CHAPTER VIII
And meanwhile the man of whom every single human being in Old Place,with the exception of the little village day girl, was thinking thisafternoon, was coming ever nearer and nearer to Beechfield in an ecstasyof sentient joy at being "at home" again.
As Radmore motored along the Portsmouth Road through the warmly-beautifulautumn countryside, a feeling of exultation, of intense personal lovefor, and pride in, the old country, filled his heart. Why had he stayedin London so long when all this tranquil, appealing loveliness of wood,stream, hill and hollow lay close at hand? There are folk who deny thecharm of Surrey--by whom this delicious county, with its noble stretchesof wild, fragrant uplands, and wide, deep valleys, is dismissed assuburban. But though they would deny it vehemently, the eyes of suchfolk are holden.
As he was borne along through the soft, lambent air, everything he passedappealed to his heart and imagination. Each of the small, yet dignified,eighteenth-century houses, which add such distinction and grace to eachSurrey township--Epsom, Leatherhead, Guildford--gave him a comfortablefeeling of his country's well-being, of the essential stability ofEngland. Now and again, in some woodland glade where summer stilllingered, he would pass by happy groups engaged in black-berrying;while on the road there waited the charabancs, the motor-cycles, thepony-traps, which had brought them.
Once, when they came to such a spot, he, Radmore, called out to hischauffeur to stop. They were close to the crest of Boxhill, and belowthem lay spread out what is perhaps the finest, because the richest inhuman and historic associations, view in Southern England. As he stood upand gazed down and down and down, to his right he saw what looked from uphere such a tiny toylike town, and it recalled suddenly a book he hadonce read, as one reads a Jules Verne romance, "The Battle of Dorking,"a soldier's fairy-tale that had come perilously near being a prophecy.
Before Radmore's eyes--blotting out the noble, peaceful landscape, richin storied beauty--there rose an extraordinarily vivid phantasmagoria ofvast masses of armed men in field grey moving across that wide, thicklypeopled valley of lovely villages and cosy little towns. He saw as in avision the rich stretches of arable land, the now red, brown, and yellowspinneys and clumps of high trees, the meadows dotted with sleek cattle,laid waste--while sinister columns of flames and massed clouds of smokerose from each homestead.
"Drive on!" he called out, and the chauffeur was startled by the harshnote in his employer's generally kindly voice.
On they sped down the great flank of the huge hill, past the hostelrywhere Nelson bid a last farewell to his Emma, on and on along narrowlanes, and between high hedges starred with autumn flowers. And then,when in a spot so wild and lonely that it might have been a hundred milesfrom a town--though it was only some ten miles from Beechfield--somethingwent wrong with the engine of the car.
Janet had proposed that tea should be at five o'clock, so as to give thevisitor plenty of time to arrive. But from four onwards, all the youngerfolk were in a state of excitement and expectation--Timmy runningconstantly in and out of the house, rushing to the gate, from whence along stretch of road could be seen, till his constant gyrations got onhis mother's nerves, and she sharply ordered him to come in and be quiet.
At a quarter to five the telephone bell rang and Jack languidly went toanswer it. Then he came back into the drawing-room. "Radmore's had abreakdown," he said briefly, "he's afraid he can't get here till seven."
Here was a disappointing anti-climax!
"Then we'd better all go and have our tea," said Timmy sententiously, andeveryone felt, in a dispirited way, that, as usual, Timmy had hit thenail on the head.
They all trooped into the dining-room, but Timmy was the only one who didfull justice to the cakes and scones which had been made specially inGodfrey Radmore's honour: all the others felt cross and disappointed,especially Tom and Rosamund, who had given up going to a tennis-party.
Tea was soon over, for everyone talked much less than usual, and thenthey all scattered with the exception of Timmy and Betty. Janet hadsomeone to see in the village; Tom persuaded Rosamund that they wouldstill be welcome at the tennis-party; Betty stayed to clear the table.She, alone of them all, was glad of even this short respite, for, as theday had gone on, she had begun to dread the meeting inexpressibly. Sheknew that even Tom--who had only been seven years old when Godfrey wentaway--would be wondering how she felt, and watching to see how she wouldbehave. It was a comfort to be alone with only Timmy who was still attable eating steadily. Till recently tea had been Timmy's last meal,though, as a matter of fact, he had nearly always joined in their verysimple evening meal. And lately it had been ordained that he was to eatmeat. But much as he ate, he never grew fat.
