<SPAN name="chap24"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER XXIV </h3>
<p>It is Christmas morning, 1916, the third Christmas of the war. The
tragedy of Boyce's death happened six months ago. Since then I have
been very ill. The shock, too great for my silly heart, nearly killed
me. By all the rules of the game I ought to have died. But I suppose,
like a brother officer long since defunct, also a Major, one Joe
Bagstock, I am devilish tough. Cliffe told me this morning that, apart
from a direct hit by a 42-centimetre shell, he saw no reason, after
what I had gone through, why I should not live for another hundred
years. "I wash my hands of you," said he. Which indeed is pleasant
hearing.</p>
<p>I don't mind dying a bit, if it is my Maker's pleasure; if it would
serve any useful purpose; if it would help my country a myriadth part
of a millimetre on towards victory. But if it would not matter to the
world any more than the demise of a daddy-long-legs, I prefer to live.
In fact, I want to live. I have never wanted to live more in all my
life. I want to see this fight out. I want to see the Light that is
coming after the Darkness. For, by God! it will come.</p>
<p>And I want to live, too, for personal and private reasons. If I could
regard myself merely as a helpless incumbrance, a useless jellyfish,
absorbing for my maintenance human effort that should be beneficially
exerted elsewhere, I think I should be the first to bid them take me
out and bury me. But it is my wonderful privilege to look around and
see great and beautiful human souls coming to me for guidance and
consolation. Why this should be I do not rightly know. Perhaps my very
infirmity has taught me many lessons....</p>
<p>You see, in the years past, my life was not without its lonelinesses.
It was so natural for the lusty and joyous to disregard, through mere
thoughtlessness, the little weather-beaten cripple in his wheelchair.
But when one of these sacrificed an hour's glad life in order to sit by
the dull chair in a corner, the cripple did not forget it. He learned
in its terrible intensity the meaning of human kindness. And, in his
course through the years, or as the years coursed by him, he realised
that a pair of gollywog legs was not the worst disability which a human
being might suffer. There were gollywog hearts, brains, nerves,
temperaments, destinies.</p>
<p>Perhaps, in this way, he came to the knowledge that in every human
being lies the spark of immortal beauty, to be fanned into flame by one
little rightly directed breath. At any rate, he learned to love his
kind.</p>
<p>It is Christmas day. I am as happy as a man has a right to be in these
fierce times in England. Love is all around me. I must tell you little
by little. Various things have happened during the last six months.</p>
<p>At the inquest on the body of Leonard Boyce, the jury gave a verdict of
death by misadventure. The story of the chauffeur, an old soldier
servant devoted to Boyce, received implicit belief. He had faithfully
carried out his master's orders: to conduct him from the road, across
the field, and seat him on the boom of the lock gates, where he wanted
to remain alone in order to enjoy the quiet of the night and listen to
the lap of the water; to return and fetch him in a quarter of an hour.
This he did, dreaming of no danger. When he came back he realised what
had happened. His master had got up and fallen into the canal. What had
really happened only a few of us knew.</p>
<p>Well, I have told you the man's story. I am not his judge. Whether his
act was the supreme amende, the supreme act of courage or the supreme
act of cowardice, it is not for me to say. I heard nothing of the
matter for many weeks, for they took me off to a nursing home and kept
me in the deathly stillness of a sepulchre. When I resumed my life in
Wellingsford I found smiling faces to welcome me. My first public
action was to give away Phyllis Gedge in marriage to Randall
Holmes—Randall Holmes in the decent kit of an officer and a gentleman.
He made this proposition to me on the first evening of my return. "The
bride's father," said I, somewhat ironically, "is surely the proper
person."</p>
<p>"The bride's father," said he, "is miles away, and, like a wise and
hoary villain, is likely to remain there."</p>
<p>This was news. "Gedge has left Wellingsford?" I cried. "How did that
come about?"</p>
<p>He stuck his hands on his hips and looked down on me pityingly.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid, sir," said he, "you'll never do adequate justice to my
intelligence and my capacity for affairs."</p>
<p>Then he laughed and I guessed what had occurred. My young friend must
have paid a stiff price; but Phyllis and peace were worth it; and I
have said that Randall is a young man of fortune.</p>
<p>"My dear boy," said I, "if you have exorcised this devil of a
father-in-law of yours out of Wellingsford, I'll do any mortal thing
you ask."</p>
<p>I was almost ecstatic. For think what it meant to those whom I held
dear. The man's evil menace was removed from the midst of us. The man's
evil voice was silenced. The tragic secrets of the canal would be kept.
