Book: The Good Comrade

U >> Una L. Silberrad >> The Good Comrade




"Herr Van de Greutz's Explosive.

"Formula as he said it...."

For a moment Rawson-Clew held the bottle, staring at it in blank
astonishment; so tense was his attitude that it caught the other man's
attention.

"Hullo!" he said, "some one sent you an infernal machine?"

Rawson-Clew roused himself. "No," he answered shortly.

He put the bottle back in the box after he had felt in the packing and
found nothing, then he fastened it up with more care than was perhaps
necessary. He looked at the address on the lid, but it told him
nothing more than it had at first; neither that nor the name of the
post-office from which it was sent gave any clue to the sender. And
yet he felt as if Julia were at his elbow with that mute sympathy in
her eyes which had been there when they talked of failure in the wood
on the Dunes.

He rose, and taking the box, went towards the door; the other man
watched him curiously. "One would think you had found a ghost in your
box," he said.

"I'm not sure that I have not," Rawson-Clew looked back to answer;
"the ghost of a good comrade."

Then he went home.

When he was alone in his chambers and secure from interruption, he
opened the box again and took out all the packing, carefully sorting
it. But he found nothing, no scrap of paper, no clue of any sort; he
took off the linen rag that fastened in the bottle stopper, but that
betrayed nothing either; and yet he thought of Julia.

She was the only person who could know about the explosive. It had
never been actually spoken of last summer, but the chances were she
knew. She was the only person who could have known or who could have
got it. It was like her, so like that he was as sure as if her name
were in the box that she was the sender. How she had got the stuff he
could not think, he knew the difficulties in the way; but she had done
it somehow, and now she had sent it to him, without name for fear of
embarrassing him, without clue, with no desire for thanks--loyal,
generous, able little comrade! He looked up again; he felt as if she
were bodily present; the whole thing, astounding as he had found it at
first, was somehow so characteristic of her. And because of her
presence he suddenly wished he had not been to that evening's
entertainment and sat close by his cousin's wife and heard the things
she said, and answered the things she looked. He felt as if he were
not clean, as if he had no right to entertain even the ghost of the
good comrade.

Rawson-Clew was not self-conscious; it never occurred to him to think
if he appeared ridiculous, whether he was alone or in company. He took
off his dress coat and flung it aside with a feeling of disgust; its
sleeve had brushed that woman's bare arm; he could almost fancy that a
suggestion of the scent she used clung to it. He put it out of sight
and fetched some other garment before he came back to the thing which
had recalled Julia. And yet the girl was no lily-child with the dew of
dawn upon her; he did not for one instant think she was; probably, had
she been, she would not have been the good comrade. The facts of life
were not strange to her, she knew them, good and bad; was not above
laughing at what was funny even if it was somewhat coarse, but she had
no taste for lascivious wallowing no matter under what name disguised.
A man could be at home with her, he could speak the truth to her; but
he would not make a point of taking her into the society of that
woman, any more than he would invite a friend to look at the sink,
unless there was some purpose to serve.

Rawson-Clew took up the bottle and looked at it, and looked at the
address card on the lid, all over again; and there grew in his mind
the conviction that he been a remarkable and particular fool. Not
because he had taken that holiday on the Dunes, nor yet because he had
failed to get the explosive and Julia had succeeded--he believed that
a man might have average intelligence and yet fail there, for he
thought she had more than average. But because he had failed to
recognise a fact that had been existent all the time--the need he had
for the good comrade. Why had he a better liking for his work than of
old? Because it was such as she would have liked, could have done
well, every now and then he fancied her there. Why did he find new
pleasure in the hours he spent reading Renaissance Italian, old
memoirs, the ripe wisdom of the late Tudors and early Stuarts? Because
he found her in the pages, saw her laugh sometimes, heard her
contradict at others; felt her, invisible and not always recognised,
at his elbow.

He looked round; why should not the presence be fact instead of fancy?
He would go to Mr. Gillat and find her whereabouts; if Julia was in
England, as she probably was, seeing that the box was posted in
London, the old man would know where she was. He would go to Berwick
Street--he looked at the clock--no, not now; it was too late, or
rather too early; he would have to wait till the morning was a good
deal older.

