This voice was like Frank’s voice, and the speaker possessed exactly the knowledge which Frank possessed. The speaker had gone through the same experiences—he was talking about them now—he was telling his hearers how he had gone to Britain with preconceived ideas, he had been like a man at sea in a boat with a load of prejudices and every day he had cast some of them overboard … Frank had said that. Frank had used that very metaphor! It was not impossible that two men should have had the same experiences, but it was most unlikely that two men should choose exactly the same metaphor to describe them.
Dane bent forward and said to Hartley, “It is Frank Heiden.”
Hartley nodded.
The news that he had discovered Frank’s whereabouts was not good news. The boy was in the most ghastly danger and it would be no comfort to Wynne to hear of it. Dane had always believed in keeping bad news to himself, if it was possible to do so, and in this case it was easy. He said nothing about Frank’s activities to anyone but he continued to listen to Frank and Hartley listened too. Sometimes Frank spoke for two or three nights in succession, and sometimes there was an interval of one or two or three nights when different voices spoke. One night Dane and Hartley were listening to Frank speaking and a curious thing occurred.
The broadcast was proceeding as usual when suddenly there was a loud report … and then two more reports almost simultaneously. The voice faltered and stopped. There was a cry of “Achtung! Achtung!” There was a crash, a loud crash as if someone had burst open a door … then there were two more reports … and silence.
Hartley had sprung to his feet with the instinct to help … and then, half shamefacedly, he sat down again. The incident, whatever it was, had occurred several hundred miles away in the heart of Germany but it seemed very real and near in that quiet English sitting-room.
“I thought for a minute—” Hartley began.
“Yes, but we can do nothing,” replied Dane. He had had the same impulse—the impulse to leap to his feet and rush to Frank’s assistance—but they were absolutely helpless, of course, they did not know what had happened nor where it had taken place.
Dane was very worried. It was foolish to worry because there was nothing to be done, but he worried all the same. He listened the next night and heard the same sort of propaganda but in a different voice; he listened every night for a week, for ten days, for a fortnight, but Frank’s voice was not on the air …
Chapter Nine
The war was not very old before the weddings began—it is curious that marriage should be an invariable concomitant of war. Wynne’s friends and contemporaries rushed headlong into matrimony—Ian Sutherland married Grace Greensleeves, Anne Fulton married Roger Page; there were a dozen weddings in less than a dozen weeks round and about the neighbourhood of Chellford. Some of the young people, who suddenly discovered that they could not live without each other, had known each other from babyhood, and others met for the first time and were engaged before the month was out. It was really rather bewildering and, having regard to the wedding presents, exceedingly expensive. Nina Corbett and Mark Audley had known each other for years, and had never shown any signs of rapture in each other’s company; they might have gone on knowing each other for years longer if it had not been for the war. Wynne always declared it was Mark’s uniform—he certainly looked very well in it—that had stirred Nina’s heart. They discovered that they loved each other one evening and announced the news to their respective families the following morning at breakfast. It was not a good time to choose for an announcement of this nature and neither of the families was as pleased as Nina and Mark had expected. Mrs. Audley put on her hat and coat and hurried round to the Corbetts, and, finding Mrs. Corbett at home, explained to her as tactfully as possible that Nina was too old—she was six months older than Mark—and that anyhow there had better be no talk of an engagement till after the war. Mr. Corbett—when he returned from his office in Kingsport—put on his hat and coat and rushed round to the Audleys and explained with less tact that Mark was much too young. Mark had no money and his prospects were by no means rosy. He had now left the firm of architects in which he was a very junior partner, and he was a lieutenant in the 6th Westshires—a territorial battalion of course. Mr. Corbett declared that there must be no thought of an engagement at present. The families were somewhat annoyed with each other but their views were identical regarding the proposed alliance, and Mark and Nina were informed that there was to be no engagement, at any rate until after the war. They took it surprisingly well. Mark departed with his battalion to Aldershot and Nina went up to London to stay with her aunt.
