Chapter II: Part 2

We have one last glimpse of the old lady--a month or two after
Kenneth’s death in action. It would be rosemary to us to see
her in her black dress, of which she is very proud; but let us
rather peep at her in the familiar garments that make a third
to her mop and pail. It is early morning, and she is having a
look at her medals before setting off on the daily round. They
are in a drawer, with the scarf covering them, and on the scarf
a piece of lavender. First, the black frock, which she carries
in her arms like a baby. Then her War Saving Certificates,
Kenneth’s bonnet, a thin packet of real letters, and the famous
champagne cork. She kisses the letters, but she does not blub
over them. She strokes the dress, and waggles her head over
the certificates and presses the bonnet to her cheeks, and
rubs the tinsel of the cork carefully with her apron. She is
a tremulous old ’un; yet she exults, for she owns all these
things, and also the penny flag on her breast. She puts them
away in the drawer, the scarf over them, the lavender on the
scarf. Her air of triumph well becomes her. She lifts the pail
and the mop, and slouches off gamely to the day’s toil.

THE NEW WORD

Any room nowadays must be the scene, for any father and any son are the _dramatis personæ_. We could pick them up in Mayfair, in Tooting, on the Veldt, in rectories or in grocers’ back parlours, dump them down on our toy stage and tell them to begin. It is a great gathering to choose from, but our needs are small. Let the company shake hands, and all go away but two.

The two who have remained (it is discovered on inquiry) are Mr. Torrance and his boy; so let us make use of them. Torrance did not linger in order to be chosen, he was anxious, like all of them, to be off; but we recognised him, and sternly signed to him to stay. Not that we knew him personally, but the fact is, we remembered him (we never forget a face) as the legal person who reads out the names of the jury before the court opens, and who brushes aside your reasons for wanting to be let off. It pleases our humour to tell Mr. Torrance that we cannot let him off.

He does not look so formidable as when last we saw him, and this is perhaps owing to our no longer being hunched with others on those unfeeling benches. It is not because he is without a wig, for we saw him, on the occasion to which we are so guardedly referring, both in a wig and out of it; he passed behind a screen without it, and immediately (as quickly as we write) popped out in it, giving it a finishing touch rather like the butler’s wriggle to his coat as he goes to the door. There are the two kinds of learned brothers, those who use the screen, and those who (so far as the jury knows) sleep in their wigs. The latter are the swells, and include the judges; whom, however, we have seen in the public thoroughfares without their wigs, a horrible sight that has doubtless led many an onlooker to crime.

Mr. Torrance, then, is no great luminary; indeed, when we accompany him to his house, as we must, in order to set our scene properly, we find that it is quite a suburban affair, only one servant kept, and her niece engaged twice a week to crawl about the floors. There is no fire in the drawing-room, so the family remain on after dinner in the dining-room, which rather gives them away. There is really no one in the room but Roger. That is the truth of it, though to the unseeing eye all the family are there except Roger. They consist of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Torrance. Mr. Torrance is enjoying his evening paper and a cigar, and every line of him is insisting stubbornly that nothing unusual is happening in the house. In the home circle (and now that we think of it, even in court) he has the reputation of being a somewhat sarcastic gentleman; he must be dogged, too, otherwise he would have ceased long ago to be sarcastic to his wife, on whom wit falls like pellets on sandbags; all the dents they make are dimples.

Mrs. Torrance is at present exquisitely employed; she is listening to Roger’s step overhead. You know what a delightful step the boy has. And what is more remarkable is that Emma is listening to it too, Emma who is seventeen, and who has been trying to keep Roger in his place ever since he first compelled her to bowl to him. Things have come to a pass when a sister so openly admits that she is only number two in the house.

Remarks well worthy of being recorded fall from these two ladies as they gaze upward. ‘I think--didn’t I, Emma?’ is the mother’s contribution, while it is Emma who replies in a whisper, ‘No, not yet!’

Mr. Torrance calmly reads, or seems to read, for it is not possible that there can be anything in the paper as good as this. Indeed he occasionally casts a humorous glance at his womenfolk. Perhaps he is trying to steady them. Let us hope he has some such good reason for breaking in from time to time on their entrancing occupation.

‘Listen to this, dear. It is very important. The paper says,
upon apparently good authority, that love laughs at locksmiths.’

His wife answers without lowering her eyes. ‘Did you speak,
John? I am listening.’

‘Yes, I was telling you that the Hidden Hand has at last been
discovered in a tub in Russell Square.’

‘I hear, John. How thoughtful.’

‘And so they must have been made of margarine, my love.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder, John.’

‘Hence the name Petrograd.’

‘Oh, was that the reason?’

‘You will be pleased to hear, Ellen, that the honourable
gentleman then resumed his seat.’

‘That was nice of him.’

‘As I,’ good-naturedly, ‘now resume mine, having made my usual
impression.’

‘Yes, John.’

Emma slips upstairs to peep through a keyhole, and it strikes
her mother that John has been saying something. They are on too
good terms to make an apology necessary. She observes blandly,
‘John, I haven’t heard a word you said.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t, woman.’

‘I can’t help being like this, John.’

‘Go on being like yourself, dear.’

‘Am I foolish?’

‘Um.’

‘Oh, but, John, how can you be so calm--with him up there?’

‘He has been up there a good deal, you know, since we presented
him to an astounded world nineteen years ago.’

‘But he--he is not going to be up there much longer, John.’ She
sits on the arm of his chair, so openly to wheedle him that
it is not worth his while to smile. Her voice is tremulous;
she is a woman who can conceal nothing. ‘You will be nice to
him--to-night--won’t you, John?’

Mr. Torrance is a little pained. ‘Do I just begin to-night,
Ellen?’

‘Oh no, no; but I think he is rather--shy of you at times.’

‘That,’ he says a little wryly, ‘is because he is my son,
Ellen.’

‘Yes--it’s strange; but--yes.’

With a twinkle that is not all humorous, ‘Did it ever strike
you, Ellen, that I am a bit--shy of him?’

