Beside Still Waters
:
The Mystery Of The Green Ray
The youth in the multi-coloured blazer laughed.
"You'd have to come and be a nurse," he suggested.
"Oh, I'd go as a drummer-boy. I'd look fine in uniform, wouldn't I?"
the waitress simpered in return.
Dennis Burnham swallowed his liqueur in one savage gulp, pushed back
his chair, and rose from the table.
"Silly young ass," he said, in a voice loud enough for the o
ject of
his wrath to hear. "Let's get outside."
The four of us rose, paid our bill, and went out, leaving the youth
and his flippant companions to themselves. For it was Bank Holiday,
August the third, 1914, and I think, though it was the shortest and
most uneventful of all our river "annuals," it is the one which we are
least likely to forget. On the Saturday Dennis, Jack Curtis, Tommy
Evans and myself had started from Richmond on our yearly trip up the
river. Even as we sat in the two punts playing bridge, moored at our
first camping-place below Kingston Weir, disquieting rumours reached
us in the form of excited questions from the occupants of passing
craft. And now, as we rose from the dinner-table at the Magpie,
Sunbury, two days later, it seemed that war was inevitable.
"What I can't understand," growled Dennis, as we stepped into one of
the punts and paddled idly across to the lock, "is how any young idiot
can treat the whole thing as a terrific joke. If we go to war with
Germany--and it seems we must--it's going to be----Good Heavens! who
knows what it's going to be!"
"Meaning," said Tom, who never allowed any thought to remain
half-expressed, "meaning that we are not prepared, and they are. We
have to step straight into the ring untrained to meet an opponent who
has been getting ready night and day for the Lord knows how many
years."
"Still, you know," said Jack, who invariably found the bright spot in
everything, "we never did any good as a nation until we were pushed."
"We shall be pushed this time," I replied; "and if we do go to war, we
shall all be wanted."
"And wanted at once," Tom added.
"Which brings me to the point which most concerns us," said Dennis,
with a serious face. "What are we going to do?"
"It seems to me," I replied, "that there is only one thing we can do.
If the Government declare war, it is in your cause and mine; and who
is to fight our battles but you and me?"
"That's it, old man, exactly," said Dennis. "We must appear in person,
as you lawyers would say. I'm afraid there's not the slightest
hope of peace being maintained now; and, indeed, in view of the
circumstances, I should prefer to say there is not the slightest fear
of it. We can't honourably keep out, so let us hope we shall step in
at once."
Jack's muttered "hear hear" spoke for us all, and there was silence
for a minute or two. My thoughts were very far away from the peaceful
valley of the Thames; they had flown, in fact, to a still more
peaceful glen in the Western Highlands--but of that anon. I fancy the
others, too, were thinking of something far removed from the ghastly
horror of war. Jack was sitting with an open cigarette-case in his
hand, gazing wistfully at the bank to which we had moored the boat.
There was a "little girl" in the question. Poor chap; I knew exactly
what he was thinking; he had my sympathy! The silence became
uncomfortable, and it was Jack who broke it.
"Give me a match, Tommy," he exclaimed suddenly, "and don't talk so
much." Tom, who had not spoken a word for several minutes, produced
the matches from a capacious pocket, and we all laughed rather
immoderately at the feeble sally.
"As to talking," said Tom, when our natural equanimity had been
restored, "you all seem to be leaving me to say what we all know has
to be said. And that is, what is the next item on the programme?"
"I think we had certainly better decide----" Dennis began.
"You old humbug!" exclaimed Tom. "You know perfectly well that we've
all decided what we are going to do. It is merely the question of
putting it in words. In some way or other we intend to regard the case
of Rex v. Wilhelm as one in which we personally are concerned. Am I
right?"
"Scored a possible," said Jack, who had quite recovered his spirits.
"In which case," Tom continued, "we don't expect to be of much
assistance to our King and country if we go gallivanting up to
Wallingford, as originally intended. The question, therefore, remains,
shall we go back by train--if we can find the station here--or shall
we punt back to Richmond?"
"I don't think we need worry about that," said Dennis. "I vote we go
back by river; it will be more convenient in every way, and we can
leave the boats at Messums. If things are not so black as we think
they are we can step on board again with a light heart, or four light
hearts, if you prefer it, and start again. What do you say, Ron?"
"I should prefer to paddle back," I replied. "It would be a pity to
break up our party immediately. I don't want to be sentimental, or
anything of that sort, but you chaps will agree that we have had some
very jolly times together in the past, and if we are all going to take
out our naturalisation papers in the Atkins family, it is just
possible that we--well, we may not be all together again next year."