I looked up at my young friend. There was a grim humour around the
corners of his mouth and in his eyes the quiet masterfulness of those
who have looked scornfully at death. I realised that he had reached a
splendid manhood. I realised that Gedge had realised it too; woe be to
him if he played Randall false. I stuck out my hand.</p>
<p>"Any mortal thing," I repeated.</p>
<p>He regarded me steadily. "Anything? Do you really mean it?"</p>
<p>"You dashed young idiot," I cried, "do you think I'm in the habit of
talking through my hat?"</p>
<p>"Well," said he, "will you look after Phyllis when I'm gone?"</p>
<p>"Gone? Gone where? Eternity?"</p>
<p>"No, no! I've only a fortnight's leave. Then I'm off. Wherever they
send me. Secret Service. You know. It's no use planking Phyllis in a
dug-out of her own"—shades of Oxford and the Albemarle Review!—"she'd
die of loneliness. And she'd die of culture in the mater's highbrow
establishment. Whereas, if you would take her in—give her a shake-down
here—she wouldn't give much trouble—"</p>
<p>He stammered as even the most audacious young warrior must do when
making so astounding a proposal. But I bade him not be an ass, but send
her along when he had to finish with her; with the result that for some
months my pretty little Phyllis has been an inmate of my house.
Marigold keeps a sort of non-commissioned parent's eye on her. To him
she seems to be still the child whom he fed solicitously but
unemotionally with Mrs. Marigold's cakes at tea parties years ago. She
gives me a daughter's dainty affection. Thank God for it!</p>
<p>There have been other little changes in Wellingsford. Mrs. Boyce left
the town soon after Leonard's death, and lives with her sister in
London. I had a letter from her this morning—a brave woman's letter.
She has no suspicion of the truth. God still tempereth the wind.... Out
of the innocent generosity of her heart she sent me also, as a
keepsake, "a little heavy cane, of which Leonard was extraordinarily
fond." She will never know that I put it into the fire, and with what
strange and solemn thoughts I watched it burn.</p>
<p>It is Christmas Day. Dr. Cliffe, although he has washed his hands of
me, tyrannically keeps me indoors of winter nights, so that I cannot,
as usual, dine at Wellings Park. To counter the fellow's machinations,
however, I have prepared a modest feast to which I have bidden Sir
Anthony and Lady Fenimore and my dearest Betty.</p>
<p>As to Betty—</p>
<p>Phyllis comes in radiant, her pretty face pink above an absurd panoply
of furs. She has had a long letter from Randall from the Lord knows
where. He will be home on leave in the middle of January. In her
excitement she drops prayer-books and hymn-books all over me. Then,
picking them up, reminds me it is time to go to church. I am an
old-fashioned fogey and I go to church on Christmas Day. I hope our
admirable and conscientious Vicar won't feel it his duty to tell us to
love Germans. I simply can't do it.</p>
<p>New Year's Day, 1917.</p>
<p>I must finish off this jumble of a chronicle.</p>
<p>Before us lies the most eventful year in all the old world's history.
Thank God my beloved England is strong, and Great Britain and our great
Empire and immortal France. There is exhilaration in the air; a
consciousness of high ideals; an unwavering resolution to attain them;
a thrilling faith in their ultimate attainment. No one has died or lost
sight or limbs in vain. I look around my own little circle. Oswald
Fenimore, Willie Connor, Reggie Dacre, Leonard Boyce—how many more
could I not add to the list? All those little burial grounds in
France—which France, with her exquisite sense of beauty, has assigned
as British soil for all time—all those burial grounds, each bearing
its modest leaden inscription—some, indeed, heart-rendingly inscribed
"Sacred to the memory of six unknown British soldiers killed in
action"—are monuments not to be bedewed with tears of lamentation.
From the young lives that have gone there springs imperishable love and
strength and wisdom—and the vast determination to use that love and
strength and wisdom for the great good of mankind. If there is a God of
Battles, guiding, in His inscrutable omniscience, the hosts that fight
for the eternal verities—for all that man in his straining towards the
Godhead has striven for since the world began—the men who have died
will come into their glory, and those who have mourned will share
exultant in the victory. From before the beginning of Time Mithra has
ever been triumphant and his foot on the throat of Ahriman.</p>
<p>It was in February, 1915, that I began to expand my diary into this
narrative,—nearly two years ago. We have passed through the darkness.
