Читать книгу The Road South - Roderick Stuart Kennedy - Страница 6

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A regiment settling itself into strange billets is a spectacle of awe to the philosopher. A column of apparently disciplined men halts in a village. All are very tired and anxious to get settled and fed. To achieve that aim nothing is needed except a few rational actions well within the capacity of the humblest. There is plenty of room. A competent officer in conjunction with a competent local official has allotted specific quarters for each Company and Platoon. Every officer has been separately provided for.

What could be simpler?

Taking that situation as a basis, any philosopher using any philosophic system he patronizes, could forecast the logical sequence of events which must follow inevitably. This sequence would end—and end very quickly—with each man, officer, and horse snoring comfortably in his own allotted billet.

If the philosopher discovered that horses do not snore (which is unlikely), it would only confirm him in the correctness of his theory. For the absence of such flaws is viewed with suspicion as an indication that the theoretical system is too perfect to be practicable. He merely discounts it as an unavoidable lack of technical knowledge on his part,—or on the part of horses,—according to the degree of his philosophic egotism.

Such an observer, therefore, must be deeply dismayed when the column halts and starts billeting operations in actual practice.

Mad confusion in a routed army would not surprise him, because it is the logical result of a sufficient cause, but that an identical pandemonium should break out when an orderly column halts for billets in a peaceful village, cannot be brought within the scope of philosophy. The foundation of the philosopher's life and work would be destroyed. He would have to learn everything anew.

He would have to join the army.

The 2nd Battalion of the Montreal Rifles, upon arrival in Caster End, went to work with hearty goodwill to confound every logical system ever hatched, including the billeting officer's. Within five minutes the nominal strength of 1029 officers and men had grown to an apparent strength of five or six thousand. Lieutenant Wentworth was fighting his way profanely into the mob at the south end of the village, seeking No. 8 Platoon, which had just been herded into the north end sail loft of NATHANIEL RUNKE, Sailmkr., by Captain Blaikie, the billeting officer, who was determined to get somebody into their right billet, as a basis for sorting out the rest.

D. Company, which had been allotted to the old Lower Village under the cliffs on the edge of the North Sea, were marching briskly inland on the road which would take them—eventually—to Cardiff, South Wales.

They were missed by nobody except the Company cooks, who had despairingly set-up their cooker and started operations across the only entrance to Dr. Beringer's garage, and sorely needed a ranking officer to protect them from the doctor's Annie, whose professional and verbal eminence was far superior to their own.

In every direction subalterns, righteously solicitous for their own Platoons, were telling each other to get their lousy crew to hell out of here, in tones strained by the irreconcilable necessities of making themselves perfectly plain, without letting the men hear. All these officers were waving slips of paper on which were inscribed in a scholarly hand, the local names of persons, houses, barns, or stables, without mentioning where they were.

The Colonel and staff of Battalion Headquarters, having established themselves in the Tap Room of the Bull and demonstrated their efficient readiness for business by unpacking C. Company's typewriter, had hastened out to straighten things up by issuing overruling orders to anyone within earshot. In the meanwhile subalterns and N.C.O.'s, hurrying in to get instructions, were hospitably received by old Jem Wavertree who could not be intimidated by Regimental Sergeant Major Shanks and the typewriter, from the slow savouring of his beer.

But old Jem, although his baggy smock sported no stars, was much more effective in restoring order than Colonel Markey. For he could—and did interpret every billeting slip shown to him in such a way that its owner could find the billet.

When Colonel Markey and Captain Blaikie returned half an hour afterwards, pleased with the success of their efforts, and grumbling aphorisms about doing things yourself if you want them done properly, eleven brimming pewter mugs ranged in front of old Jem, gave silent witness to the contrary.

When the confusion subsided as suddenly and illogically as it had arisen, No. 234098 Private Brian Mackell was still sitting aloft on the seat of the baggage wagon.