"Hurry up!" said Betty absently. "I want to take off the table-cloth. Wecan wash up presently."
Timmy got up and shook himself; then he went across to the window, Flickfollowing him, while Betty after having made two tray journeys into thekitchen, folded up the table-cloth. Timmy might have done this lastlittle job, but he pretended not to see that his sister wanted help. Hethought it such a shame that he wasn't now allowed the perilous andexciting task of carrying a laden tray. But there had been a certaindreadful day when...
Betty turned round, surprised at the child's stillness and silence. Timmywas standing half in and half out of the long French windows staring atsomething his sister could not see.
Then, all at once, Betty's heart seemed to stop still. She heard a voice,familiar in a sense, and yet so unlike the voice of which she had onceknown every inflection.
"Hullo! I do believe I see Timothy Godfrey Radmore Tosswill!" and thewindow for a moment was darkened by a tall, stalwart figure, which lookedas if it were two sizes larger than that which Betty remembered.
The stranger took up Timmy's slight, thin figure as easily as a littlegirl takes up a doll, and now he was holding his godson up in the air,looking up at him with a half humorous, half whimsical expression, whilehe exclaimed:--"I can't think where you came from? You've none of thefamily's good looks, and you haven't a trace of your mother!"
Then he set Timmy down rather carefully and delicately on the edge of theshabby Turkey carpet, and stepped forward, into the dining-room.
"I wonder if I may have a cup of tea? Is Preston still here?"
"Preston's married. She has five children. Mother says it's four toomany, as her husband's a cripple." Timmy waited a moment. "We haven't gota parlourmaid now. Mother says we lead the simple life."
"The devil you do!" cried Radmore, diverted, and then, not till then, didhe suddenly become aware that he and his godson were not alone.
"Why, Betty!" he exclaimed in a voice he tried to make quite ordinary,"I didn't see you. Have you been there the whole time?"--the whole timebeing but half a minute at the longest.
And then he strode across the room, and, taking her two hands in hisstrong grasp, brought her forward, rather masterfully, to the windowthrough which he had just come.
"You're just the same," he said, but there was a doubtful note in hisvoice, and then as she remained silent, though she smiled a littletremulously, he went on:--
"Nine years have made an awful difference to me--nine years _and_ thewar! But Beechfield, from what I've been able to see of it, seems exactlythe same--not a twig, not a leaf, not a stone out of place!"
"We didn't expect you for another hour at least," said Betty, in herquiet, well-modulated voice.
She was wondering whether he remembered, as she now remembered with akind of sickening vividness, the last time they had been together in thisroom--for it was here, in the dining-room of Old Place, that they hadspent their last miserable, heart-broken moment together, a moment whenall the angry bitterness had been merged in wild, piteous tenderness, andheart-break...
"I had a bit of luck," he answered cheerfully, "as I went out of thehouse where I had managed to get on to a telephone, there came a car downthe road, and I asked the man who was driving it if he would give me alift. My luck held, for he was
actually breaking his journey for half anhour here, at Beechfield!"
He was talking rather quickly now, as if at last aware of somethingpainful, awkward, in the atmosphere.
"Others all out?" he asked. "Perhaps you'll show me my room, godson?"
"Wouldn't you like to see Nanna?" asked Timmy officiously. "She's solooking forward to seeing you. She wants to thank you for the bigShetland shawl she supposes you sent her last Christmas, and she has anidea that the little real silver teapot she got on her birthday came fromyou too. It has on it 'A Present for a Good Girl.'"
* * * * *
As Radmore followed Timmy up the once familiar staircase, he feltextraordinarily moved.
How strange the thought that while not only his own life, but the livesof all the people with whom he had been so intimately associated, hadchanged--this old house had remained absolutely unaltered! Nothing hadbeen added--as far as he could see--and nothing taken away, and yet thehuman atmosphere was quite other than what it had been ten years ago.
