Part 36 (2/2)

”It's wonderful how like you are to your mother,” he said, ”I wish I were as young as I feel.”

She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wish to get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to help her.

”But perhaps you've changed your mind,” he said. ”It isn't quite as pretty as it's painted.”

”I want to,” she answered. ”It isn't all curiosity. I think it's time for women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust any longer to the pictures you men paint.” She smiled.

”But I've got to give it up,” she added. ”I can't leave Dad.”

They were sitting in the hall of the hotel. It was the dressing hour and the place was almost empty. He shot a swift glance at her.

”Arthur is still away,” she explained, ”and I feel that he wants me. I should be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to look after him. It's the mother instinct I suppose. It always has hampered woman.” She laughed.

”Dear old boy,” he said. He was watching her with a little smile. ”I'm glad he's got some luck at last.”

They dined in the great restaurant belonging to the hotel. He was still vastly pleased with himself as he marched up the crowded room with Joan upon his arm. He held himself upright and talked and laughed perhaps louder than an elderly gentleman should. ”Swaggering old beggar,” he must have overheard a young sub. mutter as they pa.s.sed. But he did not seem to mind it.

They lingered over the meal. Folk was a brilliant talker. Most of the men whose names were filling the newspapers had sat to him at one time or another. He made them seem quite human. Joan was surprised at the time.

”Come up to my rooms, will you?” he asked. ”There's something I want to say to you. And then I'll walk back with you.” She was staying at a small hotel off Jermyn Street.

He sat her down by the fire and went into the next room. He had a letter in his hand when he returned. Joan noticed that the envelope was written upon across the corner, but she was not near enough to distinguish the handwriting. He placed it on the mantelpiece and sat down opposite her.

”So you have come to love the dear old chap,” he said.

”I have always loved him,” Joan answered. ”It was he didn't love me, for a time, as I thought. But I know now that he does.”

He was silent for a few moments, and then he leant across and took her hands in his.

”I am going,” he said, ”where there is just the possibility of an accident: one never knows. I wanted to be sure that all was well with you.”

He was looking at the ring upon her hand.

”A soldier boy?” he asked.

”Yes,” she answered. ”If he comes back.” There was a little catch in her voice.

”I know he'll come back,” he said. ”I won't tell you why I am so sure.

Perhaps you wouldn't believe.” He was still holding her hands, looking into her eyes.

”Tell me,” he said, ”did you see your mother before she died. Did she speak to you?”

”No,” Joan answered. ”I was too late. She had died the night before. I hardly recognized her when I saw her. She looked so sweet and young.”

”She loved you very dearly,” he said. ”Better than herself. All those years of sorrow: they came to her because of that. I thought it foolish of her at the time, but now I know she was wise. I want you always to love and honour her. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't right.”

She looked at him and smiled. ”It's quite easy,” she answered. ”I always see her as she lay there with all the sorrow gone from her. She looked so beautiful and kind.”

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