"And you, Jack?" asked Dennis.
"Oh, down stream for me," said young Curtis, with what was obviously
an effort at his usual light-hearted manner. "Think of all the beer
we've got left." But the laugh with which he accompanied his remark
was not calculated to deceive any of us, and I am afraid my clumsy
speech had set him thinking again. So we went "ashore," and had a
nightcap at the Magpie, where the flippant youth was announcing to an
admiring circle that if he had half a dozen pals to go with him he
wouldn't mind joining the army himself! Having scoured the village
in an unavailing attempt to round up half a pound of butter, we put
off down stream, and spent the night in the beautiful backwater. No
one suggested cards after supper, and we lay long into the night
discussing, as thousands of other people all over the country were
probably discussing, conscription, espionage, martial law, the
possibilities of invasion, and the probable duration of the war. I
doubt very much if we should have gone to sleep at all had we been
able to foresee the events which the future, in its various ways, held
in store for each of us. But, as it was, we plunged wholeheartedly
into what Tommy Evans described as "Life's new interest." We
positively thrilled at the prospect of army life.
"Think of it," said Jack enthusiastically, "open air all the time.
Nothing to worry about, no work to do, only manual labour. Why, it's
going to be one long holiday. Hang it! I've laid drain-pipes on a
farm--for fun!"
It was past one o'clock when we got out supper. And our appetites lost
nothing by the prospect of hardships which we treated rather lightly,
since we entirely failed to appreciate their seriousness. Jack's
visions of storming ramparts at the point of the bayonet merely added
flavour to his amazing collation of cold beef, ham, brawn, cold fowl,
and peaches and cream, with which he insisted on winding-up at nearly
two in the morning. He would have shouted with laughter had you
told him that in less than three weeks he would be dashing through
the enemy's lines with despatches on a red-hot motor-cycle. And
Tommy--poor old Tommy--well, I fancy he would have been just as
cheerful, dear old chap, had he known the fate that was in store. For
to him was to fall the lot which, of all others, everyone--rich and
poor alike--understands. There is no need for me to repeat the story.
Even in the rush of a war which has already brought forward some
thousands of heroes, the reader will remember the glorious exploit
of Corporal Thomas Evans, in which he won the D.C.M., and also,
unfortunately, gave his life for his country. It is sufficient to say
that three men in particular will ever cherish his memory as that of a
loyal friend, a cheery comrade, a clean, honest, straightforward
Englishman through and through.
As for Dennis and myself--but I am coming to that.
Having finished our early morning supper, we turned in for a few
hours' sleep, Jack and Tommy in one boat, Dennis and I in the other.
But before we did so we stood up, as well as we could under our canvas
roof, and drank "The King"; and I fancy that in the mind of each of us
there was more than one other name silently coupled with that toast.
Then, for the first time in my memory of our intimacy together, we
solemnly shook hands before turning in. But, try as I would, I
couldn't sleep. For a long time I lay there, in the beautiful silence
of the night, my thoughts far away, sleep farther away still.
Presently I grovelled for my tobacco-pouch.
"Restless, Ron?" Dennis asked, himself evidently quite wide awake.
"Can't sleep at all," I answered. "But don't let me disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me, old man. I can't sleep either. Let's light
the lamp and smoke."
Accordingly we fished out our pipes and relighted the acetylene lamp,
which hung from the middle hoop. Jack turned over in his sleep.
"Put out the light, old fellow. Not a cab'net meeting, y'know," he
murmured drowsily. And by way of compromise I pulled the primitive
draught curtain between the two boats, and as I sat up to do so I
noticed with a start that Dennis wore a worried look I had never seen
before. I lay back, got my pipe going, and waited for him to speak.
"I wonder," he said presently, through the clouds of smoke that hung
imprisoned beneath our shallow roof--"I wonder if there would have
been any war if the Germans smoked Jamavana?"
"What's worrying you, Den?" I asked, ignoring his question.
"Worrying me? Why, nothing. I've got nothing to worry about. What
about you, though? I don't want to butt in on your private affairs,
but you've a lot more to be worried about than I have."
"I? Oh, nonsense, Dennis," I protested.
"None of that with me, Ron. You know what I mean. There's no point in
either of us concealing things. This war is going to make a big
difference to you and Myra McLeod. Now, tell me all about it. What do
you mean to do, and everything?"