Two days later the Audleys and the Corbetts received Night Telegraph Letters from their respective offspring (Nina had made the astonishing discovery that you could send thirty-six words for a shilling if you sent them overnight, and as it was war time and economy was essential it seemed an excellent idea). The Night Telegraph Letters consisted of exactly thirty-six words and, as they were almost identical, it was reasonable to suppose that young Mr. and Mrs. Audley had collaborated over their composition, Nina’s ran as follows:
“corbett, cherrytrees, chellford.
“darlings we did not get engaged but just got married special licence this afternoon aunt mona blameless we hope wont mind very much darlings we are so happy love from nina audley.”
Mrs. Corbett received this communication after Mr. Corbett had left the house, and she was so appalled, and so angry that she felt that if she did not show it to somebody and talk about it to somebody she would burst. There was nobody except Sophie Braithwaite—everybody else was busy—and, although Mrs. Corbett would have preferred somebody more rational, she decided that Sophie Braithwaite would have to do.
Unfortunately Sophie was even more vague than usual this morning, and did not seem to appreciate the situation at all.
“Dear little Nina,” she murmured as she read the Night Telegraph Letter. “Darling little Nina, I do hope she’ll be very very happy.”
“The duplicity of it!” Mrs. Corbett cried, more angry than ever (for it was absolutely maddening to hear Sophie’s fond murmurs when the treatment that Nina deserved was a good spanking). “The deceitfulness of it, Sophie! Nina has thrown herself away, yes, thrown herself away. Mark has no prospects, he’s nothing but a boy, and rather a silly boy at that. I’m furious about it and I don’t know what Miguel will say. He was strongly against the marriage. Mark had no right to marry her against our wishes, it’s a disgraceful thing and I shall tell Mary Audley exactly what I think about it.”
“They didn’t want it either,” said Sophie somewhat tactlessly.
“And why not?” inquired Mrs. Corbett who was much too angry to be reasonable. “Why shouldn’t they be pleased? Who are the Audleys anyhow? Nobodies, my dear. Miguel can trace his descent back to one of the Knights who came over with William the Conqueror … the Audleys indeed,” and Mrs. Corbett made that strange sound of contempt which is sometimes written, “pshaw.”
“Poor little Nina!” murmured Sophie. “She’s such a dear little thing. I do hope Mark will be terribly sweet to her.”
Mrs. Corbett began to wish she had not come. She was getting more angry instead of less. “These war weddings!” she cried. “It’s a disgrace to the country … they shouldn’t be allowed. It’s just excitement, a kind of intoxication … young people seem to think they can do whatever they like just because of the war …” she paused and looked at Sophie. “Sophie, you aren’t listening,” she said.
“Oh yes—yes I was,” said Sophie with a vague smile.
Mrs. Corbett was sure that Sophie had not heard a word; she was even more distrait than usual, and that was saying a good deal.
“What’s the matter with you, today?” demanded Mrs. Corbett.
“I was just thinking…” said Sophie, smiling to herself in an infuriating manner.
“Thinking what?”
“Nothing really … it’s just that there seem to be so many weddings just now.�
��
There had been a great many weddings, but just at the moment there was a sort of lull, and Mrs. Corbett could not think of any which were due to be celebrated in the immediate future. Her curiosity began to get the better of her rage.
“Sophie, who is it?” she inquired. “Who is going to be married next?”
“I didn’t say anyone was,” said Sophie, and she blushed.
Mrs. Corbett adored gossip and now she was hard on the trail. “My dear!” she exclaimed. “It’s Wynne, of course—how thrilling! Do tell me about it. Of course Wynne had heaps of admirers but I didn’t know there was anything serious in the air.”
“Oh no!” cried Sophie in dismay. “Oh no, it isn’t—”
“I shan’t tell a soul,” Mrs. Corbett assured her. “You can depend on me … darling Wynne, I do hope it’s somebody really good enough.”
“But it isn’t Wynne at all,” Sophie cried.
Mrs. Corbett did not believe her. “I shan’t tell a soul,” she repeated, “I shan’t tell a single creature.”
“Oh dear,” exclaimed Sophie. “This is dreadful! I can’t let you go on thinking … Oh dear, I do wish Dane would come.”