She is indeed surprised. ‘Of Rogie!’

‘I suppose it is because I am his father.’

She presumes that this is his sarcasm again, and lets it pass
at that. It reminds her of what she wants to say.

‘You are so sarcastic,’ she has never quite got the meaning of
this word, ‘to Rogie at times. Boys don’t like that, John.’

‘Is that so, Ellen?’

‘Of course I don’t mind your being sarcastic to _me_----’

‘Much good,’ groaning, ‘my being sarcastic to you! You are so
seldom aware of it.’

‘I am not asking you to be a mother to him, John.’

‘Thank you, my dear.’

She does not know that he is sarcastic again. ‘I quite
understand that a man can’t think all the time about his son as
a mother does.’

‘Can’t he, Ellen? What makes you so sure of that?’

‘I mean that a boy naturally goes to his mother with his
troubles rather than to his father. Rogie tells me everything.’

Mr. Torrance is stung. ‘I daresay he might tell me things he
wouldn’t tell you.’

She smiles at this. It is very probably sarcasm.

‘I want you to be serious just now. Why not show more warmth to
him, John?’

With an unspoken sigh, ‘It would terrify him, Ellen. Two men
show warmth to each other! Shame, woman!’

‘Two men!’ indignantly. ‘John, he is only nineteen.’

‘That’s all,’ patting her hand. ‘Ellen, it is the great age to
be to-day, nineteen.’

Emma darts in.

‘Mother, he has unlocked the door! He is taking a last look at
himself in the mirror before coming down!’

Having made the great announcement, she is off again.

‘You won’t be sarcastic, John?’

‘I give you my word--if you promise not to break down.’

Rashly, ‘I promise.’ She hurries to the door and back again.
‘John, I’ll contrive to leave you and him alone together for a
little.’

Mr. Torrance is as alarmed as if the judge had looked over the
bench and asked where he was. ‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t do
that! Father and son! He’ll bolt; or if he doesn’t, I will.’

Emma Torrance flings open the door grandly, and we learn what
all the to-do is about.

EMMA. ‘Allow me to introduce 2nd Lieutenant Torrance of the Royal Sussex. Father--your son; 2nd Lieutenant Torrance--your father. Mother--your little Rogie.’

Roger, in uniform, walks in, strung up for the occasion. Or the
uniform comes forward with Roger inside it. He has been a very
ordinary nice boy up to now, dull at his ‘books’; by an effort
Mr. Torrance had sent him to an obscure boarding-school, but
at sixteen it was evident that an office was the proper place
for Roger. Before the war broke out he was treasurer of the
local lawn tennis club, and his golf handicap was seven; he
carried his little bag daily to and from the city, and his
highest relaxation was giggling with girls or about them.
Socially he had fallen from the standards of the home; even now
that he is in his uniform the hasty might say something clever
about ‘temporary gentlemen.’ But there are great ideas buzzing
in Roger’s head, which would never have been there save for the
war. At present he is chiefly conscious of his clothes. His
mother embraces him with cries of rapture, while Mr. Torrance
surveys him quizzically over the paper; and Emma, rushing to
the piano, which is of such an old-fashioned kind that it can
also be used as a sideboard, plays ‘See the Conquering Hero
Comes.’

ROGER, in an agony, ‘Mater, do stop that chit making an ass of me.’

He must be excused for his ‘mater.’ That was the sort of
school; and his mother is rather proud of the phrase, though it
sometimes makes his father wince.

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Emma, please, don’t. But I’m sure you deserve it, my darling. Doesn’t he, John?’

MR. TORRANCE, missing his chance, ‘Hardly yet, you know. Can’t be exactly a conquering hero the first night you put them on, can you, Roger?’

ROGER, hotly, ‘Did I say I was?’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Oh, John! Do turn round, Rogie. I never did--I never did!’

EMMA. ‘Isn’t he a pet!’

ROGER. ‘Shut up, Emma.’

MRS. TORRANCE, challenging the world, ‘Though I say it who shouldn’t--and yet, why shouldn’t I?’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘In any case you will--so go ahead, “mater.”’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I knew he would look splendid; but I--of course I couldn’t know that he would look quite so splendid as this.’

ROGER. ‘I know I look a bally ass. That is why I was such a time in coming down.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘We thought we heard you upstairs strutting about.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘John! Don’t mind him, Rogie.’

ROGER, haughtily, ‘I don’t.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Oh!’

ROGER. ‘But I wasn’t strutting.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘That dreadful sword! No, I would prefer you not to draw it, dear--not till necessity makes you.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Come, come, Ellen; that’s rather hard lines on the boy. If he isn’t to draw it here, where is he to draw it?’

EMMA, with pride, ‘At the Front, father.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘I thought they left them at home nowadays, Roger?’

ROGER. ‘Yes, mater; you see, they are a bit in the way.’

MRS. TORRANCE, foolishly, ‘Not when you have got used to them.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘That isn’t what Roger means.’

(His son glares.)

EMMA, who, though she has not formerly thought much of Roger, is now proud to trot by his side and will henceforth count the salutes, ‘I know what he means. If you carry a sword the snipers know you are an officer, and they try to pick you off.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘It’s no wonder they are called Huns. Fancy a British sniper doing that! Roger, you will be very careful, won’t you, in the trenches?’

ROGER. ‘Honour bright, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Above all, don’t look up.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘The trenches ought to be so deep that they can’t look up.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘What a good idea, John.’

ROGER. ‘He’s making game of you, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE, unruffled, ‘Is he, my own?--very likely. Now about the question of provisions----’

ROGER. ‘Oh, lummy, you talk as if I was going off to-night! I mayn’t go for months and months.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I know--and, of course, there is a chance that you may not be needed at all.’

ROGER, poor boy, ‘None of that, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘There is something I want to ask you, John--How long do you think the war is likely to last?’ Her John resumes his paper. ‘Rogie, I know you will laugh at me, but there are some things that I could not help getting for you.’

ROGER. ‘You know, you have knitted enough things already to fit up my whole platoon.’