He had delivered his note to Captain Blaikie and been told to wait. Morton, after being frustrated with curses from unhitching his team in the only likely places, had drawn into the ditch opposite the Bull, Brian had agreed that it was the best place since many officers' valises were in the wagon. There he had sat and watched the tumult, well content to be above it.

When the growing seriousness of the war had brought him to the reluctant conclusion that it was his duty to enlist, he had done so without self-pity, but without enthusiasm. The carefully matured plans of his mother and father had laid out the career of a doctor for him. When his father had died in 1914, a year after Brian had entered McGill University, Mrs. Mackell had firmly insisted on carrying them out. The little farm, the big greenhouses, and the nursery gardens had been let. Mrs. Mackell had gone to live in Vancouver with Jessie, his married sister, and Brian had remained at college. Jessie had insisted on that as strongly as his mother, and Brian, whose tastes and ambitions were not strongly developed, had appreciated their attitude and set himself to the job of becoming a doctor with somewhat more earnestness.

He was enjoying his life at McGill, when the decision to enlist forced itself upon him. He liked most of the men in his year and was well liked by them, not the less because he was a stalwart supporter of his friends' activities,—legal or illegal, without aspiring to the distinction of leadership. The epitome of his college life could be found on the football field, where he played a determined but unspectacular game on the scrimmage line, receiving the heaviest battering with satisfaction at his ability to "take it," but too good-natured to batter remorselessly enough in return.

At first the feeling among the university authorities had been that if the war were short, skilled physicians could be of more use to their country than as a cannon fodder. If it were long, the supplying of trained medical officers would be the prime duty of the medical schools. A doctor took seven years to train, a soldier seven months. If medical students were allowed to sacrifice their training and enlist, there would be an irretrievable shortage of doctors for the army.

But the attitude changed with a growing concentration on the urgent present. More and more medical students enlisted, as honest logic withered before equally honest emotion. After Brian's mother died on Christmas Eve of 1915, he made his decision, reported it to a gloomy but sympathetic Dean, walked down to the Armoury of the Montreal Rifles that same afternoon, and entered a new life. Physically it had been an easy one, mentally it had been comfortably irresponsible but not particularly interesting until this chilly evening arrival at Caster End.

There was no question about the coldness. He pushed his hands deeper into his greatcoat pockets, feeling about as snug as a statue on its pedestal.

Officers and their batmen began to straggle towards the Bull, giving anxious thought to their own fate now that their men were settled.

Among the last came Captain Shuter, the Quartermaster, walking beside a big, pink-faced, smiling young clergyman who carried a bunch of billeting slips in his hand. It was the Reverend Edward Russell, Vicar of Caster End. Captain Blaikie came out of the Bull, the officers gathered round. Most of them had their billet, they only wanted to know where it was. This want Mr. Russell supplied with the utmost goodfellowship, though less succinctly than had Jem Wavertree.

Batmen dragged valises off the wagon, the group thinned down to five or six officers from B. Company whose valises had not been unloaded. Captain Blaikie came across and spoke to Morton. "B. Company's kits, and Captain Todd's go up to Bradderham Hall," he said, and turned to the waiting officers. "Mr. Russell has kindly volunteered to show you the way. It's only half a mile. We'll probably parade about nine, but I'll send up the orders of the day later."

He was turning to enter the Bull when Morton, responding to Brian's urgent signals, drew his attention to the Battalion's casualty.

"Oh yes, I forgot. Just a moment, Mr. Russell. Can you find a place for this man somewhere? Our M.O. wants him where he can have a bed and be handy for dressings and so on. Can you stretch your elastic village that much more?"

Mr. Russell laughed heartily. "Yes, yes, Captain Blaikie. No doubt of it. The best india rubber here, the very best! We'll look after your lad. Caster End knows how to welcome its Canadian cousins."

A shade passed over the Adjutant's face, and he carefully refrained from replying. He had spent most of the afternoon with Mr. Russell, arranging billets, and all the time he had felt under the shadow of an impending speech. It would be a bit thick if the patriotic Vicar got a chance to deliver it now!

