Valour

by Warwick Deeping

  “I think, Pierce, your mother would like you to spend a little time with her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She was in the drawing-room.”

  “I’ll go and have a talk to her.”

  Sophia Hammersly was one of those fortunate yet much to be pitied people who can neither weep nor laugh. Life had left her cold. She did not feel things; they only added or subtracted from the sum total of her comfort. Having no fire within her, she could flatter herself on her stoicism, and on the admirable and aristocratic calmness with which she faced this great ordeal.

  And in her way she was proud of Pierce; proud of him because he was hers, because she had produced him, because he was good to look at and clever. There was no affection in this pride. It was just an aspect of her egoism, a form of self-satisfaction. She liked being the mother of a good-looking son, just as she liked living in a big house, driving in a de luxe car, knowing county people. It made her feel fat and comfortable and socially successful.

  And since it was quite the aristocratic thing for a young man to go to the front, Sophia Hammersly was able to play the part of the Roman mother with no bitter heart pangs and no dreads. She had no imagination, and somehow she had never seen Pierce lying dead with white lips and blood on his face, and sightless eyes wide open. He remained a successful social figure, distinguished, smartly uniformed, capable of the obvious, fashion-plate gallantry.

  “My dear Pierce, I hope you intend keeping a diary. I am going to send one of your khaki photos up to The Trident. I know they would like to publish it.”

  “I shouldn’t bother, Mater.”

  “And if you can send home some curios it will be so interesting. Mrs. Hemmerde has one of those nice brass shell things in her drawing-room.”

  He looked at her, sadly sardonic.

  “Supposing I can get hold of a Turk’s head, Mater, and have it pickled?”

  “Don’t be so flippant, Pierce. I shall expect you to write to me every other day, and I should like bits I could send to one of the daily papers.”

  She did not mention Janet, for already she had half convinced herself that this foolish infatuation would wither and droop of itself, and that a young man’s love is a thing that changes like the seasons.

  “I suppose your father will see you embark?”

  “No, we have agreed against it.”

  “But I think he ought to. It is his duty.”

  “We don’t always do our duty, Mater. It is rather a bore, you know.”

  He escaped from his mother, pretending that he wanted to make sure that Dent was getting on with the packing. The sight of his active service kit did not excite him in the least; in fact, it depressed him; the stuff looked so ominous and final.

  “Don’t forget that canvas bucket, Dent.”

  “No, sir. And will you wear the revolver?”

  “No, shove the thing in the kit-bag. Have I got a tin mug and a plate?”

  “Yes, sir. And what about the water-bottle?”

  “Shove it in the kit-bag. And don’t forget that camp mirror.”

  “No, sir.”

  Dinner ended in inarticulate depression. Pierce was restless, most horribly restless, thinking of Janet and of the stark pathos of leaving her. He dashed off, leaving his coffee untouched, and ran half the way to Heather Cottage, his heart racing, and a sense of emptiness under his ribs. He noticed, in a perfunctory sort of way, how bright the after-glow was, and the wetness of the grass with the falling dew. Even the beauty of things was edged with pain.

  Then he was holding Janet in his arms; she had been waiting at the gate for him, and the warm softness of her was like blood flowing from a wound. They were trembling, both of them, breathing jerkily. Pierce turned her face up to his, and talked like a man half out of his senses.

  “Little woman—I’ve got to go. It’s damnable. How I love you! Oh, my dear. You’ll be brave; I shall come back all right; I’ve sworn to come back.”

  She just looked at him, and looked.

  “It’s so hard to believe.”

  She closed her eyes, and he kissed them, and they stood awhile in silence, shivering a little, and holding each other close.

  Then Pierce mastered himself.

  “I ought to see your mother, dear.”

  “Yes, come in.”

  It was a poor, pathetic, trite little interview, with Mrs. Yorke’s faded eyes looking at them helplessly. They did not prolong it, but went out again into the garden.

