthry’....”

“Guess they won’t be satisfied till you’ve lost the other eye to match,” remarked the Canadian cheerfully.

“And fwhat’s ut all for, that’s fwhat I’m askin’, fwhat’s ut all for? I’m no revolutionist; I’m only askin’ fwhy.... Divil a bit did we care about the _Sinn Féin_ rebellion out there in the thrinches as long as we had enough cigarettes to smoke. Which we had not....” The melancholy cadence of his voice reminded Antoinette poignantly of Pegeen and Conn.

The third man, a little Cockney chap, tilted his cap to a rakish angle. “They say as it’ll all be over in the spring.”

“_Which_ spring?” demanded the Canadian, and the Cockney embarked irrelevantly upon a personal reminiscence: “It was near Am-an-tears, we got to a village that the ’Uns ’ad evacuated. Least-ways, they’d evacuated wot was left of it, and that’s not sayin’ much. Bin up to some o’ their usual tricks, they ’ad, with wimmen and kids and wot-not.... One o’ their snipers got left be’ind—swarmed up a tree, and four of us yanked ’im dahn; and first we said a few things to ’im ... and then we did a few things to ’im, just for luck, as you might say, and because of wot ’e and ’is pals ’ad bin up to in that village. War’s a funny thing ...” he continued musing, “you could ’ave knocked me dahn with a feather two years ago if you’d told me I’d ’elp to cut aht that bloomin’ ’Un’s ’eart with my bloomin’ jack-knife!”

“Yes, war’s a funny thing,” the Irishman broke out again, “and they don’t want ut to end—them that make the war. ‘Your pals in the thrinches are callin’ to you’—’tis a lie! Your pals in the thrinches would say: ‘Keep out of this if you can, we’d never have gone into it if we’d known.’ We know well enough _who_ calls to us and _who_ sends us out to ut. ’Tis the Government sitting at home, and never your pals out there.... And ’tis the same on the other side. I took a prisoner once. The man was wounded and I looked after him a bit; got quite fond of him, too. I was sorry when he died.... He said that their men are as dead fed-up with it as we are.”

The couple in the corner seemed quite oblivious of the conversation. They might have been deaf to it. Only the silent fervour with which they gazed into each other’s eyes increased....

At the next station the man opened the door of the compartment and helped the girl out; then he kissed her, and got into the train again.

She said: “Good-bye, Gawd bless you, Dickie,” and he answered: “So long! See you again when the war’s over—perhaps....”

The train moved on. Alone in his corner the man sat staring straight before him, inarticulate misery incarnate. “When the war’s over—perhaps....”

Antoinette choked, and wished again that he and the girl who had been left on the platform could have had this last journey to themselves. In the circumstances he might have been forgiven for showing less willingness to help her in with her suit-case.

* * * * *

Arthur Griggs, home on leave, had come with his _fiancée_, Millie Ryan, to call upon the Blackwoods; and Antoinette, on her arrival, fell straight into the tea-party, as she had once fallen into the nursery party held in Reggie’s honour the day of the dance. Reggie was home from school now, and sat at the foot of the couch on which Clive was reclining.... Clive with one empty sleeve and a badly scarred face and mouth.

“Well, well, you’ve at least got plenty to show for it, plenty to show for it,” Griggs rallied him. “I’m often sorry that my honourable scars aren’t—ah—on exhibition.”

“I’m sure Millie isn’t sorry,” smiled Mrs. Blackwood.

Millie looked coy, and Lily who was sitting at Clive’s side, and helping him to manipulate his teacup, exclaimed: “What does it matter what they look like when they come back to us, as long as we know they’ve done their bit? I’d rather have Clive as he is than the greatest Adonis in the world.”

Clive smiled wryly up at her with his twisted lip. “I could do with the other arm all the same, you know, Lil.”

“Never mind, my boy,” cried Mr. Blackwood, “when your children ask you what you did in the great war, they won’t have far to look.”

“And one can really say here that your wife will be your right hand,” said Griggs, “I can only hope that you and Miss Hallard will be as happy as Millie and I intend to be.”

