The Parts Men Play Part 53

III.

In a voice that shook with feeling he told of the fight for the bridge; how d.i.c.k, and Mathews, who had saved him, reached the Americans; of the desperate hand-to-hand fighting; how the groom had guarded his young master; the impending disaster; and the death of d.i.c.k.

'It meant more than just our lives,' he concluded, in a silence so acute that the crackling of the logs startled the air like pistol-shots, 'for as d.i.c.k fell we went forward and gained the brushwood. Less than three hours afterwards the French arrived, and largely by the use of that bridge a heavy counter-attack was launched.

We buried d.i.c.k where he fell--and, Lord Durwent, it is not often that men weep. The French general, to whom the tank officer had made his report, pinned this on your son's breast, and then gave it to me to have it forwarded to you. He asked me to convey his message: "That the soil of France was richer for having taken so brave a man to its heart."'

He handed a medal of the _Croix de Guerre_ to Lord Durwent, who held it for several moments in the palm of his hand. From the distant parts of the house came the noise of singing soldiers, and a gust of wind rattled the windows as it blew about the great old mansion. Elise had not moved, but through her tears an overwhelming triumph was s.h.i.+ning.

'And Mathews?' asked Lord Durwent slowly.

'We found him after the attack,' the American answered. 'He must have dragged himself several yards after he had been hit, and was lying unconscious, with his hand stretched out to touch d.i.c.k's boot. Have you heard nothing from him, sir?'

'Nothing.'

Again there was a silence fraught with such intensity that Selwyn thought the very beating of his pulses could be heard. At last Lord Durwent rose, and with an air of deepest respect placed the medal in the hands of his wife. Her theatricalism was mute in a sorrow that was free from shame.

'Captain Selwyn,' said Lord Durwent, 'we shall never forget.'

Feeling that his presence was making the situation only the more acute, Selwyn pleaded the excuse of the waiting horse to hasten his departure.

'But you will stay here for the night?' said Lady Durwent.

'No--thank you very much. I have left my haversack at the inn; and, besides, I must catch the 7.45 train to London in the morning to keep an important appointment. Good-night, Lady Durwent.'

Amidst subdued but earnest good wishes from the peer and his wife, he wished them good-bye and turned to Elise.

'Good-night,' he said, his face flaming suddenly red.

'Good-night,' she answered, taking his proffered hand.

'I shall go with you,' said Lord Durwent.

The two men walked through the corridors, which were growing quieter as the night advanced, and, with another exchange of farewells, Selwyn went out into the dark.

He was weak from the ordeal through which he had pa.s.sed, and both his mind and his body were bordering on exhaustion. He called to the sleeping driver, who in turn roused the horse from a similar condition, but just as the wheels grinding on the gravel were opposite him Selwyn heard the door open and the rustle of skirts.

'Austin!' cried Elise, running through the dark.

He almost stumbled as he went towards her, and caught her arms in his hands.

'I didn't want you to go,' she said breathlessly, 'without saying thanks. If Boy-blue had really been shot as they said, I--I'----

She did not finish the sentence, but clasping his hand, pressed it twice to her burning lips.

'Elise,' he cried brokenly--but she had freed herself and was making for the door.

No longer weary, but with every artery of his body on fire with uncontrollable love for her, he intercepted the girl. 'Elise,' he cried, 'I thought I could go from here and carry my heart-hunger with me--but now I can't. I can't do it.'

'You went away to America.' Her flas.h.i.+ng eyes held his in a burning reproach. 'You did not need me then--and you don't now.'

'But--you didn't care? You never came back to the hospital, and I wrote to you every day. Tell me, Elise, did you really care--a little?'

'Yes, I did--more than I would admit to myself. But you didn't. All you could think of was going back to America.'

'But, my dearest'--his heart was throbbing with a tumultuous joy--'if I had only known. There was so much work for me to do in America'----

'You will always have work to do. You don't need me. I shouldn't have come out to-night. Please let me go.'

'Then you don't care--now?'

'No. You have your work to do still. You said yourself that we come of different worlds'----

'Elise, my darling'--he caught her hands in his and forced her towards him--'what does that matter--what can anything matter when we need each other so much? I have nothing to offer you--not so much as when we first met--but with your help, dear heart, I'll start again. We can do so much together. Elise--I hardly know what I am saying--but you do understand, don't you? I can't live without you. Tell me that you still care a little. Tell me'----

Her hands were pressed against his coat, forcing him away from her, when, with a strange little cry, she nestled into his arms and hid her face against his breast.

For a moment he doubted that it could be true, and then a feeling of infinite tenderness swept everything else aside. It was not a time for words or hot caresses to declare his pa.s.sion. He stooped down and pressed his lips against her hair in silent reverence. She was his.

This woman against his breast, this girl whose being held the mystery and the charm of life, was his. The arms that held her to him pressed more tightly, as if jealous of the years they had been robbed of her.

'I must go in,' she whispered.

He led her to the door, her hand in his, but though he longed to take her in a pa.s.sionate embrace, he knew instinctively that her surrender was so spiritual a thing that he must accept it as the gift of an unopened spirit-flower.

'Good-night, dear.' She paused at the door, then raised her face to his.

Their lips met in the first kiss.

IV.

The following Sat.u.r.day Selwyn met Elise at Waterloo, and with her hand on his arm they walked through London's happy streets.

It was 9th November.

News had come that the Germans had entered the French lines to receive the armistice terms, and hard on that was the official report that the German Emperor had abdicated.

London--great London--whose bosom had sustained the shocks, the hopes, the cruelties of war, was bathed in a n.o.ble sunlight. For all its incongruities and jumbled architecture, it has great moments that no other city knows; and as Selwyn and Elise made their way through the crowds, there was an indefinable majesty that lay like a golden robe over the whole metropolis.

Above St. Paul's there floated s.h.i.+ning gray airs.h.i.+ps, escorted by encircling aeroplanes. Hope--dumb hope--was abroad. Not in an abandonment of ecstasy, or of garish vulgarity which was soon to follow, but in a spirit of proud sorrow, Londoners raised their eyes to the skies. Pa.s.sengers on omnibuses looked with new grat.i.tude at the plucky girls in charge who had carried on so long. People stood aside to let wounded soldiers pa.s.s, and old men touched their hats to them.

The heart of London beat in unison with the great heart of humanity.

From crowded streets, from domes and spires and open parks, there soared to heaven a mighty _Gloria--gloria in excelsis_.'

After a lunch, during which they were both shy and extraordinarily happy, they took a taxi-cab and drove to a house in Bedford Square.

Leaving Elise, Selwyn knocked at the door, and was admitted to a room where a girl in an American nurse's outdoor costume waited for him.