Missing

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

CHAPTER VII

August came, the second August of the war. The heart of England was sad and sick, torn by the losses at Gallipoli, by the great disaster of the Russian retreat, by the shortage of munitions, by the endless small fighting on the British front, which eat away the young life of our race, week by week, and brought us no further. But the spirit of the nation was rising—and its grim task was becoming nakedly visible at last. Guns—men! Nothing else to say—nothing else to do.

George Sarratt's battalion returned to the fighting line somewhere about the middle of August. 'But we are only marking time,' he wrote to his wife. 'Nothing doing here, though the casualties go on every day. However we all know in our bones there will be plenty to do soon. As for me I am—more or less—all right again.'

Indeed, as September wore on, expectation quickened on both sides of the Channel. Nelly went in fear of she knew not what. The newspapers said little, but through Carton and the Farrells, she heard a great deal of military gossip. The shell supply was improving—the new Ministry of Munitions beginning to tell—a great blow was impending.

Weeks of rain and storm died down into an autumnal gentleness. The bracken was turning on the hills, the woods beginning to dress for the pageant of October. The sketching lessons which the usual August deluge had interrupted were to begin again, as soon as Farrell came home. He had been in France for a fortnight, at Etaples, and in Paris, studying new methods and appliances for the benefit of the hospital. But whether he was at home or no, the benefactions of Carton never ceased. Almost every other day a motor from the Hall drove up laden with fruit and flowers, with books and magazines.

The fourth week of September opened. The rumours of coming events crept more heavily and insistently than ever through a sudden spell of heat that hung over the Lakes. Nelly Sarratt slept little, and wrote every day to her George, letters of which long sections were often destroyed when written, condemned for lack of cheerfulness.

She was much touched by Farrell's constant kindness, and grateful for it; especially because it seemed to keep Bridget in a good temper. She was grateful too for the visitors whom a hint from him would send on fine afternoons to call on the ladies at Rydal—convalescent officers, to whom the drive from Carton, and tea with 'the pretty Mrs. Sarratt' were an attraction, while Nelly would hang breathless on their gossip of the war, until suddenly, perhaps, she would turn white and silent, lying back in her garden chair with the look which the men talking to her—brave, kind-hearted fellows—soon learnt to understand. Marsworth came occasionally, and Nelly grew to like him sincerely, and to be vaguely sorry for him, she hardly knew why. Cicely Farrell apparently forgot them entirely. And in August and the first part of September she too, according to Captain Marsworth's information, had been away, paying visits.

On the morning of September 26th, the Manchester papers which reached the cottage with the post contained columns of telegrams describing the British attack at Loos, and the French 'push' in Champagne. Among the letters was a short word from Sarratt, dated the 24th. 'We shall probably be in action to-morrow, dearest. I will wire as soon as I can, but you must not be anxious if there is delay. As far as I can judge it will be a big thing. You may be sure I shall take all the precautions possible. God bless you, darling. Your letters are everything.'

Nelly read the letter and the newspaper, her hands trembling as she held it. At breakfast, Bridget eyed her uncomfortably.

'He'll be all right!' she said with harsh decision. 'Don't fret.'

The day passed, with heavy heat mists over the Lake, the fells and the woods blotted out. On pretence of sketching, Nelly spent the hours on the side of Loughrigg, trying sometimes to draw or sew, but for the most part, lying with shut eyes, hidden among the bracken. Her faculty for dreaming awake—for a kind of visualisation sharper than most people possess—had been much developed since George's departure. It partly tormented, partly soothed her.

Night came without news. 'I can't hear till to-morrow night,' she thought, and lay still all night patient and sleepless, her little hands crossed on her breast. The window was wide open and she could see the stars peering over Loughrigg.

Next morning, fresh columns in the newspaper. The action was still going on. She must wait. And somehow it was easier to wait this second day; she felt more cheerful. Was there some secret voice telling her that if he were dead, she would have heard?

After lunch she set out to take some of the Carton flowers to the farmer's wife living in a fold of the fell, who had lost her only son in the July fighting. Hester Martin had guided her there one day, and some fellow-feeling had established itself rapidly between Nelly, and the sad, dignified woman, whose duties went on as usual while all that gave them zest had departed.

