Book: The Good Comrade

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When dinner was done and everything cleared up, or rather Julia's
part, she took Joost into the garden.

"Now," she said in Dutch, "let us come out and talk and look at
things."

They went out and he began to admire her orderly garden and to tell
her why this plant had done well and that one had failed. He did not
speak of the blue daffodil, he thought he could better ask about that
a little later. She did not speak of it either by name; he and it were
so inseparably connected in her mind.

"Come along," she said, when he stopped to look into a tulip to see if
its centre was as truly black as it should have been. "Come and see
it."

He followed her obediently, but asked what it was he was to see.

"The blue daffodil, of course," she said.

He stopped dead. "You have got it here?" he exclaimed. "You have not
sold it?"

"Certainly not."

"But why--why?" he stared at her in amazement. "You wanted money, it
was for that you wanted the bulb, to sell; you told me so. Do you not
want money now?"

"Oh, yes," Julia said; "but that is an incurable disease hereditary in
our family."

"You do want money?" he inquired mystified. "This inheritance is
small, not enough? Why, then, did you not sell the bulb?"

Julia shrugged her shoulders. "I could not very well," she said.

"But why not? You thought to do so at one time; your intention was to
sell it if you had--"

"Stolen it? Yes, that is quite true, and it would not have mattered
then. If I had stolen it I might as well have sold it; one
dishonourable act feels lonely without another; it generally begets
another to keep itself company."

Joost looked at her uncomprehendingly. "But why," he persisted,
clinging to the one thing he did understand, "why did you not sell it?
It was for that I gave it to you, to do with as you pleased; I knew
you would do only what was right and necessary."

Julia could have smiled a little at this last word; it seemed as if
even Joost had learnt to temper right with necessity to suit her
dealings, but she only said, "That was one reason why I could not sell
it. You expected me to do right, so I was obliged to do it; faith
begets righteousness as dishonour begets dishonour."

"I do not quite understand," he began, but she cut him short.

"No," she said; "we always found it difficult to make things quite
plain, it is no use trying now. Come and see the daffodil, you will
understand that, at all events, and better than I do. It is not quite
fully out yet, but very nearly, and--please don't be disappointed--it
is not a real true blue daffodil at all."

She took him to the chosen spot and showed him the plant--a bunch of
long narrow leaves rising from the brown earth, and in the midst of
them a single stalk supporting a partly opened flower. In shape it was
single, like the common wild blossom, only much bigger; but in
colour, not blue as was expected, but streaked in irregular unblended
stripes of pure yellow and pure blue. The marking was as hard and
unshaded as that of the old-fashioned brown and yellow tulips which
children call bulls'-eyes, and the effect, though bizarre, was not at
all pretty. Julia did not think it so, and she did not expect any one
else to either; but Joost, when he saw the streaky flower, gave a
little inarticulate exclamation and, dropping on his knees on the
path, lifted the bell reverently so that he might look into it.

"Ah!" he said softly; "ah, it is beautiful, wonderful!" He looked up,
and Julia, seeing the rapt and humble admiration of his face, forgot
that there was something ludicrous in the sight of a young man
kneeling on a garden path reverently worshipping a striped flower. It
was no abstract admiration of the beautiful, and no cultivated
admiration for the new and strange; it was the love of a man for his
work and appreciation of success in it, even if the success were
another's; also, perhaps, in part, the expression of a deep-seated
national feeling for flowers.

"Is it what you wished?" Julia asked gently, conscious that she was,
as always, a long way off from Joost.

"I did not wish it," he said, "because I did not foresee it. No one
could foresee that it would come, though it always might. It is a
novelty, an accident of nature perhaps, but beautiful, wonderful!"

"Is it a real novelty?" Julia asked. "Just as much as your first blue
daffodil was? Oh, I am glad! Then you have two now."

"I?" Joost said in surprise. "No, not I; this is yours, not mine; you
have grown it."

"That's nothing," Julia returned easily; "you gave me the bulb; it is
really your bulb; I only just put it into the ground, I have had
nothing to do with the novelty."

