England to America
The following is the short story "England to
America," by Margaret Prescott Montague, with an inscription to Dave
Braman by Rev. Laine:
(in the left hand side, "Library of Edward L.
Forrest")
On the first page:
To David E.
Braman,
Dear Dave,
This classic
little story of the First War of 1917-1918, was a great favorite with Eddie. I
gave it to him in 1929, and he read it many times. You and I can appreciate the
truth, the grace and the poignancy of this narrative, since like Chev Sherwood,
Eddie passed over, fighting gallantly for his country. Little did he think as
he read it, that the years to come would call him to the same manly sacrifice.
You were his beloved friend, keep this cherished book of his, in proud
remembrance.
From, Edmund
Randolph Laine, June 21 - 1946. Stockbridge, Massachusetts.
England to America
By
Margaret Prescott Montague
with an introduction by
John Drinkwater
Doubleday, Page & Co. 1920, Garden City, N.Y.
copyright 1920 by Doubleday, Page & Co. All rights
reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the
Scandinavian.
Copyright, 1919, by the Atlantic Montly Company.
Introductory Note
The impertinence of introducing a
work of art, while it is notorious, is one to which few writers have the
courage not to commit themselves at invitation. The literary quality of Miss
Montague's story does not need any sponsor, yet it is a privilege to be the
first of my countrymen to give thanks for so charming a tribute. Considered as
an abstract proposition, I am not quite sure that Miss Montague's analysis of
English character is at all points exact, but since she is an artist she
happily makes this question of no consequence. For the test of all narrative
art seems to me, in whatever form it may be cast, is not whether a generalized
idea, drawn from the particular narrative tallies with our own conclusions. It
is, rather, whether the characters in the narrative have their own reality, and
so convince us of their own actions. If, for example, someone with his finger
on Shakespeare's play should say to me that Macbeth in such circumstances would
not have done so and so, my answer would be that in fact Macbeth did so and
there is an end of it. In its own tender and fragile setting Miss Montague's
story convinces me in this way. Whether an English family would have acted thus
is not to the point; all we know is as we read the tale that the Sherwood
family did behave just so because Miss Montague tells us this with the
persuasive authority of her art. And as an Englishman one is proud that an
American writer should conceive English character in such a way. If she
flatters us a little, we all like to be flattered and we are none the worse for
it. Here is the disinterested flattery of a friend, and every word said today
to the furtherance of friendship between America and England is one for which
the world cannot well be too grateful. Miss Montague's story is a short one,
and if it is to be approached by an introduction, this should be shorter still;
I close mine with a word of thanks for the artist's work well done, and for her
very gracious courtesy.
-- John Drinkwater.
England to America
I
"Lord, but English people are
funny!"
This was the perplexed mental
ejaculation that young Lieutenant Skipworth Cary, of Virginia, found his
thoughts constantly reiterating during his stay in Devonshire. Had he been, he
wondered, a confiding fool to accept so trustingly Chev Sherwood's suggestion
that he spend a part of his leave, at least, at Bishopscombe, where Chev's
people lived? But why should he have anticipated any difficulty here, in this
very corner of England which had bred his own ancestors, when he had always hit
it off so splendidly with his English comrades at the Front? Here, however,
though they were all awfully kind -- at least, he was sure they meant to be
kind -- something was always bringing him up short: something that he could not
lay hold of but which made him feel like a blind man groping in a strange
place, or worse, like a bull in a china shop. He was prepared enough to find
differences in the American and English points of view. But this thing that
baffled him did not seemto have to do with that' it was something deeper,
something very definite, he was sure --
and yet, what was it? The worst of it was that he had a curious feeling as if
they were all -- that is, Lady Sherwood and Gerald; not Sir Charles so much --
protecting him from himself -- keeping him from making breaks, as he phrased
it. That hurt and annoyed him, and piqued his vanity. Was he a social
blunderere, and weren't a Virginia gentleman's manners to be trusted in England
without leading-strings?