The distance was short, and she left exact word where she could be found. As she climbed the narrow lane leading to the farm, she presently heard a motor approaching. The walls enclosing the lane left barely room to pass. She could only scramble hurriedly up a rock which had been built into the wall, and hold on to a young tree growing from it. The motor which was large and luxurious passed slowly, and in the car she saw two young men, one pale and sickly-looking, wrapped in a great-coat though the day was stuffily warm: the other, the driver, a tall and stalwart fellow, who threw Nelly a cold, unfriendly look as they went by. Who could they be? The road only led to the farm, and when Nelly had last visited Mrs. Grayson, a week before, she and her old husband and a granddaughter of fourteen had been its only inmates.

Mrs. Grayson received her with a smile.

'Aye, aye, Mrs. Sarratt, coom in. Yo're welcome.'

But as Nelly entered the flagged kitchen, with its joints of bacon and its bunches of dried herbs, hanging from the low beamed ceiling, its wide hob grate, its dresser, table and chairs of old Westmorland oak, every article in it shining with elbow-grease,—she saw that Mrs. Grayson looked particularly tired and pale.

'Yo mun ha' passed them in t' lane?' said the farmer's wife wearily, when the flowers had been admired and put in water, and Nelly had been established in the farmer's own chair by the fire, while his wife insisted on getting an early cup of tea.

'Who were they, Mrs. Grayson?'

'Well, they're nobbut a queer soart, Mrs. Sarratt—and I'd be glad to see t' back on 'em. They're "conscientious objectors"—that's what they are—an my husband coom across them in Kendal toother day. He'd finished wi t' market, and he strolled into the room at the Town Hall, where the men were coomin' in—yo know—to sign on for the war. An' he got talkin' wi' these two lads, who were lookin' on as he was. And they said they was "conscientious objectors"—and wouldn't fight not for nothing nor nobody. But they wouldn't mind doing their bit in other ways, they said. So John he upped and said—would they coom and help him with his second crop o' hay—you know we've lost nearly all our men, Mrs. Sarratt—and they said they would—and that very evening he brought 'em along. And who do you think they are?'

Nelly could not guess; and Mrs. Grayson explained that the two young men were the wealthy sons of a wealthy Liverpool tradesman and were starting a branch of their father's business in Kendal. They had each of them a motor, and apparently unlimited money. They had just begun to be useful in the hay-making—'But they wouldn't touch the stock—they wouldn't kill anything—not a rat! They wouldn't even shoo the birds from the oats! And last night one of them was took ill—and I must go and sit up with him, while his brother fetched the big car from Kendal to take him home. And there was he, groaning,—nobbut a bit of colic, Mrs. Sarratt, that anybody might have!—and there I sat—thinking of our lads in the trenches—thinking of my boy—that never grumbled at anything—and would ha' been just ashamed to make such a fuss for such a little. And this afternoon the brother's taken him away to be molly-coddled at home. And, of course, they've left us, just when they might ha' been o' soom real service. There's three fields still liggin oot in t' wet—and nobody to lend a hand wi' them. But I doan't want them back! I doan't hold wi' foak like that. I doan't want to see a mon like that settin' where my boy used to set, when he came home. It goes agin me. I can't soomhow put up wi' it.'

And as she sat there opposite Nelly, her gnarled and work-stained hands resting on her knees, the tears suddenly ran over her cheeks. But she quickly apologised for herself. 'The truth is I am run doon, Mrs. Sarratt. I've done nothing but cook and cook—since these young men coom along. They wouldn't eat noa flesh—soa I must always be cookin' summat—vegetables—or fish—or sweet things. I'm fair tired oot!'

Nelly exclaimed indignantly.

'Was it their religion made them behave like that?'

'Religion!' Mrs. Grayson laughed. 'Well, they was only the yan Sunday here—but they took no account o't, whativer. They went motorin' all day; an niver set foot in church or chapel. They belong to soom Society or other—I couldna tell what. But we'll not talk o' them ony more, Mrs. Sarratt, if yo please. I'm just thankful they're gone … An have ye heard this day of Mr. Sarratt?'

The gentle ageing face bent forward tenderly. Nelly lifted her own dark-rimmed eyes to it Her mouth quivered.

'No, not yet, Mrs. Grayson. But I shall soon. You'll have seen about this fighting in the newspapers? There's been a great battle—I think he'll have been in it. I shall hear to-night. I shall be sure to hear to-night.'

'The Lord protect him!' said Mrs. Grayson softly. They both sat silent, looking into the fire. Through the open door, the hens could be heard pecking and clucking in the yard, and the rushing of a beck swollen by the rain, on the fell-side. Presently the farmer's wife looked up—

'It's devil's work, is war!' she said, her eyes blazing. Nelly held out her hand and Mrs. Grayson put hers into it. The two women looked at each other,—the one who had lost, and the other who feared to lose.