But if she thought to dispose of the matter in that way she soon found
she was mistaken; there were apparently laws governing bulb growing
which were as inviolable as any governing hereditary titles. The man
who bloomed the bulb was the man who had produced the novelty--if
novelty it was; he could no more make over his rights to another than
a duke could his coronet. In vain Julia protested that it was by the
merest chance that Joost had hit on this particular sort to give her,
that it was only an accident which had prevented him from blooming it
himself. He said that did not matter at all, and when she failed to be
convinced, added that possibly, had he kept the bulb, the result might
not have proved the same; her soil and treatment were doubtless both
different.

Julia laughed at the idea, saying she knew nothing about soil and
treatment. But she made no impression on Joost and apparently did not
alter the case; the laws of the bulb growers were not only like those
of the "Medes and Persians which alter not," but also refused to be
bent or evaded even by a Polkington.

"It is yours," Joost said, as he took a last look at the flower before
he rose from his knees; "the great honour is yours, and I am glad of
it."

There was something in his tone which reminded Julia of that talk they
had had in the little enclosed place on the last day she was at the
bulb farm. She hastily submitted so as to avoid the too personal.
"What am I to do with the honour?" she asked. "I do not know, that is
one reason why it is absurd for me to have it."

"You must name your flower," he told her; "and then you must exhibit
it. Fortunately you are in time for the show in London."

"But I can't go to London," Julia said; "it is out of the question for
me to leave home even if I could afford the fare, which I cannot."

Joost answered there was no need; he could arrange everything for her.
"I can take the daffodil to London with me," he said. "It must be
lifted--you have a flower pot, then it must be tied with care, and it
will travel quite safely."

"But," Julia objected; "if it is exhibited with my name, and you say
my name as the grower must appear, your father will hear of it and
then he will know that you gave me a bulb--it cannot be exhibited. I
do not care about a certificate of merit or whatever one gets."

"It must be exhibited," Joost said; "as to my father, he knows
already, I have told him; that does not stand in the way."

To this Julia had nothing to say; perhaps in her heart she was a
little ashamed because she had suspected him of the half honesty of
only telling what was necessary when it was necessary, that she
herself was likely to have practised in his case.

"Now you must call your flower a name," he said, "as I called mine
Vrouw Van Heigen."

"I will call it after you," Julia said.

But Joost would not have that. "That will not do; the blue daffodil is
already a Van Heigen; there cannot be another, it will make
confusion."

"Well, I'll call it the honest man, then; that will be you."

Joost did not like that either; he thought it very unsuitable. "Why
not name it after"--he began; he had meant to say "your father," but
recalling that gentleman, he changed it to--"some one of whom you are
fond."

[Illustration: "'Now you must call your flower a name,' he said"]

Julia hesitated. "I like the honest man," she said; "but as you say
it is not suitable, the blue daffodil is really the honest one, this
is too mixed--I shall call it after Johnny; I am fond of him."

But Joost was romantic; it was only natural with the extreme and
almost childish simplicity of his nature there should be some romance,
and there was nothing to satisfy that sentiment in Mr. Gillat.
"Johnny?" he said; "yes, but it is not very pretty; it does not
suggest a beautiful flower. Why not call it after the heroine of some
book or a friend or comrade? Perhaps"--Joost was only human--"he with
whom you went walking on the Dunes."

"Him?" Julia said. "I never thought of that. He was a friend
certainly, and a good comrade; he tried hard to get me out of that
scrape; he would have stood by me if I had let him--the same as you
did--you were both comrades to me then. I tell you what, shall I call
it 'The Good Comrade?' Then it would be after you both and Johnny too;
Johnny would certainly stand by me through thick and thin, share his
last crust with me, or father, give me the whole of it. Yes, we will
call the daffodil 'The Good Comrade,' and it shall have three
godfathers."

With this Joost was satisfied, even though he had to share what honour
there was with two others. Mr. Gillat, of course, when he was told,
was much pleased; he even found he was now able to admire the
wonderful flower, though before, he had agreed with Julia's opinion of
it. To Captain Polkington not much was said about it.

"Johnny," Julia said, as they stood watching Joost pot the bulb, "you
are not to tell father how valuable this is. He will find out quite
soon enough; people are sure to bother me to sell it after it has been
exhibited, and I am not going to."

"No," Johnny said; "of course not, naturally not."

So Captain Polkington had no idea why Joost carried away a carefully
tied-up flower pot when he left the cottage that afternoon. He only
thought the young man must have a most remarkable enthusiasm for
flowers to so burden himself on a long walk.

