CHAPTER II

I

The months slipped, months of peril, of thrills, of human drama and comradeship. On Christmas Day, as they entered Dover Harbour, John looked forward to the leave he had obtained. It had been a dreary, nerve-wracking experience, a life in which monotony gave place to unexpected activity. But the moment they reached the harbour, he was told to report at the Admiral's office, and half an hour later was under orders to proceed to Scapa Flow, the other extremity of Great Britain, there to join H.M.S. Fanfare, of the Grand Fleet. Hastily collecting his things, including a bundle of letters awaiting him, he bade hurried and warm farewells to his shipmates, good fellows all of them, despite the fact that they growled night and day about the Service, knowing well they would be broken-hearted if they had to leave it.

On the evening of the same day, he was in the night express to Edinburgh. He had had a few hours in London and had made three calls--first at Mariton Street to deposit clothes and get fresh ones. Here he found Capt. Fisher in a state of high prosperity, as something in the Ordnance Survey Department. He was enjoying the war tremendously and prophesied that it would last another five years.

"It has revived British character, sir--the tonic we needed!" he said, blithely indifferent to the holocaust of youth. Miss Simpson, too, at the tea-table showed an indomitable spirit. She had been visiting the dear brave boys in a local hospital, and related with gusto a story told her of a Ghurka soldier who carried eight Germans' heads in a sack, which he had refused to give up. "That's what should happen to all the Germans," she added.

"It's very horrible!" said John.

Miss Simpson opened wide eyes in surprise.

Then he called on Mrs. Graham, for he remembered that her boy was a midshipman stationed with the Grand Fleet; perhaps they could meet. Her flat, with its exquisite taste, cast the old spell upon him, even before she came into the room. There was something so intimate in the books, cushions, curtains, rugs and china, something that revealed the hand of Mrs. Graham. She greeted him with great pleasure, made him talk, and as he did so, he sat wondering at her beauty, the lovely order of her hair, the music of her voice. She had just had a letter from Muriel. That opened the flood-gates and for an hour a wonderful little nurse near Amiens was the sole topic of conversation.

"It's more than a year since I saw her," he said, "and I am getting more desperate every day."

"You poor thing!" smiled Mrs. Graham. "This war is very hard for young lovers; I pity them most of all. But she writes?"

"Now and then--and wonderful letters too. I'm going to make extracts and publish them."

"You mercenary man!" she laughed.

The hour fled. He had to go. She pressed a little autographed copy of Flecker's Poems into his hand. He could smell the particular perfume she used, for an hour afterwards.

It was not until John was seated in the train, speeding northwards through the night, that he had time to open his letters. There was one from Marsh, in a base hospital, wounded but cheerful and recommended for the M.C. "for conspicuous bravery in attack."

"_Just fancy how all the 'brave lad' stick-at-homes will be writing to congratulate me on coming to my senses and showing my courage! Ough! Scissors, it makes me sick. One hundred glad-eyed youngsters were minced by steel in that attack--we gained eighty yards and lost it all an hour afterwards. What idiots we humans are!_"

A very short letter from Muriel. She was resting after a nervous breakdown. How long was the war going to last? It was very wonderful being in the midst of things, but sometimes she wanted to cry out; was Europe quite indifferent to all the suffering?

"_Oh, John, if only we could just romp into tea at 'The Croft' as in those old days, with Dad and Mr. Ribble discussing the Insurance Bill, and poor Tod banging in, covered with motor grease, and you and Bobbie eating up all the bread and butter. It is awful to think it will never be like that again... I feel ages old... If this--_"

Here came a break in the letter.

"_I've been called away for half an hour--a poor fellow in my ward who kept asking for me. He's only twenty-five, and so young and strong, with the dearest funny little smile. He's so helpless. I feel just like a mother, with all these big babies around me--and they're quite as troublesome, but very dear. I begin to realise, John, that I had never really lived. I see things quite differently, and you'll probably find me another kind of Muriel altogether. I expect you've changed also--haven't all values changed these days? We lived in a very little world once, and thought too much of ourselves._"

He dropped the letter, a chill had come over him. Was it envy of those big babies, and particularly the one "with the dearest funny little smile?" Changed!--what did she mean by that? He hadn't changed, why should she? True, they hadn't met for a year--and she had not written lately. Why had he not insisted on their marriage? He laughed then, a little uneasily at a thought that said, "You're jealous!" and read on--

"_It was very wonderful when you wrote about our settling down when it is over--if ever. Somehow it seems too much to hope from life. Things were getting very crazy in 1914 and I feel this war is putting our relations on a more sensible basis._"

A more sensible basis!--what on earth did the girl mean. Was she getting unnerved? He read the sentence over again. Yes, he must insist on their marriage. She wanted a controlling hand; this war was too much for her. With this resolve, he read on again, and became easier in mind.