'Yes, it's awful,' said Nelly, in a low voice. 'They want us to be brave—but—'

Mrs. Grayson shook her head again.

'We can do it when they're settin' there—afore us,' she said, 'but not when we're by our lone.'

Nelly nodded.

'It's the nights that are worst—' she murmured, under her breath—'because it's then they're fighting—when we're in bed—sleeping.'

'My boy was killed between one and two in the morning '—whispered Mrs. Grayson. 'I heard from one of his friends this morning. He says it was a lovely night, and the daylight just comin' up. I think of it when I'm layin' awake and hearing the birds beginning.'

There was silence again, till Mrs. Grayson said, suddenly, with a strange passion:—

'But I'd rather be Jim's mother, and be settin' here without him, than
I'd be the mother o'yan of them young fellows as is just gone!'

'Yes,' said Nelly slowly—'yes. If we think too much about keeping them safe—just for ourselves—If; they despise—they would despise us. And if anyone hangs back, we despise them. It' a horrible puzzle.'

'We can pray for them,' said Mrs. Grayson simply. 'God can keep them safe if it's His will.'

'Yes '—said Nelly again. But her tone was flat and hesitating. Her ever-present fear was very little comforted by prayer. But she found comfort in Mrs. Grayson. She liked to stay on in the old kitchen, watching Mrs. Grayson's household ways, making friends with the stolid tabby cat, or listening to stories of Jim as a child. Sometimes she would read parts of George's letters to this new friend. Bridget never cared to hear them; and she was more completely at ease with the farmer's wife even than with Hester Martin.

But she could not linger this afternoon. Her news might come any time. And Sir William had telephoned that morning to say that he and his sister would call on their way from Windermere, and would ask for a cup of tea. Marsworth would probably meet them at Rydal.

As she descended the lane, she scolded herself for ingratitude. She was glad the Farrells were coming, because they would bring newspapers, and perhaps information besides, of the kind that does not get into newspapers. But otherwise—why had she so little pleasure now in the prospect of a visit from Sir William Farrell? He had never forced himself upon them. Neither his visits nor his lessons had been oppressively frequent, while the kindnesses which he had showered upon them, from a distance, had been unceasing. She could hardly have explained her disinclination. Was it that his company had grown so stimulating and interesting to her, that it made her think too much of other things than the war?—and so it seemed to separate her from George? Her own quiet occupations—the needlework and knitting that she did for a neighbouring war workroom, the gathering and drying of the sphagnum moss, the visiting of a few convalescent soldiers, a daily portion of Wordsworth, and some books about him—these things were within her compass George knew all about them, for she chronicled them in her letters day by day. She had a happy peaceful sense of communion with him while she was busy with them. But Farrell's restless mind and wide culture at once tired and fascinated her. He would often bring a volume of Shelley, or Pater, or Hardy, or some quite modern poet, in his pocket, and propose to read to her and Bridget, when the sketching was done. And as he read, he would digress into talk, the careless audacity of which would sometimes distress or repel, and sometimes absorb her; till suddenly, perhaps, she realised how far she was wandering from that common ground where she and George had moved together, and would try and find her way back to it. She was always learning some new thing; and she hated to learn, unless George changed and learnt with her.

* * * * *

Meanwhile Captain Marsworth was walking along the road from Grasmere to Rydal with a rather listless step. As a soldier he was by no means satisfied with the news of the week. We ought to have been in Lille and weren't. It seemed to him that was about what the Loos action came to; and his spirits were low. In addition he was in one of those fits of depression which attack an able man who has temporarily come to a stand-still in life, when his physical state is not buoyant enough to enable him to fight them off. He was beginning plainly to see that his own part in the war was done. His shattered arm, together with the neuralgic condition which had followed on the wound, were not going to mend sufficiently within any reasonable time to let him return to the fighting line, where, at the moment of his wound, he was doing divisional staff work, and was in the way of early promotion. He was a man of clear and vigorous mind, inclined always to take a pessimistic view of himself and his surroundings, and very critical also of persons in authority; a scientific soldier, besides, indulging a strong natural contempt for the politicians and all their crew, only surpassed by a similar scorn of newspapers and the press. He had never been popular as a subaltern, but since he had conquered his place among the 'brains' of the army, his fame had spread, and it was freely prophesied that his rise would be rapid. So that his growing conviction that his active military career was over had been the recent cause in him of much bitterness of soul. It was a bitter realisation, and a recent one. He had been wounded at Neuve Chapelle in March, and up to July he had been confident of complete and rapid recovery.