Unfortunately the carrying out of the plan did not prove very
successful. Berwick Street he found, and No. 31 he found, but not Mr.
Gillat; he was gone and had left no address. Mrs. Horn did not seem
troubled by the omission; he had paid everything before he went away,
and he practically never had any letters to be sent on; why, she
asked, should she bother after his address?

Rawson-Clew could not tell her why she should, nor did he give any
reason why he himself should. He went away and, reversing the order of
his previous search, went to Marbridge.

But failure awaited him there, too. When he came to the Polkingtons'
house he found it empty, the blinds down, the steps uncleaned, and
bills announcing that it was to let in the windows. He stood and
looked at it in the grey afternoon, and for a moment he was conscious
of a feeling of desolation and disappointment which was almost absurd.
He turned away and began to make inquiries about the family. He soon
learnt all that was commonly known. They had been gone from East
Street some little time now; they must have left before the box
containing the explosive was posted. Julia had sent it to Aunt Jane's
lawyer, before she set out for the cottage, asking him to dispatch it
at a given date, and he had fulfilled her request, thinking it a
wedding present and the date specified one near the impending
ceremony. This, of course, Rawson-Clew did not find out; he found out
several things about the Polkingtons though, their debts and
difficulties, their sale and the break up of the family. He also found
out that the youngest Miss Polkington was married and the second, and
now only remaining one, had come home before the break up. As to where
the family were now, that was not quite so clear; Mrs. Polkington was
with one of her married daughters; her address was easily obtainable
and apparently considered all that any one could require, and quite
sufficient to cover the rest of the family. Captain Polkington--nobody
thought much about him--when they did, it was generally concluded he
was with his wife. As for Julia, she must have got a situation of some
sort--unless, which was unlikely, she was with her parents.
Rawson-Clew took Mrs. Polkington's address--it was all he could
get--and determined to write to her.

It did occur to him to write to Julia at her sister's house and
request that his letter was forwarded; but he did not do so; he was
not at all sure she would answer; he wanted to see her face to face
this time. He wrote to Mrs. Polkington and asked her for Julia's
address, introducing himself as a friend met in Holland, and
explaining his reason, vaguely to be connected with that time.

When Mrs. Polkington received the letter she thought it over a little;
then she showed it to Violet, and they discussed it together. At the
outset they made a mistake; they only knew of one person of the name
of Rawson-Clew--the Captain's young acquaintance; he had certainly
gone away from Marbridge last spring and so in point of time could
have met Julia in Holland, only it was not likely that he had, or that
he had become friendly with her. At least so Violet said; Mrs.
Polkington, who knew what remarkable things herself and family could
do in the way of getting to know people, was inclined to think
differently. On one point, however, they were agreed; it would be very
unpleasant to have to tell one in the position of Mr. Rawson-Clew
about Julia's present proceedings. Giving the address would be giving
the information, or something like it--one would have to
explain--"Miss Julia Snooks, White's Cottage, near Halgrave."

"We can't do that," Violet said with decision.

"I might say I would forward a letter, perhaps?" Mrs. Polkington
suggested.

But Violet did not think that would do either. "Julia would answer
it," she said; "and that would be quite as bad; you know, she is not
in the least ashamed of herself."

Mrs. Polkington did know it. "I believe you are right," she said, with
the air of one convinced against her will; "Julia has voluntarily cut
herself adrift from her own class; it would be unpleasant and
embarrassing for her as well as for other people to force her into any
connection with it again; I don't think any purpose can be served by
reopening an acquaintance with Mr. Rawson-Clew, we did not know him
at Marbridge"--she never forgot that his circle there did not think
her good enough to know. "I cannot imagine that it would be
advantageous for Julia to write to him or hear from him under the
present circumstances. He comes of a Norfolk family, too (Mrs.
Polkington always knew about people's families even when she did not
know them personally; it was the sort of information that interested
her); I don't know what part of the county his people belong to, very
likely nowhere near Julia; but supposing it were near enough for him
to know from the address what kind of a place Julia was in, it really
might be so awkward; we ought to be very careful for dear Richard's
sake, especially seeing his connection with the Palace. I really think
it would be wiser as you say, to be on the safe side."

So she kept on that side, which, being, interpreted meant leaving
Rawson-Clew's information much where it was before. She wrote very
nicely, somewhat involved, not at all baldly; but reduced to plain
terms her letter came to this--she was not going to tell Julia's
address or anything about her.