"_John, I couldn't leave this now, like this, with all this life going on. It must be terrible for women to sit and wait at home. Poor things. I read some of their letters to the men here and I nearly break down. I am feeling a little shy of you, John, you are so famous now. The nurses here bring me cuttings about you, and in the mess room, there's a Sphere photograph of you coming down a gangway. I love the naval uniform, and to think that I've never seen you in it! Be kind to all those dear little middies, they must feel so lonely on that big dreary sea._"

John smiled as he put the letter away. At that very moment, one of those "dear little middies" lay with his head fast asleep on John's shoulder, where he had slipped over. He would have to tell Muriel that they detested being called "dear," "little," or "middies," and that the average "snotty" could be entrusted to look well after himself. There was another letter from Bobbie. He was not fit for foreign service and he had been given a post at the War Office. Miss Piggin sent a pair of woollen gloves she had knitted in "desperate moments," for Chawley School was now a hospital for the wounded, with Mrs. Tobin as commandant, "very successful, her firmness keeping the men in order." Mr. Tobin was a chaplain at the front. She had had a piece of Egyptian pottery sent by Mr. Woodman, who was a lieutenant in the Yeomanry stationed near the Suez Canal.

Having read his letters John surveyed his carriage, thinking of sleep. He had been unable to get a sleeping berth, but there was only the "snotty" and himself in the compartment. That young gentleman had been solacing himself for his departure from home-worship and civilisation, with a copy of _La Parisienne_ and the semi-nude mademoiselles therein, all of whom appeared to spend their time dressed only in chemises, sitting on the knees of officers. John reflected on the necessity of a press censor for the safeguarding of "snotties'" morals. The immediate problem was how to dispose of this lad without waking him, if possible. John looked at the face on his shoulder; it might have been a baby's, so fresh and unwrinkled, with a little red mouth through which a row of white teeth just showed.

Very quietly he lowered the lad until he was reclining on the full length of the seat; pulling his legs up entailed risk, but it was done, and the Navy slept soundly. John made himself comfortable and dozed off.

II

He was awakened by a ray of sunlight striking his eyes. The train was standing in a small station. Looking out of the window, he saw a group of houses, all brightly yellow in the morning sun. A slight mist and a chill air told him it was early morning and there was the smell of the sea in the air. A great range of blue mountains loomed in the distance, with a flat estuary between, and the tide out. He was alone in the compartment, but in a minute or so his companion returned along the platform, fresh-coloured and bright-eyed in the nipping air, bearing two cups of steaming coffee.

"Will you have one, sir?" he asked. "I'm awfully sorry I went to sleep on you last night--did I push you off the seat, sir?"

John laughed and explained.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Bonar Bridge--we're on the Highland Railway now, sir. We've passed Cromarty Firth--we've got a dummy fleet in there to diddle Fritz--then through Sutherlandshire--jolly wild and desolate over those moors all the way to Thurso. We'll be there by tea-time, sir."

The boy chatted away brightly. This was his second journey, he was proud of being a veteran. He had been in the Jutland Battle, blown into the sea and picked up from a grating by a submarine, along with five survivors of a crew of eight hundred.

The day drew on; noon passed; still they climbed northwards. They were in desolate regions now, with tiny hamlets set in the wild moors. There was a feeling of great space and the silence was broken only by the cry of a bird. They passed Dunrobbin Castle, standing high and lonely on its promontory overlooking the desolate sea. As prophesied, they reached Thurso at tea-time.

A motor omnibus took them along the coast from Thurso to Scrabster, the point of embarkation. Here John parted from his young companion, who gave him the smartest little salute, bestowed on admirals and admiring young ladies only. John boarded a destroyer. Half an hour later, entering a gate made by two drifters which lowered a boom, he saw the Fleet. There it lay, enormous, like floating animals asleep on the water, glittering with the afternoon sun. Here was the strength of England. It was a sight to quicken the heart. From his place on the bridge, to which the skipper invited him, John surveyed this grey steel city of the brotherhood of the brave. The sea mist seemed to cloud his eyes.