* * * * *

And in due time the wonderful streaked daffodil, "Narcissus Triandrus
Striatum, The Good Comrade," grown by Miss Snooks of White's Cottage,
Halgrave, was exhibited at the Temple Show. And bulb growers,
professional and amateur, waxed enthusiastic over it. And the general
public who went to the show, admired it or not, as their taste and
education allowed them. And among the general public who went, was a
Miss Lillian Farham, a girl who, last September, had travelled north
with carnations in her coat and Rawson-Clew in a corner of the railway
carriage. Miss Farham was an enthusiastic gardener, and having means
and leisure and a real taste for it, she had some notable successes in
the garden of her beautiful home; and when she was in town she never
missed an opportunity of attending a good show, seeing something new,
and learning what she could. She was naturally much interested in the
new streaked daffodil; so much so, that she spoke of it afterwards,
not only to those people who shared her taste, but also to at least
one who did not.

Rawson-Clew was back in London. He had not been back long, but already
he had begun the preliminaries of a search for Mr. Gillat. He decided
that it would be easier to find him than Julia, who might possibly
have changed her name to oblige her family, and who certainly would be
better able to hide herself, if she had a mind to, than Mr. Gillat. He
had not as yet been able to devote many days to the search, and had
got no further than preliminaries; still he could already see that it
was not going to be easy and might possibly be long. He did not go to
the show of spring flowers; he did not feel the least interest in it,
but when by chance he met Lillian Farham she spoke of it to him and
also of the new daffodil.

"It was grown at Halgrave, too," she said; "that is not so very far
from your part of Norfolk, is it?"

"Fifteen or twenty miles," Rawson-Clew answered.

"Is it so much as that?" she said; "I thought it was nearer; of
course, then, you can't tell me anything about the grower."

He could not; it is probable even if the place had been much nearer,
he still could not, seeing that it was some years since he had been to
"his part of Norfolk." However, he gave polite attention to Miss
Farham, who went on to describe the wonderful flower of mixed yellow
and blue.

"Blue?" Rawson-Clew's interest became more real; he had once heard of
blue in connection with a daffodil. It was one evening on a long flat
Dutch road--the evening he had tied Julia's shoe. She had spoken of
it, she had begun to say, when he stopped the confession that he
thought she would afterwards regret, that she could not take the blue
daffodil.

"What is the name?" he asked; he meant of the grower in Norfolk,
though he would have been puzzled to say why he asked.

Miss Farham, however, mistook his meaning and thought he was asking
about the flower. "'The Good Comrade,'" she said, and fortunately she
did not see his surprise. "Rather quaint, is it not?" she went on.
"Easier to remember, too, than some obscure grand duchess, or the name
of the grower or his wife after whom new flowers are usually called.
The blue daffodil, you know, is called after one of the grower's
relatives--Vrouw Van Heigen."

Rawson-Clew said "Yes," though he did not know it before. It struck
him as interesting now; the Van Heigens had a blue daffodil then, and
Julia went to them for some purpose besides earning a pittance as
companion. She had not taken a blue daffodil; she said so; she also
said at another time she had failed in the object of her coming and
that failure and success would have been alike discreditable. Poor
Julia! And now here was some one in Norfolk exhibiting a daffodil of
mixed blue and yellow called, by a strange coincidence, "The Good
Comrade." Of course, it was only a coincidence and yet, when reason is
not helping as much as it ought, one is inclined to take notice of
signs and coincidences.

"What is the name of the grower of this new flower?" Rawson-Clew
asked.

Miss Farham told him.

"Snooks," he repeated thoughtfully; she imagined he was trying to
remember if he had heard the name before. He was not; he was wondering
if any one ever really started in life with such a name; if, rather,
it did not sound more like the pseudonym of one who was indifferent to
public credence, and possibly public opinion.

Rawson-Clew was not able to tell Miss Farham anything about the grower
of the streaked daffodil; he was obliged to own that he had never
heard of her before. But he made it his business to find out what he
could in the shortest possible time; this he did not mention to Miss
Farham. What he discovered did not amount to much, very little in
fact, but such as it was, it was enough to bring him to Halgrave.