  And there Pierce had one of his moments of passionate revolt.

  “Curse this war! Do you remember those fellows in mufti lunching at the Savoy? Why should I go—while they stay at home? Isn’t it like England—putting everything on the man who has a sense of honour, and letting the slackers grin and stay at home? Why should you have to bear this?”

  She gave a deep, quick cry.

  “Don’t—don’t. I’m proud to bear it. There’s a sort of nobleness, bitter but sweet. I love you so much more because you are going.”

  He reacted to her fineness.

  “Do you? How splendid you are!”

  “No, I’m so human; but I do love bigness.”

  “My dearest——!”

  They wandered to and fro awhile, with arms linked, talking with passionate, sweet intimacy. The stars blinked at them; the night was soft and still, yet in the bosom of the darkness there was a throbbing as of pain.

  Then the old feverishness, the sense of impending anguish, returned. They yearned for that which they had dreaded, the wrench that was so inevitable and so near. It was like waiting for the poisoned cup; both longed to snatch at it.

  “Janet, I ought to go.”

  “Yes. I’m being selfish.”

  “Oh, my heart, good-bye!”

  They clung to each other for a moment, and then Pierce Hammersly turned and fled.

  He ran home, panting, cursing.

  “It’s damnable; absolutely damnable. Hell! Why didn’t I stay a little longer! I shan’t see her again.”

  He faltered, ground his teeth, and went on again towards Scarshott.

  “What is the use?” he thought; “I wish the whole damned country was at the bottom of the sea!”

  CHAPTER IX

  Porteous Hammersly and his son sat up late that night, talking about everything, and about nothing in particular. Each needed the human nearness of the other; they were like men in a haunted house, giving each other courage, pretending to be very bold.

  Pierce drank whisky, and it made him talkative for a while.

  “I wonder how most men feel before going off on this game.”

  “I don’t know, my boy, I’m sure.”

  “Resigned, or sulky, or savage. There is not much of the joy of adventure in it.”

  “If one was quite young, Pierce, with no ties or responsibilities——”

  “Yes, that’s it. I know now how poor Dick Hansard felt. I saw him off the first time. I never remember a man looking so grey and miserable; just as though he had taken the heart out of his body and left it at home.”

  Old Hammersly watched his son with furtive and compassionate anxiety. He could not help wondering how this boy of his would behave. For Porteous Hammersly knew himself to be a physical coward; he was afraid of all sorts of things, fast travelling in a car, being in a rowing-boat, the jarring of an express train when it rocked over the points at a junction.

  They went upstairs about twelve, and said a leisurely good night on the landing.

  “You may be able to drop us letters from Gib. and Malta.”

  “Certain to, Pater. I think I’ll turn in.”

  “Get a good night’s sleep, my boy.”

  “There is not much fear of that.”

  They closed the doors of their rooms, and instantly a great loneliness seized each of them, as though it had been waiting there in the darkness. Pierce switched on the light, and saw all his service kit neatly packed and arranged at the foot of the bed. He stared at it, and began t
o undress.

  Then a desperate desire to see Janet again seized him. It was like physical hunger, only a hundred times more fierce and poignant. He felt that he must rush out of the house, and through the darkness to that white cottage, and stand under her window, calling to her to let him see her face. He fought the desire, realising its futility, but his heart hunger would not let him sleep.

  Porteous Hammersly had not attempted to undress. He threw off his coat, put on a dressing-gown, and with the light at full glare he sat down in an easy chair and tried to read. This reading proved to be a futile pretence at smothering his feelings, and presently he turned out the light and sat in the darkness. He knew that he could not sleep, that he did not want to sleep. His brain was too wakeful, too much under the influence of to-morrow’s parting, for Porteous Hammersly had discovered that all his interests in life had centred themselves upon his son. He had not been conscious of this attitude of his, until Fate had threatened the whole purpose of his existence. He realised that all his acts and thoughts had gravitated towards his son and his son’s future. It was the desire for continuity, for the perpetuation of his affection subtilised, and subdivided into a dozen different lines of accomplishment. Pierce stood at the end of everything that old Hammersly planned and did; he was a beloved presence in the office, in the garden, in the park, in a new tree planted, in a new sum of money put by and invested.