He had been at the Front for
several months with the Royal Flying Corps, and when his leave came, his Flight
Commander, Captain Cheviot Sherwood, discovering that he meant to spend it in
England where he hardly knew a soul, had said that his people down in
Devonshire would be jolly glad to have him stop with them; and Skipworth Cary,
knowing that if the circumstances had been reversed his people down in Virginia
would indeed have been jolly glad to entertain Captain Sherwood, had accepted
unhesitatingly. The invitation had been seconded by a letter from Lady Sherwood
-- Chev's mother -- and after a few days' sight-seeing in London he had come
down to Bishopscombe, very eager to know his friend's family, feeling as he did
about Chev himself. "He's the finest man that ever went up in the
air," he had written home; and to his own family's disgust, his letters
had been far more full of Chev Sherwood than they had been of Skipworth Cary.
And now here he was, and he almost
wished himself away -- wished almost that he was back again at the Front,
carrying on under Chev. There, at least, you knew what you were up against. The
job might be hard enough, but it wasn't baffling and queer, with hidden
undercurrents that you couldn't chart. It seemed to him that this baffling
feeling of constraint had rushed to meet him on the very threshold of the
drawing room, when he had made his first appearance.
As he entered, he had a sudden
sensation that they had been awaiting him in a strained expectancy, and that,
as he appeared, they adjusted unseen masks and began to play-act at something.
"But English people don't play-act very well," he commented to
himself, reviewing the scene afterward.
Lady Sherwood had come forward and
greeted him in a manner which would have been pleasant enough if he had not,
with quick sensitiveness, felt it to be forced. But perhaps that was English
stiffness.
Then she had turned to her husband,
who was standing staring into the fireplace, although, as it was June, there
was no fire there to stare at.
"Charles," she said,
"here is Lieutenant Cary"; and her voice had a certain note in it
which at home Cary and his sister Nancy were in the habit of designating
"mother-making-dad-mind-his-manners."
At her words the old man -- and
Cary was startled to see how old and broken he was -- turned round and held out
his hand. "How d'you do?" he said, jerkily; "how d'you do?"
and then turned abruptly back again to the fireplace.
"Hello! What's up! The old boy
doesn't like me!" was Cary's quick, startled comment to himself.
He was so surprised by the look the
other bent upon him that he involuntarily glanced across to a long mirror to
see if there was anything wrong with his uniform. But no, that appeared to be
all right. It was himself, then -- or his country; perhaps the old sport didn't
fall for Americans.
"And here is Gerald,"
Lady Sherwood went on in her low, remote voice, which somehow made the
Virginian feel very far away.
It was with genuine pleasure,
though with some surprise, that he turned to greet Gerald Sherwood, Chev's
younger brother, who had been, tradition in the corps said, as gallant and
daring a flyer as Chev himself, until he got his in the face five months ago.
"I'm mighty glad to meet
you," he said, eagerly, in his pleasant, muffled Southern voice, grasping
the hand the other stretched out, and looking with deep respect at the scarred
face and sightless eyes.
Gerald laughed a little, but it was
a pleasant laugh, and his hand-clasp was friendly.
"That's real American, isn't
it?" he said. "I ought to have remembered and said it first.
Sorry."
Skipworth laughed, too.
"Well," he conceded, "we generally are glad to meet people in my
country, and we don't care who says it first. But," he added, "I
didn't think I'd have the luck to find you here."
He remembered that Chev had
regretted that he probably wouldn't see Gerald, as the latter was at St.
Dunstan's, where they were reeducating the blinded soldiers.
The other hesitated a moment, and
then said, rather awkwardly, "Oh, I'm just home for a little while; I only
got here this morning, in fact."
Skipworth noted the hesitation. Did
the old people get panicky at the thought of enttertaining a wild man from
Virginia, and send an S O S for Gerald, he wondered.
"We are so glad you could come
to us," Lady Sherwood said, rather hastily, just then. And again he could
not fail to note that she was prompting her husband.
