He lifted his eyes in such concern that now it was her turn to laugh. She laughed happily. It was splendid seeing Dan again. Dan had always been the most marvellous companion, from those very early days when he had given her a drive on the van up the Avenue and made her pick a most beautiful cream bun out of the basket. The same Dan who had made whistles for her out of willow shoots, and shown her the golden wren’s nest in Sluice Dene and brought her harvest plaits from Avory’s farm. And for all his second-lieutenant’s uniform and his arm in a sling Dan wasn’t a bit changed from these good old days. He ought, she knew, to have come back from the front very curt and commanding, completely reorganised inside and out. But Dan, like herself, would never be reorganised: he was the same shy, humble Dan. Grace did not dream that she was in love with Dan but she did know that she had not been so happy since she left the Law. She held out her hand.
“To-morrow at three, Dan. Wait for me outside. And don’t come too near or you’ll get Mary Jane the sack.” She ran up the steps before he could reply.
They met next day at three and they went to the new Harris’s in Oxford Street for tea. They talked and talked. Dan, when he got over his shyness, was the most interesting talker—that, at least, was what Grace thought—and he on his side wanted her to talk, was eager to listen to what she said, which struck Grace as unusual and pleasant. Encouraged, she poured out to him all her worries about Arthur and her father. He heard her in silence, sympathetically.
“Things haven’t been right at home since the disaster, Dan,” she concluded, her eyes earnest and sad. “I can’t think of it as the same place. Somehow I can’t think that I’ll ever go back.”
He nodded his head.
“I understand, Grace.”
She gazed at him earnestly: “You won’t go back to the Neptune, will you, Dan? Oh, I’d hate to think of you going back to that awful pit.”
“Well,” he answered, “I think I’ve had enough. You see, I’ve had time to think it over. I never liked it, I daresay, but—oh, what’s the use of saying it again? It’s been said so many times before, you know, the disaster and everything.” He paused. “If I get through the war I want to go farming.”
“Yes, Dan,” she said.
They went on talking. They talked so long that the waitress came twice to demand haughtily if they required anything further.
Afterwards they took a walk through the Park; they went round the Serpentine, then back by Hyde Park Corner. Five o’clock came before they realised it. Outside the Nurses’ Home Grace paused. She said:
“If I haven’t been a complete nuisance, Dan, perhaps we can go out again?”
Grace and Dan began to go out regularly. They went to the oddest places and they enjoyed themselves—oh, how they enjoyed themselves! They walked on the Chelsea Embankment, took the steamboat to Putney and the bus to Richmond, they found out queer little tea shops, they had macaroni and minestrone in Soho—it was all banal and beautiful, it had happened a million times before and yet it had never happened to Grace and Dan.
But one evening as they came back from a walk in Kensington Gardens they ran directly into Hilda, outside the Home. Hilda knew all about Grace’s expeditions with Dan and Hilda though burning to speak had kept herself cuttingly aloof. But now Hilda stopped. She smiled freezingly at Dan and said:
“Good evening.”
It was like a blow in the face; Dan answered:
“Good evening, Miss Barras.”
There was a pause, then Hilda said:
“You seem to be making the most of the war, Mr. Teasdale.”
Grace exclaimed hotly:
“Dan got himself wounded if that’s what you mean.”
“No,” Hilda said in that same insufferable patronising tone. “I didn’t quite mean that.”
Dan coloured. He looked straight into Hilda’s eyes. An uncomfortable silence fell, then Hilda spoke again.
“It’ll be such a relief when it’s over. Then we can all get back to where we belong.”
Her meaning was unmistakable. Dan looked very unhappy. He said good night quickly, shook hands without looking at Grace and walked off down the street.
Inside the Home, Hilda turned contemptuously to Grace:
“Do you remember when we played happy families, Grace? Master Bun the Baker’s son?” And with her lips fixed in that cold and bitter smile she began leisurely to climb the stairs.