MRS. TORRANCE, proud almost to tears, ‘His platoon.’

EMMA. ‘Have you noticed how fine all the words in -oon are? Platoon! Dragoon!’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Spitoon!’

EMMA. ‘Colonel is good, but rather papaish; Major is nosey; Admiral of the Fleet is scrumptious, but Maréchal de France--that is the best of all.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I think there is nothing so nice as 2nd Lieutenant.’ Gulping, ‘Lot of little boys.’

ROGER. ‘Mater!’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I mean, just think of their cold feet.’ She produces many parcels and displays their strange contents. ‘Those are for putting inside your socks. Those are for outside your socks. I am told that it is also advisable to have straw in your boots.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Have you got him some straw?’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I thought, John, he could get it there. But if you think----’

ROGER. ‘He’s making fun of you again, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I shouldn’t wonder. Here are some overalls. One is leather and one fur, and this one is waterproof. The worst of it is that they are from different shops, and each says that the others keep the damp in, or draw the feet. They have such odd names, too. There are new names for everything nowadays. Vests are called cuirasses. Are you laughing at me, Rogie?’

MR. TORRANCE, sharply, ‘If he is laughing, he ought to be ashamed of himself.’

ROGER, barking, ‘Who was laughing?’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘John!’

Emma cuffs her father playfully.

MR. TORRANCE. ‘All very well, Emma, but it’s past your bedtime.’

EMMA, indignantly, ‘You can’t expect me to sleep on a night like this.’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘You can try.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘2nd Lieutenant! 2nd Lieutenant!’

MR. TORRANCE, alarmed, ‘Ellen, don’t break down. You promised.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I am not going to break down; but--but there is a photograph of Rogie when he was very small----’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Go to bed!’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I happen--to have it in my pocket----’

ROGER. ‘Don’t bring it out, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘If I break down, John, it won’t be owing to the picture itself so much as because of what is written on the back.’

She produces it dolefully.

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Then don’t look at the back.’

He takes it from her.

MRS. TORRANCE, not very hopeful of herself, ‘But I know what is written on the back, “Roger John Torrance, aged two years four months, and thirty-three pounds.”’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘Correct.’ She weeps softly. ‘There, there, woman.’ He signs imploringly to Emma.

EMMA, kissing him, ‘I’m going to by-by. ’Night, mammy. ’Night, Rog.’ She is about to offer him her cheek, then salutes instead, and rushes off, with Roger in pursuit.

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘I shall leave you together, John.’

MR. TORRANCE, half liking it, but nervous, ‘Do you think it’s wise?’ With a groan, ‘You know what I am.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘Do be nice to him, dear.’ Roger’s return finds her very artful indeed. ‘I wonder where I put my glasses?’

ROGER. ‘I’ll look for them.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘No, I remember now. They are upstairs in such a funny place that I must go myself. Do you remember, Rogie, that I hoped they would reject you on account of your eyes?’

ROGER. ‘I suppose you couldn’t help it.’

MRS. TORRANCE, beaming on her husband, ‘Did you believe I really meant it, John?’

MR. TORRANCE, curious, ‘Did _you_, Roger?’

ROGER. ‘Of course. Didn’t you, father?’

MR. TORRANCE. ‘No! I knew the old lady better.’

He takes her hand.

MRS. TORRANCE, sweetly, ‘I shouldn’t have liked it, Rogie dear. I’ll tell you something. You know your brother Harry died when he was seven. To you, I suppose, it is as if he had never been. You were barely five.’

ROGER. ‘I don’t remember him, mater.’

MRS. TORRANCE. ‘No--no. But I do, Rogie. He would be twenty-one now; but though you and Emma grew up I have always gone on seeing him as just seven. Always till the war broke out. And now I see him a man of twenty-one, dressed in khaki, fighting for his country, same as you. I wouldn’t have had one of you stay at home, though I had had a dozen. That is, if it is the noble war they all say it is. I’m not clever, Rogie, I have to take it on trust. Surely they wouldn’t deceive mothers. I’ll get my glasses.’

She goes away, leaving the father and son somewhat moved. It is
Mr. Torrance who speaks first, gruffly.

‘Like to change your mother, Roger?’

The answer is also gruff. ‘What do _you_ think?’

Then silence falls. These two are very conscious of being
together, without so much as the tick of a clock to help them.
The father clings to his cigar, sticks his knife into it,
studies the leaf, tries crossing his legs another way. The son
examines the pictures on the walls as if he had never seen them
before, and is all the time edging toward the door.

Mr. Torrance wets his lips; it must be now or never, ‘Not
going, Roger?’

Roger counts the chairs. ‘Yes, I thought----’

‘Won’t you--sit down and--have a chat?’

Roger is bowled over. ‘A what? You and me!’

‘Why not?’ rather truculently.

‘Oh--oh, all right,’ sitting uncomfortably.

The cigar gets several more stabs.

‘I suppose you catch an early train to-morrow?’

‘The 5.20. I have flag-signalling at half-past six.’

‘Phew! Hours before I shall be up.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, you needn’t dwell on it, Roger.’

Indignantly, ‘I didn’t.’ He starts up. ‘Good-night, father.’

‘Good-night. Damn. Come back. My fault. Didn’t I say I wanted
to have a chat with you?’

‘I thought we had had it.’

Gloomily, ‘No such luck.’

There is another pause. A frightened ember in the fire makes an
appeal to some one to say something. Mr. Torrance rises. It is
now he who is casting eyes at the door. He sits again, ashamed
of himself.

‘I like your uniform, Roger,’ he says pleasantly.

Roger wriggles. ‘Haven’t you made fun of me enough?’

Sharply, ‘I’m not making fun of you. Don’t you see I’m trying
to tell you that I’m proud of you?’

Roger is at last aware of it, with a sinking. He appeals, ‘Good
lord, father, _you_ are not going to begin now.’

The father restrains himself.

‘Do you remember, Roger, my saying that I didn’t want you to
smoke till you were twenty?’

