Part 7

The cat had reared her sinister, feline length against his leg, clawing at his thigh affectionately. He lifted her claws out of his flesh.

“I hope I’m not in your way at all at the Grange here,” said Bertie, rather shy and stiff.

“My way? No, not a bit. I’m glad Isabel has somebody to talk to. I’m afraid it’s I who am in the way. I know I’m not very lively company. Isabel’s all right, don’t you think? She’s not unhappy, is she?”

“I don’t think so.”

“What does she say?”

“She says she’s very content—only a little troubled about you.”

“Why me?”

“Perhaps afraid that you might brood,” said Bertie, cautiously.

“She needn’t be afraid of that.” He continued to caress the flattened grey head of the cat with his fingers. “What I am a bit afraid of,” he resumed, “is that she’ll find me a dead weight, always alone with me down here.”

“I don’t think you need think that,” said Bertie, though this was what he feared himself.

“I don’t know,” said Maurice. “Sometimes I feel it isn’t fair that she’s saddled with me.” Then he dropped his voice curiously. “I say,” he asked, secretly struggling, “is my face much disfigured? Do you mind telling me?”

“There is the scar,” said Bertie, wondering. “Yes, it is a disfigurement. But more pitiable than shocking.”

“A pretty bad scar, though,” said Maurice.

“Oh, yes.”

There was a pause.

“Sometimes I feel I am horrible,” said Maurice, in a low voice, talking as if to himself. And Bertie actually felt a quiver of horror.

“That’s nonsense,” he said.

Maurice again straightened himself, leaving the cat.

“There’s no telling,” he said. Then again, in an odd tone, he added: “I don’t really know you, do I?”

“Probably not,” said Bertie.

“Do you mind if I touch you?”

The lawyer shrank away instinctively. And yet, out of very philanthropy, he said, in a small voice: “Not at all.”

But he suffered as the blind man stretched out a strong, naked hand to him. Maurice accidentally knocked off Bertie’s hat.

“I thought you were taller,” he said, starting. Then he laid his hand on Bertie Reid’s head, closing the dome of the skull in a soft, firm grasp, gathering it, as it were; then, shifting his grasp and softly closing again, with a fine, close pressure, till he had covered the skull and the face of the smaller man, tracing the brows, and touching the full, closed eyes, touching the small nose and the nostrils, the rough, short moustache, the mouth, the rather strong chin. The hand of the blind man grasped the shoulder, the arm, the hand of the other man. He seemed to take him, in the soft, travelling grasp.

“You seem young,” he said quietly, at last.

The lawyer stood almost annihilated, unable to answer.

“Your head seems tender, as if you were young,” Maurice repeated. “So do your hands. Touch my eyes, will you?—touch my scar.”

Now Bertie quivered with revulsion. Yet he was under the power of the blind man, as if hypnotized. He lifted his hand, and laid the fingers on the scar, on the scarred eyes. Maurice suddenly covered them with his own hand, pressed the fingers of the other man upon his disfigured eye-sockets, trembling in every fibre, and rocking slightly, slowly, from side to side. He remained thus for a minute or more, whilst Bertie stood as if in a swoon, unconscious, imprisoned.

Then suddenly Maurice removed the hand of the other man from his brow, and stood holding it in his own.

“Oh, my God’ he said, “we shall know each other now, shan’t we? We shall know each other now.”

Bertie could not answer. He gazed mute and terror-struck, overcome by his own weakness. He knew he could not answer. He had an unreasonable fear, lest the other man should suddenly destroy him. Whereas Maurice was actually filled with hot, poignant love, the passion of friendship. Perhaps it was this very passion of friendship which Bertie shrank from most.

“We’re all right together now, aren’t we?” said Maurice. “It’s all right now, as long as we live, so far as we’re concerned?”

“Yes,” said Bertie, trying by any means to escape.

Maurice stood with head lifted, as if listening. The new delicate fulfilment of mortal friendship had come as a revelation and surprise to him, something exquisite and unhoped-for. He seemed to be listening to hear if it were real.

