Mufti Page 10

  “I wonder,” said Vane slowly… “I wonder.”

  “No, you don’t,” she cried. “You don’t wonder… You know I’m right… If you loved such a life you’d just do it… And you’d succeed. The people who fail are the people who do things from a sense of duty.”

  “What a very dangerous doctrine,” smiled Vane.

  “Perhaps it is,” she answered. “Perhaps in my own way I’m groping too; perhaps,” and she laughed a little apologetically, “I’ve fitted my religion to my life. At any rate it’s better than fitting other peoples’ lives to one’s religion. But it seems to me that God,” she hesitated, as if at a loss for words to express herself – “that God – and one’s surroundings – make one what one is… And unless one is very certain that either God or the surroundings are wrong, it’s asking for trouble to go off one’s own beaten track… I suppose you think I’m talking out of my turn.” She turned and faced him with a slight smile.

  “On the contrary,” answered Vane, “you have interested me immensely. But you’ve dodged the one vital question – for me, at any rate. What is the beaten track? Just at present I can’t find it?

  “You’ll not find it any easier by looking for it too hard,” she said thoughtfully. “I’m certain of that… It’ll come in a flash to you, when you least expect it, and you’ll see it as clear as daylight.”

  For a while they sat in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Then the girl laughed musically.

  “To think of me,” she gurgled, “holding forth like this… Why, I’ve never done such a thing before that I can remember.” Then of a sudden she became serious. The big grey eyes looked steadily, almost curiously, at the face of the man beside her. “I wonder why,” she whispered almost below her breath. “You’ve been most poisonously rude to me, and yet…and yet here am I talking to you as I’ve never talked to any other man in my life.”

  Vane stared at the pool for a few moments before he answered. He was becoming uncomfortably aware that grey eyes with a certain type of chin were attractive – very attractive. But his tone was light when he spoke.

  “A quarrel is always a sound foundation.” He looked up at her with a smile, but her eyes still held that half speculative look…

  “I wonder what you would have thought of me,” she continued after a moment, “if you’d met me before the war…”

  “Why, that children of fifteen should be in bed by ten,” he mocked.

  “Yes, but supposing I was what I am now, and you were what you were then – and you weren’t filled with all these ideas about duty and futures and things…”

  “You would have added another scalp to the collection, I expect,” said Vane dryly.

  They both laughed, then she bent slightly towards him. “Will you forgive me for what I said about – about that woman you were going to see?”

  “Why – sure,” answered Vane. “I guess you owed me one.”

  Joan laughed. “We’ll wash the first lesson out. Except, of course, for that one thing you said. I mean about – the other… I’d just hate to forget that there’s a wedding coming off, and do anything that would make it awkward for me to be asked to the church…”

  “You little devil, Joan,” said Vane softly, “you little devil.”

  She laughed lightly and sprang to her feet. “I must be going,” she said. “At least three Colonials are waiting for my ministrations.” She stood looking down at him… “Are you going to walk back with me, or to resume your study of rodents?”

  Vane slipped the book in his pocket. “I’m afraid,” he remarked, “that I should not be able to bring that undivided attention to bear on the subject which is so essential for my education. Besides – perhaps you’ll have a few minutes to spare after you have dealt with the Colonials…” He parted the branches for her.

  “My dear man,” she retorted, “You’ve had far more than your fair official share already…” She scrambled on to the path and Vane fell into step beside her. “And don’t forget that you’ve only just been forgiven…”

  “Which makes it all the more essential for me to have continual evidence of the fact,” retorted Vane.

  “It strikes me,” she looked at him suddenly, “that you’re not quite as serious as you make out. You’ve got all the makings of a very pretty frivoller in you anyway.”

  “I bow to your superior judgment,” said Vane gravely. “But I’ve been commissioned to – er – go and find myself, so to speak, by one who must be obeyed. And in the intervals between periods of cold asceticism when I deal with the highbrows, and other periods when I tackle subjects of national importance first hand, I feel that I shall want relaxation…”

  “And so you think you’d like me to fill the role of comic relief,” she said sweetly. “Thanks a thousand times for the charming compliment.”

  “It doesn’t sound very flattering put that way, I must admit,” conceded Vane with a grin. “And yet the pleasures of life fill a very important part. I want to find myself in them too...”

  “I’m glad to see traces of comparative sanity returning,” she said, as they turned into the Lodge Gates. “Do you think it’s safe to trust yourself to such an abandoned character as I am? What would She who must be obeyed say?”

  She looked at him mockingly, and involuntarily Vane frowned slightly. At the moment he felt singularly unwilling to be reminded of Margaret. And he was far too old a stager not to realise that he was heading directly for waters which, though they ran amongst charming scenery, contained quite a number of hidden rocks.

  She saw the sudden frown, and laughed very gently. “Poor young man,” she murmured; “poor serious young man. Dare you risk it?”

  Then Vane laughed too. They had come to the lawn, and her three Colonial patients were approaching. “Put that way,” he said, “I feel that it is my bounden duty to take a prolonged course of those pleasures.”

