CHAPTER XIV
CARRYING ON
After that first terrible evening, during which no one had looked upontheir agony, David Linton and his child took up their life again andtried to splice the broken ends as best they might. Their guests, whocame down to breakfast nervously, preparing to go away at once, foundthem in the dining-room, haggard and worn, but pleasantly courteous;they talked of the morning's news, of the frost that seemedcommencing, of the bulbs that were sending delicate spear-heads upthrough the grass or the bare flower-beds. There were arrangementsfor the day to be made for those who cared to ride or drive: thetrains to be planned for a gunner subaltern whose leave was expiringnext day. Everything was quite as usual, outwardly.
"Pretty ghastly meal, what?" remarked the young gunner to a chum, asthey went out on the terrace. "Rather like dancing at a funeral."
Philip Hardress came into the morning-room, where Mr. Linton and Norahwere talking.
"I don't need to tell you how horribly sorry I am," he faltered.
"No--thanks, Phil."
"You--you haven't any details?"
"No."
"Wally will write as soon as he can," Norah added.
"Yes, of course. The others want me to say, sir, of course they willgo away. They all understand. I can go too, just to the hotel. Ican supervise Hawkins from there."
"I hope none of you will think of doing any such thing," David Lintonsaid. "Our work here is just the same. Jim would never have wishedus not to carry on."
"But----" Hardress began.
"There isn't any 'but.' Norah and I are not going to sit mourning,with our hands in front of us. We mean to work a bit harder, that'sall. You see"--the ghost of a smile flickered across the face thathad aged ten years in a night--"more than ever now, whatever we do fora soldier is done for Jim."
Hardress made a curious little gesture of protest.
"And I'm left--half of me!"
"You have got to help us, Phil," Norah said. "We need you badly."
"I can't do much," he said. "But as long as you want me, I'm here.Then I'm to tell the others, sir----"
"Tell them we hope they will help us to carry on as usual," said DavidLinton. "I'll come across with you presently, Phil, to look at thenew cultivator: I hear it arrived last night."
He looked at Norah as the door closed.
"You're sure it isn't too much for you, my girl? I will send themaway if you would rather we were by ourselves for a while."
"I promised Jim that whatever happened we'd keep smiling," Norah said."He wouldn't want us to make a fuss. Jim always did so hate fusses,didn't he, Dad?"
She was quite calm. Even when Mrs. Hunt came hurrying over, and puther kind arms about her, Norah had no tears.
"I suppose we haven't realized it," she said. "Perhaps we're tryingnot to. I don't want to think of Jim as dead--he was so splendidlyalive, ever since he was a tiny chap."
"Try to think of him as near you," Mrs. Hunt whispered.
"Oh, he is. I know Jim never would go far from us, if he could helpit. I know he's watching, somewhere, and he will be glad if we keepour heads up and go straight on. He would trust us to do that." Herface changed. "Oh, Mrs. Hunt,--but it's hard on Dad!"
"He has you still."
"I'm only a girl," said Norah. "No girl could make up for a son: andsuch a son as Jim. But I'll try."
There came racing little feet in the hall, and Geoffrey burst in.
"It isn't true!" he shouted. "Say it isn't true, Norah! Allenby saysthe Germans have killed Jim--I know they couldn't." He tugged at herwoollen coat. "Say it's a lie, Norah--Jim couldn't be dead!"
"Geoff--Geoff, dear!" Mrs. Hunt tried to draw him away.
"Don't!" Norah said. She put her arms round the little boy--andsuddenly her head went down on his shoulder. The tears came at last.Mrs. Hunt went softly from the room.
There were plenty of tears in the household: The servants had allloved the big cheery lad, with the pleasant word for each one. Theywent about their work red-eyed, and Allenby chafed openly at the agethat kept him at home, doing a woman's work, while boys went out togive their lives, laughing, for Empire.
"It ain't fair," he said to Miss de Lisle, who sobbed into the mufflershe was knitting. "It ain't fair. Kids, they are--no more. Theyain't meant to die. Oh, if I could only get at that there Kayser!"
Then, after a week of waiting, came Wally's letter.
*****
"Norah, Dear,--
"I don't know how to write to you. I can't bear to think aboutyou and your father. It seems it must be only a bad dream--and allthe time I know it isn't, even though I keep thinking I hear hiswhistle--the one he used for me.