The Dawn is breaking. Sursum corda.</p>
<p>I was going to tell you about Betty when Phyllis, with her furs and
happiness and hymn-books, interrupted me. I should like to tell you
now. But who am I to speak of the mysteries in the soul of a great
woman? But I must try. And I can tell you more now than I could on
Christmas Day.</p>
<p>Last night she insisted on seeing the New Year in with me. If I had
told Marigold that I proposed to sit up after midnight, he would have
come in at ten o'clock, picked me up with finger and thumb as any
Brobdingnagian might have picked up Gulliver, and put me straightway to
bed. But Betty made the announcement in her airily imperious way, and
Marigold, craven before Betty and Mrs. Marigold, said "Very good,
madam," as if Dr. Cliffe and his orders had never existed. At half past
ten she packed off the happy and, I must confess, the somewhat sleepy
Phyllis, and sat down, in her old attitude by the side of my chair, in
front of the fire, and opened her dear heart to me.</p>
<p>I had guessed what her proud soul had suffered during the last six
months. One who loved her as I did could see it in her face, in her
eyes, in the little hardening of her voice, in odd little betrayals of
feverishness in her manner. But the outside world saw nothing. The
steel in her nature carried her through. She left no duty
unaccomplished. She gave her confidence to no human being. I, to whom
she might have come, was carried off to the sepulchre above mentioned.
Letters were forbidden. But every day, for all her bleak despair, Betty
sent me a box of fresh flowers. They would not tell me it was Betty who
sent them; but I knew. My wonderful Betty.</p>
<p>When they took off my cerecloths and sent me back to Wellingsford,
Betty was the first to smile her dear welcome. We resumed our old
relations. But Betty, treating me as an invalid, forbore to speak of
Leonard Boyce. Any approach on my part came up against that iron wall
of reserve of which I spoke to you long ago.</p>
<p>But last night she told me all. What she said I cannot repeat. But she
had divined the essential secret of the double tragedy of the canal. It
had become obvious to her that he had made the final reparation for a
wrong far deeper than she had imagined. She was very clear-eyed and
clear-souled. During her long companionship with pain and sorrow and
death, she had learned many things. She had been purged by the fire of
the war of all resentments, jealousies, harsh judgments, and came forth
pure gold.... Leonard had been the great love of her life. If you
cannot see now why she married Willie Connor, gave him all that her
generous heart could give, and after his death was irresistibly drawn
back to Boyce, I have written these pages in vain.</p>
<p>A few minutes before midnight Marigold entered with a tray bearing a
cake or two, a pint of champagne and a couple of glasses. While he was
preparing to uncork the bottle Betty slipped from the room and returned
with another glass.</p>
<p>"For Sergeant Marigold," she said.</p>
<p>She opened the French window behind the drawn curtains and listened. It
was a still clear night. Presently the clock of the Parish Church
struck twelve. She came down to the little table by my side and filled
the glasses, and the three of us drank the New Year in. Then Betty
kissed me and we both shook hands with Marigold, who stood very stiff
and determined and cleared his throat and swallowed something as though
he were expected to make a speech. But Betty anticipated him. She put
both her hands on his gaunt shoulders and looked up into his ugly face.</p>
<p>"You've just wished me a Happy New Year, Sergeant."</p>
<p>"I have," said he, "and I mean it."</p>
<p>"Then will you let me have great happiness in staying here and helping
you to look after the Major?"</p>
<p>He gasped for a moment (as did I) and clutched her arms for an instant
in an iron grip.</p>
<p>"Indeed I will, my dear," said he.</p>
<p>Then he stepped back a pace and stood rigid, his one eye staring, his
weather-beaten face the colour of beetroot. He was blushing. The beads
of perspiration appeared below his awful wig. He stammered out
something about "Ma'am" and "Madam." He had never so far forgotten
himself in his life.</p>
<p>But Betty sprang forward and gripped his hand.</p>
<p>"It is you who are the dear," she said. "You, the greatest and loyalest
friend a man has ever known. And I'll be loyal to you, never fear."</p>
<p>By what process of enchantment she got an emotion-filled Marigold to
the door and shut it behind him, I shall never discover. On its slam