Just now, in the moment of meeting, he had avoided asking Betty aboutGeorge. Betty's twin had been away at the time of Radmore's break withOld Place--away in a sense which in our civilised days can only bebrought about by one thing, an infectious illness. At the time theagonising debate was going on at Beechfield, he had been in a feverhospital close on a month, and they were none of them to see him forthree more weeks. It had been at once a pain and a relief that he shouldnot be there--yet what good could a boy of nineteen have done?
As to what had happened to George afterwards, Radmore knew nothing. Hebelieved that his friend had joined the Indian Civil Service. Fromchildhood George had always intended to make his career in India, hismaternal forebears having all been in the service of John Company.
During the last few days Radmore had thought a great deal of George,wondering what had happened to him during the war--whether, for instance,he had at last managed, as did so many Anglo-Indian officials, to getleave to join the Army? At one moment, before it had entered into hismind to write to his little godson, he had thought of opening upcommunications through George. But he had rejected the notion. The breakhad been so complete, and George, after all, was so closely connectedwith Betty! Considering that he had not mentioned Betty's brother, eitherwhen speaking to Janet on the telephone two or three days ago, or againjust when he had made his unconventional re-entry into Old Place, it wasodd how the thought of Betty's twin haunted him as he followed his littleguide upstairs. Odd? No, in a sense very natural, for he and George oftenraced each other up these very stairs. They had been such pals in spiteof the four years' difference between them.
Radmore and Timmy were now in the kind of annex or wing which had beenadded some fifty years after the original mansion had been built. Thelower floor of this annex consisted of one big room which, even in thedays of Radmore's first acquaintance with the Tosswills, was only used inwarm weather. Above it were two good bedrooms--the one still called"George's room," over-looked the garden, and had a charming view ofbracken-covered hill beyond.
Timmy opened the door with a flourish, and Radmore saw at once that onlyone of the two beds was made up; otherwise the room was exactly the same,with this one great outstanding difference--that it had a curiouslyunlived-in look. The dark green linoleum on the floor appeared a thoughtmore worn, the old rug before the fireplace a thought more shabby--still,how well things lasted, in the old country!
He walked across to one of the windows, and the sight of the garden belownow in its full autumn beauty, seemed to bring Janet Tosswill vividlybefore him.
"Your mother as great a gardener as ever?" he asked, without turninground, and Timmy said eagerly:--"I should think she is! And we're goingto sell our flowers and vegetables. _We_ shall get the money now; the RedCross got it during the war."
As his godfather remained silent, the boy went on insistently:--"Fifteenshillings a week clear profit is L40 a year, and Mum thinks it will cometo more than that."
Radmore turned round.
"I wonder if any of you have yet met a lady who's just come to livehere--Mrs. Crofton?"
"Oh, yes, we've met her; in fact she's been to supper." Timmy spokewithout enthusiasm, but Radmore did not notice that.
"I was wondering if you and I could go round and see her between now anddinner?"
"I _think_ I could." There was a doubtful touch in Timmy's voice. He knewquite well he ought to stay and help his sister to wash up the tea-thingsand do certain other little jobs, but he also knew that if he asked Bettyto let him off, she would.
"I shan't be a minute," he exclaimed, and a moment later Radmore heardthe little feet pattering down the carpetless back stairs, and thenscampering up again.
Timmy ran in breathlessly. "It's all right!" he exclaimed, "I can gowith you--Mrs. Crofton has got The Trellis House--I'll show you the waythere."
"Show me the way there?" repeated Radmore. "Why, I knew The Trellis Housefrom garret to cellar before you were born, young man."
In the hall Timmy gave a queer, side-long look at his companion. "Do youthink we'd better take Flick?" he asked doubtfully, "Mrs. Crofton doesn'tlike dogs."
"Oh, yes, she does," Radmore spoke carelessly. "Flick was bred by ColonelCrofton. I think she'll be very pleased to see him."