Mr. Russell picked over the slips in his hand. "Let me see now." He tapped his chin thoughtfully, and at last picked out a slip doubtfully and handed it up to Brian. "There you are, my lad. Just about our last bed, I think, but you'll be comfortable there. I'll speak to them myself, as it's on our way.

"Nothing else I can do for you, Captain? No? Then we'll hie us to the hospitable Hall." With a parting display of fine white teeth, he raised his arm with a genial gesture in which military salute and clerical blessing were tactfully combined, and led the bored little procession down the village street.

The night was very dark, and when the Vicar stopped, Brian still had little idea of what Caster End really looked like. The Bull was new and ugly and this cramped little brick villa suited his conception of an old English village even less.

Solicitously helped by the stalwart Mr. Russell, he hopped through a miniature cast iron gate which matched the iron railing. He could see little more, except that the house was two stories, or two and a half, judging from the gable windows in the slate roof, and that it was one of a solid row, the extent of which was hidden by the darkness.

As they waited for an answer to the Vicar's knock, Morton dumped Brian's pack on the step with an envious grimace, leaned his rifle against the doorpost, and went back to the wagon.

Brian felt a sudden nervousness at the sound of a step inside. This was the first time he had billeted in a private house. It was a bit tough on the owners, especially as he was being shoved in without warning. But the feeling lasted only until the door opened and he saw, outlined against the lighted passage, the same girl who had spoken to him outside old Mary's cottage.

All he could hear of the Vicar's explanation was its apologetic tone. Then Mr. Russell put the pack and rifle just inside the door, came down the steps and helped him into the hall, and introduced him. "This is—er—" he paused, but not long enough for Brian to supply his name, "—er—one of our Canadian cousins who have rallied round the old Lion so gallantly, Miss Page. He is a casualty, but I am sure will be little trouble to you. These Canadian lads are rough and ready, but they are the right stuff. You won't have any trouble."

Brian fumed, wondering if the pink-faced mutt was trying to convey a warning to him, but Mr. Russell's pulpit voice disappeared as he went on.

"Would you like me to explain to your father?" he asked, "or—"

"No, thank you, Mr. Russell. I'll tell him. I'm sure he will understand,—and be glad to help," she added.

Mr. Russell put on his hat. "Well, I must hurry along," he said with a joviality which was obviously tinged with relief, "—a lot of very tired officers waiting for me. Good night,—and my compliments to Mr. Page."

He strode down the path. Brian, seeing that there was little room for the girl to pass him in the narrow passage, shut the door. The movement over-balanced him, and he put his hand quickly against the wall to steady himself.

Realizing now what a special nuisance he would be to these people, if he obeyed Captain Todd's injunction to keep his injured foot off the ground, he looked apologetically at Miss Page. She had given him a polite little smile when he had first come in, but since then the Vicar had given them no chance to speak to each other.

The girl had made a slight motion towards him, when he had steadied himself, and now looked at him, silent and constrained, as if wondering what to do.

Sympathy for her perplexity broke down his own embarrassment. He plunged into an apology, designed not only to put her at her ease, but to give the lie to the Vicar's description of the "rough and ready" Canadians. As an afterthought he added his name, and explained that he was a student at McGill.

But she seemed neither more nor less composed than before. "Please don't apologize," she said, with another polite little smile. "We're very glad to have you,—really. But my father is—My father and I—live in a rather secluded way. I would like to explain to him first. Would you mind sitting down in here for a minute?"

She pushed the door beside her, revealing a parlour, dark except for such light as came from the oil lamp in the hall, and apparently not often used.

Again Brian realized his clumsy helplessness, but she interpreted his expression and came quickly to his side. "You must lean on my arm."

His pride revolted. A husky fellow like him having to be helped by a strange girl who must be wishing him to Jericho! Probably they would go sprawling on the floor and look like a couple of fools!