That night he met his fellow officers, walked over the ship, a new model of the Dreadnought class, installed himself in his cabin, saw his office with typewriter, clerk's desk, and telephone to the wireless room. He interviewed his marine orderly, a stocky little Cockney youth, shining all over like the breach of a gun. He slept soundly that night, awakened early by his orderly with a hip-bath, hot water can and carefully brushed clothes. At ten a cutter came to take him to the flag ship to present his much-examined credentials. A smart flag officer met him at the top of the companion way and conducted him below. The Commander-in-Chief would see him in a few minutes. John waited on the deck flat. Rear-admirals entered and emerged from the white-enamelled, brass-handled door on his right. There seemed to be a staff of flag officers in attendance, all young and alert, with their gold lace and showy aiglettes drooping from their shoulders. Half an hour passed, John growing more nervous every minute. Then the young flag officer called his name and ushered him into the presence.

It was a large room, with a fireplace and the far end completely windowed, bow-shaped, under which ran a verandah round the stern of the ship, where grew potted geraniums. In the sunlit air above the wind-flecked water, small seagulls cried and hovered. The water threw a shimmering reflection on to the white ceiling. By a table, on which stood a silver portrait frame, a small bookrest holding novels, a "Who's Who" and an "Army Guide," was a baby grand piano. A red carpet covered the large floor up to the pilastered fireplace. All this John saw in a glance before looking into the face of the man, who stood, his back to a large flag-dotted map of the North Sea, holding out his hand, his face puckered in a pleasant smile.

He was a small man, with dark penetrating eyes, a thin-lipped wide mouth, with corners that suggested a vivid sense of humour. The nose was slightly hooked, and John immediately recognised the striking resemblance to his brother, a Hampshire vicar who had stayed with the Marshs. But if the great position and fame of the man before him made him nervous, it was immediately dispelled by the kindness of the voice, and the charm of his personality. For twenty minutes they talked, their conversation touching many points of common interest, and on this occasion only briefly upon the work of the new correspondent. Every minute an anxious officer looked into the room, but the Chief ignored his hint of fretful persons without. At the end, another warm handshake and John passed out. Back on his own ship again, he was assailed and made to satisfy the general curiosity concerning "the Old Man."

Thus he entered upon a new era of experience, and watched Spring give place to Summer in the chilly northern waters; and upon the precipitous cliffs of the lonely islands saw the bird life, indifferent to mankind invading its hitherto unmolested domain.

III

The tranquillity of his new life, despite the atmosphere of constant vigilance, brought a great calm to John. He had been a silent sufferer in the appalling devastation, human and material, he had witnessed in Flanders, and under the fearful strain of the Dover vigil. Life on board was industrious but regular, and with the cheerful companionship of these well-balanced philosophers around him, he began to feel less acutely sensitive to the tragic action of the world drama. In a way he felt uneasy. He was not quite taking his share of the burden laid on the shoulders of youth. He would have liked to stand by the side of Vernley and Marsh and a dozen others. Here he was a spectator, waiting for something that might never happen, something which he hoped never would happen, for the event was fraught with immense and appalling possibilities. Often John stared, hypnotised by the sleek quiet power of the long guns, that moved so slowly in the morning air, like cautious antennæ. Yet swift destruction could pour out of those harmless nozzles under the obedience of hidden forces within the turrets. It seemed incredible that floating mammoths such as these ships might dissolve in air under the battery of similar guns.

But as the weeks wore on, eventless save for rumours and the variations of discipline, the idea of war receded, though occasionally incoming destroyers or drifters brought grim little stories of short encounters outside their tranquil anchorage. They read the newspapers and closely followed the vicissitudes of the war, now spread to many fronts, in many climes, and affecting almost all races on the earth, either directly or indirectly. And the incredible was happening, the successive war prophets, the weekly commentators, fell into oblivion, for this war went on despite all the carefully enunciated reasons why it could not go on. According to statistics, the German legions had been wiped out many times over, but still they pressed hard the defending line, changed from the defensive to the offensive with astounding virility for an army pronounced exhausted and emaciated.

Letters from the front brought John into close touch with realities. Muriel now wrote less frequently. Her hospital work grew heavier; he could discern the heartache underlying some of her words, sometimes an impatient note of protest against the politicians gaining wordy victories, while wrecked humanity poured into the hospitals to be botched up and start out again, until the human shuttlecocks fell, never to rise. Then one day, a rare event, a letter from Vernley, a poor writer, yet one whose disjointed chronicles were eagerly read. John opened the letter in the messroom where he had been talking with the ship's doctor, and read through it slowly; then on the fourth page his heart seemed to stop.

"_Poor old Marsh! I suppose we'll all go West sooner or later, but somehow Scissors, I can't think of him as dead. He was so full of life, such a tireless beggar and such a fund of fun in him. I'm tormenting myself with the thought that I once behaved rather silly--I cut him on a platform one day, before he joined up. I know it hurt--I wanted it to--he told me so later when I ran across him here. Thank God we put it right. Still, I hurt him, Scissors, and he was too dear a chap for me to behave like that, and I'm coming to think he was right,--the more I see of this bloody mess, with no end to it, and all of us wondering why we stand it._"

John put the letter down, numbed. He watched a destroyer through the porthole, passing on, saw a gull wheel and turn, with a silver glint as the sun caught its wings, heard the siren of H.M.S. Oak, speeding on its message-delivering mission; all these things went on about him, yet they were in a picture; only he was the unreal thing. Marsh gone! How could that be with the morning so fresh and active, with so much life about? Surely he would walk in here, and with a laugh, clap him on the shoulder, with something thoroughly absurd to say. Dead? Why--fellows like Marsh could not die!

His thoughts flew away to the rambling vicarage. He saw Mrs. Marsh sitting at the piano, under the lamplight; saw Mr. Marsh in his study, pipe going, the "_Nation_" in his hands. Could life go on and Marsh not be part of it?

Hours passed before the significance of it became clear to him, but a week passed before he was able to take up a pen and write to Mrs. Marsh. That terrible task performed, he felt now prepared for anything. The world was falling to bits; nothing could be saved. The bad news from the front affected him little. He wondered at the gloomy faces of the men around him. Why be affected by the inevitable? It would all be enacted as relentlessly as in a Greek play. Another blow would come yet, of that he was sure; life was to be wholly disintegrated.

But the weeks went on and nothing happened. Letters came, curious restrained letters, at longer intervals from Muriel. Vernley, as if conscious of the lessening circle, wrote more frequently. Lindon, in a big boyish left hand sent the town gossip; he had found a consolation, he was composing, and Tilly was wonderful. June came, with warmer and longer days in those northern waters, and with it a hurried note from Muriel saying she would be in London in a week; could he meet her, as she wished to see him? Her wish was a command that found him eager to obey. A few wires, an interview, and he was released; his leave was overdue and the _Daily Post_ offered to send a temporary substitute at once. John waited impatiently four days and almost embraced his successor when H.M.S. Oak brought him alongside. He wired to Muriel asking when and where they could meet. On Friday night he was back in London, more wonderful, more beloved than ever to the exile, and found a reply at Mrs. Perdie's bidding him meet her in the lounge at Claridge's on Saturday evening at seven. He pictured her, waiting for him there, in a chic nurse's uniform, and to be worthy of her and in celebration of the great occasion, he put on his best service jacket.

He was there at five minutes before the hour, and to his surprise she was already waiting for him. He rushed towards her with impetuous boyish joy, that raised smiles on many observant faces around. Her greeting was more restrained, and her calmness steadied him. How splendid she was and how lovely, he thought. She had changed, of course, but she was the more Muriel for all that.

"We've a private sitting room--let us go upstairs," she said, when he had let her withdraw her hand.

"You're staying here?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," she answered. There was nothing said in the lift. He could only look at her, but once the door had closed upon them in the small hall opening on the tiny sitting room, he put his arms out to take her into them.

"Darling," he whispered, but she seemed too agitated with nervous joy to respond, and led the way into the room, where she immediately sat down. Even then he did not see that she was slightly unnatural, as under a strain. The first indication was her voice as she pronounced his name. He looked at her more observantly; a dumb pain in her eyes, which met his with a quiet strength, caused his heart to sink a little.