"I had better tell you about it.
"We had orders to attack early one morning. Jim was awfully keen; hehad everything ready, and he had been talking to the men until theywere all as bucked up as they could be. You know, he was often prettygrave about his work, but I don't think I ever saw him look so happyas he did that morning. He looked just like a kid. He told me hefelt as if he were going out on a good horse at Billabong. We werelooking over our revolvers, and he said, 'That's the only thing thatfeels wrong; it ought to be a stock whip!'
"We hadn't much artillery support. Our guns were short of shells, asusual. But we took the first trench, and the next. Jim was justeverywhere. He was always first; the men would have followed him downa precipice. He was laughing all the time.
"We didn't get much time before they counter-attacked. They came onin waves--as if there were millions of them, and we had a pretty stifffight in the trench. It was fairly well smashed about. I was prettybusy about fifty yards away, but I saw Jim up on a broken traverse,using his revolver just as calmly as if he were practising in camp,and cheering on the men. He gave me a 'Coo-ee!'
"And then--oh, I don't know how to tell you. Just as I was looking athim a shell burst near him: and when the smoke blew over there wasnothing--traverse and trench and all, it was just wiped out. Icouldn't get near him--the Boches were pouring over in fresh masses,and we got the signal to retire--and I was the only one left to getthe men back.
"He couldn't have felt anything; that's the only thing.
"I wish it had been me. I'm nobody's dog, and he was just everythingto you two--and the best friend a fellow ever had. It would have beenso much more reasonable if it had been me. I just feel that I hatemyself for being alive. I would have saved him for you if I could,Norah, "Wally."
*****
There were letters, too, from Jim's Colonel, and from Major Hunt, andGarrett, and every other brother-officer whom Jim had sent toHomewood; and others that Norah and her father valued almost morehighly--from men who had served under him. Letters that made him glowwith pride--almost forgetting grief as they read them. It seemed soimpossible to think that Jim would never come again.
"I can't feel as though he were dead," Norah said, looking up at herfather. "I know I've got to get used to knowing he has gone away fromus for always. But I like to think of him as having only changedwork. Jim never could be idle in Heaven; he always used to say itseemed such a queer idea to sit all day in a white robe and play aharp. Jim's Heaven would have to be a very busy one, and I know he'sgone there, Dad."
David Linton got up and went to the bookcase. He came back with_Westward Ho!_ in his hand.
"I was reading Kingsley's idea of it last night," he said. "I thinkit helps, Norah. Listen. 'The best reward for having wrought wellalready, is to have more to do; and he that has been faithful over afew things, must find his account in being made ruler over manythings. That is the true and heroical rest, which only is worthy ofgentlemen and sons of God.' Jim was only a boy, but he went straightand did his best all his life. I think he has just been promoted tosome bigger job."
So they held their heads high, as befitted people with just cause forbeing proud, and set themselves to find t
he rest that comes from hardwork. There was plenty to do, for the house was always full of TiredPeople. Not that the Lintons ever tried to entertain their guests.Tired People came to a big, quiet house, where everything ransmoothly, and all that was possible was done for comfort. Beyondthat, they did exactly as they chose. There were horses and the motorfor those who cared to ride and drive; the links for golfers; walkswith beautiful scenery for energetic folk, and dainty rooms with bigeasy-chairs, or restful lounges under the trees on the lawn, for thosewho asked from Fate nothing better than to be lazy. No one wasexpected to make conversation or to behave as an ordinary guest.Everywhere there was a pleasant feeling of homeliness and welcome; shymen became suddenly at their ease; nerve-racked men, strained withlong months of the noise and horror of war, relaxed in the peace ofHomewood, and went back to duty with a light step and a clear eye.Only there was missing the wild merriment of the first few weeks, whenJim and Wally dashed in and out perpetually and kept the house in asimmer of uncertainty and laughter. That could never come again.