  And sitting there in the darkness old Porteous saw the very symbol of life snatched away and taken from him. Age has none of the rebound of youth; it cannot create new enthusiasms, new creeds. Porteous Hammersly’s eyes saw nothing but blank finality, with a flicker of hope shining in the distance. Pierce might come back, and he might not. No one knew, no one could help him. In such hours of suffering man has to stand alone.

  Once Porteous Hammersly rose, and going softly to the door of his wife’s room, opened it cautiously and listened. She was asleep; he could hear her heavy breathing. And that one incident symbolised what marriage had given him, or failed to give. He had married a woman whose soul had always been asleep when he had needed her. There was no hand to grasp his, no warm human touch to help him in the anguish of his loneliness.

  So the night passed, with these two men both wakeful, both waiting for the dawn. Porteous opened his window, and sat there watching the stars grow pale, while his son turned from side to side, sometimes burying his hot face in the pillow and thinking of Janet and his love for her.

  By a curious coincidence both those bedroom doors opened at the same moment, and father and son met in the grey light of the dawn.

  “Hallo, Pater, I thought you were asleep!”

  “I always wake early, and this morning I woke earlier than usual. What is it—about four?”

  “Half-past. I’m going down to heat up some shaving water.”

  They gravitated towards the stairhead, each wondering whether the other had had any sleep at all.

  “Some hot tea wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

  “Excellent!”

  “We need not rouse the servants.”

  “Of course not.”

  They went down and rummaged in the kitchen and pantry, with a new kind of comradeship. Pierce lit the gas-stove and got the kettle boiling, while Porteous collected teapot, cups, tea and sugar.

  “I see there is no milk.”

  “What about a tin of condensed? Does the great woman keep such a thing?”

  They discovered an unopened tin in the pantry, and Pierce punched two holes in the lid with a screw-driver.

  “I suppose I shall get plenty of this. The kettle is boiling, Dad.”

  Porteous attended to it in his shirt-sleeves.

  “Bread and butter.”

  “Here’s a fresh pat. This is a real sort of picnic.”

  If it was possible for either of them to enjoy anything they enjoyed that scratch meal at the kitchen table, and the simple intimacy of their good fellowship. Pierce’s eyes were rather red, and his father had forgotten to brush his hair.

  “I wish I were thirty years younger. I should be going with you.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “What should I be, Pater?—a warrior in white socks! I say, this tea is good. I am going to have a shave before running over to have a last word with Janet.”

  “I thought you said——”

  “Yes, I know. But there is something I forgot to tell her.”

  “Take the car.”

  “I can do it in ten minutes on my own feet.”

  No morning could have been more perfect, with the yellow sun just topping the white mist, and all the green world a-glisten with flashing dew. Pierce Hammersly had the common to himself, save for an old black donkey wandering through the furze. Heather Cottage looked very white against the purple under-shadows of the pines, a little house asleep, like a big white shell under a cliff.

  Pierce turned aside into a plantation, and filled one of his pockets with fir cones. These were safe things to throw at a young woman’s window, but that pocketful proved superfluous. His first shot went through the open window and rattled on the floor.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Janet, let me have one glimpse of you.”

  She had been lying there awake, thinking, thinking, with the blind up and the sunlight streaming in.

  Pierce saw her come to the window in a little blue dressing-jacket, her hair hanging over her shoulders, white lace showing at her throat.

  “I felt that I could not go without one last look at you.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About half-past five.”

  “What a glorious day! Pierce, I’ll come down.”

  She slipped on some clothes, put on a pair of shoes, but left her brown hair hanging free. Pierce was waiting for her in the porch. He caught her and held her close.

  “Dearest, what gorgeous hair!”