But cutting short his doubts she took his arm with a peremptory "Please!" which was so tensely impatient that he could only obey. Her strength surprised him, and he hopped clumsily to a seat, anxious to get it over, but feeling as secure as with the brawny Vicar's arm.

"I won't be long." The softness of her voice slightly soothed his humiliation at his unimpressive introduction to the house.

He was comparatively unsophisticated for his twenty-three years, and his ideas of other people's judgment of him were still exclusively the reflection of his own feelings. Whenever he blundered he was acutely self-conscious, although he did not consider other people fools for a momentary clumsiness.

The parlour in which he sat was very unlike the homelike sitting-room which his mother had evolved around the ineradicable shirtsleeve philosophy of his farmer father. It was less comfortable. It was more crowded. It was duller, and there was an air of solid and very faded opulence about the furniture which was incongruous in such a tiny, jerry-built villa.

Opposite the door was a fireplace with white marble mantelpiece. Grained folding doors, now closed, cut off what must be a room at the back, while a small bow-window took up most of the front wall. Two massively framed portraits hung, one on each side of the fireplace.

The room seemed non-committal in colour, and gave the impression of bareness in spite of being rather overcrowded.

Except for the portraits, a bookcase containing a set of Dickens, a set of Scott, and a large number of theological works, was the only thing which registered definitely on his mind.

The portraits interested him most, for he felt certain that the woman must be Miss Page's mother. The large, dark gray, long-lashed eyes were strikingly like the girl's, but that was the only resemblance. Nothing could be more unlike Miss Page's expressionless reserve and flawless, satin skin, than that network of fine wrinkles and deeply-etched lines,—mute testimony to sacrifice, patience and resignation.

The man's picture—if it were Miss Page's father—showed no likeness, except in the fine oval of the face. Brian disliked it immediately because of the incredible piety which the artist had over-laboured to depict. It was a clergyman, but he could not believe that any clergyman could be so clerical or any saint so ascetic as this!

Then the original suddenly appeared in the doorway, and Brian absolved the artist of exaggeration. The thin figure and drawn face might have come straight from the torture chamber. The light was too dim to see clearly, and the impression passed, for the man was not really grotesque. But the sunken cheeks and temples, the sharp cheekbones, and thin, colourless hair, which seemed to give the forehead an unnatural expanse, combined to give the impression of skin too tightly stretched over the bones to allow of any flesh between. There were none of the little seams and lines by which most old faces testify their common lot with life. There were deep clefts from the nostrils to the edge of the jaw, but they were more like chiselings on a marble block than folds in soft flesh.

There was plenty of time for Brian to observe, for Mr. Page stood silent in the doorway, subjecting him to a prolonged and curiously objective scrutiny. When he spoke, he might have been addressing a piece of machinery, so coldly impersonal was his tone.

"How do you do, Mr. Mackell," he said in a voice which, though very English, was precise and never slurred. "I bid you welcome. You will stay with us tonight, and I will see that everything is done for your comfort. I regret that my house is not more seemly, but I live a very retired life."

He was silent for a moment, then, with a slight inclination of the head, turned and went out. It was as if he had been coolly considering whether anything further was necessary and proper to be said, and deciding to the contrary, had—quite logically—not said it. Brian, expecting something further, had no time to speak before he was gone.

His daughter, who had been standing behind him, and whose existence he had not recognized either by his actions or his words, came in, and with a light assisting touch on his arm asked Brian to sit down again. He was conscious of a difference in her manner now. The peculiar mixture of composure and restraint was still there, but some strain had evidently passed with the interview between her father and himself.

"I'm afraid we are not very experienced in making a guest comfortable," she said, advancing it as a fact rather than an apology, "so we want you to say exactly what you would like."

Brian noticed how she said "we," while her father had used "I" exclusively. He felt suddenly sorry for her, in spite of the sense of inferiority which her beauty and composure gave him, and as he protested how little he needed, and how much he appreciated their hospitality, his self-consciousness disappeared, and his rather boyish frankness and ease returned.