The latter reluctantly turned
round, and said, "Yes, yes, quite so. Welcome to Bishopscombe, my
boy," as if his wife had pulled a string, and he responded mechanically,
without quite knowing what he said. Then, as his eyes rested a moment on his
guest, he looked as if he would like to bolt out of the room. He controlled
himself, however, and, jerking round again to the fireplace, went on murmuring,
"Yes, yes, yes," vaguely -- just like the dormouse at the Mad
Tea-Party, who went to sleep, saying "Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle,"
Cary could not help thinking to himself.
But, after all, it wasn't really
funny, it was pathetic. Gosh, how doddering the poor old boy was! Skipworth
wondered, with a sudden twist at his heart, if the war was playing the deuce
with his home people, too. Was his own father going to pieces like this, and
had his mother's gay vivacity fallen into that still remoteness of Lady
Sherwood's? But of course not! The Carys hadn't suffered as the poor Sherwoods
had, with their youngest son, Curtin, killed early in the war, and now Gerald
knocked out so tragically. Lord, he thought, how they must all bank on Chev!
And of course they would want to hear at once about him. "I left Chev as
fit as anything, and he sent all sorts of messages," he reported, thinking
it more discreet to deliver Chev's messages thus vaguely than to repeat his
actual care-free remark, which had been, "Oh, tell 'em I'm jolly as a
tick."
But evidently there was something
wrong with the words as they were, for instantly he was aware of that curious
sense of withdrawal on their part. Hastily reviewing them, he decided that they
had sounded too familiar from a stranger and a younger man like himself. He
supposed he ought not to have spoken of Chev by his first name. Gee, what
sticklers they were! Wouldn't his family -- dad and mother and Nancy -- have
fairly lapped up any messages from him, even if they had been delivered a bit
awkwardly? However, he added, as a concession to their point of view, "But
of course you'll have had later news of Captain Sherwood."
To which, after a pause, Lady
Sherwood responded, "Oh, yes," in that remote and colourless voice
which might have meant anything or nothing.
At this point dinner was announced.
Lady Sherwood drew her husband away
from the empty fireplace, and Gerald slipped his arm through the Virginian's,
saying pleasantly, "I'm learning to carry on fairly well at St. Dunstan's,
but I confess I still like to have a pilot."
To look at the tall young fellow
beside him, whose scarred face was so reminiscent of Chev's untouched good
looks, who had known all the immense freedom of the air, but who was now
learning to carry on in the dark, moved Skipworth Cary to generous homage.
"You know my saying I'm glad
to meet you isn't just American," he said, half shyly, but warmly.
"It's plain English, and the straight truth. I've wanted to meet you
awfully. The oldsters are always holding up your glorious exploits to us
newcomers. Withers never gets tired telling about that fight of yours with the
four enemy planes. And besides," he rushed on, eagerly, "I'm glad to have
a chance to tell Chev's brother -- Captain Sherwood's brother, I mean -- what I
think of him. Only, as a matter of fact, I can't," he broke off with a
laugh, "I can't put it exactly into words, but I tell you I'd follow that
man straight into hell and out the other side -- or go there alone if he told
me to. He is the finest chap that ever flew."
And then he felt as if a cold
douche had been flung in his face, for after a moment's pause the other
returned, "That's awfully good of you," in a voice so distant and formal
that the Virginian could have kicked himself. What an ass he was to be so
darned enthusiastic with an Englishman! He supposed it was bad form to show any
pleasure over praise of a member of your family. Lord, if Chev ever got the
V.C., he reckoned it would be awful to speak of it. Still, you would have
thought Gerald might have stood for a little praise of him. But then, glancing
sideways at his companion, he surprised on his face a look so strange and
suffering that it came to him almost violently what it must be never to fly
again; to be on the threshold of life, with endless days of blackness ahead.
Good God! How cruel he had been to flaunt Chev in his face! In remorseful and
hasty reparation he stumbled on, "But the old fellows are always having
great discussions as to which was the best -- you or your brother. Withers
always maintains you were."
"Withers lies, then!" the
other retorted. "I never touched Chev -- never came within a mile of him,
and never could have."
They reached the dinner table with
that, and young Cary found himself bewildered and uncomfortable. If Gerald
hadn't liked praise of Chev, he had liked praise of himself even less, it
seemed.