‘Oh, it’s that, is it?’ Shutting his mouth tight, ‘I never
promised.’

Almost with a shout, ‘It’s not that.’ Then kindly, ‘Have a
cigar, my boy?’

‘Me?’

A rather shaky hand passes him a cigar case. Roger selects from
it and lights up nervously. He is now prepared for the worst.

‘Have you ever wondered, Roger, what sort of a fellow I am?’

Guardedly, ‘Often.’

Mr. Torrance casts all sense of decency to the winds; such is
one of the effects of war.

‘I have often wondered what sort of fellow you are, Roger. We
have both been at it on the sly. I suppose that is what makes a
father and son so uncomfortable in each other’s presence.’

Roger is not yet prepared to meet him halfway, but he casts a
line.

‘Do you feel the creeps when you are left alone with me?’

‘Mortally, Roger. My first instinct is to slip away.’

‘So is mine,’ with deep feeling.

‘You don’t say so!’ with such surprise that the father
undoubtedly goes up a step in the son’s estimation. ‘I always
seem to know what you are thinking, Roger.’

‘Do you? Same here.’

‘As a consequence it is better, it is right, it is only decent
that you and I should be very chary of confidences with each
other.’

Roger is relieved. ‘I’m dashed glad you see it in that way.’

‘Oh, quite. And yet, Roger, if you had to answer this question
on oath, “Whom do you think you are most like in this world?”
I don’t mean superficially, but deep down in your vitals, what
would you say? Your mother, your uncle, one of your friends on
the golf links?’

‘No.’

‘Who?’

Darkly, ‘You.’

‘Just how I feel.’

There is such true sympathy in the manly avowal that Roger
cannot but be brought closer to his father.

‘It’s pretty ghastly, father.’

‘It is. I don’t know which it is worse for.’

They consider each other without bitterness.

‘You are a bit of a wag at times, Roger.’

‘You soon shut me up.’

‘I have heard that you sparkle more freely in my absence.’

‘They say the same about you.’

‘And now that you mention it, I believe it is true; and yet,
isn’t it a bigger satisfaction to you to catch me relishing
your jokes than any other person?’

Roger’s eyes open wide. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Because I am so bucked if I see you relishing mine.’

‘_Are_ you?’ Roger’s hold on the certain things in life are
slipping. ‘You don’t show it.’

‘That is because of our awkward relationship.’

Roger lapses into gloom. ‘We have got to go through with it.’

His father kicks the coals. ‘There’s no way out.’

‘No.’

‘We have, as it were, signed a compact, Roger, never to let on
that we care for each other. As gentlemen we must stick to it.’

‘Yes. What are you getting at, father?’

‘There is a war on, Roger.’

‘That needn’t make any difference.’

‘Yes, it does. Roger, be ready; I hate to hit you without
warning. I’m going to cast a grenade into the middle of you.
It’s this, I’m fond of you, my boy.’

Roger squirms. ‘Father, if any one were to hear you!’

‘They won’t. The door is shut, Amy is gone to bed, and all is
quiet in our street. Won’t you--won’t you say something civil
to me in return, Roger?’

Roger looks at him and away from him. ‘I sometimes--bragged
about you at school.’

Mr. Torrance is absurdly pleased. ‘Did you? What sort of
things, Roger?’

‘I--I forget.’

‘Come on, Roger.’

‘Is this fair, father?’

‘No, I suppose it isn’t.’ Mr. Torrance attacks the coals again.
‘You and your mother have lots of confidences, haven’t you?’

‘I tell her a good deal. Somehow----’

‘Yes, somehow one can.’ With the artfulness that comes of
years, ‘I’m glad you tell her everything.’

Roger looks down his cigar. ‘Not everything, father. There are
things--about oneself----’

‘Aren’t there, Roger!’

‘Best not to tell her.’

‘Yes--yes. If there are any of them you would care to tell me
instead--just if you want to, mind--just if you are in a hole
or anything?’

‘No thanks,’ very stiffly.

‘Any little debts, for instance?’

‘That’s all right now. Mother----’

‘She did?’

Roger is ready to jump at him. ‘I was willing to speak to you
about them, but----’

‘She said, “Not worth while bothering father.”’

‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, I have met your mother before, you see. Nothing else?’

‘No.’

‘Haven’t been an ass about a girl or anything of that sort?’

‘Good lord, father!’

‘I shouldn’t have said it. In my young days we
sometimes----It’s all different now.’

‘I don’t know. I could tell you things that would surprise you.’

‘No! Not about yourself?’

‘No. At least----’

‘Just as you like, Roger.’

‘It blew over long ago.’

‘Then there’s no need?’

‘No--oh no. It was just--you know--the old, old story.’

He eyes his father suspiciously, but not a muscle in Mr.
Torrance’s countenance is out of place.

‘I see. It hasn’t--left you bitter about the sex, Roger, I
hope?’

‘Not now. She--you know what women are.’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘You needn’t mention it to mother.’

‘I won’t.’ Mr. Torrance is elated to share a secret with Roger
about which mother is not to know. ‘Think your mother and I are
an aged pair, Roger?’

‘I never----of course you are not young.’

‘How long have you known that? I mean, it’s true--but I didn’t
know it till quite lately.’

‘That you’re old?’

‘Hang it, Roger, not so bad as that--elderly. This will stagger
you; but I assure you that until the other day I jogged along
thinking of myself as on the whole still one of the juveniles.’
He makes a wry face. ‘I crossed the bridge, Roger, without
knowing it.’

‘What made you know?’

‘What makes us know all the new things, Roger?--the war. I’ll
tell you a secret. When we realised in August of 1914 that
myriads of us were to be needed, my first thought wasn’t that I
had a son, but that I must get fit myself.’

‘You!’

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ says Mr. Torrance quite nastily. ‘But, as I
tell you, I didn’t know I had ceased to be young. I went into
Regent’s Park and tried to run a mile.’

‘Lummy, you might have killed yourself.’