But Grace ran after her and caught her fiercely by the arm:
“If you dare to speak like that to me again,” she panted, “or to Dan either, I’ll never have anything more to do with you as long as I live.”
The eyes of Grace and Hilda met in a long and burning look. It was Hilda’s eyes that fell.
The next outing which Dan and Grace had arranged was on the Thursday of Dan’s last week and it was to be their last. Dan’s wrist was well now, he had left off the sling and he was due to rejoin his battalion on the following Monday.
They went to Kew Gardens. Dan had been eager to see the Gardens; he had a passion for gardens, and they had saved up Kew for their final jaunt. But it did not look like being brilliantly successful. To begin with the day was dull and threatening and Hilda had upset them both. Dan was silent and Grace was sad. Grace was very sad. There was not the slightest doubt about it now, Grace knew that she loved Dan, and the thought that Dan was going back to France without knowing that she loved him nearly broke Grace’s heart. Dan couldn’t care for her, naturally. He looked upon her as a friend. Who on earth could love her? She was silly and careless and untidy and not even pretty. An intolerable ache rose up in Grace’s throat as she walked silently beside the silent Dan.
They went to look at the water-fowl on the little lake just above the bluebell wood. They were beautiful ducks and Dan said they were beautiful ducks. He added gloomily:
“If ever I get the chance I’d like to raise ducks like these.”
Grace said:
“Yes, Dan,” which was as much as Grace felt like saying.
They stood together, two rather forlorn figures by the water’s edge, watching the gaily plumaged birds. Suddenly the rain came on, a heavy shower.
“Oh dear,” Grace said.
“We’ll have to run,” said Dan. “It’s going to pour.” They dashed for shelter; they dashed for shelter to the orchid house. At an ordinary time there would have been a world of fun in that dash for shelter but there was no fun in it now. No fun at all.
Grace had her blue uniform coat but Dan had none and his tunic got wet through. When they reached the orchid house and had got their breath again Grace turned to Dan. Her brow creased in concern.
“Your tunic’s soaked, Dan.” She looked round: they were quite alone. “You can’t possibly keep it on. Let me dry it for you on the pipes.”
Dan opened his mouth to refuse, then closed it again. Without a word he slipped off his tunic and handed it to Grace. He had always done what Grace told him and he did so now. Then, as Grace took the tunic an old gardener came up the other side of the orchid house. He had seen them run for shelter. He nodded to Dan and smiled at Grace.
“Come round here and dry it, nurse. There’s better pipes over here.”
Grace thanked the gardener and followed him round to a little recess where there was a coil of warm pipes. She shook Dan’s tunic and laid it inside out on the warm pipes. Then she looked at herself in the little square of mirror which the gardener kept above the pipes. The wind had blown about her hair, she was untidier than ever; heavens, she thought wretchedly, I’m a fright; no wonder Dan hates the sight of me.
She waited until Dan’s tunic dried, half listening, out of politeness, to the gardener, who was old and garrulous and who kept coming and going and talking—chiefly about the difficulty in getting fuel for heating. When the tunic was dry she took it back to Dan. He was staring out at the rain. He turned dismally:
“It’s going to be a wet week-end.”
She said:
“Yes, it looks like it.?
??
Then, stretching out her arms, she held out the tunic, meaning to help him into it. He looked at her quite wildly as with open arms, all disconsolate and windblown, she stood before him. He looked and looked and all at once something like a groan broke from him.
“I love you, Grace, I love you,” he cried and they were in each other’s arms.
The tunic lay on the ground. Her heart beat madly, madly with happiness.
“Oh, Dan,” she whispered.
“I must tell you, Grace, I must, I must, I can’t help it…” he kept on repeating his excuses to her.
Her heart still beat madly, madly with happiness; her eyes were swimming with tears; but strength and calmness were in her now.
“Do you really love me, Dan?”
“Oh, Grace…”
She looked up at him.
“When do you go back, Dan?”
A pause.
“Monday.”
“What day is to-day, Dan?”
“Why, it’s Thursday, Grace.”
She considered him tranquilly.