Then he turned for his coat.

“Come,” he said, “we’ll go to Isabel.”

Bertie took the lantern and opened the door. The cat disappeared. The two men went in silence along the causeways. Isabel, as they came, thought their footsteps sounded strange. She looked up pathetically and anxiously for their entrance. There seemed a curious elation about Maurice. Bertie was haggard, with sunken eyes.

“What is it?” she asked.

“We’ve become friends,” said Maurice, standing with his feet apart, like a strange colossus.

“Friends!” re-echoed Isabel. And she looked again at Bertie. He met her eyes with a furtive, haggard look; his eyes were as if glazed with misery.

“I’m so glad,” she said, in sheer perplexity.

“Yes,” said Maurice.

He was indeed so glad. Isabel took his hand with both hers, and held it fast.

“You’ll be happier now, dear,” she said.

But she was watching Bertie. She knew that he had one desire—to escape from this intimacy, this friendship, which had been thrust upon him. He could not bear it that he had been touched by the blind man, his insane reserve broken in. He was like a mollusc whose shell is broken.

MONKEY NUTS

At first Joe thought the job O.K. He was loading hay on the trucks, along with Albert, the corporal. The two men were pleasantly billeted in a cottage not far from the station: they were their own masters, for Joe never thought of Albert as a master. And the little sidings of the tiny village station was as pleasant a place as you could wish for. On one side, beyond the line, stretched the woods: on the other, the near side, across a green smooth field red houses were dotted among flowering apple trees. The weather being sunny, work being easy, Albert, a real good pal, what life could be better! After Flanders, it was heaven itself.

Albert, the corporal, was a clean-shaven, shrewd-looking fellow of about forty. He seemed to think his one aim in life was to be full of fun and nonsense. In repose, his face looked a little withered, old. He was a very good pal to Joe, steady, decent and grave under all his “mischief”; for his mischief was only his laborious way of skirting his own _ennui_.

Joe was much younger than Albert—only twenty-three. He was a tallish, quiet youth, pleasant looking. He was of a slightly better class than his corporal, more personable. Careful about his appearance, he shaved every day. “I haven’t got much of a face,” said Albert. “If I was to shave every day like you, Joe, I should have none.”

There was plenty of life in the little goods-yard: three porter youths, a continual come and go of farm wagons bringing hay, wagons with timber from the woods, coal carts loading at the trucks. The black coal seemed to make the place sleepier, hotter. Round the big white gate the station-master’s children played and his white chickens walked, whilst the stationmaster himself, a young man getting too fat, helped his wife to peg out the washing on the clothes line in the meadow.

The great boat-shaped wagons came up from Playcross with the hay. At first the farm-men waggoned it. On the third day one of the land-girls appeared with the first load, drawing to a standstill easily at the head of her two great horses. She was a buxom girl, young, in linen overalls and gaiters. Her face was ruddy, she had large blue eyes.

“Now that’s the waggoner for us, boys,” said the corporal loudly.

“Whoa!” she said to her horses; and then to the corporal: “Which boys do you mean?”

“We are the pick of the bunch. That’s Joe, my pal. Don’t you let on that my name’s Albert,” said the corporal to his private. “I’m the corporal.”

“And I’m Miss Stokes,” said the land-girl coolly, “if that’s all the boys you are.”

“You know you couldn’t want more, Miss Stokes,” said Albert politely. Joe, who was bare-headed, whose grey flannel sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and whose shirt was open at the breast, looked modestly aside as if he had no part in the affair.

“Are you on this job regular, then?” said the corporal to Miss Stokes.

“I don’t know for sure,” she said, pushing a piece of hair under her hat, and attending to her splendid horses.

“Oh, make it a certainty,” said Albert.

She did not reply. She turned and looked over the two men coolly. She was pretty, moderately blonde, with crisp hair, a good skin, and large blue eyes. She was strong, too, and the work went on leisurely and easily.