‘I nearly did--especially as I had put a weight on my shoulders
to represent my kit. I kept at it for a week, but I knew the
game was up. The discovery was pretty grim, Roger.’

‘Don’t you bother about that part of it. You are doing your
share, taking care of mother and Emma.’

Mr. Torrance emits a laugh of self-contempt. ‘I am not taking
care of them. It is you who are taking care of them. My friend,
you are the head of the house now.’

‘Father!’

‘Yes, we have come back to hard facts, and the defender of the
house is the head of it.’

‘Me? Fudge.’

‘It’s true. The thing that makes me wince most is that some
of my contemporaries have managed to squeeze back: back into
youth, Roger, though I guess they were a pretty tight fit in
the turnstile. There is Coxon; he is in khaki now, with his
hair dyed, and when he and I meet at the club we know that we
belong to different generations. I’m a decent old fellow, but I
don’t really count any more, while Coxon, lucky dog, is being
damned daily on parade.’

‘I hate your feeling it in that way, father.’

‘I don’t say it is a palatable draught, but when the war is
over we shall all shake down to the new conditions. No fear of
my being sarcastic to you then, Roger. I’ll have to be jolly
respectful.’

‘Shut up, father!’

‘You’ve begun, you see. Don’t worry, Roger. Any rawness I
might feel in having missed the chance of seeing whether I
was a man--like Coxon, confound him!--is swallowed up in the
pride of giving the chance to you. I’m in a shiver about you,
but----It’s all true, Roger, what your mother said about
2nd Lieutenants. Till the other day we were so little of a
military nation that most of us didn’t know there _were_ 2nd
Lieutenants. And now, in thousands of homes we feel that
there is nothing else. 2nd Lieutenant! It is like a new word
to us--one, I daresay, of many that the war will add to our
language. We have taken to it, Roger. If a son of mine were to
tarnish it----’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Roger growls.

‘If you did, I should just know that there had been something
wrong about me.’

Gruffly, ‘You’re all right.’

‘If I am, you are.’ It is a winning face that Mr. Torrance
turns on his son. ‘I suppose you have been asking yourself of
late, what if you were to turn out to be a funk!’

‘Father, how did you know?’

‘I know because you are me. Because ever since there was talk
of this commission I have been thinking and thinking what were
you thinking--so as to help you.’

This itself is a help. Roger’s hand--but he withdraws it
hurriedly.

‘They all seem to be so frightfully brave, father,’ he says
wistfully.

‘I expect, Roger, that the best of them had the same qualms as
you before their first engagement.’

‘I--I kind of think, father, that I won’t be a funk.’

‘I kind of think so too, Roger.’ Mr. Torrance forgets himself.
‘Mind you don’t be rash, my boy; and for God’s sake, keep your
head down in the trenches.’

Roger has caught him out. He points a gay finger at his anxious
father.

‘You know you laughed at mother for saying that!’

‘Did I? Roger, your mother thinks that I have an unfortunate
manner with you.’

The magnanimous Roger says, ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s just the
father-and-son complication.’

‘That is really all it is. But she thinks I should show my
affection for you more openly.’

Roger wriggles again. Earnestly, ‘I wouldn’t do that.’ Nicely,
‘Of course for this once--but in a general way I wouldn’t do
that. _We_ know, you and I.’

‘As long as we know, it’s no one else’s affair, is it?’

‘That’s the ticket, father.’

‘Still----’ It is to be feared that Mr. Torrance is now
taking advantage of his superior slyness. ‘Still, before your
mother--to please her--eh?’

Faltering, ‘I suppose it would.’

‘Well, what do you say?’

‘I know she would like it.’

‘Of course you and I know that display of that sort is all
bunkum--repellent even to our natures.’

‘Lord, yes!’

‘But to gratify her.’

‘I should be so conscious.’

Mr. Torrance is here quite as sincere as his son. ‘So should I.’

Roger considers it. ‘How far would you go?’

‘Oh, not far. Suppose I called you “Old Rogie”? There’s not
much in that.’

‘It all depends on the way one says these things.’

‘I should be quite casual.’

‘Hum. What would you like me to call you?’

Severely, ‘It isn’t what would _I_ like. But I daresay your
mother would beam if you called me “dear father.”’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You know quite well that you think so, Roger.’

‘It’s so effeminate.’

‘Not if you say it casually.’

With something very like a snort Roger asks, ‘How does one say
a thing like that casually?’

‘Well, for instance, you could whistle while you said it--or
anything of that sort.’

‘Hum. Of course you--if we were to--be like that, you wouldn’t
_do_ anything.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You wouldn’t paw me?’

‘Roger,’ with some natural indignation, ‘you forget yourself.’
But apparently it is for him to continue. ‘That reminds me of a
story I heard the other day of a French general. He had asked
for volunteers from his airmen for some specially dangerous
job--and they all stepped forward. Pretty good that. Then
three were chosen and got their orders and saluted, and were
starting off when he stopped them. “Since when,” he said, “have
brave boys departing to the post of danger omitted to embrace
their father?” They did it then. Good story?’

Roger lowers. ‘They were French.’

‘Yes, I said so. Don’t you think it’s good?’

‘Why do you tell it to me?’

‘Because it’s a good story.’

‘You are sure, father,’ sternly, ‘that there is no other
reason?’ Mr. Torrance tries to brazen it out, but he looks
guilty. ‘You know, father, that is barred.’

Just because he knows that he has been playing it low, Mr.
Torrance snaps angrily, ‘What is barred?’

‘You know,’ says his monitor.

Mr. Torrance shouts.

‘I know that you are a young ass.’

‘Really, father----’

‘Hold your tongue.’

Roger can shout also.

‘I must say, father----’

‘Be quiet, I tell you.’

It is in the middle of this competition that the lady who dotes
on them both chooses to come back, still without her spectacles.

‘Oh dear! And I had hoped----Oh, John!’

Mr. Torrance would like to kick himself. ‘My fault,’ he says
with a groan.

‘But whatever is the matter?’