“Let’s get married on Saturday, Dan,” she said.
Dan went perfectly white. He gazed down at her and his whole soul was in his eyes.
“Grace,” he whispered.
“Dan!”
The old gardener, playing at Peeping Tom behind the orchids, forgot all about the coal shortage and nearly had a heart attack.
They were married on Saturday. Grace fought Miss Gibbs for a week-end off. That was their honeymoon. They spent it at Brighton. As Dan had predicted, it was a wet week-end, a very wet week-end, it rained all the time, but the rain made no difference to Grace and Dan.
FIFTEEN
Late that August afternoon the cage rose slowly from the Paradise and Barras, accompanied by Armstrong and Hudspeth, stepped out into the pit yard. Barras wore his pit clothes: dark Norfolk jacket and breeches, round leather skullcap, a stout stick in his hand; and he stood for a moment outside the offices talking to Armstrong and Hudspeth, conscious of the glances of the banksmen, rather like an actor taking an important curtain.
“I think,” he said, as though deliberating, “you’d better give it to the papers. The Argus, anyway. They’ll be glad to know.”
“Certainly, Mr. Barras,” said Armstrong. “I’ll ring them to-morrow for sure.”
“Let them have full particulars of the estimated cost of the new roadway.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Oh, and by the bye, Armstrong, you might let them know that my main reasons for this step are patriotic. Once we are into the Paradise again we shall double our output.”
Barras nodded and turned away towards the yard gates; then, aware of the simple dignity conferred by his underground suit, he walked through the town towards the Law. Every few yards he was obliged to raise his hand, acknowledging nods, greetings, respectful salutes. He was now incredibly popular. His patriotic activities were enormous. Strangely, Arthur’s imprisonment had intensified these activities. At first Barras had faced this staggering result of his persuasive methods with a catch of dismay. But readjustment came swiftly. His imagination, choked by the hurrying succession of his own affairs, admitted no disturbing images of his son, existing and suffering in prison. He took his stand, openly admitting the fact of Arthur’s imprisonment, going out of his way to refer to it publicly with a kind of upright regret.
Everyone agreed that Barras had behaved magnificently. The case was widely reported—the Argus giving it in a double column under the caption “Spartan Father,” the Sunday Echo featuring a special article, “Hats off to a Patriot”; it had created a tremendous sensation, not only in Sleescale, but in Tynecastle itself. Barras moved in a perfect blaze of glory which was far from being distasteful to him. Upon several occasions when dining at the Central with Hetty he observed himself being pointed out, and he could not repress a thrill of gratification. He went about a great deal now, basked in the general approval. He had arrived at that state of mind when the whole procedure of his existence was deliberately extroverted. In the beginning the reaction had been defensive; but now it was deliberate. He had no private moments of reflection, quiet introspection or self-examination. No time, no time! His figure, breathless and a little flushed, seemed to throw the words backwards across his shoulders, hurrying, hurrying away. He was engrossed by the external, increasingly absorbed by his public performance, diverted only by the limelight, by noise, cheers and crowds.
His activities upon the Tribunal were redoubled. It became almost an impossibility for even the most genuine cases to secure exemption when Barras took his seat upon that arbitrary bench. Drumming impatiently upon the table, he would appear to listen to incoherent arguments and agitated protestations with an affectation of impartiality. Yet he was not attentive to the logic of the case; his decision was already taken. No exemption.
As time went on and the inveteracy of his decisions began to pall he briskened his methods and, speeding the cases one upon the other, began to pride himself on the numbers he could dispose of in each session. Upon the evenings of such successful days he would return home with a warm satisfaction and the sense of having earned the approbation of his fellow men.
