Читать книгу Valour - Warwick Deeping - Страница 10

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Those were whirlwind hours, those hours of their last whole day together; hours that they tried to lengthen by crowding them with incidents—potential memories. Pierce had his khaki drill fitted and bought a sun helmet, and a few military playthings. They had their photographs taken by Fuselli of Bond Street, and Pierce arranged for the painting of that miniature of Janet. Then he lured her into shops and bought her hats and dresses, gloves and scarves, and she had not the heart to refuse him. His love wanted to spend itself. There was a pathos even in his extravagance, in his passionate seizing of this last chance of spoiling her.

They lunched at the Savoy, a new experience for Janet, and one that affected her negatively. Pierce insisted on champagne, and his cheerfulness was of much the same quality—forced and artificial.

She leant across the table towards him.

“Pierce——”

“Dear girl——”

“Don’t let us stay here long. What time is our train?”

“Three-thirty. You don’t like the atmosphere?”

She looked at her ring.

“I should like to be alone with you—and my own thoughts—in some solemn place, just for a while. I can’t pretend to rise to this—worldliness.”

“I’m sorry, dear. It was a bad blunder; a piece of bad taste.”

“No, I did not mean that. But these last memories will be so precious.”

He looked into her eyes and beheld a new world in them; a world of mystery and strange idealism, and deep, sacred yearnings.

“Of course. Yes, let us get out of the place. I have an idea——”

He carried her off in a taxi to the great new cathedral at Westminster, and there they sat in the hush and the twilight, holding hands and saying nothing. The spirit of the great building brooded over them. Its silence was the silence of unspeakable emotion. They felt that they had never touched each other spiritually until that moment; they had partaken of a kind of sacrament together. Love had a new meaning.

They remained there, sadly happy, for an hour, and then Pierce lifted Janet’s hand and kissed the ring he had given her.

“We must be going, dear.”

She sighed resignedly.

“I shall never forget this. Now I am ready.”

But the pain of parting had stirred in them, and it quickened and grew as the day passed. Pierce Hammersly was conscious of a desperate desire to be near her; he could do nothing but look at her; he did not want her out of his sight. A couple of prim females shared the carriage with them as far as Scarshott; dry, desiccated creatures whose souls seemed to rattle when they talked. Pierce hardly realised their presence. Janet was like a glowing figure of light whose radiance spread itself around and blotted out all trivial objects like a golden fog.

The car was waiting for them at Scarshott Station, and Pierce told Bains to drive them to Heather Cottage. A tragic tenderness had displaced the triumphant excitement of the first few days, and a drive through Scarshott High Street had lost its zest. They did not want to be stared at; their love had grown more sacred.

“I shall have to leave you for an hour or two, dear. I ought to spend some of the time with my people.”

“Of course.”

“I shall walk up after dinner. And about to-morrow?”

She looked at him bravely.

“I don’t think I will come up to town with you. I would rather say good-bye—to-night.”

“Oh, my dear! Yes, but perhaps you are right. We don’t want to be gaped at.”

He left her at the cottage and was driven back to Orchards in the mellow hush of a June evening. Porteous was strolling in the garden, trying to play the philosopher among his roses, and not succeeding very well. The normal placid current of his life had glided suddenly into an abrupt and rocky channel, and there was the noise of rushing water in his ears, and a sense of something slipping—slipping into turmoil, fear, and darkness.

“Hallo, here you are!”

They looked at each other shyly, as though they knew that they were acting a part.

“I suppose that Dent can pack for me, Pater? I am going to spend an hour with Janet after dinner.”

Porteous winced.

“What time is that train?”

“Nine-fifteen. I shall only have to change platforms and pick up a kit-bag at the cloak-room.”

“Is Janet going up with you?”

“No.”

“I don’t think I’ll come, Pierce—unless——”

“The adventure starts to-morrow, Pater, and a man has to set his teeth some time.”

“Exactly.”

They strolled up and down one of the lawns under the broad shadows of the cedars. The peace and the stillness of the old place seemed strange and unreal, and yet so convincing that Pierce could hardly realise that he might be at sea when that same sun set to-morrow. Those Greek islands, and the Gallipoli Peninsula, vague dots upon the map, loomed up suddenly in the glare of his imagination. He felt his sure grip on life slipping away. It was like going to a strange school, a school whose strangeness haunted him, and oppressed him with vague dread.

“Well, my boy, we must keep smiling.”

Old Hammersly’s upper lip quivered as he uttered the platitude.

“About Janet, Father.”

“Yes. Count on me, Pierce.”

“She’s sensitive, and fiercely proud. Don’t let people slight her.”

“I’ll see to that. As to the future—I have already taken steps to render her independent.”

“You are helping me, Dad, more than you know. I shall be thinking of you and Janet.”

“Of course, my boy; of course. And when the war is over, you will have done your duty, and life will be good.”

“I hope so, Pater, with all my heart.”

They walked up and down in silence for a minute, and then Porteous mentioned his wife.

“I think, Pierce, your mother would like you to spend a little time with her.”

“Where is she?”

“She was in the drawing-room.”