‘Nothing, mater.’ The war is already making Roger quite smart.
‘Only father wouldn’t do as I told him.’

Mr. Torrance cannot keep pace with his son’s growth. He raps
out, ‘Why the dickens should I?’

Roger is imperturbable; this will be useful in France. ‘You
see, mater, he said I was the head of the house.’

‘You, Rogie!’ She goes to her husband’s side. ‘What nonsense!’

Roger grins. ‘Do you like my joke, father?’

The father smiles upon him and is at once uproariously happy.
He digs his boy boldly in the ribs.

‘Roger, you scoundrel!’

‘That’s better,’ says Mrs. Torrance at a venture.

Roger feels that things have perhaps gone far enough. ‘I think
I’ll go to my room now. You will come up, mater?’

‘Yes, dear. I shan’t be five minutes, John.’

‘More like half an hour.’

She hesitates. ‘There is nothing wrong, is there? I thought I
noticed a--a----’

‘A certain liveliness, my dear. No, we were only having a good
talk.’

‘What about, John?’ wistfully.

‘About the war,’ Roger breaks in hurriedly.

‘About tactics and strategy, wasn’t it, Roger?’

‘Yes.’

‘The fact is, Ellen, I have been helping Roger to take his
first trench.’ With a big breath, ‘And we took it too,
together, didn’t we, Roger?’

‘You bet,’ says Roger valiantly.

‘Though I suppose,’ sighing, ‘it is one of those trenches that
the enemy retake during the night.’

‘Oh, I--I don’t know, father.’

The lady asks, ‘Whatever are you two talking about?’

‘Aha,’ says Mr. Torrance in high feather, patting her, but
unable to resist a slight boast, ‘it is very private. _We_
don’t tell you everything, you know, Ellen.’

She beams, though she does not understand.

‘Come on, mater, it’s only his beastly sarcasm again. ’Night,
father; I won’t see you in the morning.’

‘’Night,’ says Mr. Torrance.

But Roger has not gone yet. He seems to be looking for
something--a book, perhaps. Then he begins to whistle--casually.

‘Good-night, dear father.’

Mr. John Torrance is left alone, rubbing his hands.

BARBARA’S WEDDING

The Colonel is in the sitting-room of his country cottage, staring through the open windows at his pretty garden. He is a very old man, and is sometimes bewildered nowadays. He calls to Dering, the gardener, who is on a ladder, pruning. Dering, who comes to him, is a rough, capable young fellow with fingers that are already becoming stumpy because he so often uses his hands instead of a spade. This is a sign that Dering will never get on in the world. His mind is in the same condition as his fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph.

‘A beautiful morning, Dering.’

‘Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make
matters worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them--in the
heat of the day.’

The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. ‘Has she?
She means well.’ But that is not what is troubling him. He
approaches the subject diffidently. ‘Dering, you heard it,
didn’t you?’ He is longing to be told that Dering heard it.

‘What was that, sir?’

‘The thunderstorm--early this morning.’

‘There was no thunderstorm, sir.’

Dispirited, ‘That is what they all say.’ The Colonel is too
courteous to contradict any one, but he tries again; there is
about him the insistence of one who knows that he is right. ‘It
was at four o’clock. I got up and looked out at the window. The
evening primroses were very beautiful.’

Dering is equally dogged. ‘I don’t hold much with evening
primroses, sir; but I was out and about at four; there was no
thunderstorm.’

The Colonel still thinks that there was a thunderstorm, but he
wants to placate Dering. ‘I suppose I just thought there was
one. Perhaps it was some thunderstorm of long ago that I heard.
They do come back, you know.’

Heavily, ‘Do they, sir?’

‘I am glad to see you moving about in the garden, Dering, with
everything just as usual.’

There is a cautious slyness about this, as if the Colonel was
fishing for information; but it is too clever for Dering, who
is going with a ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘No, don’t go.’ The old man lowers his voice and makes a
confession reluctantly, ‘I am--a little troubled, Dering.’

Dering knows that his master has a wandering mind, and he
answers nicely, ‘Everything be all right, sir.’

‘I’m glad of that,’ the Colonel says with relief. ‘It is
pleasant to see that you have come back, Dering. Why did you go
away for such a long time?’

‘Me, sir?’ Dering is a little aggrieved. ‘I haven’t had a day
off since Christmas.’

‘Haven’t you? I thought----’

The Colonel tries to speak casually, but there is a trembling
eagerness in his voice. ‘Is everything just as usual, Dering?’

‘Yes, sir. There never were a place as changed less than this.’

‘That’s true.’ The Colonel is appeased. ‘Thank you, Dering,
for saying that.’ But next moment he has lowered his voice
again. ‘Dering, there is nothing wrong, is there? Is anything
happening that I am not being told about?’

‘Not that I know of, sir.’

‘That is what they all say, but--I don’t know.’ He stares at
his old sword which is hanging on the wall. ‘Dering, I feel as
if I was needed somewhere. I don’t know where it is. No one
will tell me. Where is every one?’

‘They’re all about, sir. There’s a cricket match on at the
village green.’

‘Is there?’

‘If the wind had a bit of south in it you could hear their
voices. You were a bit of a nailer at cricket yourself, sir.’

The Colonel sees himself standing up to fast ones. He is
gleeful over his reminiscences.

‘Ninety-nine against Mallowfield, and then bowled off my pads.
Biggest score I ever made. Mallowfield wanted to add one to
make it the hundred, but I wouldn’t let them. I was pretty good
at steering them through the slips, Dering! Do you remember my
late cut? It didn’t matter where point stood, I got past him.
You used to stand at point, Dering.’

‘That was my grandfather, sir. If he was to be believed, he
used to snap you regular at point.’

The Colonel is crestfallen, but he has a disarming smile.
‘Did he? I daresay he did. I can’t play now, but I like to
watch it still.’ He becomes troubled again. ‘Dering, there’s
no cricket on the green to-day. I have been down to look. I
don’t understand it, Dering. When I got there the green was
all dotted with them--it’s the prettiest sight and sound in
England. But as I watched them they began to go away, one and
two at a time; they weren’t given out, you know, they went
as if they had been called away. Some of the little shavers
stayed on--and then they went off, as if they had been called
away too. The stumps were left lying about. Why is it?’