"There isn't much to tell you. You know all about it. We're not
engaged. Old General McLeod objects to our engagement on account of my
position. Of course, he's quite right. He's very nice about it, and
he's always kindness itself to me. You know, of course, that he and my
father were brother officers? Myra and I have been chums since she was
four. We love each other, and she would be content to wait, but, in
the meantime--well, you know my position. I can only describe it in
the well-worn phrases, 'briefless barrister' and 'impecunious junior.'
There's a great deal of truth in the weak old joke, Dennis, about the
many that are called and the few that are briefed. Of course the
General is right. He says that I ought to leave Myra absolutely alone,
and neither write to her nor see her, and give her a chance to meet
someone else, and all that--someone who could keep her among her own
set. But I tried that once for three months; I didn't answer her
letters, or write to her, and I worried myself to death very nearly
about it. But at the end of the three months she came up to town to
see what it was all about. Gad, how glad I was to see her!"
"I bet you were," said Dennis, sympathetically. "But what d'you mean
by telling me you'd got nothing to worry about? Now that you're just
getting things going nicely, and look like doing really well, along
comes this wretched war, and you join the army, and such practice as
you have goes to the devil. It's rotten luck, Ronnie, rotten luck."
"It is a bit," I admitted with a sigh. My little bit of hard-earned
success had meant a lot to me.
"Still," said Dennis, "you've got a thundering lot to be thankful for
too. To begin with, she'll wait for you, and then, if necessary, marry
on twopence-halfpenny a year, and make you comfortable on it too. As
far as her father is concerned, she's very devoted to him, and would
never do anything to annoy him if she could possibly help it, as I
easily spotted the night we dined with them at the Carlton. But she's
made up her mind to be Mrs. Ronald Ewart sooner or later; that I
will swear!"
"I'm very glad to hear you say so," I answered, "but the thing that
worries me, of course, is the question as to whether I have any right
to let this go on. If war is declared----"
"Which it will be," said Dennis.
"Well, then, my practice goes to the devil, as you say. How long after
the war is it going to be before I could marry one of Myra's maids,
let alone Myra? And, supposing, of course, that I use the return half
of my ticket, so to speak, and come back safe and sound, my own
prospects will be infinitely worse than they were before the war. The
law, after all, is a luxury, and no one will have a great deal of
money for luxuries by the time we have finished with it and wiped
Germany off the map. Besides, if there's no money about, there's
nothing to go to law over. So there you are, or, rather, there I am."
"What do you intend to do, then?" my friend asked.
"I shall go up to Scotland to-morrow night--well, of course, it's
to-night, I should say--and see her--and--and----"
"Yes--well, and----"
"Oh, and tell her that it must be all--all over. I shall say that the
war will make all the difference, that I must join the army, and that
she must consider herself free to marry someone else, and that, as in
any case I might never come back, I think it's the best thing for us
both that she should consider herself free, and--er--and--and consider
herself free," I ended weakly.
"Just like that?" asked Dennis, with a twinkle in his eye.
"I shall try and put it fairly formally to her," I said, "because, of
course, I must appear to be sincere about it. I must try and think out
some way of making her imagine I want it broken off for reasons of my
own."
Dennis laughed softly.
"You delicious, egotistical idiot," he said. "You don't really imagine
that you could persuade anyone you met for the first time even that
you're not in love. By all means do what you think is right, Ron. I
wouldn't dissuade you for the world. Tell her that she is free. Tell
her why you are setting her free, and I'll be willing to wager my
little all that you two ridiculous young people will find yourselves
tied tighter together than ever. By all means do your best to be a
good little boy, Ronald, and do what you conceive to be your duty."
"You needn't pull my leg about it," I said, though somewhat
half-heartedly.
"I'm not pulling your leg, as you put it," Dennie answered, in a more
serious tone. "If ever I saw honesty and truth and love and loyalty
looking out of a girl's eyes, that girl is Myra McLeod."
"Thank you for that, Den," I answered simply. There was little
sentiment between us. Thank heaven, there was something more.
"And so you see, you lucky dog, you'll go out to the front, and come
back loaded with honours and blushes, and marry the girl of your
dreams, and live happy ever after." And Dennis sighed.
"Why the sigh?" I asked. "Oh, come now," I added, suddenly
remembering. "Fair exchange, you know. You haven't told me what was
worrying you."
"My dear old fellow, don't be ridiculous, there's nothing worrying
me."