Dinner was not a success. The
Virginian found that, if there was to be conversation, the burden of carrying
it on was upon him, and gosh! they don't mind silences in this man's island, do
they? he commented desperately to himself, thinking how different it was from
America. Why, there they acted as if silence was an egg that had just been
laid, and everyone had to cackle at once to cover it up. But here the talk
constantly fell to the ground, and nobody but himself seemed concerned to pick
it up. His attempt to praise Chev had not been successful, and he could
understand their not wanting to hear about flying and the war before Gerald.
So at last, in desperation, he
wandered off into descriptions of America, finding to his relief, that he had
struck the right note at last. They were glad to hear about the States, and
Lady Sherwood inquired politely if the Indians still gave them much trouble;
and when he assured her that in Virginia, except for the Pocahontas tribe, they
were all pretty well subdued, she accepted his statement with complete
innocency. And he was so delighted to find at last a subject to which they were
evidently cordial, that he was quite carried away, and wound up by inviting
them all to visit his family in Richmond as soon as the war was over.
Gerald accepted at once, with
enthusiasm; Lady Sherwood made polite murmurs, smiling at him in quite a warm
and almost, indeed, maternal manner. Even Sir Charles, who had been staring at
the food on his plate as if he did not quite know what to make of it, came to
the surface long enough to mumble, "Yes, yes, very good idea. Countries
must carry on together -- What?"
But that was the only hit of the
whole evening, and when the Virginian retired to his room, as he made an excuse
to do early, he was so confused and depressed that he fell into an acute attack
of homesickness.
Heavens, he thought, as he tumbled
into bed, just suppose, now, this was little old Richmond, Virginia, U.S.A.,
instead of being Bishopscombe, Avery Cross near Wick, and all the rest of it!
And at that, he grinned to himself, England wasn't such an all-fired big
country that you'd think they'd have to ticket themselves with addresses a yard
long for fear they'd get lost -- now, would you? Well, anyway, suppose it was
Richmond, and his train just pulling into the Byrd Street Station. He stretched
out luxuriously, and let his mind picture the whole familiar scene. The wind
was blowing right, so there was the mellow, homely smell of tobacco in the
streets, and plenty of people all along the way to hail him with outstretched
hands and shouts of "Hey, Skip Cary, when did you get back?" "Welcome home, my boy!" "Well,will you look what the cat
dragged in!" And so he came to hyis own front door-step, and walking
straight in, surprised the whole family at breakfast; and yes -- doggone it! if
it wasn't Sunday, and they having waffles! And after that his obliging fancy
bore him up Franklin Street, through Monroe Park, and so to Miss Sally
Berkeley's door. He was sound asleep before he reached it, but in his dreams,
light as a little bird, she came flying down the broad stairway to meet him,
and --
But when he waked next morning, he
did not find himself in Virginia, but in Devonshire, where, to his unbounded
embarrassment, a white housemaid was putting up his curtains and whispering
something about his bath. And though he pretended profound slumber, he was well
aware that people do not turn brick-red in their sleep. And the problem of what
was the matter with the Sherwood family was still before him.
II
"They're playing a game,"
he told himself after a few days. "That is, Lady Sherwood and Gerald are
-- poor old Sir Charles can't make much of a stab at it. The game is to make me
think they are awfully glad to have me when in reality there's something about
me, or something I do, that gets them on the raw."
He almost decided to make some
excuse and get away; but, after all, that was not easy. In English novels, he
remembered, they always had a wire calling them to London; but darn it all! the
Sherwoods knew mighty well there wasn't any one in London who cared a hoot
about him.
The thing that got his goat most,
he told himself, was that they apparently didn't like his friendship with Chev.
Anyway, they didn't seem to want him to talk about him; and whenever he tried
to express his warm appreciation for all that the older man had done for him,
he was instantly aware of a wall of reserve on their part, a holding of
themselves aloof from him. That puzzled and hurt him, and put him on his
dignity. He concluded that they thought it was cheeky of a youngster like him
to think that a man like Chev could be his friend; and if that was the way they
felt, he reckoned he'd jolly well better shut up about it.