So Rawson-Clew read it, and very angry he was. And the worst of all
was that on the same night that he received this letter, he also
received orders to go at once to Constantinople. He had no time for
anything and no choice but to go and leave the search. But during his
journey across Europe an idea came to him with the suddenness of an
inspiration. He knew what Julia had done--she had "retired," even as
she had said she hoped to on the first day they walked together. She
had retired somewhere from shams and hypocrisy, from society and her
family; possibly even she had adopted the corduroy and onions part of
the ambition; if so, that would explain her mother's refusal, based
on some kind of pride, to give her address. She had retired, and she
had taken Johnny Gillat with her, and her own people had washed their
hands of her! He knew now what to look for when he should come back.
He might not be back for two months or even three, but when he did
come he would be able to find Julia and talk to her about the
explosive--and other things.

* * * * *

It may be here said that the wonderful explosive did not do what was
expected of it, either in England or Holland, for it was found to
decompose on keeping. It did everything else that was boasted of it,
but no one succeeded in keeping it more than fifteen months, an
irremediate defect in an explosive for military purposes. This, of
course, was not discovered at first, and the honour and glory of
obtaining the specimen was considerable, if only there had been some
one to take it. Rawson-Clew did not consider himself the person.




CHAPTER XVI

THE SIMPLE LIFE


Julia was collecting fir-cones. All around her the land lay brown and
still; dead heather, and sometimes dead bracken, a shade paler, and,
more rarely, gorse bushes, nearly brown, too, in their sober winter
dress. It was almost flat, a wonderful illimitable place, very remote,
very silent, unbroken except for occasional pine-trees. These were not
scattered but grew in clumps, miles apart, though looking near in this
place of distances, and also in a belt not more than five or six trees
wide, winding mile after mile like a black band over the plain. Julia
stood on the edge of this belt now, gathering the dropped cones and
putting them into a sack. The afternoon was advanced and already it
was beginning to grow dark among the trees, but she determined not to
go till she had got all she could carry. It was the first time she had
been to collect cones; she had sent her father once and Mr. Gillat
once. They had taken longer and gathered less than she, but it was not
on that account that she had gone herself to-day. Rather it was
because she wanted to go to the dark belt of trees which she saw every
day from her window, and because she wanted to go right out into the
wide open land and see what it looked like and feel what it felt like.
And when she got there she found it, like the Dunes, all she had
expected and more.

At last she had her sack full, and, shouldering it, carried it off on
her back, which, seeing the comfort of the arrangement, must be the
way Nature intended weights to be carried. Clear of the shadow of the
trees it was lighter; the grey sky held the light long; twilight
seemed to creep up from the ground rather than fall from above, as if
darkness were an earth-born thing that gained slowly, and, for a time,
only upon the brighter gift of Heaven. It was quieter, too, out here,
for under the pines, though the weather was still, there was a
breathing moan as if the trees sighed incessantly in their sleep. But
out here in the brown land it was very quiet; the air light and dry
and keen, with the flavour of the not distant sea mingled with the
smell of the pines and the dead ferns--a thing to stir the pulse and
revive the memory of the divine inheritance and the old belief that
man is but a little lower than the angels, related to the infinite and
god-like.

White's Cottage stood where the heath-land ceased and the sand began.
There was much sand; tradition said it had gradually overwhelmed a
village that lay beyond; indeed, that White's Cottage was the last and
most distant house of the lost place. Be that as it may, it certainly
was very solitary, rather far from the village of Halgrave, with no
road leading to it except the track that came from Halgrave and
stopped at the cottage gate--there was nowhere to go beyond.

Dusk had almost deepened to darkness when Julia reached the house; it
gleamed curiously in the half light, for it was built of flints, for
the most part grey, but with a paler one here and there catching the
light. She put her sack of cones in one of the several sheds which
were built on the sides of the cottage, and which, being of the same
flint material, made it look larger than it was. Then she went into
the kitchen.

