The Price of Things Part 35

It sounded like a knell.

Amaryllis gave a little cry.

"Denzil, it is altogether unnatural that you should have to go. To think that you must leave me, and may not even welcome your son! To think that by the law we are sinning, because I am sitting here clasped in your arms! To think that I may not have the joy of showing you the exquisite little clothes, and the pink silk cot--all the things which have given me such pleasure to arrange.... It is all too cruel! You know that eighteenth century engraving in the series of Moreau le Jeune, of the married lovers playing with the darling, teeny cap together! Well, I have it beside my bed, and every day I look at it and pretend it is you and me!"

"Darling--Darling!"--and Denzil fiercely kissed her, he was so deeply moved.

"It is all holy and beautiful, the coming to earth of a soul. It only makes me long to be good and n.o.ble and worthy of this wonderful thing.

But for us--we who love truly and purely, it has all been turned into something forbidden and wrong."

"Heart of me--I must have some news of you. I cannot starve there in the trenches, knowing that all the letters that should be mine are going to John. My mother is really trustworthy, will you let her be with you as often as you can, that she may be able to tell me how you are, precious one? When the seventh of May comes I shall go perfectly mad with suspense and anxiety. I will arrange that my mother sends me at once a telegram."

"Denzil!" and Amaryllis clung to him.

"It is an impossible situation," and he gave a great sigh. "I shall tell John that I have seen you--I cannot help it, the times are too precarious to have acted otherwise. And afterwards, when the war is over, we must face the matter and decide what is best to be done."

"_I_ cannot live without you, Denzil, and that I know."

They said good-bye at last silently, after many kisses and tears, and Denzil came out into the darkening street to his mother in the motor, with white, set face.

"I am a little troubled, dearest boy," she whispered, as they went along.

"I feel that there is something underneath all this and that Amaryllis means some great thing in your life--the whole aspect of everything fills me with discomfort. It is unlike your usual, sensitive refinement, Denzil, to have gone to see her--now--"

"I understand exactly what you mean, Mother. I should say the same thing myself in your place. I can't explain anything, only I beg of you to trust me. Amaryllis is an angel of purity and sweetness; perhaps some day you will understand."

She took his hand into her m.u.f.f and held it:

"You know I have no conventions, dearest, and my creed is to believe what you say, but I cannot account for the situation because of your only having met Amaryllis so lately for the first time. I could understand it perfectly if you had been her lover, and the child was your child, but she has not been married a whole year yet to John!"

Denzil answered nothing--he pressed his mother's hand.

She returned the pressure:

"We will talk no more about it."

"And you will go on being kind?"

"Of course."

Before they reached the hospital door in Park Lane Mrs. Ardayre had been instructed to send an immediate telegram the moment the baby was born, and to comfort and take care of Amaryllis, and tell her son every little detail as to her welfare and about the child.

"I will try not to form any opinion, Denzil; and some day perhaps things will be made plain, for it would break my heart to believe that you are a dishonourable man."

"You need not worry, Mum dearest. Indeed, I am not that. It is just a tragic story, but I cannot say more. Only take care of Amaryllis, and send me news as often as you can."

The telegram to say that Amaryllis had a little son came to John Ardayre on the night before he went into the trenches again at the second battle of Ypres on May 9th, 1915. He had been waiting in feverish impatience and expectancy all the day, and, in fact, for three days for news.

His whole inner life since that New Year's night had been strangely serene, in spite of its frightful outward turmoil and stress. He had taken the tumult of Neuve Chapelle calmly, and had come through it and all the beginning of the Ypres battle without a scratch. He had felt that he was looking upon it all from some detached standpoint, and that it in no way personally concerned him.

He had seen Denzil do the splendid thing and he had felt a distinct distress when he had seen him fall wounded.

Denzil was just back now and in the trenches again with the rest of the dismounted cavalry. They might meet in the attack at dawn.

When John read the telegram from his aunt, Lady de la Paule, his emotion was so great that he staggered a little, and a friend standing by in the billet took out his flask and gave him some brandy, thinking that he must have received bad news.

Then it seemed as though he went mad!

The repression of his life appeared to fall from him, he became as a new man. All his comrades were astonished at him, and a Scotch Corporal was heard to remark that it was "na canny--the Captain was fey."

The Ardayres were saved! The family would carry on!

Fondest love welled up in his heart for Amaryllis. If he only came through he would devote his life to showing her his grat.i.tude and showering everything upon her that her heart could desire--and perhaps--perhaps the joy of the baby would make up for the absence of Denzil. This thought stayed with him and comforted him.

Lady de la Paule had wired:

"A splendid little son born 11:45 A.M. seventh May--Amaryllis well--all love."

And an hour or two before this Denzil had also received the news from his Mother. He, too, had grown exalted and thanked G.o.d.

So the day that the Germans were to fail at Ypres, and destiny was to accomplish itself for these two men--dawned.

Of what use to write of that terrible fight and of the gas and the horror and the mud? John Ardayre seemed to bear a charmed life as he led his men "over the top." For an hour wild with exaltation and gladness, he rallied them and cheered them on. The scene of blood and carnage has been too often repeated on other fateful days, and as often well described, when acts of glorious heroism occurred again and again. John had rushed forward to succour a wounded trooper when a sh.e.l.l crashed near them, and he fell to the ground. And then he know what the great thing was the New Year had promised him. For death was going to straighten out matters--John was going beyond. Well, he had never been rebellious, and he knew now that light had come. But the sky above seemed to be darkening curiously, and the terrible noise to be growing dim, when he was conscious that a man was crawling towards him, dragging a leg, and then his eyes opened wildly for an instant, and he saw that it was Denzil all covered with blood.

"Are we both going West, Denzil?" he demanded faintly. "At least I am--"

then he gasped a little, while a stream of scarlet flowed from his shattered side.

"I've asked you in a letter to marry Amaryllis immediately--if you get home. I hope your number is not up, too, because she will be all alone.

Take care of her, Denzil, and take care of the child...." His voice grew lower and lower, and the last words came in spasms: "There is an Ardayre son, you know--so it's all right. The family is saved from Ferdinand and I am very glad to die."

Denzil tried to get out his flask, but before he could reach John's lips with it he saw that it would be of no avail--for Death had claimed the head of the Family. And above his mangled body John's face wore a look of calm serenity, and his firm lips smiled.

Then things became all vague for Denzil and he remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER XIX

It was more than two months before Denzil was well enough to be brought from Boulogne, and then he had a relapse and for the whole of July was dangerously ill. At one moment there seemed to be no hope of saving his leg, and his mother ate her heart out with anxiety.

And Amaryllis, back at Ardayre with the little Benedict, wept many tears.

John's death had deeply grieved her. She realised his steadfast kindness and affection for her. He had written her a letter just before the battle had begun--a short epistle telling her calmly that the chances would be perhaps even for any man to come out of it alive--and a.s.suring her of his greatest devotion.