But whatever it was that they
didn't like about him, they most certainly did want him to have a good time. He
and his pleasure appeared to be for the time being their chief consideration.
And after the first day or so he began indeed to enjoy himself extremely. For
one thing, he came to love the atmosphere of the old place and of the
surrounding country, which he and Gerald explored together. He liked to think
that ancestors of his own had been inheritors of these green lanes and pleasant
mellow stretches. Then, too, after the first few days, he could not help seeing
that they really began to like him, which of course was reassuring, and tapped
his own warm friendliness, which was always ready enough to be released. And
besides, he got by accident what he took to be a hint as to the trouble. He was
passing the half-open door of Lady Sherwood's morning room when he heard Sir
Charles's' voice break out, "Good God, Elizabeth, I don't see how you
stand it! When I see him so straight and fine-looking, and so untouched, beside
our poor lad, and think -- and think --"
Skipworth hurried out of earshot,
but now he understood that look of aversion in the old man's eyes which had so
startled him at first. Of course, the poor old boy might easily hate the sight
of him beside Gerald. With Gerald himself he really got along famously. He was
a most delightful companion, full of anecdotes and history of the countryside,
every foot of which he had apparently explored in the old days with Dhev and
the younger brother, Curtin. Yet even with Gerald, Cary sometimes felt that
aloofness and reserve, and that older protective air that they all showed him.
Take, for instance, that afternoon when they were lolling together on the grass
in the park. The Virginian, running on in his usual eager manner, had plunted
without thinking into an account of a particularly daring bit of flying on
Chev's part, when suddenly he realized that Gerald had rolled over on the grass
and buried his face in his arms, and interrupted himself, awkwardly. "But,
of course," he said, "he must have written home about it
himself."
"No, or if he did, I didn't
hear of it. Go on," Gerald said in a muffled voice.
A great rush of compassion and
remorse overwhelmed the Virginian, and he burst out penitently, "What a
brute I am! I'm always forgetting and running on about flying, when I know it
must hurt like the very devil!"
The other drew a difficult breath.
"Yes," he admitted, "what you say does hurt in a way -- in a way
you can't understand. But all the same I like to hear you. Go on about
Chev."
So Skipworth went on and finished
his account, winding up, "I don't believe there's another man in the
service who could have pulled it off -- but I tell you your brother's one in a
million."
"Good God, don't I know
it!" the other burst out. "We were all three the jolliest pals
together," he got out presently in a choked voice; "Chev and the
young un and I; and now --"
He did not finish, but Cary guessed
his meaning. Now the young un, Curtin, was dead, and Gerald himself knocked
out. But, heavens! the Virginian thought, did Gerald think Chev would go back
on him now on account of his blindness? Well, you could everlastingly bet he
wouldn't!
"Chev think the world and all
of you!" he cried in eager defence of his friend's loyalty. "Lots of
times when we're all awfully jolly together he makes some excuse and goes off
by himself; and Withers told me it was because he was so frightfully cut up
about you. Withers said he told him once that he'd a lot rather have got it
himself -- so you can everlastingly bank on him!"
Gerald gave a terrible little gasp.
"I -- I knew he'd feel like that," he got out. "We've always
cared such a lot for each other." And then he pressed his face harder than
ever into the grass, and his long body quivered all over. But not for long. In
a moment he took fierce hold on himself, muttering, "Well, one must carry
one, whatever happens," and apologized disjointedly. "What a fearful
fool you must think me! And -- and this isn't very pippy for you, old
chap." Presently, after that, he sat up, and said, brushing it all aside,
"We're facing the old moat, aren't we? There's an interesting bit of
tradition about it that I must tell you."
And there you were, Cary thought:
no matter how much Gerald might be suffering from his misfortune, he must carry
on just the same, and see that his visitor had a pleasant time. It made the
Virginian feel like an outsider and very young, as if her were not old enough
for them to show him their real feelings.