“You had much better tell me,” urged Mrs. Corbett—it was the tone that a kind but somewhat strict nurse might use to a recalcitrant child—“You’d much better tell me all about it. There isn’t any sense in making mysteries. I’ve always been so fond of dear little Wynne, and so interested in her.”
Sophie groaned. “Oh dear, I suppose I shall have to tell you. It isn’t Wynne at all. It’s me. I’m going to be married this afternoon.”
If she had wanted to astonish Mrs. Corbett she would have had her wish in full measure, but she had not wanted to astonish anyone. Dane had at last persuaded her to marry him, and she had agreed on condition that nobody was to be told—nobody at all. She had wanted to keep the whole thing a secret and to keep it a secret indefinitely. Dane had pointed out that this was impossible, and indeed undesirable; if Dane had had his way he would have made a little splash over their wedding, for he was of the opinion that a small party and perhaps a dozen bottles of good champagne would have carried them over what might be a somewhat awkward fence. Wynne agreed with him and did her best to influence Sophie, but their united efforts only procured the disastrous result of reducing Sophie to tears.
“I don’t want them to know,” she sobbed. “They’ll say … Oh dear, I know quite well what they’ll say … they’ll say we’ve been living together …”
“Well, you have,” said Wynne in surprise. “We’ve all been living together for years and years.…”
(Dane felt himself blushing; it was an unusual and distinctly unpleasant experience.)
“No, no,” said Sophie, weeping.
“Yes, yes,” said Wynne soothingly, “and now that you and Dane are going to be married it will be much better to have a nice party and tell everyone about it. People will talk far more if you go all hole and cornery … Let’s have a party,” said Wynne persuasively. “Darling Sophie, do let’s have a party and drink your healths and have speeches and things.”
“No,” said Sophie, sobbing and shaking her head. “No, I couldn’t bear it.”
Dane saw that it was time to interfere. “Never mind,” he said, “Never mind, darling. It shall all be exactly as you want.”
“All hole and cornery,” added Wynne in some disgust.
So Sophie had got her way, and she and Dane were to be married that very afternoon by special licence at a small church in Kingsport. Nobody was invited and nobody was to be present except the family and the Fernacres servants (Dane had insisted that the servants should be there and he had appointed Hartley as his best man). It was to have been all hole and cornery—as Wynne had said—and now Sophie had let it out herself, and to Mrs. Corbett of all people!
“Oh dear!” said Sophie. “What a fool I am! I always thought I was silly and now I’m sure … and how anyone could ever want to marry such a silly fool is more than I can see.”
Curiously enough the same idea had occurred to Mrs. Corbett; she was not one of Sophie’s admirers. Perhaps this was due to the fact that she prided herself upon having an orderly mind, or perhaps to a somewhat pardonable jealousy. It was galling to find one’s young, reluctant to run messages for oneself, not only willing but eager to perform the same tiresome offices for Sophie Braithwaite. Whichever it was, the fact remained that Mrs. Corbett had not much use for Sophie (except of course as an occasional fountain of news) and Sophie had no use at all for Mrs. Corbett. If only it had been Mrs. Audley—Sophie was thinking miserably—but Mrs. Audley would never have screwed her secret out of her like that.
There had been a short but exceedingly uncomfortable silence when the door opened and Dane walked in, and Sophie, who was always delighted to see Dane at any moment, had never been so delighted as now.
“Oh, Dane!” she cried. “Oh, Dane, I’ve told her about this afternoon … I couldn’t let her go on thinking it was Wynne, could I?”
“No, of course not,” agreed Dane, smiling at Mrs. Corbett—whom he disliked intensely—in his most diplomatic manner, “of course you wanted to tell Mrs. Corbett all about it. She’s one of your closest friends, isn’t she?”
“She lives next door,” agreed Sophie doubtfully.