‘It’s just fancy, sir,’ Dering says soothingly. ‘I saw Master
Will oiling his bat yesterday.’

‘Did you?’ avidly. ‘I should have liked to see that. I have
often oiled their bats for them. Careless lads, they always
forget. Was that nice German boy with him?’

‘Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of the
stream playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had climbed
one of my apple-trees,--she says they are your trees.’ He
lowers.

‘They are, you know, Dering,’ the Colonel says meekly.

‘Yes, sir, in a sense,’ brushing the spurious argument aside,
‘but I don’t like any of you to meddle with them. And there she
sat, pelting the two of them with green apples.’

‘How like her!’ The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. ‘I
don’t know how we are to make a demure young lady of her.’

Dering smirks. ‘They say in the village, sir, that Master Will
would like to try.’

To the Colonel this is wit of a high order.

‘Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.’ But the laughter breaks
off. He seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering
comes closer. ‘Who are all here now, Dering; in the house, I
mean? I sometimes forget. They grow old so quickly. They go out
at one door in the bloom of youth, and come back by another,
tired and grey. Haven’t you noticed it?’

‘No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and
Mr. Karl. There’s just them and yourselves, sir, you and the
mistress and Master Will. That’s all.’

‘Yes, that’s all,’ his master says, still unconvinced. ‘Who is
the soldier, Dering?’

‘Soldier, sir? There is no soldier here except yourself.’

‘Isn’t there? There was a nurse with him. Who is ill?’

‘No one, sir. There’s no nurse.’ Dering backs away from the old
man. ‘Would you like me to call the mistress, sir?’

‘No, she has gone down to the village. She told me why, but I
forget. Miss Barbara is with her.’

‘Miss Barbara is down by the stream, sir.’

‘Is she? I think they said they were going to a wedding.’ With
an old man’s curiosity, ‘Who is being married to-day, Dering?’

‘I have heard of no wedding, sir. But here is Miss Barbara.’

It is perhaps the first time that Dering has been glad to see
Miss Barbara, who romps in, a merry hoyden, running over with
animal spirits.

‘Here’s the tomboy!’ the Colonel cries gaily.

Barbara looks suspiciously from one to the other.

‘Dering, I believe you are complaining to the Colonel about my
watering the flowers at the wrong time of day.’

‘Aha! Aha!’ The Colonel thinks she is even wittier than Dering,
who is properly abashed.

‘I did just mention it, miss.’

‘You horrid!’ Barbara shakes her mop of hair at the gardener.
‘Dear, don’t mind him. And every time he says they are _his_
flowers and _his_ apples, you tell me, and I shall say to his
face that they are _yours_.’

‘The courage of those young things!’ says the happy Colonel.

Dering’s underlip becomes very pronounced, but he goes off into
the garden. Barbara attempts to attend to the Colonel’s needs.

‘Let me make you comfy--the way granny does it.’

She arranges his cushions clumsily.

‘That is not quite the way she does it,’ the Colonel says
softly. ‘Do you call her granny, Barbara?’

‘She asked me to--for practice.’ Barbara is curious. ‘Don’t you
remember why?’

Of course the Colonel remembers.

‘I know! Billy boy.’

‘You _are_ quick to-day. Now, wait till I get your cane.’

‘I don’t need my cane while I’m sitting.’

‘You look so beau’ful, sitting holding your cane.’ She knocks
over his cushions. ‘Oh dear! I am a clumsy.’

Politely, ‘Not at all, but perhaps if I were to do it for
myself.’ He makes himself comfortable. ‘That’s better. Thank
you, Barbara, very much.’

‘_I_ didn’t do it. I’m all thumbs. What a ghastly nurse I
should make.’

‘Nurse?’ The Colonel’s troubles return to him. ‘Who is she,
Barbara?’

‘Who is who, dear?’

‘That nurse?’

‘There’s no nurse here.’

‘Isn’t there?’

Barbara feels that she is of less use than ever to-day. ‘Where
is granny?’

‘She has gone down to the village to a wedding.’

‘There’s no wedding. Who could be being married?’

‘I think it’s people I know, but I can’t remember who they are.
I thought you went too, Barbara.’

‘Not I. Catch me missing it if there had been a wedding!’

‘You and the nurse.’

‘Dear, you have just been imagining things again. Shall I play
to you, or sing?’ She knocks over a chair. ‘Oh dear, everything
catches in me. Would you like me to sing “Robin Adair,” dear?’

The Colonel is polite, but firm. ‘No, thank you, Barbara.’
For a few moments he forgets her; his mind has gone wandering
again. ‘Barbara, the house seems so empty. Where are Billy and
Karl?’

‘Billy is where Karl is, you may be sure.’

‘And where is Karl?’

‘He is where Billy boy is, you may be sure.’

‘And where are they both?’

‘Not far from where Barbara is, you bet.’ She flutters to the
window and waves her hand. ‘Do you hear Karl’s flute? They
have been down all the morning at the pool where the alder is,
trying to catch that bull-trout.’

‘They didn’t get him, I’ll swear!’

‘You can ask them.’

‘I spent a lot of my youth trying to get that bull-trout. I
tumbled in there sixty years ago.’

‘I tumbled in sixty minutes ago! It can’t be the same trout,
dear.’

‘Same old rascal!’

Billy and Karl come in by the window, leaving a fishing-rod
outside. They are gay, careless, attractive youths.

BARBARA, with her nose in the air, ‘You muddy things!’

COLONEL, gaily firing his dart, ‘Did you get the bull-trout, Billy boy?’

BILLY. ‘He’s a brute that.’

COLONEL. ‘He is, you know.’

BILLY. ‘He came up several times and had a look at my fly. Didn’t flick it, or do anything as complimentary as that. Just yawned and went down.’