CHAPTER XVIII

BEHIND THE CHOPPING-BLOCK


Captain Polkington, Johnny and Julia were busy in the garden. It was a
fine afternoon following after two or three wet days and the ground
was in splendid condition for planting, also for sticking to clothes.
The sandy road to Halgrave dried quickly, but the garden, of heavier
soil, did not, as was testified by Julia's boots--she had bought a
small pair of plough-boy's boots that spring and was wearing them now,
very pleased with the investment. By and by the sound of a motor broke
the silence; the Captain and Johnny left off work to listen; at least,
Johnny did; the Captain was hardly in a position to leave off, seeing
that he was off most of his time.

"It sounds like a motor-car," Johnny said, as if he had made a
discovery.

"Then it must have lost its way," Julia answered, giving all her
attention to her cabbage plants.

Johnny said "Yes." It certainly seemed likely enough; the ubiquitous
motor-car went everywhere certainly; even, it was possible to imagine,
to remote and uninteresting Halgrave. But along the ill-kept sandy
road which led to White's Cottage and nowhere else, none had been yet,
nor was it in the least likely that one would ever come except by
accident.

The sounds drew nearer. "It certainly is coming this way," the
Captain said; "I will go and explain the mistake to the people."

The Captain went to the gate; but he did not stop there, nor did he
explain anything. His eyesight, never having been subjected to strain
or over work, was good, and the car, owing to the loose nature of the
road, was not coming very fast; he saw it had only one occupant, a man
who seemed familiar to him. For a second the Captain stared, then he
turned and went into the house in surprising haste. He had not the
least idea what had brought this man here; indeed, when he came to
think about it, he was sure it must have been some mistake about the
road. But he had no desire to explain; he felt he was not the person
to do so, seeing that the last (and first) time he had seen the man
was in an unpleasant interview at Marbridge. He connected several
painful things, humiliation, undeserved epithets, and so on, with that
interview and with the face of Rawson-Clew. Accordingly, he went into
the house and waited, and the car came nearer and stopped.

Johnny and Julia went on with their work; they imagined the Captain
was talking to the strangers; they had no idea of his discreet
withdrawal until Julia came round the corner of the house to fetch a
trowel, and saw Rawson-Clew coming up the path.

Julia's first feeling was blank amazement, but being a Polkington, and
being that before she took to the simple life and its honest ways, she
allowed nothing more than polite surprise to appear.

"Why!" she said, "I had no idea you were anywhere near here."

"I had no idea that you were until recently," he returned.

She wondered how recently; if it was this minute when chance brought
her for the trowel--very likely it was, and he was here by accident.

"Have you lost your way?" she inquired.

"Not to-day."

"Where were you trying to go?"

"White's Cottage."

"Oh!" she said. He did not look amused, but she felt as if he were,
and clearly it was not accident that had brought him.

"How did you know I was here?" she asked. "There are not many people
who could have told you. I have retired, you know."

He settled his eyeglass carefully in the way she remembered, and
looked first at the cottage and then at her. "I observe the
retirement," he said; "but the corduroy?"

"I am wearing out my old clothes first," she answered.

Just then Johnny's voice was heard. "Hadn't I better water the
plants?" it asked. Next moment Mr. Gillat came in sight carrying a big
water can. "Julia hadn't I better--" he began, then he saw the
visitor.

"Ah, Mr. Gillat," Rawson-Clew said. "How are you? I am glad to see you
again; last time I called at Berwick Street you were not there."

Johnny set down the water can. "Glad to see you," he said beaming;
"very glad, very glad, indeed"--he would have been pleased to see
Rawson-Clew anywhere if for no other reason than that he had shown an
interest in Julia's welfare.

Meanwhile Captain Polkington sat in the kitchen listening for the
sound of the departing motor. But it did not come; everything was
still except for the ceaseless singing of larks, to which he was so
used now that it had come almost to seem like silence. He began to
grow uneasy; what if, after all, Rawson-Clew were not here by accident
and mistake. What if he had come on some wretched and uncomfortable
business? The Captain could not think of anything definite, but that,
he felt, did not make it impossible. The man certainly had not gone,
he must be staying talking to Julia. Well, Julia could talk to him,
she was more fit to see the business through than her father was.
There was some comfort in this thought, but it did not last long, for
just then the silence was broken, there was a sound of steps, not
going down the path to the gate, but coming towards the kitchen door!
The Captain rose hastily--it was too bad of Julia, too bad! He was not
fit for these shocks and efforts; he was not what he used to be; the
terrible cold of the winter in this place had told on his rheumatism,
on his heart. He crossed the room quickly. The door which shut in the
staircase banged as that of the big kitchen was pushed open.

