Spring Magic

by D. E. Stevenson

  “I don’t remember,” mumbled Guy. “Yes, I believe he was, really . . .”

  “Guy,” said Tommy earnestly, “Guy, you’re frightening me. I must know what happened. I simply must. If you don’t tell me I shall begin to imagine all sorts of horrible things.”

  He looked at Tommy doubtfully. He was very fond of her. He had tried his best to help her and to shield her. If Tommy began to imagine things . . . but she could not imagine anything more horrible than the truth. How could he possibly tell her? Now that Guy had begun to think it over in cold blood he was a trifle ashamed of the part he had played. He realised that if he had not been so furiously angry he might have handled the situation better. Why hadn’t he knocked on the door and warned them of his presence? He might have pretended that he had blown in to see how Widgery was getting on; he might have pretended that he saw nothing strange in Angela’s presence; he might have offered to walk home with her and got her away without a scene—he had got her away from Widgery before. Would it have been better to have used diplomacy rather than force, or would it have just put off the evil day? Guy did not know; he only knew that he had hoped to give Widgery a thrashing and had failed—he had made a complete fool of himself.

  Guy rose, somewhat gingerly, and sat down in a chair. His head spun round, but he managed to steady it.

  “How do you feel now?” asked Tommy anxiously.

  “Not too good,” he replied.

  Tommy glanced at him and then went and fetched a bottle, of whisky. She poured some into a glass. “Will you have it neat?” she asked.

  “No, half and half,” replied Guy. “I’ve got to get back to camp.”

  “You can’t,” she said. “I’ll make up the bed in the little room.”

  “No,” said Guy. “No, I must get back.”

  “But, Guy—”

  “Νο, honestly,” he said. “It wouldn’t be a good thing—I mean, I must go back.” He realised that things were already in such a frightful tangle that the sooner he got out of here the better. It would add to the confusion if he spent the night at Sea View. “I’m better,” he said, smiling at Tommy. “I’m feeling fairly all right now, and the fresh air will do me good.”

  “But you aren’t fit—”

  “Yes, I’m quite all right.”

  “Why not lie down for a little—”

  “No, really,” said Guy.

  Tommy followed him to the door. “Guy, please,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “Please, Guy, tell me what happened. You know I’m quite a sensible person, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, Tommy, but I’ve told you—”

  “Was Midge here when you fell?”

  “Yes,” said Guy.

  “He was here!” exclaimed Tommy. “He was here when you fell and went away and left you lying on the floor?”

  “No—of course not. He couldn’t have been here, could he? He must have gone before that.”

  “Where did he go? He intended to sleep here to-night.”

  “He changed his mind,” said Guy. “He didn’t tell me where he was going.”

  Tommy hesitated. She said: “Well—perhaps he went to Rithie for the night so that he wouldn’t have such an early start in the morning. He’s going to London, you know.”

  “Yes,” agreed Guy with relief. “Yes, I expect that’s what he did.”

  “He’s taken all his things, his shaving tackle and everything, so he must have done that, mustn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s what he’s done,” declared Guy in a cheerful tone. “That’s the explanation of it. I must go now,” he added, patting her hand. “You aren’t afraid of being left here alone, are you?”

  “No,” said Tommy doubtfully.

  He took no notice of the doubtful tone in her voice. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s splendid. You’ll be quite all right. I can’t stay with you because—because I must get back to camp. I’ll come over and see you in the morning—or send someone—yes, I’ll send Mark over first thing. Good-night, Tommy.”

  “Good-night,” she returned.

  “Lock the door, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He walked down the path to the gate. It was very dark and cloudy. It was so dark that Guy felt as if he were inside a box. He could see nothing at all. He stood still for a few minutes and shut his eyes . . . when he opened them, he found he could see a bit better. Fortunately he knew the path well; he knew every little hump and hummock on the way . . . he walked on, and as he walked he turned everything over in his mind. He hated leaving Tommy there alone, but what else could he do? It would not be long until the dawn, already there was a faint greyness in the eastern sky. He hurried on when he noticed that greyness, for he wanted to get back to his quarters unseen. He did not want any one to know that he had spent most of the night at Sea View. Everything was in such a muddle that it made his head ache to think of it, and it would add to the tangle if his absence from his quarters was discovered.