Johnny Gillat was there before her; he had been busy in the garden all
the afternoon, but, with the help of the field-glasses which he had
not been allowed to sell, he had descried her coming across the open
land. As soon as he was sure of her, and while she was still a good
way off, he hurried away his tools into the house to get ready. He
wanted it all to look to her as it had to him on the day when he came
back from cone-getting--the fire blazing, the tea ready, the kitchen
snug and neat; very unlike the dining-room at Marbridge with the one
gas jet burning and "Bouquet" alight. Of course Johnny did not quite
succeed; he never did in matters small or great, but he did his best.
The dinner things, which Captain Polkington was to have washed, were
not done, and still about. They had to be put in the back kitchen, and
Johnny, who had no idea of saving labour, took so long carrying them
away, that he hardly had time to set the tea. He had meant to make
some toast, but there was no time for that; the first piece of bread
had no more than begun to get warm when he heard Julia's step outside.
But the fire was blazing nicely, and that was the chief thing; even
though the putting on of the kettle had been forgotten. When Julia
came in and saw the fire and crooked tablecloth and hastily-arranged
cups, and Johnny's beaming face, she exclaimed, "How cubby it looks!
Why, you have got the tea all ready, and"--sniffing the air--"I
believe you are making toast; that is nice!"

Mr. Gillat beamed; then he caught sight of the kettle standing on the
hearth, and his face fell.

But Julia put it on the fire. "It will give you good time to finish
the toast while it boils," she said; "toast ought not to be hurried,
you know; yours will be just right."

It was not; it was rather smoky when it came to be eaten, the fire not
being very suitable; but that did not matter; Julia declared it
perfect. This was the only form of hypocrisy she practised in the
simple life; possibly, if she thought of the will more than the deed,
it was really not such great hypocrisy. At all events she practised
it; she did not think truth so beautiful that frail daily life must be
the better for its undiluted and uncompromising application to all
poor little tender efforts.

During tea the great subject of conversation was the hen house. The
last occupant of the cottage had kept hens and all the out-buildings
were in good repair; however, a recent gale had loosened part of the
roof of this one, and Captain Polkington had been mending it. There
had not been much to do; the Captain could not do a great deal; his
faculties of work--if he ever had any--had atrophied for want of use.
Still, he thought he had done a good day's work, and, as a
consequence, was important and inclined to be exacting. That is the
reason why he had neglected the dinner things; he felt that a man who
had done all he had was entitled to some rest and consideration. Julia
did not mind in the least; if he was happy and contented, that was all
she wished; she never reckoned his help as one of the assets of the
household. For that matter, she had not reckoned Mr. Gillat's of much
value either, but there she found she was a little mistaken. Johnny
was very slow and very laborious and really ingenious in finding a
wrong way of doing things even when she thought she had left him no
choice, but he was very painstaking and persevering. He would do
anything he was told, and he took the greatest pleasure in doing it.
Whether it was digging in the garden, or feeding the pigs, or
collecting firewood, or setting the table for meals, he was certain to
do everything to the best of his ability, and was perfectly happy if
she would employ him. There can be no doubt that the coming to White's
Cottage began a time of real happiness to Mr. Gillat; possibly the
happiest since his wealthy boyhood when he spent lavishly and
indiscriminately on anybody and everybody. The Captain was less happy;
his satisfaction was of an intermittent order. His discontent did not
take the form of wishing to go back to Marbridge or to join his wife,
only in feeling oppressed and misunderstood, and wishing occasionally
that he had not been born or had been born rich--and of course
remained so all his life. He was dissatisfied that evening when the
contentment begotten of his work had worn off; he wanted to go to the
market town to-morrow. Julia was going to get several necessaries for
the household; he considered that he ought to go too, but she would
not take him.

"You will have a great deal to carry," he protested.

"Yes," Julia agreed; "but I shall manage it."

"It is not fit for you to go about alone," her father urged.

She forebore to smile, though the novelty, not to say tardiness of the
idea amused her; she only said, "It would take you and Johnny too long
to walk into the town; we can't afford to spend too long on the way,
and we can't afford a cart to take us."

The Captain was not convinced; he never was by any one's logic but his
own; perhaps because his own was totally different to all other kinds,
including the painful logic of facts. He sighed deeply. "It is a
strange, a humiliating condition of things," he observed to Mr.
Gillat, "when a father has to ask his daughter's permission to go into
town."