“I’ll go and have a talk to her.”

Sophia Hammersly was one of those fortunate yet much to be pitied people who can neither weep nor laugh. Life had left her cold. She did not feel things; they only added or subtracted from the sum total of her comfort. Having no fire within her, she could flatter herself on her stoicism, and on the admirable and aristocratic calmness with which she faced this great ordeal.

And in her way she was proud of Pierce; proud of him because he was hers, because she had produced him, because he was good to look at and clever. There was no affection in this pride. It was just an aspect of her egoism, a form of self-satisfaction. She liked being the mother of a good-looking son, just as she liked living in a big house, driving in a de luxe car, knowing county people. It made her feel fat and comfortable and socially successful.

And since it was quite the aristocratic thing for a young man to go to the front, Sophia Hammersly was able to play the part of the Roman mother with no bitter heart pangs and no dreads. She had no imagination, and somehow she had never seen Pierce lying dead with white lips and blood on his face, and sightless eyes wide open. He remained a successful social figure, distinguished, smartly uniformed, capable of the obvious, fashion-plate gallantry.

“My dear Pierce, I hope you intend keeping a diary. I am going to send one of your khaki photos up to The Trident. I know they would like to publish it.”

“I shouldn’t bother, Mater.”

“And if you can send home some curios it will be so interesting. Mrs. Hemmerde has one of those nice brass shell things in her drawing-room.”

He looked at her, sadly sardonic.

“Supposing I can get hold of a Turk’s head, Mater, and have it pickled?”

“Don’t be so flippant, Pierce. I shall expect you to write to me every other day, and I should like bits I could send to one of the daily papers.”

She did not mention Janet, for already she had half convinced herself that this foolish infatuation would wither and droop of itself, and that a young man’s love is a thing that changes like the seasons.

“I suppose your father will see you embark?”

“No, we have agreed against it.”

“But I think he ought to. It is his duty.”

“We don’t always do our duty, Mater. It is rather a bore, you know.”

He escaped from his mother, pretending that he wanted to make sure that Dent was getting on with the packing. The sight of his active service kit did not excite him in the least; in fact, it depressed him; the stuff looked so ominous and final.

“Don’t forget that canvas bucket, Dent.”

“No, sir. And will you wear the revolver?”

“No, shove the thing in the kit-bag. Have I got a tin mug and a plate?”

“Yes, sir. And what about the water-bottle?”

“Shove it in the kit-bag. And don’t forget that camp mirror.”

“No, sir.”

Dinner ended in inarticulate depression. Pierce was restless, most horribly restless, thinking of Janet and of the stark pathos of leaving her. He dashed off, leaving his coffee untouched, and ran half the way to Heather Cottage, his heart racing, and a sense of emptiness under his ribs. He noticed, in a perfunctory sort of way, how bright the after-glow was, and the wetness of the grass with the falling dew. Even the beauty of things was edged with pain.

Then he was holding Janet in his arms; she had been waiting at the gate for him, and the warm softness of her was like blood flowing from a wound. They were trembling, both of them, breathing jerkily. Pierce turned her face up to his, and talked like a man half out of his senses.

“Little woman—I’ve got to go. It’s damnable. How I love you! Oh, my dear. You’ll be brave; I shall come back all right; I’ve sworn to come back.”

She just looked at him, and looked.

“It’s so hard to believe.”

She closed her eyes, and he kissed them, and they stood awhile in silence, shivering a little, and holding each other close.

Then Pierce mastered himself.

“I ought to see your mother, dear.”

“Yes, come in.”

It was a poor, pathetic, trite little interview, with Mrs. Yorke’s faded eyes looking at them helplessly. They did not prolong it, but went out again into the garden.

And there Pierce had one of his moments of passionate revolt.

“Curse this war! Do you remember those fellows in mufti lunching at the Savoy? Why should I go—while they stay at home? Isn’t it like England—putting everything on the man who has a sense of honour, and letting the slackers grin and stay at home? Why should you have to bear this?”

She gave a deep, quick cry.

“Don’t—don’t. I’m proud to bear it. There’s a sort of nobleness, bitter but sweet. I love you so much more because you are going.”

He reacted to her fineness.

“Do you? How splendid you are!”

“No, I’m so human; but I do love bigness.”

“My dearest——!”

They wandered to and fro awhile, with arms linked, talking with passionate, sweet intimacy. The stars blinked at them; the night was soft and still, yet in the bosom of the darkness there was a throbbing as of pain.

Then the old feverishness, the sense of impending anguish, returned. They yearned for that which they had dreaded, the wrench that was so inevitable and so near. It was like waiting for the poisoned cup; both longed to snatch at it.

“Janet, I ought to go.”

“Yes. I’m being selfish.”

“Oh, my heart, good-bye!”

They clung to each other for a moment, and then Pierce Hammersly turned and fled.

He ran home, panting, cursing.

“It’s damnable; absolutely damnable. Hell! Why didn’t I stay a little longer! I shan’t see her again.”

He faltered, ground his teeth, and went on again towards Scarshott.

“What is the use?” he thought; “I wish the whole damned country was at the bottom of the sea!”