Another thing that he noticed was
that they did not seem to want him to meet people. They never took him anywhere
to call, and if visitors came to the house, they showed an almost panicky
desire to get him out of the way. That again hurt his pride. What in heaven's
name was the matter with him, anyway!
III
However, on the last afternoon of
his stay at Bishopscombe, he told himself with a rather rueful grin that his
manners must have improved a little, for they took him to tea at the rectory.
He was particularly glad to go
there because, from certain jokes of Withers's, who had known the Sherwoods
since boyhood, he gathered that Chev and the rector's daughter were engaged.
And just as he would have liked Chev to meet Sally Berkeley, so he wanted to
meet Miss Sybil Gaylord.
He had little hope of having a
tete-a-tete with her, but as it fell out he did. They were all in the rectory
garden together, Gerald and the rector a little behind Miss Gaylord and
himself, as they strolled down a long walk with high hedges bordering it. On
the other side of the hedge Lady Sherwood and her hostess still sat at the
tea-table, and then it was that Cary heard Mrs. Gaylord say distinctly:
"I'm afraid the strain has been too much for you -- you should have let us
have him."
To which Lady Sherwood returned
quickly, "Oh, no, that would have been impossible with --"
"Come -- come this way -- I
must show you the view from the arbour," Miss Gaylord broke in
breathlessly; and laying a hand on his arm, she turned him abruptly into a side
path.
Glancing down at her, the
Southerner could not but note the panic and distress in her fair face. It was
so obvious that the overheard words referred to him, and he was so bewildered
by the whole situation, that he burst out impulsively, "I say, what is
the matter with me? Why do they find me so hard to put up with? Is it something
I do -- or don't they like Americans? Honestly, I wish you'd tell me."
She stood still at that, looking at
him, her blue eyes full of distress and concern.
"Oh, I am so sorry!" she
cried. "They would be so sorry to have you think anything like that."
"But what is it?" he
persisted. "Don't they like Americans?"
"Oh, no, it isn't that -- Oh,
quite the contrary!" she returned, eagerly.
"Then it's something about me
they don't like?"
"Oh, no, no! Least of all,
that -- don't think that!" she begged.
"But what am I to think
then?"
"Don't think anything just
yet," she pleaded. "Wait a little, and you will understand."
She was so evidently distressed
that he could not press her further, and fearing she might think him
unappreciative, he said, "Well, whatever it is, it hasn't prevented me
from having a ripping good time. They've seen to that, and just done everything
for my pleasure."
She looked up quickly, and to his
relief he saw that for once he had said the right thing.
"You have enjoyed it,
then?" she questioned, eagerly.
"Most awfully," he
assured her, warmly. "I shall always remember what a happy leave they gave
me."
She gave a little sigh of
satisfaction. "I am so glad," she said. "They wanted you to have
a good time -- that was what we all wanted."
He looked at her gratefully,
thinking how sweet she was in her fair English beauty, and how good to care
that he should have enjoyed his leave. How different she was, too, from Sally
Berkeley -- why, she would have made two of his little girl! And how quiet!
Sally Berkeley, with her quick, glancing vivacity, would have been all around
her and off again like a humming-bird before she could have uttered two words.
And yet he was sure that they would have been friends, just as he and Chev
were. Perhaps they all would be, after the war. And then he began to talk about
Chev, being sure that, had the circumstances been reversed, Sally Berkeley
would have wanted news of him. Instantly he was aware of a tense listening
stillness on her part. That pleased him. Well, she did care for the old fellow
all right, he thought; and though she made no response, averting her face, and
plucking nervously at the leaves of the hedge as they passed slowly along, he
went on pouring out his eager admiration for his friend.
At last they came to a seat in an
arbour from which one looked out upon a green, beneficent landscape. It was an
intimate, secluded little spot -- and oh, if Sally Berkeley were only there to
sit beside him! And as he thought of this, it came to him whimsically that in
all probability Miss Gaylord must be longing for Chev, just as he was for
Sally.
Dropping down on the bench beside
her, he leaned over, and said with a friendly, almost brotherly, grin of
understanding, "I reckon you're wishing Captain Sherwood was sitting here
instead of Lieutenant Cary."