  There were sentries round the camp, but Guy knew where they were and he knew the lie of the ground like the palm of his hand. He turned to the left when he got near the camp and approached it through a thick belt of undergrowth. Curiously enough, Guy had suggested to Colonel Thynne that this belt of undergrowth should be removed—it was not sound to have cover of this nature so near the camp—but although Colonel Thynne had agreed with the principle, he had taken no action in the matter. Guy smiled to himself—it was rather funny, really. He crept up through the undergrowth and saw the sentry standing near the hedge. The sentry stood there for several minutes—perhaps he had heard something—then he moved on. Guy waited for him to pass and then crawled through a gap in the hedge and made his way along the ditch. The sentry was walking up and down. When his back was turned, Guy made a dash for it. He ran about fifty yards and then threw himself face downwards on the ground. Another sentry was coming. The second sentry passed quite close to Guy, but it was still very dark so he did not see him. The two sentries met and exchanged a few words and then parted again. Guy waited until both their backs were turned and then made another dash. He reached the nearest hut and turned the corner.

  (As he stood there, listening, he decided that he must speak to the Colonel again about that belt of undergrowth—it was very unsound indeed.)

  Dodging in and out of the huts and avoiding the guard-room, Guy came at last to his own quarters and went in. It was a comfortable hut and he was lucky enough to have it to himself. Everything was in perfect order. His servant had put out his pyjamas and turned down the blanket on his camp bed. It was pleasant and reassuring to find everything just as usual and to see all his own belongings—Elise’s photograph, his desk with a half-finished letter on it, his dressing-gown hanging behind the door; so much had happened since he had left this room that it was difficult to believe he had not been away for days. . . .

  Guy undressed, folded his clothes neatly, and turned in.

  CHAPTER XXVII

  It was half-past eight and Guy was just finishing his breakfast in the mess when Barry appeared at his side and said: “Telephone for you, sir. It’s Mrs. Crabbe. Shall I take a message?”

  “No, I’ll come,” replied Guy, swallowing a mouthful of sausage and wiping his mouth—“and Barry, tell Mark I want him, will you?” Guy went into the ante-room and seized the receiver. “Hallo, Elise!” he said. “Hallo, is everything all right?”

  “I’m all right, if that’s what you mean,” replied Elise. “I just rang up to tell you that Frances has gone.”

  “Gone!” cried Guy in amazement. “Gone where?”

  “So you are interested!” said Elise’s voice in his ear.

  “You know I am,” said Guy. “I mean—look here—”

  “You had better come over and see me.”

  “Yes, I will. I’ll come as soon as I can, but look here—” He stopped, for the wire had suddenly gone dead . . . “Hallo!” he cried, waggling the bar up and down. “Hallo, Elise—I say—” T
here was no reply at all. He was talking to vacancy.

  For a moment he wondered whether he should ring her up and then he decided that it wouldn’t be much use. He couldn’t tell Elise anything over the telephone; it would be better to hurry through his work and go over and see her.

  Guy had various things to do before he could get away. His company was training this morning, so he went out and had a look at the men, and had a talk with Sergeant-Major Bliss. While he was there Mark appeared, and he told Mark to go over to Sea View, explaining that Tommy had had a puncture and had come back and was there alone. “Don’t stay long,” said Guy. “Just nip over and see how she is. I’ll be in the Company office. I’m going there now.”

  B Company office was at the other side of the camp. Guy walked over and found a good many things to settle; it was always the way when you were in a hurry to get through. There were three cases of discipline—two of the men had returned late off pass and the third had used obscene language to Corporal Brown. As a rule Guy was apt to err on the side of leniency (he preferred to reason with his men and used punishments such as C.B. as a last resort), but this morning he did not feel like being lenient, so the three men got what was coming to them, and were marched away feeling somewhat dazed. (“. . . and a good thing, too,” declared Sergeant Findlater in the privacy of the sergeants’ mess. “There’s been too much of this sort of thing ’appening in the Company. It’s ’igh time someone was made an example of.”)