Yet, as he walked up Cowpen Street, at this moment an even deeper satisfaction was imprinted on his face. The arrangement he had concluded at the Neptune to-day gave him a glowing sense of self-approval. For months past he had deplored the enforced closure of the Paradise, but he could not bring himself to face the heavy expense of driving a new roadway through the flood-undermined whinstone. Now, however, by judicious representations in the proper quarter he could offset the cost of the necessary roadway against subsequent deliveries to the Government of Paradise coal. The road was paid for before it was begun. Nothing need interfere with the fascinating accumulation of his wartime profits. Pit-head prices had risen a further ten shillings a ton and at the Neptune he was making money faster than he could ever have believed. Deep in the very centre of his being the secret knowledge of his own substance enraptured Barras, sustained him like a drug.
He was not a miser, but had simply an awareness of his money. He would spend money—indeed it gratified him, almost childishly, to reflect that in this respect five pounds meant as little to him as fivepence. And his present excitement demanded a kind of petty cash expenditure, that life with such potentialities laid open should not pass him by uneventfully. He had developed a new acquisitiveness. Already he had carried out striking changes at the Law. New furniture and carpets, a new gramophone, the car, a number of luxurious easy chairs, a special water softener, the old American organ removed and an electric pianola substituted. It was significant that he bought no more pictures. This belonged to his earlier phase of more constrained acquisitiveness and though the sense of his art “treasures” still brought him comfort—as instanced by his frequent complacent remark, “I have a fortune locked up in my pictures!”—he did not augment his collection during these war years. His indulgence was more showy, spontaneous and erratic. He would buy upon a whim; he developed a craze for “picking up a bargain”; he became a constant frequenter of the Tynecastle Arcade, where junk and curio shops abounded, and he never returned from such expeditions without triumphantly bringing home some purchase.
The presents he made to Hetty were expressive of the same momentum. Not the simplicities of his previous paternal devotion, not sweets, perfumes or a beribboned box of handkerchiefs, but presents upon a different psychological scale.
Here he smiled consciously. Almost insensibly he had come to regard Hetty as the normal relaxation to his strenuous endeavours. Hetty had always pleased him. Even in those early days when as a little girl of twelve she would skip astride his knee, to demand a clear gum—one of the pastilles he carried in his waistcoat pocket—he had experienced a curious reaction to Hetty. Her soapy, well-washed scent had filled his nostrils and he had reflected that Hetty would make a sweet little wife for Arthur. But now, in the face of Arthur’s contem
ptible behaviour, this was wholly changed. The change had begun on that Sunday when Hetty, bursting into tears, had allowed Barras to comfort her in the dining-room of the Law. From that moment Barras began “to make up” for Arthur’s deficiencies. Ostensibly the motive was sympathy: Hetty had to be compensated, taken out of herself and, when the final catastrophe of Arthur’s imprisonment occurred, made to forget. All this attuned with Barras’s mood, and now with this new restlessness urging him forward, the process was intensified. He smartened himself visibly, changed his tailor, wore silk ties and socks, acquired the habit of dropping in to Stirrocks near Grainger Street for a face massage, and a vibro-electric treatment for his hair. Gradually he began to take Hetty about with a certain conscious gallantry. To-night she was accompanying him to the King’s Theatre to see the new review Zig Zag.
A sense of anticipation tingled in Barras as he walked up the drive of the Law and let himself into his house. He went straight upstairs and took a bath, lying full length in the steaming water, conscious of his own virility. Then he dressed carefully and came down to pick himself a buttonhole.
In the conservatory he found Aunt Carrie, who had just finished a half-hour’s rubbing of Harriet’s back, and was now on her way to cut some asparagus in the kitchen garden. Aunt Carrie had made the kitchen garden her especial care during these war years, even extending her activities to poultry and ducks, so that while meatless days and restricted meals became the general rule, while many stood in queues for hours on end to purchase a few pounds of potatoes, or a scrap of meat or an ounce or two of margarine, there was always an abundance of excellent food on dear Richard’s table.
As Richard entered, Aunt Carrie raised her eyes. She murmured:
“You’ve had a hard day, Richard.”
He studied her with unusual indulgence.
“I’ve decided to cut the new roadway into Paradise, Caroline.”
“Oh, Richard,” she fluttered at the favour of his confidence, “that’s good, isn’t it?”