But when she suddenly broke into a laugh at his description of Captain Todd's mismanagement of his horse, he felt that something had happened. It was a hearty though melodious laugh, totally unexpected, more like a boy's than a girl's, and though her expression immediately reverted to its intent composure, it had flashed into such brilliant animation for that moment, that his mental picture of her face was permanently changed.

There was a silence when he had brought the day's events as far as the Page's sitting-room. He did not feel uncomfortable because he knew now that silence was natural to her and not an indication of embarrassment. She was evidently considering something.

"You must be tired after such a long day," she said at last, pulling an old-fashioned gold watch from her waistband. Its message brought doubt into her voice again. "But it's only eight o'clock."

Brian leaned forward smiling, but a little troubled. "Look here, Miss Page. You simply mustn't bother yourself about me. I know what's worrying you. You are wondering what to do with me until bedtime, isn't that it?"

He had not really expected an unequivocal answer and was pleased when she nodded definitely and said, "Yes."

"Well, it's mighty nice of you, but please don't! I'll feel mean if I'm going to be on your mind that way. I'll have to hobble right out and sleep in the road if that's the way you're going to take it."

She did not take that seriously, merely looking up and meeting his eyes steadily. But although it was serious, her look plainly said, "You don't really mean that,—but what shall I do with you?"

"I'm only thinking of you, Mr. Mackell," she said sedately.

"And I'm only thinking of you, Miss Page," he grinned. "But I'm afraid that won't get us anywhere. Suppose I have a bit of a wash and brush up? Lord knows I need it! That would take up a bit of time. Then—" He glanced round at the dull little room, wondering what then? It would be pleasant to light that fire and sit in an armchair, smoking and talking to this girl who found him such a problem—or merely looking at her. But apparently that would take a revolution! Maybe it would be fairer to get himself out of the way. If he took a book with him, he could go to bed and read. What a life!

He leaned over and pulled out "Edwin Drood," feeling very unselfish, and a little sulky. "Then I think I might go to bed. If I don't feel sleepy, I'll read this, if I may. I never wanted to start it before because there wasn't any ending."

She looked at him quickly when his voice changed, but took his right arm and gently supported him to the bottom of the narrow staircase. There they paused. Through an open door farther along the hall, he could see the head of Mr. Page, brightly lit by the lamp beside him on a dining-room table, and bending over a book. Papers were spread on his side of the table, some sewing on the other. It looked bright and comfortable.

"Put your hand on my shoulder," she directed as they started. "You'll get up easily between me and the bannisters.

"You're trying to spare me!" she expostulated, as he threw most of his weight on the bannisters. "Please be sensible."

He yielded to the exasperated entreaty of her voice, and they progressed more easily when he used her sturdily braced shoulder as freely as a crutch. "This is the bathroom," she said a little breathlessly, stopping at one of the three doors on the landing. "Your room is upstairs. I'll go and get your things and make the bed and come back for you."

She went downstairs lightly, and as he hopped into the bathroom Brian, unanalytical as he was, wondered that such graceful strength could be combined with such stiff reserve, and exist in such a poky little home.

The bathroom was dingy and inconvenient to a Canadian's eyes, but having taken off his shirt, he managed to make a thorough if somewhat messy job of washing in the small basin. He scrubbed himself from shoulders to hair, and felt much better, until he discovered that there was neither brush nor comb in the room. That annoyed him. It was another link in the chain fastening him to Mr. Russell's label, "rough and ready." His hair was stiff, thick and fair, with an objectionable wave which constantly threatened to become curly if not disciplined. A trial at all times, a tragedy when wet.

Of course Miss Page noticed it. "Your brush and comb are upstairs," she said as soon as he came out, and he took her shoulder again, surprised by the soothing effect of her tactlessness.

The little room on the top floor was clean and bare and chilly. There was an iron bedstead, a blue-painted chest of drawers and washstand, with large white-enamelled ewer and basin, and looming incongruously large, an impressive mahogany wardrobe.