I pressed him to no purpose. He refused to admit that he had a care in
the world, and so we fell to talking of matters connected with the
routine of army life, how long we should be before we got to the
front, the sport we four should have in our rest time behind the
trenches, our determination to stick together at all costs, etc.
Suddenly Dennis sat bolt upright.
"Gad!" he cried savagely, "if you beggars weren't going, I could stick
it. But you three leaving me behind, it's----"
"Leaving you behind?" I echoed in astonishment. "But why, old man?
Aren't you coming too?"
"I hope so," said Dennis bitterly; "I hope so with all my heart, and I
shall have a jolly good shot at it. But I know what it will be, worse
luck."
"But why, Dennis?" I asked again. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," he replied, "but you've got your own troubles,
and there's no point in worrying about me, in any case."
I begged him to tell me; I pleaded our old friendship, and the fact
that I had taken him into my confidence in the various vicissitudes of
my own love affair. It struck me at the time that it was I who should
have been indebted to him for his patient sympathy and help; and here
he was, poor old fellow, with a real, live trouble of his own,
refusing to bother me with it.
"So you've just got to own up, old man," I finished.
"Oh, it's really nothing," said Dennis miserably. "I'm a crock, that's
all. A useless hulk of unnecessary lumber."
"How, my dear chap?" I asked incredulously. Here was Dennis Burnham,
who had put up a record for the mile in our school days, and lifted
the public school's middle-weight pot, a champion swimmer, a massive
young man of six-foot-two in his socks, calling himself a crock.
"You remember that summer we did the cruise from Southampton to
Stranraer?"
"Heavens! yes," I exclaimed, "and we capsized the cutter in the
Solway, and you were laid up in a farmhouse at Whithorn with rheumatic
fever. Am I ever likely to forget it?"
"I'm not, anyway," said Dennis, ruefully. "That rheumatic fever left
me with a weak heart. I strained it rowing up at Oxford, you remember,
and that fever business put the last touches on it for all practical
purposes."
"Are you sure, old man?" I asked. It seemed impossible that a great
big chap like Dennis, the picture of health, should have anything
seriously wrong with him.
"I'm dead sure, Ron; I wish I weren't. Not that it matters much, of
course; but just now, when one has a chance to do something decent for
one's Motherland and justify one's existence, it hits a bit hard."
"Is it serious?" I asked--"really serious?"
"Sufficient to bar me from joining you chaps, though I'll see if I can
sneak past the doctor. You remember about three weeks ago we were to
have played a foursome out at Hendon, and I didn't turn up? I said
afterwards that I had been called out of town, and had quite forgotten
to wire."
"Which was extremely unlike you," I interposed; "but go on."
"Well, as a matter of fact, I was on my way. I was a bit late, and
when I got outside Golders Green Tube Station I ran for a 'bus. The
rest of the day I spent in the Cottage Hospital. No, I didn't faint.
The valve struck, and I simply lay on the pavement a crumpled mass of
semi-conscious humanity till they carted me off on the ambulance. It's
the fourth time it's happened."
"Of course you had good advice?" I asked anxiously.
"Heavens! yes," he exclaimed; "any amount of the best. And they all
say the same thing--rest, be careful, no sudden excitement, no strain,
and I may live for ever--a creaking door."
"My dear old Den," I said, for I was deeply touched. "Why didn't you
tell me?"
"Plenty of worries of your own, old man," he answered, more
cheerfully; "and, besides, it would have spoiled everything. You
fellows would have been nursing me behind my back, to use an Irishism,
and trying to prevent my noticing it. You know as well as I do that if
you had known I should have been a skeleton at the feast."
"You must promise me two things," I said presently. "One is that you
won't try to join the army; there is sure to be a rush of recruits in
the next few days, and the doctors will be flurried, and may skip
through their work roughshod. The other is that you will take care of
yourself, run no risks, and do nothing rash while we are away."
The first he refused. He said he must do what he could to get through,
if only to satisfy his conscience; but he made me the second promise,
and solemnly gave me his word that he would do nothing that would put
him in any danger. Then at last, at his suggestion, we turned in; he
insisted that I had an all-night journey in front of me. And so
eventually I fell asleep, saddened by the knowledge of my friend's
trouble, but somewhat relieved that I had extracted from him a promise
to take care of himself.
Little did I dream that he would break his promise to save one who was
dearer to me than life itself, or that I should owe all my present and
future happiness to poor old Dennis's inability to join the army.
Truly, as events were to prove, "he did his bit."