  Having polished off his defaulters, Guy read some letters that had come in and dictated one or two replies, and by this time Mark had returned from Sea View with the news that Mrs. Widgery said she was O.K., but looked a bit under the weather. “D’you know what’s the matter with her, sir?” inquired Mark somewhat anxiously.

  “I expect she’s feeling lonely,” said Guy shortly. “I want to speak to the C.O. I’ll have to go. You can finish up here.”

  It was twenty minutes to ten, and Orderly Room was at ten o’clock, but the Colonel was often early and Guy wanted to speak to him before the other officers arrived. Guy had decided that he must tell Colonel Thynne about Angela and Widgery—perhaps be ought to have done so before. He was walking across the field when the saw the Colonel’s car arrive, so he shouted and waved madly and ran after it, and the Colonel drew up.

  “I wanted to speak to you, sir,” said Guy breathlessly.

  “After Orderly Room—” began Colonel Thynne, looking at his subordinate officer in some surprise.

  “No, now,” said Guy. “It’s very important, sir.”

  “What’s happened?” asked the Colonel.

  “It’s private,” said Guy. “I really think we should—should go into your room, sir.”

  Colonel Thynne parked his car and led the way to his room. He sat down and waved Guy to a chair. “Now, what is it?” he inquired. “I haven’t very long, because I want to go over one or two files before orderly room. You look a bit bedraggled this morning, Guy.”

  “Yes, sir,” Guy agreed. He felt bedraggled. He also felt slightly sick. This was going to be a frightful interview. It was all the more frightful because Guy was fond of Colonel Thynne; he was rather an old woman in some ways and apt to be somewhat obstructive, but there was something very likeable about him. He looked fresh and bright and cheerful—a little like a robin—and he was smiling kindly at Guy. Guy felt like a murderer.

  “Go ahead, Guy,” said Colonel Thynne. “Out with it—I can’t sit here all day.”

  “It’s so difficult—” said Guy. “The fact is I don’t know how to tell you . . . but I’m sure I ought to tell you. . . .”

  Colonel Thynne’s face had changed completely. He said gravely: “Well, Guy, if you are sure you ought to tell me you must tell me, that’s all. Is it something to do with the battalion?”

  “No,” said Guy.

  “Nothing to do with the battalion?”

  “No, sir.”

  Colonel Thynne looked at him in bewilderment. “Is it something to do with one of my officers?”

  “No,” said Guy, “at least I mean yes, it is really.”

  “Guy!”

  Guy had realised that this was not the right way to tell his story—to allow it to be dragged out of him bit by bit—he dived straight into it without hesitating any longer. “I was walking on the sands yesterday evening and I saw Angela. I saw her go up to the Widgerys’ cottage. I knew Tommy was away—she left yesterday afternoon to go to Aberdeen—so I went after Angela and I found her there. She was there with Widgery.”

  “With Widgery? You mean—”

  “Yes,” said Guy. He did not look at the Colonel. He looked round the little office and out of the window. There was a curtain on the lower half of the window, but he could see the sky through the top half—it was very blue.

  “Angela!” said Colonel Thynne in bewilderment. “Angela and Widgery . . . but I thought you . . . I thought Angela and you—”

  “No, sir,” said Guy. “We’re friends, of course, but—that’s all.” He got up as he spoke.

  “Don’t go,” said Colonel Thynne. “I can’t understand—I can’t believe—there must be some mistake. Angela went off yesterday in the car. She’s gone to spend a few days with her grandmother. Are you sure she didn’t just drop in to see the Widgerys and say good-bye?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “But, Guy—”

  “I wouldn’t have mentioned it to you unless I had been quite sure.”

  “No—no, of course not; but—but I can’t understand it. Angela and Widgery—it’s incredible.”

  “I told Angela I was going to tell you,” added Guy.