The bed was only half made, some blankets and sheets being still piled on it. "I didn't want to keep you waiting," she explained, setting to work.

He did not make any useless offer to help, but sat down on the one hard chair and watched. Her method was very different from that of his mother or sister. She gave the bedclothes none of those tender little pats and strokings which he would hardly have remembered, except that they were absent now. Her motions were sweeping, and definite. The delicate nuances of the bedmaker's art were ignored. When she folded a sheet or tucked a blanket, either there were no adjustments to be made, or if there were, she did not make them.

But it looked inviting enough,—the first real bed he had slept in for months. If only he didn't have to get into it so early!

He rose just as she was finishing. Light from a street-lamp was shining up into the window, and he wondered why such a small village should have lights. A man and a woman emerged slowly from the surrounding darkness, and then a third. He recognized Captain Todd, and behind, Nott. The woman seemed vaguely familiar. Brian turned interestedly. "There's our doctor, Miss Page, and isn't that the girl who yanked him into that cottage when he halted?"

She joined him by the window. "Yes, it's Miss Brador, and—I'm afraid it means that poor old Mary has gone." Her softened voice moved him as she added, "I'm sorry. I liked old Mary,—and she was lonely."

He watched until the three figures disappeared, feeling but not knowing that he felt depressed. "I wonder where they're going," he said, though without much interest. "He isn't lonely anyhow."

She looked up with a slight frown, but he was still looking out of the window. "I expect they are going up to the Hall. Mr. Russell said that a lot of the officers were billeted there. Miss Brador is very clever, she will know just how to amuse them."

He turned. "It's been mighty good of you to take me in like this, Miss Page. I know I must be a darned nuisance, but it's only for one night. I think I'll tumble in right now and make the most of a good bed while I've got it."

Her brows were still overcast as she said "goodnight" and slowly closed the door. She was still frowning when, with a sudden change of mind, she pushed it open again. She stood, with her hand on the knob, stiffly graceful, resolute. "Mr. Mackell, do you really want to go to bed? Or are you doing it so as not to bother us?"

Her voice had the same note of exasperated entreaty. Brian felt foolish. What a silly question to ask,—just when he had made such an effort to be a perfect and untroublesome guest! Why couldn't she leave him to his deadly dull evening, instead of rubbing it in, and making him tell more polite lies? He felt resentful, and his good resolutions vanished. Probably everybody else in the battalion was out about the village having a good time right now,—it wasn't even nine yet.

"Oh, do say something definite! Do you want to go to bed?"

"Of course I don't want to go to bed," he answered warmly. "Why should I,—the first night for a dog's age that I've been in a house,—or where there was somebody to talk to except a gang I've been talking to for six months!"

She opened her mouth to answer, closed it sharply, flung her head sideways in a despairing little gesture, the very pathos of which annoyed him the more because it jabbed his conscience so painfully.

"But why didn't you say so, then?"

"Because—oh, because I DIDN'T!" He tried to turn away, disgusted with himself, his billet, and the Great War. But his foot prevented more than a half turn, and with two short steps she was facing him again.

"Mr. Mackell, please say what you want to do, then. How can I do what you want, if you don't tell me? I—if I were Miss Brador, I would know, but—"

She hesitated for a moment and Brian broke in, sullenly emphasizing each word and tingling all over with a sense of their fatuousness. "I—want—to—sit—downstairs—in—the—parlour—and—talk—to—you."

Her brows unknit, rose slightly. Such a simple suggestion seemed to come as a surprise. Her voice was satisfied, matter of fact, but mystified, as she answered, "Well, come and do it, then."

She came to his side and offered him her shoulder. Brian took it without a word. He was feeling too foolish to speak. What a fuss about nothing! If only she'd thought of the possibility of him preferring company to bed at nine o'clock! Apparently she had no objection! Or if he hadn't been so damned courteous!

He hopped clumsily downstairs beside her. A fine start for a pleasant evening's talk!