Well, there was of course some compensation. A post in the War Office—in the Intelligence Department—would, he understood, be offered him; and by October he meant to be at work. Meanwhile an old school and college friendship between himself and 'Bill Farrell,' together with the special facilities at Carton for the treatment of neuralgia after wounds, had made him an inmate for several months of the special wing devoted to such cases in the splendid hospital; though lately by way of a change of surroundings, he had been lodging with the old Rector of the village of Carton, whose house was kept—and well kept—by a sweet-looking and practical granddaughter, herself an orphan.

Marsworth had connections in high quarters, and possessed some considerable means. He had been a frequenter of the Farrells since the days when the old aunt was still in command, and Cicely was a young thing going to her first dances. He and she had sparred and quarrelled as boy and girl. Now that, after a long interval, they had again been thrown into close contact, they sparred and quarrelled still. He was a man of high and rather stern ideals, which had perhaps been intensified—made a little grimmer and fiercer than before—by the strain of the war; and the selfish frivolity of certain persons and classes in face of the national ordeal was not the least atoned for in his eyes by the heroism of others. The endless dress advertisements in the daily papers affected him as they might have affected the prophet Ezekiel, had the daughters of Judah added the purchase of fur coats, priced from twenty guineas to two hundred to their other enormities. He had always in his mind the agonies of the war, the sights of the trenches, the holocaust of young life, the drain on the national resources, the burden on the national future. So that the Farrell motor-cars and men servants, the costly simplicity of the 'cottage,' Cicely's extravagance in dress, her absurd and expensive uniform, her make-up and her jewels, were so many daily provocations to a man thus sombrely possessed.

And yet—he had not been able so far to tear himself away from Carton! And he knew many things about Cicely Farrell that Nelly Sarratt had not discovered; things that alternately softened and enraged him; things that kept him now, as for some years past, provokingly, irrationally interested in her. He had once proposed to her, and she had refused him. That was known to a good many people. But what their relations were now was a mystery to the friends on both sides.

Whatever they were, however, on this September afternoon Marsworth was coming rapidly to the conclusion that he had better put an end to them. His latent feelings of resentment and irritation had been much sharpened of late by certain passages of arms between himself and Cicely—since she returned from her visits—with regard to that perfectly gentle and inoffensive little maiden, Miss Daisy Stewart, the Rector's granddaughter. Miss Farrell had several times been unpardonably rude to the poor child in his presence, and, as it seemed to him, with the express object of showing him how little she cared to keep on friendly terms with him.

Nevertheless—he found himself puzzling over certain other incidents in his recent ken, of a different character. The hospital at Carton was mainly for privates, with a certain amount of accommodation for officers. He had done his best during the summer to be useful to some poor fellows, especially of his own regiment, on the Tommies' side. And he had lately come across some perplexing signs of a special thoughtfulness on Miss Farrell's part for these particular men. He had discovered also that she had taken pains to keep these small kindnesses of hers from his knowledge.

'I wasn't to tell you, sir,'—said the boy who had lost an eye—'not whatever. But when you come along with them things'—a set of draughts and a book—'why it do seem as though I be gettin' more than my share!'

Well, she had always been incomprehensible—and he was weary of the attempt to read her. But he wanted a home—he wanted to marry. He began to think again—in leisurely fashion—of the Rector's granddaughter.

Was that Mrs. Sarratt descending the side-lane? The sight of her recalled his thoughts instantly to the war, and to a letter he had received that morning from a brother officer just arrived in London on medical leave—the letter of a 'grouser' if ever there was one.

'They say that this week is to see another big push—the French probably in Champagne, and we south of Bethune. I know nothing first-hand, but I do know that it can only end in a few kilometres of ground, huge casualties,—and, as you were! We are not ready—we can't be ready for months. On the other hand we must keep moving—if only to kill a few Germans, and keep our own people at home in heart. I passed some of the Lanchesters on my way down—going up, as fresh as paint after three weeks' rest—what's left of them. They're sure to be in it.'

The little figure in the mauve cotton had paused at the entrance to the lane, perceiving him.

What about Sarratt? Had she heard? He hurried on to meet her, and put his question.