But beyond the immediate needs of the Tired People there was much toplan and carry out. Conscription in England was an established fact;already there were few fit men to be seen out of uniform. DavidLinton looked forward to a time when shortage of labour, coupled withthe deadly work of the German submarines, should mean a shortage offood; and he and Norah set themselves to provide against that time ofscarcity. Miss de Lisle and Philip Hardress entered into every plan,lending the help of brains as well as hands. The farm was put underintensive culture, and the first provision made for the future wasthat of fertilizers, which, since most of them came from abroad, werecertain to be scarce. Mr. Linton and Hardress breathed more freelywhen they had stored a two years' supply. The flock of sheep wasincreased; the fowl-run doubled in size, and put in charge of adisabled soldier, a one-armed Australian, whom Hardress found inLondon, ill and miserable, and added to the list of Homewood'spatients--and cures. Young heifers were bought, and "boarded-out" atneighbouring farms; a populous community of grunting pigs occupied alittle field. And in the house Norah and Miss de Lisle worked throughthe spring and summer, until the dry and spacious cellars andstorerooms showed row upon row of shelves covered with everything thatcould be preserved or salted or pickled, from eggs to runner beans.
Sometimes the Tired People lent a hand, becoming interested in theirhosts' schemes. Norah formed a fast friendship with a cheerfulsubaltern in the Irish Guards, who was with them for a wet fortnight,much of which he spent in the kitchen stoning fruit, making jam, andacting as bottler-in-chief to the finished product. There were manywho asked nothing better than to work on the farm, digging, plantingor harvesting: indeed, in the summer, one crop would have been ruinedaltogether by a fierce storm, but for the Tired People, who, from anelderly Colonel to an Australian signaller, flung themselves upon it,and helped to finish getting it under cover--carrying the last sheaveshome just as the rain came down in torrents, and returning to Homewoodin a soaked but triumphant procession. Indeed, nearly all theunending stream of guests came under the spell of the place; so thatNorah used to receive anxious inquiries from various corners of theearth afterwards--from Egypt or Salonica would come demands as to thesuccess of a catch-crop which the writer had helped to sow, or of abrood of Buff Orpingtons which he had watched hatching out in theincubator: even from German East Africa came a letter asking after aspecial litter of pigs! Perhaps it was that every one knew that theLintons were shouldering a burden bravely, and tried to help.
They kept Jim very close to them. A stranger, hearing the name sooften on their lips, might have thought that he was still with them.Together, they talked of him always; not sadly, but remembering thelong, happy years that now meant a memory too dear ever to let go.Jim had once asked Norah for a promise. "If I go West," he said,"don't wear any horrible black frocks." So she went about in herordinary dresses, especially the blue frocks he had loved--with just anarrow black band on her arm. There were fresh flowers under hispicture every day, but she did not put them sadly. She would smile atthe frank happy face as she arranged leaves and blossoms with a lovinghand.
Later on, David Linton fitted up a carpenter's bench and a workshop;the days were too full for much thinking, but he found the eveningslong. He enlisted Hardress in his old work of splint-making, and thenfound that half his guests used to stray out to the lit workshop afterdinner and beg for jobs, so that before long the nearest HospitalSupply Depot could count on a steady output of work from Homewood.Mrs. Hunt and Norah used to come as polishers; Miss de Lisle suddenlydiscovered that her soul for cooking included a corner for carpentry,and became extraordinarily skilful in the use of chisel and plane.When the autumn days brought a chill into the air, Mr. Linton put astove into the workshop; and it became a kind of club, where the wholehousehold might often be found; they extended their activities to themanufacture of crutches, bed-rests, bed-tables, and half a dozen otheraids to comfort for broken men. No work had helped David Linton somuch.
In the early summer Wally came back on leave: a changed Wally, withgrim lines where there had once been only merry ones in his lean,brown face. He did not want to come to Homewood; only when begged tocome did he master the pitiful shrinking he felt from meeting them.
"I didn't know how to face you," he said. Norah had gone to meet him,and they were walking back from the station.
"Don't, Wally; you hurt," she said.
"It's true, though; I didn't. I feel as if you must hate me forcoming back--alone."
"Hate you!--and you were Jim's chum!"
"I always came as Jim's chum," Wally said heavily. "From the veryfirst, when I was a lonely little nipper at school, I sort of belongedto Jim. And now--well, I just can't realize it, Norah. I can't keepon thinking about him as dead. I know he is, and one minute I'mfeeling half-insane about it, and the next I forget, and think I hearhim whistling or calling me." He clenched his hands. "It's theminute after that that is the worst of all," he said.