  “You told her—”

  “Yes, it’s been going on for some time. I told her it had to stop or else I would tell you about it—but it hasn’t stopped.”

  “So it was that!” muttered the Colonel, staring at Guy in a blank sort of way. “So that’s what it was! Angela has been—different lately, but I thought—”

  Guy leaned forward. “I thought I ought to tell you,” he said urgently. “I felt I must tell you so that you could take steps. There’s no time to be lost.”

  “Yes—yes, of course. Something must be done. It’s a terrible blow . . . I don’t know what to do.”

  “I think you should go after them, sir,” said Guy.

  “Go after them!” cried Colonel Thynne in quite a different voice. “Good heavens, you don’t mean she’s gone with Widgery! You can’t mean it—the thing’s outrageous . . .”

  It was odd—or at least it seemed odd to Guy—that Colonel Thynne should have been so blind where Angela was concerned and yet so easy to convince. It was almost as if he had half known about it before, or at least had suspected that something was wrong. Half-way through the conversation Guy had been afraid that Colonel Thynne was going to let the whole thing slide; he had been afraid that Colonel Thynne was incapable of dealing with the matter in the way it should be dealt with . . . and then, all of a sudden, Colonel Thynne had come to life and grasped the situation in both hands. He was certainly alive now. A steady stream of unprintable language was issuing from his lips (and Guy was able to deduce that if and when Colonel Thynne managed to get hold of Captain Widgery, the latter would have an unpleasant time), but this did not interfere with the arrangements which Colonel Thynne had begun to make for his departure. He was pulling out drawers and turning over files of papers as he spoke; he was jotting down notes on a pad. He opened the safe and took out a bag of keys and emptied them on to the table.

  “You’re going, sir,” said Guy.

  “Going! Of course I’m going. I’ll catch the swine at the War Office. He’s got an appointment with Featherington at eleven-thirty to-morrow—I’ll go south by the Night Scot—find me a train from Rithie to Glasgow. Here’s a time-table . . . you’re doing adjutant in Widgery’s absence, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can go on doing it, then. Rackham can take over B Company. I’ll see Major Crabbe after Orderly
Room . . . and, Guy, we don’t want this wretched business to get about.”

  “No, sir, of course not.”

  “We can’t hush it up altogether because Widgery will have to go—there’s nothing else for it. I shall tell Ned Crabbe, of course. He may be able to advise me—sound fellow, Ned Crabbe—but we don’t want a lot of talk.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “We’ve got to think of Tommy . . . devilish hard on her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Colonel hesitated. He put a bunch of keys down on the table and looked at Guy. “Guy,” he said, “I don’t know what I shall do when I see the fellow. I suppose Tommy will divorce him. I suppose he’ll want to—to marry Angela—”

  “Don’t let him,” said Guy.

  “No, that’s what I feel; he’s—”

  “He’s rotten all through,” said Guy earnestly.

  Colonel Thynne sighed. He said; “Well, we had better go over to Orderly Room—it’s after ten.”

  “Need you take Orderly Room, sir?” asked Guy. “Couldn’t Major Crabbe take it?”

  “I’ll take it,” said the Colonel shortly.

  Guy had never liked or admired the Colonel so much as he did at Orderly Room that morning. He was a trifle paler than usual, but he was perfectly controlled. It seemed to Guy that the business which they had to conduct was more trivial than usual, that the R.S.M. was slow and stupid, that the suggestions about various matters which emanated from the other company commanders were trifling and absurd. Several minutes were spent in a discussion as to whether or not the “Black Bull” at Rithie should be placed out of bounds for the troops. The R.S.M. was of the opinion that this should be done at once—there were two barmaids—he didn’t like the look of them. Dicky Sale, who commanded D Company, declared that the barmaids were quite respectable girls. Guy knew nothing about it one way or the other and cared less.

  At last it was over and they came out. Dicky Sale stopped outside the door to light a cigarette. He said: “The old boy’s a bit white about the gills this morning—looks as if he’s been on the tiles.”