Chapter II

I did not enjoy that dinner. To begin with, I felt like a vulgar intruder on something that was almost sacred, and certainly very precious. For all the signs of the 'last evening' were there. The dishes we had were Harry's favourites, procured at I know what trouble and expense by Mrs. Harry; and she watched tremulously to see that he liked them. She had gone out and bought him a bottle of well-loved Moselle, for a special surprise, and some port; which was a huge extravagance. But that was nothing, if these things could only give a special something to this meal which would make him remember it; for the flowers he never saw, and the new dress went unnoticed for a long time. But I felt that it would all have gone much better, perhaps, if I had not been there, and I hoped she did not hate me.

And Harry was not at his best. The question he asked me I had had no time to answer, and he had not answered it himself. Through most of that dinner, which by all the rules should have been, superficially at least, cheerful and careless, as if there were no such thing as separation ahead, Harry was thoughtful and preoccupied. And I knew that he was still arguing with himself, 'What shall I say to Mackenzie? Yes or No?'--wandering up and down among the old doubts and resolutions and fears.... Mrs. Harry saw this as well as I ... and, no doubt, she cursed me for being there because in my presence she could not ask him what worried him.

But the Moselle began to do its work: Harry talked a little and noticed the new dress, and we all laughed a lot at the pudding, which came up in such a curious shape.... We were very glad to laugh at something.

Then Mrs. Harry spoke of some people in the regiment of whom she had heard a good deal--George Dawson, and Egerton, and old Colonel Roberts. I knew that in a minute we should stumble into talking about the trenches or shells, or some such folly, and have Harry gloomy and brooding again. I could not stand that, and I did not think Mrs. Harry could, so I plunged recklessly into the smoother waters of life in France. I told them the old story about General Jackson and the billet-guard; and then we came on to the famous night at Forceville, and other historic battalion orgies--the dinner at Monchy Breton, when we put a row of candles on the floor of the tent for footlights, and George and a few subs made a perfect beauty chorus. Those are the things one likes to remember about active service, and I was very glad to remember them then. The special port came in and was a great success; Harry warmed up, and laughed over those old gaieties, and was in great form. At that moment I think his answer to Major Mackenzie would have been definitely 'No.'

Mrs. Harry laughed very much too, and said she envied us the amusing times we had together 'out there.' 'You men have all the fun.' And that made me feel a heartless ass for having started on that topic. For I knew that when Harry was away there was little 'fun' for her; and whether he was lying on his stomach in a shell-hole, or singing songs in an estaminet, not thinking much of his wife, perhaps, except when they drank 'Sweethearts and Wives'--it was all one uniform, hideous wait for her. So I think it was hollow laughter for Mrs. P....

Moreover, though I did not know how much she knew about Harry's difficulties, the 'job' and so one, I felt sure that with the extraordinary instinct of a wife she scented something of the conflict that was going on; and she knew vaguely that this exaggerated laudation of the amenities of France meant somehow danger to her.... So that just as I was beginning to congratulate myself on the bucking up of Harry, I tardily perceived that between us we were wounding the wife. And I more than ever wished myself anywhere than sitting at that pretty table with the shaded lights.

Well, we nearly finished the port--Harry still in excellent form--and went upstairs. Harry went off to look for smokes or something, and I knew at once that Mrs. Harry was going to ask me questions about him. You know how a woman stands in front of the fire, and looks down, and kind of paws the fender with one foot when she is going to say something confidential. Then she looks up suddenly, and you're done. Mrs. Harry did that, and I was done. At any other time I should have loved to talk to her about Harry, but that night I felt it was dangerous ground.

'How do you think Harry is looking?' she said. 'You probably know better than I do, nowadays.'

I said I thought he seemed pretty fit, considering all things.

'Do you think he'll have to go out again?' she asked. 'I don't think he ought to--but they seem so short of men still. He's not really strong, you know.'

So she knew nothing about the 'job'; and this put me in a hole. For if I told her about it, and he did not take it, but went out again, the knowledge would be a standing torture to her. On the other hand, I _wanted_ him to take it, I thought he ought to--and if she knew about it she might be able to make him. Wives can do a great deal in that way. But that would be disloyal to Harry....