  “Splendid,” she cried, and her eyes were dancing merrily. “Come over and lunch tomorrow. You can have Father and Aunt Jane first. You’ll like Aunt Jane, she’s as deaf as a post and very bloodthirsty – and then you can begin the course afterwards. One o’clock, and it’s about half an hour’s walk…”

  With a nod she turned and left him. And if those of her friends who knew Joan Devereux well had seen the look in her eyes as she turned to her three Canadians, they would have hazarded a guess that there was trouble brewing. They would further have hazarded a second guess as to the form it was likely to take. And both guesses would have been right. A young man, remarked Joan to herself, who would be all the better for a fall; a young man who seemed very much too sure of himself. Joan Devereux was quite capable of dealing with such cases as they deserved, and she was a young woman of much experience.

  Chapter 8

  It was the following morning that Vane received a second letter from Margaret. He had written her once – a letter in which he had made no allusion to their last meeting – and she had answered it. Cases were still pouring in and she was very busy. When she did have a moment to herself she was generally so tired that she lay down and went to sleep. It was the letter of a girl obsessed with her work to the exclusion of all outside things.

  Of course he admired her for it – admired her intensely. It was so characteristic of her, and she had such a wonderful character. But – somehow…he had wished for something a little more basely material. And so with this second one. He read it through once at breakfast, and then, with a thoughtful look in his eyes, he took it with him to a chair on the big verandah which ran along the whole of the front of Rumfold Hall. The awning above it had been specially erected for the benefit of the patients and Vane pulled one of the lounge chairs back from the stone balustrade, so that his face was shaded from the sun. It was a favourite spot of his, and now, with Margaret’s letter outspread beside him, and his pipe held between his knees, he commenced
to fill the bowl. He was becoming fairly quick at the operation, but long after it was well alight he was still staring at the misty line of distant hills. Away, out there, beyond, the thing called war was in full swing – the game was at its height. And the letter beside him had taken him back in spirit… After a while he picked it up again and commenced to reread the firm, clear handwriting…

  No. 24, Stationary Hospital

  Monday

  Derek, Dear,

  I’ve been moved as you see from No. 13. I’m with the men now, and though I hated going at first – yet, now, I think I almost prefer it. With the officers there must always be a little constraint – at least, I have never been able to get rid of the feeling. Perhaps with more experience it would vanish – je ne sais pas…but with the men it’s never there. They’re just children, Derek, just dear helpless kiddies; and so wonderfully grateful for any little thing one does. Never a whimper; never the slightest impatience… they’re just wonderful. One expects it from the officers; but somehow it strikes one with a feeling almost of surprise when one meets it in the men. There’s one of them, a boy of eighteen, with both his legs blown off above the knee. He just lies there silently, trying to understand. He never worries or frets – but there’s a look in his eyes – a puzzled, questioning look sometimes – which asks as clearly as if he spoke – “Why has this thing happened to me?” He comes from a little Devonshire fishing village, he tells me; and until the war he’d never been away from it! Can you imagine the pitiful, chaotic, helplessness in his mind? Oh! doesn’t it all seem too insensately brutal?…It’s not even as if there was any sport in it; it’s all so utterly ugly and bestial… One feels so helpless, so bewildered, and the look in some of their eyes makes one want to scream, with the horror of it…

  But, old man, the object of this letter is not to inflict on you my ideas on war. It is in a sense a continuation, and a development, of our talk on the beach at Paris Plage. I have been thinking a good deal lately about that conversation, and now that I have almost definitely made up my mind as to what I propose to do myself after the war, I consider it only fair to let you know. I said to you then that perhaps my job might only be to help you to fulfil your own destiny, and nothing which I have decided since alters that in any way. If you still want me after the war – if we find that neither of us has made a mistake – I can still help you, Derek, I hope. But, my dear, it won’t be quite a passive help, if you understand what I mean. I’ve got to be up and doing myself – actively; to be merely any man’s echo – his complement – however much I loved him, would not be enough. I’ve come to that, you see.

  And so I’ve decided – not quite definitely as I said, but almost so – to read for Medicine. I’m a little old, perhaps, though I’m only twenty-four: but these years in France have at any rate not been wasted. The question of money does not come in luckily, and the work attracts me immensely. Somehow I feel that I might be helping to repair a tiny bit of the hideous destruction and mutilation which we’re suffering from now.

  And that’s enough about myself. I want to suggest something to you. You may laugh, old boy – but I’m in earnest. I remember your telling me once that, when you were up at the ’Varsity, you used to scribble a bit. I didn’t pay much attention; in those days one didn’t pay attention – ever. But now your words have come back to me once or twice, during the night, when I’ve been seeing dream pictures in my reading lamp and the ward has been asleep. Have you thought that possibly that is the line along which you might develop? Don’t you think it’s worth trying, Derek? And then, perhaps – this is my wildest dream, the raving of a fevered brain – the day will come when you and I can stand together and realise that each of us in our own way has made good – has done something to help on – les autres. Oh! Derek – it’s worth trying, old man – surely it’s worth trying. We’ve just got to do something that’s worth while, before we come to the end – if only to balance a little of the hideous mass of worthlessness that’s being piled up today…

  Don’t bother to answer this, as I know you find writing difficult. I hope to be getting some leave soon: we can have a talk then. How goes the arm? A toi, mon cheri.