The minute the impulsive words were
out of his mouth he knew he had blundered, been awkward, and inexcusably
intimate. She gave a little choked gasp, and her blue eyes stared up at him,
wide and startled. Good heavens, what a break he had made! No wonder the
Sherwoods couldn't trust him in company! There seemed no apology that he could
offer in words, but at least, he thought, he would show her that he would not
have intruded on her secret without being willing to share his with her. With
awkward haste he put his hand into his breadt-pocket and dragged forth the
picture of Sally Berkeley that he always carried there.
"This is the little girl I'm
thinking about," he said, turning very red, yet boyishly determined to
make amends, and also proudly confident of Sally Berkeley's charms. "I'd
like mighty well for you two to know one another."
She took the picture in silence,
and for a long moment stared down at the soft little face, so fearless, so
confident and gay, that smiled appealingly back at her. Then she did something
astonishing, something which seemed to him wholly un-English, and yet he
thought it the sweetest thing he had ever seen. Cupping her strong hands about
the picture with a quick protectiveness, she suddenly raised it to her lips,
and kissed it lightly. "Oh, little girl!" she cried, "I hope you
will be very happy!"
The little involuntary act, so
tender, so siterly and spontaneous, touched the Virginian extremely.
"Thanks, awfully," he
said, unsteadily. "She'll think a lot of that, just as I do -- and I know
she'd wish you the same."
She made no reply to that, and as
she handed the picture back to him he saw that her hands were trembling, and he
had a sudden conviction that, if she had been Sally Berkeley, her eyes would
have been full of tears. As she was Sybil Gaylord, however, there were no tears
there, only a look that he never forgot. The look of one much older, protective,
maternal almost, and as if she were gazing back at Sally Berkeley and himself
from a long way ahead on the road of life. He supposed it was the way most
English people felt nowadays. He had surprised it so often on all their faces
that he could not help speaking of it.
"You all think we Americans
are awfully young and raw, don't you?" he questioned.
"Oh, no, not that," she
deprecated. "Young perhaps for these days, yes -- but it is more that you
-- that your country is so -- so unsuffered. And we don't want you to
suffer!" she added, quickly.
Yes, that was it! He understood
now, and, heavens, how fine it was! Old England was wounded deep -- deep. What
she suffered herself she was too proud to show; but out of it she wrought a
great maternal care for the newcomer. Yes, it was fine -- he hoped his
country would understand.
Miss Gaylord rose. "There are
Gerald and father looking for you," she said, "and I must go
now." She held out her hand. "Thank you for letting me see her
picture, and for everything you said about Captain Sherwood -- for everything,
remember -- I want you to remember."
With a light pressure of her
fingers she was gone, slipping away through the shrubbery, and he did not see
her again.
IV
So he came to his last morning at
Bishopscombe; and as he dressed, he wished it could have been different; that
he were not still conscious of that baffling wall of reserve between himself
and Chev's people, for whom, despite all, he had come to have a real affection.
In the breakfast room he found them
all assembled, and his last meal there seemed to him as constrained and
difficult as any that had preceded it. It was over finally, however, and in a
few minutes he would be leaving.
"I can never thank you enough
for the splendid time I've had here," he said as he rose. "I'll be
seeing Chev to-morrow, and I'll tell him all about everything."
Then he stopped dead. With a
smothered exclamation old Sir Charles had stumbled to his feet, knocking over
his chair, and hurried blindly out of the room; and Gerald said, "Mother!"
in a choked appeal.
As if it were a signal between
them, Lady Sherwood pushed her chair back a little from the table, her long,
delicate fingers dropped together loosely in her lap; she gave a faint sigh as
if a restraining mantle slipped from her shoulders, and looking up at the youth
before her, her fine pale face lighted with a kind of glory, she said,
"No, dear lad, no. You can never tell Chev, for he is gone."
"Gone!" he cried.
"Yes," she nodded back at
him, just above a whisper; and now her face quivered, and the tears began to
rush down her cheeks.