“Now!” said the corporal, stopping as usual to look round, “pleasant company makes work a pleasure—don’t hurry it, boys.” He stood on the truck surveying the world. That was one of his great and absorbing occupations: to stand and look out on things in general. Joe, also standing on the truck, also turned round to look what was to be seen. But he could not become blankly absorbed, as Albert could.

Miss Stokes watched the two men from under her broad felt hat. She had seen hundreds of Alberts, khaki soldiers standing in loose attitudes, absorbed in watching nothing in particular. She had seen also a good many Joes, quiet, good-looking young soldiers with half-averted faces. But there was something in the turn of Joe’s head, and something in his quiet, tender-looking form, young and fresh—which attracted her eye. As she watched him closely from below, he turned as if he felt her, and his dark-blue eye met her straight, light-blue gaze. He faltered and turned aside again and looked as if he were going to fall off the truck. A slight flush mounted under the girl’s full, ruddy face. She liked him.

Always, after this, when she came into the sidings with her team, it was Joe she looked for. She acknowledged to herself that she was sweet on him. But Albert did all the talking. He was so full of fun and nonsense. Joe was a very shy bird, very brief and remote in his answers. Miss Stokes was driven to indulge in repartee with Albert, but she fixed her magnetic attention on the younger fellow. Joe would talk with Albert, and laugh at his jokes. But Miss Stokes could get little out of him. She had to depend on her silent forces. They were more effective than might be imagined.

Suddenly, on Saturday afternoon, at about two o’clock, Joe received a bolt from the blue—a telegram: “Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S.” He knew at once who M.S. was. His heart melted, he felt weak as if he had had a blow.

“What’s the trouble, boy?” asked Albert anxiously.

“No—no trouble—it’s to meet somebody.” Joe lifted his dark-blue eyes in confusion towards his corporal.

“Meet somebody!” repeated the corporal, watching his young pal with keen blue eyes. “It’s all right, then; nothing wrong?”

“No—nothing wrong. I’m not going,” said Joe.

Albert was old and shrewd enough to see that nothing more should be said before the housewife. He also saw that Joe did not want to take him into confidence. So he held his peace, though he was piqued.

The two soldiers went into town, smartened up. Albert knew a fair number of the boys round about; there would be plenty of gossip in the market-place, plenty of lounging in groups on the Bath Road, watching the Saturday evening shoppers. Then a modest drink or two, and the movies. They passed an agreeable, casual, nothing-in-particular evening, with which Joe was quite satisfied. He thought of Belbury Station, and of M.S. waiting there. He had not the faintest intention of meeting her. And he had not the faintest intention of telling Albert.

And yet, when the two men were in their bedroom, half undressed, Joe suddenly held out the telegram to his corporal, saying: “What d’you think of that?”

Albert was just unbuttoning his braces. He desisted, took the telegram form, and turned towards the candle to read it.

“_Meet me Belbury Station 6.00 p.m. today. M.S._,” he read, _sotto voce_. His face took on its fun-and-nonsense look.

“Who’s M.S.?” he asked, looking shrewdly at Joe.

“You know as well as I do,” said Joe, non-committal.

“M.S.,” repeated Albert. “Blamed if I know, boy. Is it a woman?”

The conversation was carried on in tiny voices, for fear of disturbing the householders.

“I don’t know,” said Joe, turning. He looked full at Albert, the two men looked straight into each other’s eyes. There was a lurking grin in each of them.

“Well, I’m—_blamed!_” said Albert at last, throwing the telegram down emphatically on the bed.

“Wha-at?” said Joe, grinning rather sheepishly, his eyes clouded none the less.

Albert sat on the bed and proceeded to undress, nodding his head with mock gravity all the while. Joe watched him foolishly.

“What?” he repeated faintly.

Albert looked up at him with a knowing look.

“If that isn’t coming it quick, boy!” he said. “What the blazes! What ha’ you bin doing?”

“Nothing!” said Joe.

Albert slowly shook his head as he sat on the side of the bed.

“Don’t happen to me when I’ve bin doin’ nothing,” he said. And he proceeded to pull off his stockings.

Joe turned away, looking at himself in the mirror as he unbuttoned his tunic.