"Muriel--there's nothing wrong?"

She looked down at her hands a moment, and then up at him as he stood over her. Something in her whole attitude struck him as piteous. He sat down opposite her.

"John--dear--I am going to hurt you terribly. If you cannot forgive me I shall understand. I am no longer Muriel Vernley--I am Muriel Harvey."

He looked at her. What was she saying? She was unnerved, he could see that; this strain had been too much for her. But in that brief silence she saw by the kindness in his eyes that he had not understood.

"I am Mrs. Frank Harvey, John--I'm married." And to make her words clear, she held out her hand, with its ringed finger.

Even then he just looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were those of a troubled child.

"Muriel--you can't mean it!--how can you be married!" he cried, in a low voice.

This time she could not look at him, she did not want to see the agony that was coming.

"I cannot ask you to forgive me, John--I know that, and if you think hardly, perhaps I deserve it--but oh, I don't want to hurt you--I don't, John, I--"

He had risen now and had gone over to the window, his face turned from her, looking down into the well of the building. What was he thinking?

"It's incredible!" he said huskily, after a pause. "You cannot make a fool of me like this, Muriel, you can't--why, it's impossible!" he burst out, turning and spreading his hands wide; and then seeing her face clearly for the first time, he knew it was true.

She was talking now--words, words, words. What could a woman say worth listening to by a man thrown on one side like a discarded doll; and he knew it all. Of course she had met him in hospital, there was no need to narrate all that. He had appealed to her sympathies. But he blamed her, not the man, who only pressed his opportunity. He assumed a calm attitude until she had finished, as though he had not really heard, for he was busy putting on a mask, determined she should not see how cruelly hurt he was. Once out of the room, he could face the thing squarely, but here, she must not see.

"Of course it has all been very silly--our boy and girl romance," he said, as lightly as he could, and he found a slight pleasure in noticing he had hurt her, for she paled as she stood up.

"Silly?--you cannot think it was that, John--" she pleaded, and his heart smote him, but pride insisted on the mask. He held out his hand formally.

"Good-bye, Muriel."

Would he go like this, she thought, so blind to her terrible trial? A noise behind made him turn. A key was being fitted in the lock. She saw his face set, and its sudden tension told her more than his voice or words had betrayed. There was the sound of voices. One he knew well, would have rejoiced at on any other occasion but this,--it was Vernley's. And the other? John's eyes met Muriel's and they felt their hearts throbbing in that long moment. The door swung open and Vernley entered, following a young man, an officer, fresh-complexioned and of medium height and build.

"John!" cried Vernley, holding out an eager hand, but John was looking at him.

"Frank," said Muriel quietly, "this--"

The man interrupted her eagerly.

"Muriel--I'm getting on fine. I've put the key in myself. Don't move, I know where you are, watch me! There's a window on the right, the lounge on the left wall, you're standing by it--and a chair here!" he cried, touching it lightly with his fingers as he walked forward.

"Frank--this is my friend--Mr. Dean," she said.

The young officer halted, his hand raised for a moment.

"Oh, sorry," he cried, cheerfully. "How d'you do?"

He turned and held out his hand, but in front of John, a little to the left, as though he might be there, and the face turned that way, smiling at him.

A glance, and John took the misdirected hand and looked into sightless blue eyes.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Dean?--Glad to meet any of Muriel's friends. I'm rather sudden on the scene, eh!"

He laughed boyishly.

"And they'll wonder why she's got this blind old war horse--won't they, Muriel?"

His laughter would have been infectious at any other time, but now it echoed as in an empty room and was engulfed in silence. Vernley watching it all, stood by the door. Muriel was crying now; the blind man stood gripping the chair, sensing something unusual.

"I must hurry away now," said John. "Good-bye."

He shook the soldier's hand again, then moved towards Muriel, and without speaking raised her hand to his lips. For a long moment he held it so, while she looked down on his bowed head mistily. A moment later he had closed the door behind him and was in the corridor.

But he was not to go alone. Vernley hurried after him.

"Scissors, my dear old Scissors!" he cried, taking John's arm as they walked towards the lift. "It's a mystery, I don't understand it, I'm sure she--she--oh damn! you know what I mean! Let's go somewhere, I'm all upside down!"

The lift took them out to the world again.