"Not dead!" he
cried. "Not Chev -- not that! O my God, Gerald, not that!"
"Yes," Gerald said.
"They got him two days after you left."
It was so overwhelming, so
unexpected and shocking, above all so terrible, that the friend he had so
greatly loved and admired was gone out of his life forever, that young Cary
stumbled back into his seat, and crumpling over, buried his face in his hands,
making great uncouth gasps as he strove to choke back his grief.
Gerald groped hastily around the
table and flung an arm about his shoulders.
"Steady on, dear fellow,
steady," he said, though his own voice broke.
"When did you hear?" Cary
got out at last.
"We got the official notice
just the day before you came -- and Withers has written us particulars
since."
"And you let me come in
spite of it! And stay on, when every word I said about him must have -- have
fairly crucified each one of you! Oh, forgive me! Forgive me!" he
cried, distractedly. He saw it all now; he understood at last. It was not on
Gerald's account that they could not talk of flying and of Chev, it was because
-- because their hearts were broken over Chev himself. "Oh, forgive
me!" he gasped again.
"Dear lad, there is nothing to
forgive," Lady Sherwood returned. "How could we help loving your
generous praise of our poor darling? We loved it, and you for it; we wanted to
hear it, but we were afraid. We were afraid we might break down, and that you
would find out."
The tears were still running down
her cheeks. She did not brush them away now; she seemed glad to have them there
at last.
Sinking down on his knees, he
caught her hands. "Why did you let me do such a horrible
thing?" he cried. "Couldn't you have trusted me to understand?
Couldn't you see I loved him just as you did -- No, no!" he broke
down, humbly. "Of course I couldn't love him as his own people did. But
you must have seen how I felt about him -- how I admired him, and would have
followed him anywhere -- and of course if I had known, I should have
gone away at once."
"Ah, but that was just what we
were afraid of," she said, quickly. "We were afraid you would go away
and have a lonely leave somewhere. And in these days a boy's leave is so
precious a thing that nothing must spoil it -- nothing," she
reiterated; and her tears fell upon his hands like a benediction. "But we
didn't do it very well, I'm afraid," she went on, presently, with gentle
contrition. "You were too quick and understanding: you guessed there was
something wrong. We were sorry not to mannage better," she apologized.
"Oh, you wonderful, wonderful
people!" he gasped. "Doing everything for my happiness, when all the
time -- all the time--"
His voice went out sharply, as his
mind flashed back to scene after scene: to Gerald's long body lying quivering
on the grass; to Sybil Gaylord wishing Sally Berkeley happiness out of her own
tragedy; and to the high look on Lady Sherwood's face. They seemed to him
themselves, and yet more than themselves -- shinking bits in the mosaic of a
great nation. Disjointedly there passed through his mind familiar words --
"these are they who have washed their garments -- having come out of great
tribulation." No wonder they seemed older.
"We -- we couldn't have done
it in America," he said, humbly.
He had a desperate desire to get
away to himself; to hide his face in his arms, and give vent to the tears that
were stifling him; to weep for his lost friend, and for this great,
heart-breaking heroism of theirs.
"But why did you do it?"
he persisted. "Was it because I was his friend?"
"Oh, it was much more than
that," Gerald said, quickly. "It was a matter of the two countries.
Of course, we jolly well knew you didn't belong to us, and didn't want to, but
for the life of us we couldn't help a sort of feeling that you did. And when
America was in at last, and you fellows began to come, you seemed like our very
own come back after many years, and" he added, a throb in his voice,
"we were most awfully glad to see you -- we wanted a chance to show you how
England felt."
Skipworth Cary rose to his feet.
The tears for his friend were still wet upon his lashes. Stooping, he took Lady
Sherwood's hands in his and raised them to his lips. "As long as I live I
shall never forget," he said. "And others of us have seen it, too, in
other ways -- be sure America will never forget, either."
She looked up at his untouched
youth out of her beautiful sad eyes, the exalted light still shining through
her tears. "Yes," she said, "you see it was -- I don't know
exactly how to put it -- but it was England to America."
THE END