COLONEL. ‘Yawned, did he? Used to wink in my time. Did you and Billy fish at Heidelberg, Karl?’

KARL. ‘We were more worthily employed, sir, but we did unbend at times. Billy, do you remember----’ He begins a gay dance.

BILLY. ‘Not I.’ Then he joins in.

BARBARA. ‘Young gentlemen, how disgraceful!’ She joins in.

COLONEL. ‘Harum-scarums!’

KARL. ‘Does he know about you two?’

BILLY. ‘He often forgets. I’ll tell him again. Grandfather, Barbara and I have something to say to you. It’s this.’ He puts his arm round Barbara.

COLONEL, smiling, ‘I know--I know. There’s nothing like it. I’m very glad, Barbara.’

BARBARA. ‘You see, dear, I’ve loved Billy boy since the days when he tried to catch the bull-trout with a string and a bent pin, and I held on to his pinafore to prevent his tumbling in. We used to play at school at marrying and giving in marriage, and the girl who was my bridegroom had always to take the name of Billy. “Do you, woman, take this man Billy----” the clergyman in skirts began, and before I could answer diffidently, some other girl was sure to shout, “I should rather think she does.”’

COLONEL, in high good humour, ‘Don’t forget the ring, Billy. You know, when I was married I think I couldn’t find the ring!’

KARL. ‘Were you married here, sir?’

COLONEL. ‘Yes, at the village church.’

BILLY. ‘So were my father and mother.’

COLONEL, as his eyes wander to the garden, ‘I remember walking back with my wife and bringing her in here through the window. She kissed some of the furniture.’

BILLY. ‘I suppose you would like a grander affair, Barbara?’

BARBARA. ‘No, just the same.’

BILLY. ‘I hoped you would say that.’

BARBARA. ‘But, Billy, I’m to have such a dream of a wedding gown. Granny is going with me to London to choose it’--laying her head on the Colonel’s shoulder--‘if you can do without her for a day, dear.’

COLONEL, gallantly, ‘I shall go with you. I couldn’t trust you and granny to choose the gown.’

KARL. ‘You must often be pretty lonely, sir, when we are all out and about enjoying ourselves.’

COLONEL. ‘They all say that. But that is the time when I’m not lonely, Karl. It’s then I see things most clearly--the past, I suppose. It all comes crowding back to me--India, the Crimea, India again--and it’s so real, especially the people. They come and talk to me. I seem to see them; I don’t know they haven’t been here, Billy, till your granny tells me afterwards.’

BILLY. ‘Yes, I know. I wonder where granny is.’

BARBARA. ‘It isn’t often she leaves you for so long, dear.’

COLONEL. ‘She told me she had to go out, but I forget where. Oh, yes, she has gone down to the village to a wedding.’

BILLY. ‘A wedding?’

BARBARA. ‘It’s curious how he harps on that.’

COLONEL. ‘She said to me to listen and I would hear the wedding bells.’

BARBARA. ‘Not to-day, dear.’

BILLY. ‘Best not to worry him.’

BARBARA. ‘But granny says we should try to make things clear to him.’

BILLY. ‘Was any one with granny when she said she was going to a wedding?’

COLONEL, like one begging her to admit it, ‘You were there, Barbara.’

BARBARA. ‘No, dear. He said that to me before. And something about a nurse.’

COLONEL, obstinately, ‘She was there, too.’

BILLY. ‘Any one else?’

COLONEL. ‘There was that soldier.’

BARBARA. ‘A soldier also!’

COLONEL. ‘Just those three.’

BILLY. ‘But that makes four. Granny and Barbara and a nurse and a soldier.’

COLONEL. ‘They were all there; but there were only three.’

BILLY. ‘Odd.’

BARBARA, soothingly, ‘Never mind, dear. Granny will make it all right. She is the one for you.’

COLONEL. ‘She is the one for me.’

KARL. ‘If there had been a wedding, wouldn’t she have taken the Colonel with her?’

BARBARA. ‘Of course she would.’

KARL. ‘You are not too old to have a kind eye for a wedding, sir.’

COLONEL, wagging his head, ‘Aha, aha! You know, if I had gone, very likely I should have kissed the bride. Brides look so pretty on their wedding day. They are often not pretty at other times, but they are all pretty on their wedding day.’

KARL. ‘You have an eye for a pretty girl still, sir!’

COLONEL. ‘Yes, I have; yes, I have!’

BARBARA. ‘I do believe I see it all. Granny has been talking to you about Billy boy and me, and you haven’t been able to wait; you have hurried on the wedding!’

BILLY. ‘Bravo, Barbara, you’ve got it.’

COLONEL, doubtfully, ‘That may be it. Because I am sure you were to be there, Barbara.’

BARBARA. ‘Our wedding, Billy!’

KARL. ‘It doesn’t explain those other people, though.’

The Colonel moves about in agitation.

BARBARA. ‘What is it, dear?’

COLONEL. ‘I can’t quite remember, but I think that is why she didn’t take me. It is your wedding, Barbara, but I don’t think Billy boy is to be there, my love.’

BARBARA. ‘Not at my wedding!’

BILLY. ‘Grandfather!’

COLONEL. ‘There’s something sad about it.’

BARBARA. ‘There can’t be anything sad about a wedding, dear. Granny didn’t say it was a sad wedding, did she?’

COLONEL. ‘She was smiling.’

BARBARA. ‘Of course she was.’

COLONEL. ‘But I think that was only to please the nurse.’

BARBARA. ‘That nurse again! Dear, don’t think any more about it. There’s no wedding.’

COLONEL, gently, though he wonders why they can go on deceiving him, ‘Is there not?’

The village wedding bells begin to ring. The Colonel is
triumphant. ‘I told you! There is a wedding!’

The bells ring on gaily. Billy and Barbara take a step nearer
to each other, but can go no closer. The bells ring on, and the
three young people fade from the scene.

When they are gone and he is alone, the Colonel still addresses
them. ‘It’s Barbara’s wedding. Billy boy, why are you not at
Barbara’s wedding?’