“And we hope you’ll be as happy as _we’re_ jolly well going to be!” returned Lily, boisterously.

“Quite a competithion of happineth, ithn’t it?” giggled Amy.

“I think there can be no doubt that where there is sympathy there is happiness,” mused Griggs; “sympathy is a beautiful thing, don’t you agree?” His audience assented collectively, and he went on: “Millie, of course, calls forth sympathy as naturally as the sun draws out the scent of the flowers....”

There was a murmur of approval, and Millie said: “Why, Arthur, you’re quite a poet this afternoon.”

“Not a poet, Millie, not a poet. Just an ordinary man. But might not even an ordinary man turn poet for your sake?”

Millie blushed. “Oh, you’re flattering me.”

“You doubt my sincerity?” exclaimed Griggs, very injured. “I assure you that I place sincerity on the same high level as sympathy. Sincerity and sympathy—my twin ideals....”

Millie, quite embarrassed by now, turned to ask Clive how he had received his wounds, but Reggie interrupted with: “Clive hates talking about them—it looks like swank.”

“Clive doesn’t need to swank,” said Lily, “we all know what he’s done. Those three Huns—not bad, that, not bad!”

Griggs beamed upon the assembled company. “Who would have thought two years ago when we were getting ready for the fancy dress dance that we should all come together again like this? Seeing you here, Miss Antoinette, reminded me of that happy occasion. Little Miss Ottilie was there too—but I suppose the least said about her the better; Reggie’s looking at me so fiercely....”

“Her _fiancée_ has been killed,” said Doreen, “I got such a sad, funny letter from her through Switzerland. She said that her ‘truest-loved Joachim for his Fatherland has died, and that her heart broken was’....”

“Poor little Britannia,” cried Antoinette, “I wonder if he was one of the three whom Clive sniped?”

“Good job,” muttered Reggie.

“War’s war,” said Lily tersely, shrugging her shoulders.

“All I can hope is,” the irrepressible Griggs continued, “that two years hence we shall be as complete as we are now.”

Clive grunted, and Griggs strove to cheer him. “Come—come—come—we all know you don’t really mind having lost your arm. Not a bit. Proud of it. And quite right too! When I said ‘complete,’ I meant as far as numbers go. Here we all are—” Suddenly he recollected himself; floundered; coughed behind his hand, and repeated rather feebly: “I mean here we are....”

“Yes, of course, we are, Mr. Griggs.” With admirable tact Mrs. Blackwood came to his assistance ... and Antoinette wondered if it could bring Dennis’s mother the slightest degree of comfort to know that her thoughts also were with the one who was not included in the “all.”

She could not rid herself of the impression that Dennis might be expected at any moment to enter with dramatic suddenness, as he had entered the night of the dance. It seemed as if they were all laughing and talking here, just to mark time in anticipation of his arrival. And when, sharply, the drawing-room door was flung open, her heart gave a great leap.

“The maid from Dr. Clavering’s would like to speak to you, please, sir....” The parlour-maid addressed Mr. Blackwood in an undertone, but already Doreen was on her feet.

“What is it? Where is she? Is there any news?” She freed herself from her father’s detaining hand, and rushed to the door. “Oh, what is it? What is it?”

The little servant who had been told to “break it gently” to Mr. Blackwood, completely lost her head on seeing Doreen, and sobbed out: “It’s Mr. Hugh, Miss—killed in action. Oh, the poor young master....”

* * * * *

It seemed to be the general impulse to rush towards Doreen, as if by actual contact, by stroking, patting, embracing, to draw nearer to her in her isolation of grief. But there was something in the way she stood there, her back to the door, her eyes dead, mouth and hands twitching, that forbade further approach ... and Antoinette remembered on whose face she had seen just that same baffling expression. For a second, but it might have been an eternity, the group stood poised, alert, watching the rigid, dry-eyed little figure in the doorway.

Then at last Doreen’s voice, a woman’s voice and yet piteously childish, cut into the stillness.

“And I—I loved him so....”

She turned and broke from the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood followed her. The others remained as they were, talking in low voices.

“Thall I go and thee if they want anything?”