“You didn’t want to keep the appointment?” Albert asked, in a changed voice, from the bedside.

Joe did not answer for a moment. Then he said:

“I made no appointment.”

“I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you didn’t want to answer the—unknown person’s summons—shall I put it that way?”

“No,” said Joe.

“What was the deterring motive?” asked Albert, who was now lying on his back in bed.

“Oh,” said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. “I didn’t want to.” He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant bearing.

“Didn’t want to—didn’t cotton on, like. Well—_they be artful, the women_—” he mimicked his landlord. “Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter about as if you’d lost something.”

Albert turned over, to sleep.

On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her “whoa!” was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face averted from her. She glanced him over—save for his slender succulent tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.

“Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.”

“Very!” she replied.

“Handsome is as handsome looks,” said Albert.

Which produced no response.

“Now, Joe, come on here,” said the corporal. “Don’t keep the ladies waiting—it’s the sign of a weak heart.”

Joe turned, and the work began. Nothing more was said for the time being. As the week went on all parties became more comfortable. Joe remained silent, averted, neutral, a little on his dignity. Miss Stokes was off-hand and masterful. Albert was full of mischief.

The great theme was a circus, which was coming to the market town on the following Saturday.

“You’ll go to the circus, Miss Stokes?” said Albert.

“I may go. Are you going?”

“Certainly. Give us the pleasure of escorting you.”

“No, thanks.”

“That’s what I call a flat refusal—what, Joe? You don’t mean that you have no liking for our company, Miss Stokes?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Miss Stokes. “How many are there of you?”

“Only me and Joe.”

“Oh, is that all?” she said, satirically.

Albert was a little nonplussed.

“Isn’t that enough for you?” he asked.

“Too many by half,” blurted out Joe, jeeringly, in a sudden fit of uncouth rudeness that made both the others stare.

“Oh, I’ll stand out of the way, boy, if that’s it,” said Albert to Joe. Then he turned mischievously to Miss Stokes. “He wants to know what M. stands for,” he said, confidentially.

“Monkeys,” she replied, turning to her horses.

“What’s M.S.?” said Albert.

“Monkey-nuts,” she retorted, leading off her team.

Albert looked after her a little discomfited. Joe had flushed dark, and cursed Albert in his heart.

On the Saturday afternoon the two soldiers took the train into town. They would have to walk home. They had tea at six o’clock, and lounged about till half past seven. The circus was in a meadow near the river—a great red-and-white striped tent. Caravans stood at the side. A great crowd of people was gathered round the ticket-caravan.

Inside the tent the lamps were lighted, shining on a ring of faces, a great circular bank of faces round the green grassy centre. Along with some comrades, the two soldiers packed themselves on a thin plank seat, rather high. They were delighted with the flaring lights, the wild effect. But the circus performance did not affect them deeply. They admired the lady in black velvet with rose-purple legs who leapt so neatly on to the galloping horse; they watched the feats of strength and laughed at the clown. But they felt a little patronizing, they missed the sensational drama of the cinema.

Half-way through the performance Joe was electrified to see the face of Miss Stokes not very far from him. There she was, in her khaki and her felt hat, as usual; he pretended not to see her. She was laughing at the clown; she also pretended not to see him. It was a blow to him, and it made him angry. He would not even mention it to Albert. Least said, soonest mended. He liked to believe she had not seen him. But he knew, fatally, that she had.

When they came out it was nearly eleven o’clock; a lovely night, with a moon and tall, dark, noble trees: a magnificent May night. Joe and Albert laughed and chaffed with the boys. Joe looked round frequently to see if he were safe from Miss Stokes. It seemed so.

But there were six miles to walk home. At last the two soldiers set off, swinging their canes. The road was white between tall hedges, other stragglers were passing out of the town towards the villages; the air was full of pleased excitement.

They were drawing near to the village when they saw a dark figure ahead. Joe’s heart sank with pure fear. It was a figure wheeling a bicycle; a land girl; Miss Stokes. Albert was ready with his nonsense. Miss Stokes had a puncture.