Timmy would have hotly resented being called cruel, and to animals he wasmost humane, yet somehow he had enjoyed Mrs. Crofton's terror the othernight, and he was not unwilling to see a repetition of it. And so thethree set out--Timmy, Radmore, and Flick. Somehow it was a comfort to thegrown-up man to have the child with him. Had he been alone he would havefelt like a ghost walking up the quiet, empty village street. Thepresence of the child and the dog made him feel so _real_.
The two trudged on in silence for a bit, and then Radmore asked in a lowvoice:--"Is that busy-body, Miss Pendarth, still alive?"
They were passing by Rose Cottage as he spoke, and Timmy at once repliedin a shrill voice:--"Yes, of course she is." And then, as if as anafterthought, he remarked slyly:--"Rosamund often says she wishes shewere dead. Do you hate her, too?"
"Hate's a big word," said Radmore thoughtfully, "but there was verylittle love lost between me and that good lady in the old days."
They passed the lych-gate of the churchyard, and then, following a suddenimpulse, Radmore turned into the post-office.
Yes, his instinct had been right, for here, at any rate, was an oldfriend, but a friend who, from a young man, had become old and grey.Grasping the postmaster, Jim Cobbett, warmly by the hand Radmoreexclaimed:--"I'm glad to find you well and hearty, Cobbett." Therecame the surprised: "Why, it's Mr. Radmore to be sure! How's the worldbeen treating you, sir?"
"Better than I deserve, Cobbett."
"Can you stay a minute, sir--Missus would like to see you, too?" Thespeaker opened a door out of the tiny shop, and Radmore, followed byTimmy and Flick, walked into a cosy living-room, where an old dog gotup and growled at them.
"That dog," said Timmy in a hoarse whisper, "frightened poor Mrs. Croftonvery much the other day as she was coming out of church."
For a moment Radmore thought the room was empty. Then, in the dimlamp-light, a woman, who had been sitting by the fireplace, got up.
"Here's Mr. Radmore come all the way from Australia, mother."
"Mr. Radmore?" repeated the woman dully, and Radmore had another, and avery painful, shock.
He remembered Mrs. Cobbett definitely, as a buxom, merry-looking youngwoman. She now looked older than her husband, and she did not smile athim, as the man had done, as she held out her worn, thin hand.
"A deal has happened," she said slowly, "since you went away."
"Yes," said Radmore, "a deal has happened, Mrs. Cobbett; but Beechfieldseems unchanged, I cannot see any difference at all."
"Hearts are changed," she said in a strange voice.
For the first time since he had been in Beechfield, Radmore felt a tremorof real discomfort run through him.
He
looked up at the mantelpiece. It was bare save for the photographs, incheap frames, of two stolid-looking lads, whom he vaguely remembered.
"Those your boys?" he asked kindly, and then, making an effort of memoryof which he felt harmlessly proud, he said:--"Let me see, one was Peterand the other was Paul, eh? I hope they're all right, Mrs. Cobbett?"
"In a sense, sir," she said apathetically. "I do believe they are. Theywas both killed within a month of one another--first Paul, then Pete, aswe called him--so Mr. Cobbett and I be very lonely now."
As Radmore and Timmy walked away from the post-office, Radmore saida trifle ruefully:--"I wish, Timmy, you had told me about those poorpeople's sons. I'm afraid--I suppose--that a good many boys never cameback to Beechfield."
He now felt that everything was indeed changed in the lovely, peacefullittle Surrey village.
"I expect," said Timmy thoughtfully, "that the most sensible thing youcould do"--(he avoided calling Radmore by name, not knowing whether hewas expected to address him as "godfather," "Godfrey," or "MajorRadmore")--"before we see anybody else, would be to take a look at theShrine. You have plenty of matches with you, haven't you?"
"The Shrine?" repeated Radmore hesitatingly.
"Yes, _you_ know?"
But somehow Radmore didn't know.
They walked on in the now fast gathering darkness through a part of thevillage where the houses were rather spread out. And suddenly, justopposite the now closed, silent schoolhouse and its big playground, Timmystopped and pointed up to his right. "There's our Shrine," he exclaimed."If you'll give me the box of matches, I'll strike some while you look atthe names."