"You had better take your boots off here, Johnny," Julia said; "you
have got lots of mud on them."

She took off her own as she spoke, slipping out of them without having
much trouble with the laces. Rawson-Clew watched her, finding a
somewhat absurd satisfaction in seeing her small arched feet free of
the clumsy boots.

"Are not your stockings wet?" he said.

"No," she answered; "not a bit."

"Are you quite sure? I think they must be."

"No, they are not; are they, Johnny?" She stood on one foot and put
the other into Mr. Gillat's hand.

Johnny felt it carefully, giving it the same consideration that a wise
housekeeper gives to the airing of sheets, then he gave judgment in
favour of Julia.

"I was right, you see," she said; "they are quite dry."

She looked up as she spoke, and met Rawson-Clew's eyes; there was
something strange there, something new which brought the colour to her
face. She went quickly into the other kitchen and began to get the
tea.

Johnny came to help her, and the visitor offered his assistance, too.
Julia at once sent the latter to the pump for water, which she did not
want. When he came back she had recovered herself, had even abused
herself roundly for imagining this new thing or misinterpreting it.
There was no question of man and woman between her and Rawson-Clew;
there never had been and never could be (although he had asked her to
marry him). It was all just impersonal and friendly; it was absurd or
worse to think for an instant that he had another feeling, had any
feeling at all--any more than she. And again she abused herself,
perhaps because it is not easy to be sure of feelings, either your own
or other people's, even if you want to, and it certainly is not easy
to always want what you ought. Moreover, there was a difference; it
was impossible to overlook it, she felt in herself or him, or both.
She had altered since they parted at the Van Heigens', perhaps grown
to be a woman. After all she was a woman, with a great deal of the
natural woman in her, too, he had said--and he was a man, a gentleman,
first, perhaps, polished and finished, her senior, her superior--yet a
man, possibly with his share of the natural man, the thing on which
one cannot reckon. Just then the kettle boiled and she made the tea.

"Where is father?" she asked; and Mr. Gillat went to look for him.

"He is up-stairs," he said when he came back; "he does not feel well,
he says, not the thing; he'll have tea up there; I'll take it."

Julia looked at Rawson-Clew and laughed. "He does not feel equal to
facing you," she said.

"Yes, yes," Johnny added, "that's it; that's what he says--I
mean"--suddenly realising what he was saying--"he does not feel equal
to facing strangers."

"Mr. Rawson-Clew is not a stranger," Julia answered; she took a
perverse delight in recalling the beginning of the acquaintance which
she knew quite well was better ignored. "How odd," she said, turning
to Rawson-Clew, "that father should have forgotten you, just as you
told me you had forgotten him and all about the time when you saw
him."

"I expect he regarded the matter as trivial and unimportant, just as I
did," Rawson-Clew answered; "though if I told you I had forgotten all
about it I made a mistake; I can hardly say that; I remember some
details quite plainly; for instance, your position--you stood between
your father and me--very much as you did between me and the Van
Heigens."

"I did not!" Julia said hotly, pouring the tea all over the edge of
the cup; "I didn't stand between you and the Van Heigens. I mean--"

"Allow me!" Rawson-Clew moved the cup so that she poured the tea into
it and not the saucer.

"Dear, dear!" Johnny said; he had not the least idea what they were
talking about, but he fancied that one or both must be annoyed,
perhaps by the upsetting of the tea; he could think of nothing else.
"Such a mess," he said; "and such a waste. Is the cup ready? Shall I
take it up-stairs?"

"No, thank you," Julia said; "I will take it."

Rawson-Clew did not seem to mind, and Julia, after she had lingered a
little with her father, decided to come down again. If she stayed
away she knew perfectly well that Johnny would do nothing but talk
about her; moreover it was absurd to be put out because Rawson-Clew
could answer better than Mr. Gillat; that was one of the reasons for
which she had liked him.

Captain Polkington sipped his tea and ate his bread and butter
peacefully. Julia had told him Mr. Rawson-Clew would not be staying
long; she had not exactly said why he was come, it seemed rather as if
she did not know; but apparently nothing unpleasant had happened so
far and he would be going soon, directly after tea no doubt. So the
Captain sat contentedly and listened for the sound of going, but he
did not hear it; they were a very long time over tea, he thought.

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