  He ran one hand under and through it, letting the sunlight play upon its undulations. Then, suddenly, he buried his face in her hair, and kissed her throat.

  “I suppose this is gross selfishness? I ought not to have come.”

  “Perhaps you could not help it.”

  “I was awake all night, thinking of you.”

  “It seems easier now. Last night was terrible.”

  “My Janet, we will remember the sunlight.”

  They wandered out into one of the open glades where rabbits had nibbled the grass till it looked like velvet. There was no wind, and the bracken was as still as the tree-tops overhead. And for some minutes they walked in a world of sweet oblivion, looking into each other’s eyes and talking with a beautiful calm frankness of all that was in their hearts.

  Janet went with him halfway across the common towards Scarshott, for there was no one to see their linked arms and her tumultuous hair. They were more tranquil, less despairingly sad, and sustained by an exultant pride in each other. For the moment Janet had forgotten Gerard Hammersly, and the rebellious temper of her man who was so like his notorious uncle.

  “I feel sure that you will come back to me.”

  “What better omen could I have?”

  “And I know that you will be brave.”

  His last memory of Janet was of her standing there in the sunlight, her hair about her face, her eyes watching him with grave tenderness.

  “Good-bye, and God bless you.”

  “Good-bye, my own dear man.”

  They turned with one last look, and went their several ways. Some subtle bond of sympathy still united them, for when Pierce glanced back and waved, she looked back and waved in answer. Then the furze hid her, and he went forward with a stiff face and grim eyes to exile and the great adventure.

  Old Porteous drove down with his son to the station.

  “I don’t think I’ll come on the platform, Pierce.”

  “No, quite right, Father. And you will look after Janet for me?”

  “With all my soul.”

  The car stopped at the kerb. Pierce held his fath
er’s hand for a moment.

  “Good-bye, Pater; you have been wonderfully good to me.”

  “God bless you, boy.”

  “Good-bye, Bains; straight home; the luggage is out.”

  “Good luck to you, sir.”

  For Pierce had seen that his father’s hardihood had failed him, and that the staring eyes of Scarshott would humiliate the old man.

  CHAPTER X

  Pierce Hammersly found other men in khaki going down on that train from London to embark for the Dardanelles. One or two had women with them—women with bleak, strained faces; women who would smile pitifully from time to time and try to look brave. Acquaintanceships were struck up. There was a good deal of talking and of forced vivacity—the chattering of men who are afraid of their own thoughts.

  “Where are we bound for; what’s your idea?”

  “Gallipoli. It’s a dead cert.”

  “But is it? What about Serbia? I heard a funny yarn the other day from a man in the know; of course, it’s secret, but strange things are going to happen in Serbia.”

  There was instant enthusiasm.

  “Serbia! I should rather like Serbia.”

  “Rather! We may be concentrating a big force there—secretly. And then——”

  “Or it might be Egypt.”

  “No, I bet it is to be a new landing.”

  “I still hold to Serbia.”

  Pierce had joined in this gossip, and in that railway carriage his intuition discovered something that was to sound like a leitmotiv through all those tragic days. Egypt—and safety! Serbia—and a temporary reprieve! The desire lay hidden in the hearts of all these men, just as it lay hidden in his own. No single one of them thirsted to be thrust into the slaughterhouse. They shrank from the thought of it; hoped the machine would carry them elsewhere, yet kept a pretence of keenness to show to the world.

  But as the journey lengthened, the talk died down. Faces became set, bored, depressed. One man smoked a pipe savagely, using many superfluous matches over it. Pierce had a corner seat, and he watched the country rushing by, this England, this green land that was sliding out of his life. Would he ever see it again?—Janet?—his own people? He had never felt such sadness before, a sadness that was utterly without relief. The war—as he had seen it in the papers—had been one heroic, die-hard grin. What damnable rot those newspaper fellows wrote, the mock heroic tosh of men who had never been chained to the machine!