Читать книгу The Seed of Empire - Fred M. White - Страница 9

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The long, sweating afternoon was drawing to a close, and gradually the patient yet light-hearted crowd in the quadrangle grew less. There had been all sorts and conditions of men there, from the gilded youth who came rolling up in his thousand-guinea car to the ragged nomad whose lips had tasted no food that day, and yet who was as willing and eager as the rest of them. It was strange to see young Oxford fraternising with Whitechapel, and exquisites of the city comparing notes with the man who yesterday had left the morning's milk in the area of their town houses. It seemed as if in one blast all social barriers had been blown away; it was as if a dozen streams had intermingled to make one vast sea of eager humanity. One by one the units passed in through those big doors, only to emerge a little later, openly exulting or correspondingly depressed. But these eager spirits formed the cream of the nation's manhood, and the tally of the rejected was pleasingly small. And as the crowd, dressed indifferently in purple and fine linen and greasy rags, grew smaller, so, almost imperceptibly, the khaki began to assert itself. In these very early stages of the war, there was no lack of uniforms and belts and side arms, and Harold Bentley's heart beat high as he surveyed the eager crowd. It came to his own turn presently to face the doctor, and a quarter of an hour later he was surveying himself in a long looking-glass, a soldier of the King and a defender of his country.

Outside in the quadrangle Kemp and the other two were awaiting him. There was a broad smile on the faces of them all, and an assumption of ease that deceived nobody. Up to them presently swaggered Ginger Smith. The little man was transformed almost out of knowledge. He carried himself proudly, for he was a born mimic and an actor of humorous parts, and he might have been a veteran by the way in which he wore his uniform.

"It's all O.K.," he said. "I put the 'ole o' my little lot through, and we're to report ourselves at 'arrow in the mornin'. But we ain't done yet, no bloomin' likely. We're goin' ter meet to-night an' march through the streets down our way wiv a band and everything proper."

"Good for you, Ginger," Kemp said. "Is it the Grenadiers' or the Coldstream Guards' band you've got hold of?"

"Lor, bless yer, sir," Ginger grinned. "We ain't relyin' upon that sort o' music. Perhaps you never 'eard o' Whistler Jordan. 'E's the champion wiv a mawth organ. We've got four of 'em down our wye wot can knock spots off any other performer in the Sawf o' London. An' you'll see us turnin' up tomorrow mornin' with a regular harmy."

There was nothing to wait for now, nothing to be done before morning, and Bentley began to turn his thoughts homewards. Apparently Kemp could see what was passing in his mind, for he took his friend by the arm and led him towards the Embankment.

"Well, it's all good so far, isn't it?" he asked. "You've done the right thing, and you're in the right place. And now, don't you think it would be just as well if you allowed me to go with you and see your mother and Nettie?"

"I was just thinking the same thing," Bentley confessed. "I suppose after tomorrow we shall see little or nothing of our people till we go to the front. And I should like my mother to feel that she has nothing to worry about in the future."

"Well, it'll be her own fault if she does, old chap. But come along. By the way, where do you live?"

Harold and his mother occupied a sitting-room and two bedrooms in a small house out Willesden way, in a dingy road near the station. There was something dreary and depressing in the neighbourhood; it was so suggestive of genteel poverty that Kemp was almost afraid that Bentley might read his feelings in the expression of his face. But he forgot all that presently, forgot the tiny sitting-room, with its horsehair furniture and hideous chimney ornaments, when he found himself face to face with Nettie Bentley. It was two years since they had last met, two years in which she had grown from a child to a beautiful young woman. Care and privation and the stress of life had laid a light hand upon the perfect oval of that beautifully tinted face, and the blue eyes were soft and thoughtful, the droop of the mouth a little pathetic. But all the old daintiness and sweetness and refinement were there, and her environment had left Nettie herself untouched. She might live in a street of workmen's cottages; she might travel to town early each morning in the train devoted to the white slaves of London, but she stood out from the rest of the girls like a thing apart. There was a dainty touch of colour in her face as she held out her hand to Ronald Kemp.

"It seems a long time since we last met;" she said. "It seems years since we left the dear old house. I suppose you have not forgotten it? Those were happy days."

"They were happy days to me," Kemp exclaimed. "Do you recollect—but I suppose I must call you Miss Bentley now."

"No, please don't," the girl said. "I always think of you as Ronald. And I am so glad that you and Harold have met again. It was so silly of him to drop all his old friends. It did not matter so much for mother and myself. But what have you been doing? Harold, do you mean to say—"

"You're not displeased, Nettie, are you?"

"Displeased! Why, I'm proud of you! I'd rather see you in that uniform than—well, you know what I mean. My dear boy, you could not stay away. And I am so glad that you have not stopped to consider us. We shall manage somehow. I feel quite sure that there will be plenty of work for women before long. And I shall be proud to go behind the counter to take the place of a man who has gone to the front. It will be almost as good as fighting oneself."

"As a matter of fact, he was thinking about you," Kemp said. "Now, shut up, Harold, shut up. This is where I come in, and I'm not going to be interrupted. You can't make Harold really respectable, you know. What do you think he was doing when I met him? You'll never guess. He was having a punching match with a greasy Socialist in Trafalgar Square. I literally dragged him out of the hands of the police and took him off to my flat, where I made him tell me everything. Now I'm going to make a suggestion to Mrs. Bentley which I hope won't offend her. You see, Harold has done it now, and he's got to fight, whether he wants to or not. He's a full private in the Honourable Company of Musketeers, and within a month's time he will be doing his little bit in France. So shall I for that matter. But he doesn't want to leave you all alone, and I happen to have a sister that I'm fond of, too. Unfortunately, it happens that her housekeeper-companion-chaperon has had to leave, and I am at my wits' end to find someone I can rely upon to take her place. That's why I regard my meeting with Harold last night as providential. When he told me everything, I said to myself that Mrs. Bentley was absolutely born for the part. There is not much to do, and—and—help me out, Harold."

"It's a jolly well-paid job," Bentley, said curtly.

"Thanks, old chap. Thank goodness we've done with that part of it. Now, Nettie, do you think your mother will be good enough to take this anxiety off my mind? It's a nice house, and I remember that you and my sister Dorothy used to be great chums. She's always regretting the fact that she's lost sight of you. If this comes off, you will have plenty of time for that artistic work of yours—"

Nettie's eyes were bright with tears.

"Oh, it will be glorious," she cried. "Mother will be more than glad—she will be grateful. And I shall be able to do something I've been longing to ever since the war broke out. I must—I must get to the front as a nurse."