“Let me wheel the rattler,” said Albert.

“Thank you,” said Miss Stokes. “You _are_ kind.”

“Oh, I’d be kinder than that, if you’d show me how,” said Albert.

“Are you sure?” said Miss Stokes.

“Doubt my words?” said Albert. “That’s cruel of you, Miss Stokes.”

Miss Stokes walked between them, close to Joe.

“Have you been to the circus?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he replied, mildly.

“Have _you_ been?” Albert asked her.

“Yes. I didn’t see you,” she replied.

“What!—you say so! Didn’t see us! Didn’t think us worth looking at,” began Albert. “Aren’t I as handsome as the clown, now? And you didn’t as much as glance in our direction? I call it a downright oversight.”

“I never _saw_ you,” reiterated Miss Stokes. “I didn’t know you saw me.”

“That makes it worse,” said Albert.

The road passed through a belt of dark pine-wood. The village, and the branch road, was very near. Miss Stokes put out her fingers and felt for Joe’s hand as it swung at his side. To say he was staggered is to put it mildly. Yet he allowed her softly to clasp his fingers for a few moments. But he was a mortified youth.

At the cross-road they stopped—Miss Stokes should turn off. She had another mile to go.

“You’ll let us see you home,” said Albert.

“Do me a kindness,” she said. “Put my bike in your shed, and take it to Baker’s on Monday, will you?”

“I’ll sit up all night and mend it for you, if you like.”

“No thanks. And Joe and I’ll walk on.”

“Oh—ho! Oh—ho!” sang Albert. “Joe! Joe! What do you say to that, now, boy? Aren’t you in luck’s way. And I get the bloomin’ old bike for my pal. Consider it again, Miss Stokes.”

Joe turned aside his face, and did not speak.

“Oh, well! I wheel the grid, do I? I leave you, boy—”

“I’m not keen on going any further,” barked out Joe, in an uncouth voice. “She hain’t my choice.”

The girl stood silent, and watched the two men.

“There now!” said Albert. “Think o’ that! If it was _me_ now—” But he was uncomfortable. “Well, Miss Stokes, have me,” he added.

Miss Stokes stood quite still, neither moved nor spoke. And so the three remained for some time at the lane end. At last Joe began kicking the ground—then he suddenly lifted his face. At that moment Miss Stokes was at his side. She put her arm delicately round his waist.

“Seems I’m the one extra, don’t you think?” Albert inquired of the high bland moon.

Joe had dropped his head and did not answer. Miss Stokes stood with her arm lightly round his waist. Albert bowed, saluted, and bade good-night. He walked away, leaving the two standing.

Miss Stokes put a light pressure on Joe’s waist, and drew him down the road. They walked in silence. The night was full of scent—wild cherry, the first bluebells. Still they walked in silence. A nightingale was singing. They approached nearer and nearer, till they stood close by his dark bush. The powerful notes sounded from the cover, almost like flashes of light—then the interval of silence—then the moaning notes, almost like a dog faintly howling, followed by the long, rich trill, and flashing notes. Then a short silence again.

Miss Stokes turned at last to Joe. She looked up at him, and in the moonlight he saw her faintly smiling. He felt maddened, but helpless. Her arm was round his waist, she drew him closely to her with a soft pressure that made all his bones rotten.

Meanwhile Albert was waiting at home. He put on his overcoat, for the fire was out, and he had had malarial fever. He looked fitfully at the _Daily Mirror_ and the _Daily Sketch_, but he saw nothing. It seemed a long time. He began to yawn widely, even to nod. At last Joe came in.

Albert looked at him keenly. The young man’s brow was black, his face sullen.

“All right, boy?” asked Albert.

Joe merely grunted for a reply. There was nothing more to be got out of him. So they went to bed.

Next day Joe was silent, sullen. Albert could make nothing of him. He proposed a walk after tea.

“I’m going somewhere,” said Joe.

“Where—Monkey-nuts?” asked the corporal. But Joe’s brow only became darker.