Radmore stared up to where Timmy pointed, but, for a moment or two, hecould see nothing. Then, gradually, there emerged against the high hedgea curious-looking wooden panel protected by a slanting, neatly thatchedeave, while below ran a little shelf on which there were three vasesfilled with fresh flowers.
Timmy Tosswill struck a match and held it up, far above his little head.And Radmore saw flash out the gilded words:--
ROLL OF HONOUR, 1914-1918. PASS, FRIEND. ALL'S WELL.
The first name was "Thomas Ingleton," then came "Mons, 22nd August,1914." Immediately below, bracketed together, came "Peter and PaulCobbett," followed, in the one case, by the date October 15, 1915, and inthe other, November 19, 1915. And then, in the wavering light, thereseemed to start out another name and date.
Radmore uttered an exclamation of sharp pain, almost of anger. He didnot want the child to see his shocked, convulsed face, but he saidquickly:--"Not George? Surely, Timmy, not _George_?"
Timmy answered, "Then you didn't know? Dad and Betty thought you did, butMum thought that perhaps you didn't."
"Why wasn't I told?" asked Radmore roughly. "I should have thought,Timmy, that you might have told me when you answered my first letter."
He took the box of matches out of Timmy's hand, and himself lighting amatch, went up quite close to the list of names. Yes, it was there rightenough.
"When did he, George, volunteer?" he asked.
"On the seventh of August, two days after the War began," said Timmysimply. "He was awfully afraid they wouldn't take him. There was such arush, you know. But they did take him, and the doctor who saw himundressed, naked, you know, told Daddy"--the child hesitated a moment,then repeated slowly, proudly--"that George was one of the finestspecimens of young manhood he had ever seen."
"And when did he go out?"
"He went out very soon; and we used to have such jolly times when he cameback, because, you know, he did come back three times altogether, and thesecond time--Betty hadn't gone to France then--they all went up to Londontogether and had a splendid time. I didn't go; Mum didn't think it worththe expense that I should go, though George wanted me to."
Hardly conscious that he was doing so, Radmore turned round, and beganwalking quietly on along the dark road, with Timmy trotting by his side."What I believed," he muttered, half to himself, "was that George wassafe in India, and probably not even allowed to volunteer."
"George never went to India," said Timmy soberly. "Betty wasn't well, Ithink, and as they were twins, he didn't like to go so far away from her.So he got a job in London. It was quite nice, and he used to come downonce a month or so." He waited a moment, then went on. "Betty always saidhe was a born soldier, and that he ought to have been a soldier from thevery beginning. As you care so much," he added a little diffidently, "Iexpect Betty would show you the letters his men wrote about him. Dad hasgot the letters of his Colonel and of the officers, but Betty has theothers."
And then all at once Radmore felt a small skinny hand slipped into his.
"I want to tell you something," muttered Timmy. "I want to tell you twothings. I want to tell you that I'm sure George is in Heaven. I don'tknow if you know, but I sometimes see people who are dead. I saw PeteCobbett once. He was standing by the back door of the post-office, andthat old dog of theirs saw him too; it was just before we got the newsthat he was killed, so I thought he was back on leave. But I've neverseen George--sometimes I've felt as if he were there, but I've never_seen_ him."
For a moment Radmore wondered if he had heard the words aright. Whatcould the child mean? Did Timmy claim the power to see spirits?
"Now I'll tell you the second thing," went on Timmy, his voice droppingto a whisper. "The last time George was home he came into the nightnursery one night. Nanna was still busy in the kitchen, so I was bymyself. I have a room all to myself now, but I hadn't then. George camein to say a special good-bye to me--he was going off the next morningvery early, and Betty wanted to be the only one up to see him go; I meanreally early, half past five in the morning. And then--and then--he saidto me: 'You'll look after Betty, Timmy? If anything happens to me you'lltake my place, won't you, old chap? You'll look after Betty all the daysof her life?' I promised I would, and so I will too. But I haven't toldher what George said, and you mustn't tell anybody. I've only told youbecause you're my godfather."