she laughed—a queer high note. In one swift movement she was by my
knees. And she broke into a passion of tears. For me, I was the most
mystified man under heaven.</p>
<p>Soon she began to speak, her head bowed.</p>
<p>"I've come to the end of the tether, Majy dear. They've driven me from
the hospital—I didn't know how to tell you before—I've been doing all
sorts of idiotic things. The doctors say it's a nervous breakdown—I've
had rather a bad time—but I thought it contemptible to let one's own
wretched little miseries interfere with one's work for the country—so
I fought as hard as I could. Indeed I did, Majy dear. But it seems I've
been playing the fool without knowing it,—I haven't slept properly for
months—and they've sent me away. Oh, they've been all that's kind, of
course—I must have at least six months' rest, they say—they talk
about nursing homes—I've thought and thought and thought about it
until I'm certain. There's only one rest for me, Majy dear." She raised
a tear-stained, tense and beautiful face and drew herself up so that
one arm leaned on my chair, and the other on my shoulder. "And that is
to be with the one human being that is left for me to love—oh, really
love—you know what I mean—in the world."</p>
<p>I could only put my hand on her fair young head and say:</p>
<p>"My dear, my dear, you know I love you."</p>
<p>"That is why I'm not afraid to speak. Perfect love casteth out fear—"</p>
<p>I pushed back her hair. "What is it that you want me to do, Betty?" I
asked. "My life, such as it is, is at your command."</p>
<p>She looked me full, unflinchingly in the eyes.</p>
<p>"If you would give me the privilege of bearing your name, I should be a
proud and happy woman."</p>
<p>We remained there, I don't know how long—she with her hand on my
shoulder, I caressing her dear hair. It was a tremendous temptation. To
have my beloved Betty in all her exquisite warm loyalty bound to me for
the rest of my crippled life. But I found the courage to say:</p>
<p>"My dear, you are young still, with the wonderful future that no one
alive can foretell before you, and I am old—"</p>
<p>"You're not fifty."</p>
<p>"Still I am old, I belong to the past—to a sort of affray behind an
ant-hill which they called a war. I'm dead, my dear, you are gloriously
alive. I'm of the past, as I say. You're of the future. You, my
dearest, are the embodiment of the woman of the Great War—" I
smiled—"The Woman of the Great War in capital letters. What your
destiny is, God knows. But it isn't to be tied to a Prehistoric Man
like me."</p>
<p>She rose and stood, with her beautiful bare arms behind her, sweet,
magnificent.</p>
<p>"I am a Woman of the Great War. You are quite right. But in a year or
so I shall be like other women of the war who have suffered and spent
their lives, a woman of the past—not of the future. All sorts of
things have been burned up in it." In a quick gesture she stretched out
her hands to me. "Oh, can't you understand?"</p>
<p>I cannot set down the rest of the tender argument. If she had loved me
less, she could have lived in my house, like Phyllis, without a thought
of the conventions. But loving me dearly, she had got it into her
feminine head that the sacredness of the marriage tie would crown with
dignity and beauty the part she had resolved to play for my happiness.</p>
<p>Well, if I have yielded I pray it may not be set down to me for selfish
exploitation of a woman's exhausted hour. When I said something of the
sort, she laughed and cried:</p>
<p>"Why, I'm bullying you into it!"</p>
<p>The First of January, 1917—the dawn to me, a broken derelict, of the
annus mirabilis. Somehow, foolishly, illogically, I feel that it will
be the annus mirabilis for my beloved country.</p>
<p>And come—after all—I am, in spite of my legs, a Man too of the Great
War. I have lived in it, and worked in it, and suffered in it—and in
it have I won a Great Thing.</p>
<p>So long as one's soul is sound—that is the Great Matter.</p>
<p>Just before we parted last night, I said to Betty:</p>
<p>"The beginning and end of all this business is that you're afraid of
Marigold."</p>
<p>She started back indignantly.</p>
<p>"I'm not! I'm not!"</p>
<p>I laughed. "The Lady protests too much," said I.</p>
<p>The clock struck two. Marigold appeared at the door. He approached
Betty.</p>
<p>"I think, Madam, we ought to let the Major go to bed."</p>
<p>"I think, Marigold," said Betty serenely, "we ought to be ashamed of
ourselves for keeping him up so late."</p>
<br/><br/><br/>
<P CLASS="finis">
THE END</p>
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />