Book: The Red Planet

W >> William J. Locke >> The Red Planet




I stand up to kiss the white and delicate hand of the gentlewoman
who sends her boy to the war, for its owner knows as well as I do
(or ought to) all that is involved in this colossal struggle. But
to the toil-worn, coarse-handed mother I go on bended knees;
nothing intellectual comes within the range of her ideas. Her boy
is fighting for England. She would be ashamed if he were not. Were
she a man she would fight too. He has gone "with a good 'eart"--
the stereotyped phrase with which every English private soldier,
tongue-tied, hides the expression of his unconquerable soul. How
many times have I not heard it from wounded men healed of their
wounds? I have never heard anything else. "The man who says he
WANTS to go back is a liar. But if they send me, I'll go WITH A
GOOD 'EART"--The phrase which ought to be immortalized on every
grave in Flanders and France and Gallipoli and Mesopotamia.

17735 P'V'TE THOMAS ATKINS 1ST GOD'S OWN REG'T HE DIED WITH A GOOD
'EART

So, you see, I looked at this rather silly malade imaginaire of an
old lady with whom I was taking tea, and suddenly conceived for
her a vast respect--even veneration. I say "rather silly." I had
many a time qualified the adjective much more forcibly. I took her
to have the intellectual endowment of a hen. But then she flashed
out suddenly before me an elderly Jeanne d'Arc. That to me Leonard
Boyce was suspect did not enter at all into the question. To her--
and that was all that mattered--he was Sir Galahad, Lancelot, King
Arthur, Bayard, St. George, Hector, Lysander, Miltiades, all
rolled into one. The passion of her life was spent on him. To do
him justice, he had never failed to display to her the most tender
affection. In her eyes he was perfection. His death would mean the
wiping out of everything between Earth and Heaven. And yet,
paramount in her envisagement of such a tragedy was the idea of a
public proclamation of the cause of England in which he died.

In this war the women of England--the women of Great Britain and
Ireland--the women of the far-flung regions of the British Empire,
have their part.

Now and then mild business matters call me up to London. On these
occasions Marigold gets himself up in a kind of yachting kit which
he imagines will differentiate him from the ordinary chauffeur and
at the same time proclaim the dignity of the Meredyth-Marigold
establishment. He loves to swagger up the steps of my Service Club
and announce my arrival to the Hall Porter, who already, warned by
telephone of my advent, has my little wicker-work tricycle chair
in readiness. I think he feels, dear fellow, that he and I are
keeping our end up; that, although there are only bits of us left,
we are there by inalienable right as part and parcel of the
British Army--none of your Territorials or Kitcheners, but the old
original British Army whose prestige and honour were those of his
own straight soul. The Hall Porter is an ex-Sergeant-Major, and he
and Marigold are old acquaintances, and the meeting of the two
warriors is acknowledged by a wink and a military jerk of the
head. I think it is Marigold that impresses Bunworthy with a
respect for me, for that august functionary never fails to descend
the steps and cross the pavement to my modest little two-seater;
an act of graciousness which (so I am given to understand by my
friends) he will only perform in the case of Royalty Itself. A
mere Field-marshal has to mount the steps unattended like any
subaltern.

These red-letter days when I drive through the familiar (and now
exciting) hubbub of London, I love (strange taste!) every motor
omnibus, every pretty woman, every sandwich-man, every fine young
fellow in khaki, every car-load of men in blue hospital uniform. I
love the smell of London, the cinematographic picture of London,
the thrill of London. To understand what I mean you have only got
to get rid of your legs and keep your heart and nerves and
memories, and live in a little country town.

Yes, my visits to London are red-letter days. To get there with
any enjoyment to myself involves such a fussification, and such an
unauthorised claim on the services of other people, that my visits
are few and far between.

A couple of hours in a club smoking-room--to the normal man a mere
putting in of time, a vain surcease from boredom, a vacuous habit
--is to me, a strange wonder and delight. After Wellingsford the
place is resonant with actualities. I hear all sorts of things;
mostly lies, I know; but what matter? When a man tells me that his
cousin knows a man attached as liaison officer to the staff of
General Joffre, who has given out confidentially that such and
such a thing is going to happen I am all ears. I feel that I am
sucked into the great whirlpool of Vast Events. I don't care a bit
about being disillusioned afterwards. The experience has done me
good, made a man of me and sent me back to Wellingsford as an
oracle. And if you bring me a man who declares that he does not
like being an oracle, I will say to his face that he is an
unblushing liar.

All this is by way of preface to the statement that on the third
of May (vide diary) I went to the club. It was just after lunch
and the great smoking-room was full of men in khaki and men in
blue and gold, with a sprinkling of men, mostly elderly, in mufti;
and from their gilt frames the full-length portraits of departed
men of war in gorgeous uniforms looked down superciliously on
their more sadly attired descendants. I got into a corner by the
door, so as to be out of the way, for I knew by experience that
should there be in the room a choleric general, he would
inevitably trip over the casually extended front wheel of my
chair, greatly to the scandal of modest ears and to my own
physical discomfiture.

Various seniors came up and passed the time of the day with me--
one or two were bald-headed retired colonels of sixty, dressed in
khaki, with belts like equators on a terrestrial globe and with a
captain's three stars on their sleeves. Gallant old boys, full of
gout and softness, they had sunk their rank and taken whatever
dull jobs, such as guarding internment camps or railway bridges,
the War Office condescendingly thought fit to give them. They
listened sympathetically to my grievances, for they had grievances
of their own. When soldiers have no grievances the Army will
perish of smug content.

"Why can't they give me a billet in the Army Pay and let me
release a man sounder of wind and limb?" I asked. "What's the good
of legs to a man who sits on his hunkers all day in an office and
fills up Army forms? I hate seeing you lucky fellows in uniform."

"We're not a pretty sight," said the most rotund, who was a wag in
his way.

Then we discussed what we knew and what we didn't know of the
Battle of Ypres, and the withdrawal of our Second Army, and shook
our heads dolorously over the casualty lists, every one of which
in those days contained the names of old comrades and of old
comrades' boys. And when they had finished their coffee and mild
cigars they went off well contented to their dull jobs and the
room began to thin. Other acquaintances on their way out paused
for a handshake and a word, and I gathered scraps of information
that had come "straight from Kitchener," and felt wonderfully wise
and cheerful.

I had been sitting alone for a few minutes when a man rose from a
far corner, a tall soldierly figure, his arm in a sling, and came
straight towards me with that supple, easy stride that only years
of confident command can give. He had keen blue eyes and a
pleasant bronzed face which I knew that I had seem somewhere
before. I noticed on his sleeve the crown and star of a
lieutenant-colonel. He said pleasantly:

"You're Major Meredyth, aren't you?"

"Yes," said I.

"You don't remember me. No reason why you should. But my name's
Dacre--Reggie Dacre, brother of Johnnie Dacre in your battery. We
met in Cape Town."

I held out my hand.

"Of course," said I. "You took me to a hospital. Do sit down for a
bit. You a member here?"

"No. I belong to the Naval and Military. Lunching with old General
Donovan, a sort of god-father of mine. He told me who you were. I
haven't seen you since that day in South Africa."

I asked for news of Johnnie, who had been lost to my ken for
years. Johnnie had been in India, and was now doing splendidly
with his battery somewhere near La Bassee. I pointed to the sling.
Badly hurt? No, a bit of flesh torn by shrapnel. Bone, thank God,
not touched. It was only horny-headed idiots like the British R.
A. M. C. that would send a man home for such a trifle. It was
devilish hard lines to be hoofed away from the regiment
practically just after he had got his command. However, he would
be back in a week or two. He laughed.

"Lucky to be alive at all."

"Or not done in for ever like myself," said I.

"I didn't like to ask--" he said. Men would rather die than commit
the indelicacy of appearing to notice my infirmity.

"You haven't been out there?"

"No such luck," said I. "I got this little lot about a fortnight
after I saw you. Johnnie was still on sick leave and so was out of
that scrap."

He commiserated with me on my ill-fortune, and handed me his
cigarette case. We smoked.

"You've been on my mind for months," he said abruptly.

"I?"

He nodded. "I thought I recognised you. I asked the General who
you were. He said 'Meredyth of the Gunners.' So I knew I was right
and made a bee line for you. Do you remember the story of that man
in the hospital?"

"Perfectly," said I.

"About Boyce of the King's Watch?"

"Yes," said I. "I saw Boyce, home on leave, about a fortnight ago.
I suppose you saw his D.S.O. gazetted?"

"I did. And he deserves a jolly sight more," he exclaimed
heartily. "I've come to the conclusion that that fellow in the
hospital--I forget the brute's name--"

"Somers," said I.

"Yes, Somers. I've come to the conclusion that he was the
damn'dest, filthiest, lyingest hound that ever was pupped."

"I'm glad to hear it," said I. "It was a horrible story. I
remember making your brother and yourself vow eternal secrecy."

"You can take it from me that we haven't breathed a word to
anybody. As a matter of fact, the whole damn thing had gone out of
my head for years. Then I begin to hear of a fellow called Boyce
of the Rifles doing the most crazy magnificent things. I make
enquiries and find it's the same Leonard Boyce of the Vilboek Farm
story. We're in the same Brigade.

"You don't often hear of individual men out there--your mind's too
jolly well concentrated on your own tiny show. But Boyce has sort
of burst out beyond his own regiment and, with just one or two
others, is beginning to be legendary. He has done the maddest
things and won the V.C. twenty times over. So that blighter
Somers, accusing him of cowardice, was a ghastly liar. And then I
remembered taking you up to hear that damnable slander, and I felt
that I had a share in it, as far as you were concerned, and I
longed to get at you somehow and tell you about it. I wanted to
get it off my chest. And now," said he with a breath of relief,
"thank God, I've been able to do so."

"I wish you would tell me of an incident or two," said I.

"He has got a life-preserver that looks like an ordinary cane--had
it specially made. It's quite famous. Men tell me that the knob is
a rich, deep, polished vermilion. He'll take on any number of
Boches with it single-handed. If there's any sign of wire-cutting,
he'll not let the men fire, but will take it on himself, and creep
like a Gurkha and do the devils in. One night he got a whole
listening post like that. He does a lot of things a second in
command hasn't any business to do, but his men would follow him
anywhere. He bears a charmed life. I could tell you lots of
things--but I see my old General's getting restive." He rose,
stretched out his hand. "At any rate, take my word for it--if
there's a man in the British Army who doesn't know what fear is,
that man is Leonard Boyce."

He nodded in his frank way and rejoined his old General. As I had
had enough exciting information for one visit to town, I motored
back to Wellingsford.





CHAPTER VIII


My house, as I have already mentioned, is situated at the extreme
end of the town on the main road, already called the Rowdon Road,
which is an extension of the High Street. It stands a little way
back to allow room for a semicircular drive, at each end of which
is a broad gate. The semicircle encloses a smooth-shaven lawn of
which I am vastly proud. In the spandrels by the side of the house
are laburnums and lilacs and laurels. From gate to gate stretch
iron railings, planted in a low stone parapet and unencumbered
with vegetation, so that the view from road to lawn and from lawn
to road is unrestricted. Thus I can take up my position on my lawn
near the railings and greet all passers-by.

It was a lovely May morning. My laburnums and lilacs were in
flower. On the other side of the way the hedge of white-thorn
screening the grounds of a large preparatory school was in flower
also, and deliciously scented the air. I sat in my accustomed
spot, a table with writing materials, tobacco, and books by my
side, and a mass of newspapers at my feet. There was going to be a
coalition Government. Great statesmen were going to forget that
there was such a thing as party politics, except in the
distribution of minor offices, when the claims of good and
faithful jackals on either side would have to be considered. And
my heart grew sick within me, and I longed for a Man to arise who,
with a snap of his strong fingers, would snuff out the Little
Parish-Pump Folk who have misruled England this many a year with
their limited vision and sordid aspirations, and would take the
great, unshakable, triumphant command of a mighty Empire
passionately yearning to do his bidding... I could read no more
newspapers. They disgusted me. One faction seemed doggedly opposed
to any proposition for the amelioration of the present disastrous
state of affairs. The salvation of wrecked political theories
loomed far more important in their darkened minds than the
salvation, by hook or crook, of the British Empire. The other
faction, more patriotic in theory, cried aloud stinking fish, and
by scurrilous over-statement defeated their own ends. In the
general ignoble screech the pronouncements of the one or two
dignified and thoughtful London newspapers passed unheeded....

I drew what comfort I could from the sight of the continually
passing troops; a platoon off to musketry training; a battalion,
brown and dusty, on a route march with full equipment, whistling
"Tipperary"; sections of an Army Service train cursing good-
humouredly at their mules; a battery of artillery thundering along
at a clean, rhythmical trot which, considering what they were like
in their slovenly jogging and bumping three months ago, afforded
me prodigious pleasure. On the passing of these last-mentioned I
felt inclined to clap my hands and generally proclaim my
appreciation. Indeed, I did arrest a fresh-faced subaltern
bringing up the rear of the battery who, having acquaintance with
me, saluted, and I shouted:

"They're magnificent!"

He reared up his horse and flushed with pleasure.

"We've done our best, sir," said he. "We had news last week that
we should be sent out quite soon, and that has bucked them up
enormously."

He saluted again and rode off, and my heart went with him. What a
joy it would be to clatter down a road once again with the guns!

And other people passed. Townsfolk who gave me a kindly "Morning,
Major!" and went on, and others who paused awhile and gave me the
gossip of the day. And presently young Randall Holmes went by on a
motor bicycle. He caught sight of me, disappeared, and then
suddenly reappeared, wheeling his machine. He rested it by the
kerb of the sidewalk and approached the railings. He was within a
yard of me.

"Would you let me speak to you for half a minute, Major?"

"Certainly," said I. "Come in."

He swung through the gate and crossed the lawn.

"You said very hard things to me some time ago."

"I did," said I, "and I don't think they were undeserved."

"Up to a certain point I agree with you," he replied.

He looked extraordinarily robust and athletic in his canvas kit.
Why should he be tearing about aimlessly on a motor bicycle this
May morning when he ought to be in France?

"I wish you agreed with me all along the line," said I.

He found a little iron garden seat and sat down by my side.

"I don't want to enter into controversial questions," he said.

Confound him! He might have been fifty instead of four-and-twenty.
Controversial questions! His assured young Oxford voice irritated
me.

"What do you want to enter into?" I asked.

"A question of honour," he answered calmly. "I have been wanting
to speak to you, but I didn't like to. Passing you by, just now, I
made a sudden resolution. You have thought badly of me on account
of my attitude towards Phyllis Gedge. I want to tell you that you
were quite right. My attitude was illogical and absurd."

"You have discovered," said I, "that she is not the inspiration
you thought she was, and like an honest man have decided to let
her alone."

"On the contrary," said he. "I'd give the eyes out of my head to
marry her."

"Why?"

He met my gaze very frankly. "For the simple reason, Major
Meredyth, that I love her."

All this natural, matter-of-fact simplicity coming from so
artificial a product of Balliol as Randall Holmes, was a bit
upsetting. After a pause, I said:

"If that is so, why don't you marry her?"

"She'll have nothing to do with me."

"Have you asked her?"

"I have, in writing. There's no mistake about it. I'm in earnest."

"I'm exceedingly glad to hear it," said I.

And I was. An honest lover I can understand, and a Don Juan I can
understand. But the tepid philanderer has always made my toes
tingle. And I was glad, too, to hear that little Phyllis Gedge had
so much dignity and commonsense. Not many small builders'
daughters would have sent packing a brilliant young gentleman like
Randall Holmes, especially if they happened to be in love with
him. As I did not particularly wish to be the confidant of this
love-lorn shepherd, I said nothing more. Randall lit a cigarette.

"I hope I'm not boring you," he said.

"Not a bit."

"Well--what complicates the matter is that her father's the most
infernal swine unhung." I started, remembering what Betty had told
me.

"I thought," said I, "that you were fast friends."

"Who told you so?" he asked.

"All the birds of Wellingsford."

"I did go to see him now and then," he admitted. "I thought he was
much maligned. A man with sincere opinions, even though they're
wrong, is deserving of some respect, especially when the
expression of them involves considerable courage and sacrifice. I
wanted to get to the bottom of his point of view."

"If you used such a metaphor in the Albemarle," I interrupted,
"I'm afraid you would be sacrificed by your friends."

He had the grace to laugh. "You know what I mean."

"And did you get to the bottom of it?"

"I think so."

"And what did you find?"

"Crass ignorance and malevolent hatred of everyone better born,
better educated, better off, better dressed, better spoken than
himself."

"Still," said I, "a human being can have those disabilities and
yet not deserve to be qualified as the most infernal swine
unhung."

"That's a different matter," said he, unbuttoning his canvas
jacket, for the morning was warm. "I can talk patiently to a fool
--to be able to do so is an elementary equipment for a life among
men and women--" Why the deuce, thought I, wasn't he expending
this precious acquirement on a platoon of agricultural recruits?
The officer who suffers such gladly has his name inscribed on the
Golden Legend (unfortunately unpublished) of the British Army--
"but when it comes," he went on, "to low-down lying knavery, then
I'm done. I don't know how to tackle it. All I can do is to get
out of the knave's way. I've found Gedge to be a beast, and I'm
very honourably in love with Gedge's daughter, and I've asked her
to marry me. I attach some value, Major, to your opinion of me,
and I want you, to know these two facts."

I again expressed my gratification at learning his honourable
intentions towards Phyllis, and I commended his discovery of
Gedge's fundamental turpitude. I cannot say that I was cordial. At
this period, the unmilitary youth of England were not
affectionately coddled by their friends. Still, I was curious to
see whether Gedge's depravity extended beyond a purely political
scope. I questioned my young visitor.

"Oh, it's nothing to do with abstract opinions," said he, thinning
away the butt-end of his cigarette. "And nothing to do with
treason, or anything of that kind. He has got hold of a horrible
story--told me all about it when he was foully drunk--that in
itself would have made me break with him, for I loathe drunken
men--and gloats over the fact that he is holding it over
somebody's head. Oh, a ghastly story!"

I bent my brows on him. "Anything to do with South Africa?"

"South Africa--? No. Why?"

The puzzled look on his face showed that I was entirely on the
wrong track. I was disappointed at the faultiness of my acumen.
You see, I argued thus: Gedge goes off on a mysterious jaunt with
Boyce. Boyce retreats precipitately to London. Gedge in his cups
tells a horrible scandal with a suggestion of blackmail to Randall
Holmes. What else could he have divulged save the Vilboek Farm
affair? My nimble wit had led me a Jack o' Lantern dance to
nowhere.

"Why South Africa?" he repeated.

I replied with Macchiavellian astuteness, so as to put him on a
false scent: "A stupid slander about illicit diamond buying in
connection with a man, now dead, who used to live here some years
ago."

"Oh, no," said Randall, with a superior smile "Nothing of that
sort."

"Well, what is it?" I asked.

He helped himself to another cigarette. "That," said he, "I can't
tell you. In the first place I gave my word of honour as to
secrecy before he told me, and, in the next, even if I hadn't
given my word, I would not be a party to such a slander by
repeating it to any living man." He bent forward and looked me
straight in the eyes. "Even to you, Major, who have been a second
father to me."

"A man," said I, "has a priceless possession that he should always
keep--his own counsel."

"I've only told you as much as I have done," said Randall,
"because I want to make clear to you my position with regard both
to Phyllis and her father."

"May I ask," said I, "what is Phyllis's attitude towards her
father?" I knew well enough from Betty; but I wanted to see how
much Randall knew about it.

"She is so much out of sympathy with his opinions that she has
gone to live at the hospital."

"Perhaps she thinks you share those opinions, and for that reason
won't marry you?"

"That may have something to do with it, although I have done my
best to convince her that I hold diametrically opposite views, But
you can't expect a woman to reason."

"The unexpected sometimes happens," I remarked. "And then comes
catastrophe; in this case not to the woman." I cannot say that my
tone was sympathetic. I had cause for interest in his artless
tale, but it was cold and dispassionate. "Tell me," I continued,
"when did you discover the diabolical nature of the man Gedge?"

"Last night."

"And when did you ask Phyllis to marry you?"

"A week ago."

"What's going to happen now?" I asked.

"I'm hanged if I know," said he, gloomily.

I was in no mood to offer the young man any advice. The poor
little wretch at the hospital--so Betty had told me--was crying
her eyes out for him; but it was not for his soul's good that he
should know it.

"In heroic days," said I, "a hopeless lover always found a
sovereign remedy against an obdurate mistress."

He rose and buttoned up his canvas jacket.

"I know what you mean," he said. "And I didn't come to discuss it
--if you'll excuse my apparent rudeness in saying so."

"Then things are as they were between us."

"Not quite, I hope," he replied in a dignified way. "When last you
spoke to me about Phyllis Gedge, I really didn't know my own mind.
I am not a cad and the thought of--of anything wrong never entered
my head. On the other hand, marriage seemed out of the question."

"I remember," said I, "you talked some blithering rot about her
being a symbol."

"I am quite willing to confess I was a fool," he admitted
gracefully. "And I merited your strictures."

His reversion to artificiality annoyed me. I'm far from being of
an angelic disposition.

"My dear boy," I cried. "Do, for God's sake, talk human English,
and not the New Oxford Dictionary."

He flushed angrily, snapped an impatient finger and thumb, and
marched away to the gravel path. I sang out sharply:

"Randall!"

He turned. I cried:

"Come here at once."

He came with sullen reluctance. Afterwards I was rather tickled at
realizing that the lame old war-dog had so much authority left. If
he had gone defiantly off, I should have felt rather a fool.

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