For a time they did not speak. They walked on slowly, along thepleasant country lane with its blossoming hedges.
"I know," Norah said. "There's not much to choose between you and Dadand me, when it comes to missing Jim. But as for you--well you didcome as Jim's chum first--and always; but you came just as muchbecause you were yourself. You know you belonged to Billabong, as weall did. You can't cut yourself off from us now, Wally."
"I?" he echoed. "Well, if I do, I have mighty little left. But Ifelt that you couldn't want to see me. I know what it must be like tosee me come back without him."
"I'm not going to say it doesn't hurt," said Norah. "Only it hurtsyou as much as it does us. And the thing that would be ever so muchworse is for you not to come. Why, you're the only comfort we haveleft. Don't you see, you're like a bit of Jim coming back to us?"
"Oh, Norah--Norah!" he said. "If I could only have saved him!"
"Don't we know you'd have died quite happily if you could!" Norahsaid. "Just as happily as he would have died for you."
"He did, you know," Wally said. All the youth and joy had gone out ofhis voice, leaving it flat and toneless. "Two or three times thatmorning he kept me out of a specially hot spot, and took it himself.He was always doing it: we nearly punched each other's heads about itthe day before--I told him he was using his rank unfairly. He justgrinned and said subalterns couldn't understand necessary strategy inthe field!"
"He would!" said Norah, laughing.
Wally stared at her.
"I didn't think I'd ever see you laugh again!"
"Not laugh!" Norah echoed. "Why, it wouldn't be fair to Jim if wedidn't. We keep him as near us as we can--talk about him, and aboutall the old, happy times. We did have such awfully good timestogether, didn't we? We're never going to get far away from him."
The boy gave a great sigh.
"I've been getting a long way from everything," he said."Since--since it happened I couldn't let myself think: it was just asif I were go
ing mad. The only thing I've wanted to do was to fight,and I've had that."
"He looks as if his mind were more tired than his body," David Lintonsaid that evening. "One can see that he has just been torturinghimself with all sorts of useless thoughts. You'll have to take himin hand, Norah. Put the other work aside for a while and go out withhim--ride as much as you can. It won't do you any harm, either."
"We never thought old Wally would be one of the Tired People," Norahsaid musingly.
"No, indeed. And I think there has been no one more utterly tired.It won't do, Norah: the boy will be ill if we don't look after him."
"We've just got to make him feel how much we want him," Norah said.
"Yes. And we have to teach him to think happily about Jim--not tofight it all the time. Fighting won't make it any better," said DavidLinton, with a sigh.
But there was no riding for Wally, for a while. The next day foundhim too ill to get up, and the doctor, sent for hastily, talked ofshock and over-strain, and ordered bed until his temperature should bepleased to go down: which was not for many a weary day. Possibly itwas the best thing that could have happened to Wally. He grew, if notreconciled, at least accustomed to his loss; grew, too, to thinkinghimself a coward when he saw the daily struggle waged by the twopeople he loved best. And Norah was wise enough to call in othernurses: chief of them the Hunt babies, Alison and Michael, who rolledon his bed and played with him, while Geoffrey sat as close to him aspossible, and could hardly be lured from the room. It was not forweeks after his return that they heard Wally laugh; and then it was atsome ridiculous speech of Michael's that he suddenly broke into theghost of his old mirth.
Norah's heart gave a leap.
"Oh, he's better!" she thought. "You blessed little Michael!"
And so, healing came to the boy's bruised soul. Not that the old,light-hearted Wally came back: but he learned to talk of Jim, and nolonger to hug his sorrow in silence. Something became his of thepeace that had fallen upon Norah and her father. It was all theycould hope for, to begin with.
They said good-bye to him before they considered him well enough to goback to the trenches. But the call for men was insistent, and the boyhimself was eager to go.
"Come back to us soon," Norah said, wistfully.
"Oh, I'm safe to come back," Wally said. "I'm nobody's dog, youknow."
"That's not fair!" she flashed. "Say you're sorry for saying it!"
He flushed.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you, Nor. I suppose I was a brute to say that."Something of his old quaint fun came into his eyes for a moment."Anyhow it's something to be somebody's dog--especially if one happensto belong to Billabong-in-Surrey!"
Captain Jim Page 14