“No, better leave them alone together now.”

“A good cry, you know, will do her all the world of good ...” this from Griggs.

“Ithn’t thith war dreadful? You never know from one minute to the other, do you?”

“Poor old Hugh, I wonder how it happened. I expect some of his men will be able to give details. I think I ought to go to Doreen. Mrs. Blackwood will only encourage her to give way.” Thus the sternly practical Lily.

Clive muttered: “Poor little kid ...” and Reggie, still sitting motionless on the end of the couch, looked at his boots and scowled heavily.

“And to think that only two years ago—what a handsome couple at your dance, eh, Millie? The Black Knight and the Dresden Shepherdess....”

Millie collapsed into tears. “I can’t bear it, Arthur, I can’t bear it....”

Arthur patted her hand. “There, there, little woman, there, there.”

“Doreen’s got plenty of grit,” said Lily, “she’ll pull round all right. I’m sure he died game and she’ll be able to be proud of him. That’ll stiffen her backbone right enough.”

But Clive only repeated: “Poor little kid....”

Griggs said: “Well, I suppose we’d better be going,” and followed by Amy, led his weeping bride away. Reggie, even at this juncture mindful of “good form,” went to see them to the gate.

As Antoinette turned to go up to her room, she heard Clive say: “Lily ...” and saw him put out his remaining hand to draw her down to his level.

“Dear old man....”

* * * * *

Late that evening Antoinette sat at the window of her room, and watched the last of the sunset fading behind the dark ridge of the Downs. The crimson light still stained the white walls, and danced upon the gay flowered chintz ... a room in which to feel very girlish and happy, so she had reflected on her first arrival here, so she had reflected as she donned her “Bacchante” costume....

She shuddered and turned from the window to face Mrs. Blackwood.

“My dear child, I am so sorry that it should have happened just during your visit.” Still obedient to the instincts of the good hostess, she was apologising to her guest for an unfortunate _contretemps_ that had marred her stay....

Antoinette said: “Oh, don’t ...” and got no further.

Mrs. Blackwood sat down and wiped her eyes.

“Poor little Doreen—and they were to have been married next time he got leave—we’d begun to get one or two things together, though I always thought that was wrong, my family were always inclined to be superstitious—but of course Daddy laughed me out of it.... Poor Hugh, he would have made her so happy—I feel as if I’d lost a son, too.” She paused a moment, then went on in a lower voice: “Antoinette, do you think he’ll be all right? He’s in solitary confinement now, but that’s better than being together with a lot of other horrid people, isn’t it?”

“Much better,” Antoinette assented without looking at her.

“I can talk to you about him, because you were always such good friends, and of course I daren’t mention him before Clive or Daddy. Dennis was a great disappointment to his father, even as a little chap, when he wouldn’t go out shooting with him, because he couldn’t bear to see the animals hurt.... And now—it’s dreadful, my dear: Daddy has struck his name out of the Family Bible, where we’ve got all the children’s names and the date of their birth written down....”

“Oh, what does that matter?” cried Antoinette, “that can’t make him your boy any the less, can it?”

Mrs. Blackwood shook her head. “Nothing could ever do that. Denny would just be my boy, whatever he’d done, but his father has such high principles.... Lily keeps on saying that the people in prison are safe. You do think he’s safe, don’t you, Antoinette, although I lie awake sometimes wondering if they give them enough blankets on their beds.”

Safe ... in solitary confinement!

Oh, well, it was fortunate at least that Dennis’s mother did not seem quite to realise. Did she suffer, perhaps, from a providential lack of imagination?

Antoinette gave the assurance required of her. “Yes, of course he’s safe—quite safe.”

But Mrs. Blackwood was uneasy. “If one knew for certain—how they are treated....”

Antoinette was grateful to the increasing darkness that hid her face.

Mrs. Blackwood repeated: “If only one knew....”

“He’ll be quite safe,” she could only trust herself to speak in a very low voice.

“Of course Daddy says they’re well treated, and you do think so, too, don’t you—really?”

Antoinette made a final effort. “He’ll come out all right ... when the war’s over——”

Her voice snapped.