Well, I temporized with vague answers while I wrestled with this problem, and she told me more about Harry. 'You know, he has the most _terrible_ dreams ... wakes up screaming at night, and quite frightens me. And I don't think they ought to be _allowed_ to go out again when they're like that.... I don't _want_ him to go out again.... At least,' she added half-heartedly (as a kind of concession to convention), 'if it's his duty, of course....' Then, defiantly, 'No, I _don't_ want him to go ... anyhow ... I think he's done his bit ... hasn't he, Mr. Benson?'

'He has, indeed,' I said, with sincerity at last.

'Well, you have some influence with him. Can't you----'

But then Harry came in, and I had lost my chance. I have noticed that while on the stage, conversations which must necessarily be private are invariably concluded without interruption, in private life, and especially private houses, are always interrupted long before the end.

Mrs. Harry went to the piano, and Harry and I sat down to smoke; and since it was the last night Harry was allowed to smoke his pipe. The way Mrs. Harry said that nearly made me weep.

So I sat there and watched Harry, and his wife played and played--soft, melancholy, homesick things (Chopin, I think), that leagued with the wine and the warm fire and the deep chairs in an exquisite conspiracy of repose. She played for a long time, but I saw that she too was watching. And the fancy came to me that she was fighting for Harry, fighting, perhaps unconsciously, that vague danger she had seen at dinner, when it had beaten her ... fighting it with this music that made war seem so distant and home so lovable....

And soon I began to see that she was winning. For when she began playing Harry had sat down, a little restless again, and fidgeted, as if the music reminded him of good things too much ... and his eyes wandered round the room and took in all the familiar things, like a man saying good-bye--the old chair with the new chintz, and the yellow curtains, and the bookcase his father left him--and the little bookcase where his history books were (he looked a long time at them) ... and the firelight shining on the piano ... and his wife playing and playing.... And when he had looked at her, quickly, he sat up and poked the fire fiercely, and sat back, frowning. He was wondering again. This music was being too much for him. Then she stopped, and looked across at Harry--and smiled.

When she played again it was, I think, a nocturne of Chopin's (God knows which--but it was very peaceful and homesick), and as I watched, I made sure that she had won. For there came over Harry a wonderful repose. He no longer frowned or fidgeted, or raised his eyebrows in the nervous way he had, but lay back in a kind of abandonment of content.... And I said to myself, 'He has decided--he will say "Yes" to Mackenzie.'

Mrs. Harry, perhaps, also perceived it. For after a little she stopped and came over to us. And then I did a fateful thing. There was a copy of _The Times_ lying by my chair, and because of the silence that was on us, I picked it up and looked aimlessly at it.

The first thing I saw was the Casualty List, buried in small type among some vast advertisements of patent foods. I glanced down the list in that casual manner which came to us when we knew that all our best friends were already dead or disposed of. Then my eye caught the name of the regiment and the name of a man I knew. CAPTAIN EGERTON, V.R. Killed. There was another near it, and another, and many more; the list was thick with them. And the other battalions in the Brigade had many names there--fellows one had relieved in the line, or seen in billets, or talked with in the Cocktail Café at Noeux-les-Mines. There must have been a massacre in the Brigade ... ten officers killed and ten wounded in our lot alone.

I suppose I made that vague murmur of rage and regret which slips out of you when you read these things, for Harry looked up and asked, 'What's that?' I gave him the paper, and he too looked down that list.... Only two of those names were names of the Old Crowd, and many of them were the dull men; but we knew them very well for all that, and we knew they were good men ... Egerton, Gordon, young Matthews, Spenser, Smith, the bombing fellow, Tompkinson--all gone....

So we were silent for a long minute, remembering those men, and Mrs. Harry stared into the fire. I wondered what she was thinking of, and I was sorry for her. For when Harry got up there was a look about him which I had seen before, though not for many months--not since the first days on the Somme....

While I was groping after my coat in the hall, Harry came out of his den with a letter which he asked me to 'drop in the box.' I looked at it without shame; it was addressed to Major Mackenzie, D.S.O., etc.

'And what have you said?' I asked.

'No,' said Harry, with a kind of challenging look.

'Well, I think you're wrong----' I told him, though I knew then that I was too late. Mrs. Harry was beaten now, finally beaten, poor thing....

'And what are you two talking about?' said Mrs. Harry.

'About a dinner, my dear.'

I went out and posted that accursed letter, thanking God that I was not a wife.