“One of your closest friends,” continued Dane, raising his voice so as to drown Sophie’s infelicitous remark, “and of course you’ve told Mrs. Corbett that we are hoping to have one or two people here afterwards.” He turned to Mrs. Corbett. “I do hope you will come—you and Mr. Corbett and Migs if he’s available—it’s very short notice, but—but with the war, and everything so uncertain,” said Dane, searching wildly for some plausible reason why the Corbetts should not have been invited long ago, “and Roy, of course,” said Dane, joyfully seizing upon one, “Roy’s leave … special leave for his mother’s wedding … but we didn’t know whether he would be able to get leave until the very last minute, so we couldn’t arrange things beforehand. However, he’s coming, and we do hope—both of us—that you’ll all come in at about three o’clock and—and have a little festivity. Just a few of us—the Audleys, of course, and the Winslows—but we wanted to ask you first,” added Dane with another and even more charming smile.
Mrs. Corbett wavered. “But Sophie didn’t mean—”
“No,” agreed Dane, laughing a little. “No, Sophie didn’t mean to tell you like that. I think she felt that a little note would be more polite and less embarrassing. But now that she has told you, and told you before anyone else outside the immediate family, I hope you’ll all come.”
“It’s very short notice,” said Mrs. Corbett, thawing slightly, “and Sophie … really I can’t help feeling a little hurt that Sophie didn’t tell me before.”
“I think I was rather shy,” declared Sophie in a very small voice.
Mrs. Corbett smiled at her, not very easily, perhaps, but it was an effort in the right direction and Dane welcomed it as such.
“It is a surprise,” Mrs. Corbett said, “and I haven’t congratulated you … I do congratulate you of course, but you haven’t told me who you’re going to marry.”
Dane had not realised this, he rushed in before Sophie could open her mouth, for she was in one of her less tactful moods today—probably owing to very natural excitement—and she seemed to have been putting her foot in it pretty thoroughly. “She’s going to marry me,” said Dane hastily. “Yes, of course you must be surprised, but as a matter of fact we’ve discovered that we can’t get on without each other.”
Mrs. Corbett struggled wildly with herself: one half of her wanted to be nasty about it but the other half wanted to be nice. It would be rather amusing to be nasty because she could talk about it—there were all sorts of amusing things she could say. On the other hand she was aware that Sophie was popular in Chellford, and Dane also. Dane was very pleasant really, thought Mrs. Corbett.
Dane was watching her face and he saw there was nothing
for it but to go all pathetic (as Wynne would have said).
“We’re both rather lonely people,” he said, with a sad smile, “and we’ve decided to grow old together—that’s all.”
Mrs. Corbett smiled, too—it was a real smile this time. “Oh, I do hope you’ll be happy,” she said, holding out her hand, “and I’m sure you will. You know each other so well, don’t you? You’ve been living—”
“Thank you,” said Dane, grasping her hand and shaking it heartily. “Thank you very much. I’m sure we shall. You’ll come to our little party, won’t you? … Good, that’s splendid … about three o’clock … grand! And Mr. Corbett and Migs too …”
His hair was standing on end when he came back to the drawing-room after seeing Mrs. Corbett out, and Sophie knew by this that he really was disturbed, for it was only when Dane was very fussed indeed that he ran his fingers through his hair.
“Oh Dane!” she said. “Wasn’t it dreadful? I am so sorry about it. I really don’t know why you want to marry such a fool.”
Dane took no notice of this—there wasn’t time—Mrs. Corbett would spread the news all round Chellford. The town crier was nothing compared with her.
“Sit down and write,” said Dane. “Write to Mrs. Audley and Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Sutherland and anyone else you can think of. I’ve got enough fizz for them all, thank Heaven for that.” He took her by the shoulders gently but firmly and seated her at her desk. “Go on,” he said. “Write—start now. I’ll tell you what to say. Hartley and Ellis can go round on their bicycles and deliver the letters at once.”
The wedding party of Sophie and Dane was the first real “party” to take place in Chellford since the beginning of the war, and people, finding it pleasant to put on their smart clothes once more, donned a festive spirit at the same time. There was so little going on in the way of social activities that nearly everyone who had been asked accepted. The younger generation were there in full force—some of them in uniforms of various kinds and colours. Wynne, on hearing of Sophie’s indiscretion, had seized on the chance with delight and had spent a profitable hour ringing up all her friends and inviting them to come and drink Dane’s champagne.
The English Air Page 23