Johnny rubbed the side of his chair thoughtfully, then a bright idea
occurred to him. "Ah, but," he said, "gentlemen always have to ask ladies'
permission before they can accompany them anywhere--especially when it is
the lady of the house."

A wise man might not perhaps have said this last, but Johnny did, and
as it happened, it did not much matter; before the Captain could
answer, Julia rose from the table and began to clear away.

Sundry household jobs had to be done in the evening; some were always
left till then; in these short dark days it was advisable to use the
light for work out of doors. At last, however, all was done, and Julia
began to arrange for to-morrow. The Captain was sulky and sure that he
would have rheumatism and so not be able to go out. His daughter did
not seem to be greatly troubled; she told him of some easy work in the
house he could do, or if he liked and felt able, he would perhaps go
and get more fir-cones; there were plenty, and they saved other fuel.
The Captain replied that he was not in the habit of taking orders from
his children.

Johnny looked unhappy; he did not like these ruffles to the tranquil
life; it always pained him for any one to be dissatisfied, with reason
or without it. When Julia turned to him he was even more ready than
usual to take orders; he would have done anything she told him from
sweeping the copper flue to calling upon the rector, but secretly he
hoped she would give him work in the garden.

The garden was of considerable size, and, by some freak of nature, of
fairly good soil, though the field and most of the surrounding land
was very poor. They had all worked hard in this plot ever since their
coming; there was not much more to be done, or at least not much
planting, which was what Mr. Gillat liked. However, there had been no
sharp frosts yet and Julia, who knew his tastes, thought she could
find something to please him. She called him to the back kitchen and
between them they brought from there a wooden case, the contents of
which she began to sort over to find an occupation suitable to him.
The box was getting rather empty now, but there was still something in
it, bulbs and seeds and printed directions, and a strange mixed smell
of greyish-brown paper and buckwheat husks and the indescribable smell
of Dutch barns.

It had come from Holland, from the Van Heigens; it was Mijnheer's
present to the disgraced companion who had been so summarily
dismissed. When Julia went to the cottage, it occurred to her to write
to Mijnheer and tell him where she was, and how she meant to live a
harmless horticultural life. She had come to think that perhaps she
ought to tell him; she knew how her own words, about the way they were
thrusting a sinner down, would stay with him and his wife. They would
quite likely grow in the slow mind of the old man until he became
uneasy and unhappy about her, and blamed himself for her undoing. At
the time that she spoke she wasted the words to so grow and germinate;
but now, looking back, she could think differently; after all the Van
Heigens had only done what they thought right, and she had done what
she knew to be at least open to doubt. And they had not thrust her
down; it would take considerably more than that to do anything of the
sort; they had allowed her an opportunity which she had used to
achieve a great success. And now that it was achieved and she had left
it all behind and was settled to the simple life--her vague
ambition--her heart went out to the simple folk who had first shown
her that it might be good; who had been kind to her when there was
nothing to gain, who had made her ashamed.

So she wrote to Mijnheer and told him that she had fared well, and
found another situation in Holland after leaving his service. Also
that she had now left it and, having inherited a little property, had
come to live in a country cottage with her father. She further said
that she meant to imitate the Dutch and do her own house-work and also
grow things, vegetables especially, in her garden.

And Mijnheer, when he got the letter, was delighted; so, too, was
Mevrouw; Joost said nothing. They read the letter two or three times,
showed it to the Snieders (including Denah) and to the Dutch girl who
now filled Julia's situation--more or less. They talked over it a
great deal and over Julia too; they remembered every detail about her,
her good points and her great fall. They were as delighted as they
could be to hear that she was well and happy and apparently, good.
Mijnheer especially was pleased to hear that she was with her
father--he did not know that gentleman--he was sure she would be well
looked after with him, and that, so he said, was what she wanted. So,
contrary to their theory, but not out of accord with their practice,
they forgave the sin for the sake of the sinner, and Mijnheer ordered
to be packed, seeds and bulbs and plants for Julia's garden. He
selected them himself, flowers as well as vegetables, sorts which he
thought most suitable; and he ordered Joost to stick to the bags
strips cut out of catalogues where, in stiff Dutch-English, directions
are given as to how to grow everything that can be grown. And if Joost
put in some sorts not included in his father's list, and failed to
tell the good man about it, it was no doubt all owing to his having at
one time associated with the dishonest Julia.

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