  Margaret.

  PS – There’s rather a dear man living fairly close to Rumfold, old Sir James Devereux. His house is Blandford – a magnificent old place; almost if not quite as fine as Rumfold, and the grounds are bigger. His wife died when the son was born, and I rather think there is a daughter, but she was away at a finishing school when I knew them. Go over and call; from what I heard there’s a distinct shortage of money – at least of enough to keep the place going.

  PPS – He’s not really old – about only fifty. Say you know Daddy; they used to shoot together.

  With something like a sigh Vane laid down the last sheet, and, striking a match, relit his pipe. Then once again his eyes rested on the misty, purple hills. Margaret a successful doctor; himself literary educator of the public taste… It was so entirely different from any picture he had previously contemplated, on the rare occasions when he had thought about matrimony or the future at all, that it left him gasping. It was perfectly true that he had scribbled a certain amount in years gone by, when he was at the ’Varsity: but not seriously… An essay or two which he had been told showed distinct ability: a short story, of possible merit but questionable morality, which had been accepted on the spot by a not too particular periodical and had never been paid for – that was the extent of his scribbling. And yet – Margaret might be right… One never knows till one tries: and Vane grinned to himself as that hoary platitude floated through his mind… Then his thoughts passed to the other side of the picture. Margaret, dispensing admonition and pills, in her best professional manner, to long queues of the great unwashed. He felt certain that she would prefer that section of the community to any less odoriferous one… And she’d probably never charge anything, and, if she did, he would have to stand at the door and collect it, probably in penny stamps. Vane’s shoulders shook a little as this engaging tableau presented itself… What about the little hunting box not far from Melton, where, in the dear long ago, he had always pictured himself and his wife wintering? Provided always the mythical She had some money! There would be stabling for six nags, which, with care, meant five days a fortnight for both of them. Also a garage, and a rather jolly squash racquet court. Then a month in Switzerland, coming back towards the end of January to finish the season off. A small house of course in Town – some country house cricket: and then a bit of shooting… One needn’t always go to Switzerland either in the winter; Cairo is very pleasant, and so is Nice… It was an alluring prospect, no less now than formerly; but it meant that Margaret’s patients would have to hop around some… And they’d probably leave her if he stood at the door in a pink coat and a hunting topper collecting postage stamps. They are rather particular over appearances, are the ragged trousered and shredded skirt brigade…

  The thing was grotesque; it was out of the question, Vane told himself irritably. After all, it is possible to push altruism too far, and for Margaret, at her age and with her attractions, to go fooling around with medicine, with the mistaken idea that she was benefiting humanity, was nothing more or less than damned twaddle. If she wanted to do something why not take up her music seriously…

  And it was at this point in his deliberations that a sentence vibrated across his memory. It was so clear that it might almost have been spoken in his ear: “If you loved such a life you’d just do it… And you’d succeed.”

  Vane folded Margaret’s letter, and put it in his pocket. If she really loved the thought of such a life she would just do it… And she would succeed. As far as he was concerned there would be nothing more to say about it; she had a perfect right to decide for herself. She left him free – that he knew; he could still carry out his hunting box programme in full. Only he would have to play the part alone – or with someone else… Someone else. Abruptly he rose
from his chair, and found himself face to face with Lady Patterdale…

  “Good morning, Captain Vane,” she remarked affably. “’Ad a good night?”

  “Splendid, thank you, Lady Patterdale.”

  “Ain’t the news splendid? Marshal Foch seems to be fair making the ’Uns ’um.”

  Vane laughed. “Yes, they seem to be sitting up and taking notice, don’t they?”

  “Sir John is marking it all up in the ’All on the map, with flags,” continued the worthy old woman. “I can’t make ’ead or tail of it all myself – but my ’usband likes to ’ave everything up to date. ’E can’t form any real opinion on the strategy, he says, unless he knows where everybody is.”

  Vane preserved a discreet silence.

  “But as I tells ’im,” rambled on Lady Patterdale, “it doesn’t seem to me to be of much account where the poor fellows are. You may move a pin from ’ere to there, and feel all pleased and joyful about it – but you wouldn’t feel so ’appy if you was the pin.”

  Vane laughed outright. “You’ve got a way of putting things, Lady Patterdale, which hits the nail on the head each time.”

  “Ah! you may laugh, Captain Vane. You may think I’m a silly old woman who doesn’t know what she’s talking about. But I’ve got eyes in my ’ead; and I’m not quite a fool. I’ve seen young men go out to France laughing and cheerful; and I’ve seen ’em come back. They laugh just as much – perhaps a bit more; they seem just as cheerful – but if you love ’em as I do you come to something which wasn’t never there before. They’ve been one of the pins. Lots of us ’ave been one of the pins, Captain Vane; though we ain’t been to France you can lose other things besides your life in this world.”