'There can't be any telegram yet,' she said, her pale cheeks flushing.
'But it will come to-night. Shall we go back quickly?'

They walked on rapidly. He soon found she did not want to talk of the news, and he was driven back on the weather.

'What a blessing to see the sun again I this west country damp demoralises me.'

'I think I like it!'

He laughed.

'Do you only "say that to annoy "?'

'No, I do like it! I like to see the rain shutting out everything, so that one can't make any plans—or go anywhere.' She smiled, but he was well aware of the fever in her look. He had not seen it there since the weeks immediately following Sarratt's departure. His heart warmed to the frail creature, tremulous as a leaf in the wind, yet making a show of courage. He had often asked himself whether he would wish to be loved as Mrs. Sarratt evidently loved her husband; whether he could possibly meet such a claim upon his own sensibility. But to-day he thought he could meet it; to-day he thought it would be agreeable.

Nelly had not told Marsworth however that one reason for which she liked the rain was that it had temporarily put an end to the sketching lessons. Nor could she have added that this new distaste in her, as compared with the happy stir of fresh or quickened perception, which had been the result of his early teaching, was connected, not only with Sir William—but with Bridget—her sister Bridget.

But the truth was that something in Bridget's manner, very soon after the Carton visit, had begun to perplex and worry the younger sister. Why was Bridget always insisting on the lessons?—always ready to scold Nelly if one was missed—and always practising airs and graces with Sir William that she wasted on no one else? Why was she so frequently away on the days when Sir William was expected? Nelly had only just begun to notice it, and to fall back instinctively on Miss Martin's company whenever it could be had. She hated her own vague annoyance with Bridget's behaviour, just because she could not pour herself out to George about it. It was really too silly and stupid to talk about. She supposed—she dreaded—that Bridget might be going to ask Sir William some favour; that she meant to make use of his kindness to her sister in order to work upon him. How horrible that would be!—how it would spoil everything! Nelly began sometimes to dream of moving, of going to Borrowdale, or to the coast at Scascale. And then, partly her natural indolence, and partly her clinging to every rock and field in this beautiful place where she had been so happy, intervened; and she let things slide.

Yet when Sir William and Cicely arrived, to find Bridget making tea, and Nelly listening with a little frown of effort, while Marsworth, pencil in hand, was drawing diagrams à la Belloc, to explain to her the Russian retreat from Galicia, how impossible not to feel cheered by Farrell's talk and company! The great bon enfant, towering in the little room, and positively lighting it up by the red-gold of his-hair and beard, so easily entertained, so overflowing with kind intentions, so fastidious intellectually, and so indulgent morally:—as soon as he appeared he filled the scene.

'No fresh news, dear Mrs. Sarratt, nothing whatever,' he said at once, meeting her hungry eyes. 'And you?'

She shook her head.

'Don't worry. You'll get it soon. I've sent the motor back to Windermere for the evening papers.'

Meanwhile Marsworth found himself reduced to watching Cicely, and presently he found himself more angry and disgusted than he had ever yet been. How could she? How dared she? On this day of all days, to be snobbishly playing the great lady in Mrs. Sarratt's small sitting-room! Whenever that was Cicely's mood she lisped; and as often as Marsworth, who was sitting far away from her, talking to Bridget Cookson, caught her voice, it seemed to him that she was lisping—affectedly—monstrously. She was describing for instance a certain ducal household in which she had just been spending the week-end, and Marsworth heard her say—

'Well at last, poor Evelyn' ('poor Evelyn' seemed to be a youthful Duchess, conducting a war economy campaign through the villages of her husband's estate), 'began to get threatening letters. She found out afterwards they came from a nurse-maid she had sent away. "Madam, don't you talk to us, but look at 'ome! examine your own nursewy, Madam, and hold your tongue!" She did examine, and I found her cwying. "Oh, Cicely, isn't it awful, I've just discovered that Nurse has been spending seven pounds a week on Baby's wibbons!" So she's given up war economy!'

'Why not the "wibbons?"' said Hester Martin, who had just come in and heard the tale.

'Because nobody gives up what they weally want to have,' said Cicely promptly, with a more affected voice and accent than before.

Bridget pricked up her ears and nodded triumphantly towards Nelly.

'Don't talk nonsense, Cicely,' said Farrell. 'Why, the Duchess has planted the whole rose-garden with potatoes, and sold all her Pekinese.'

'Only because she was tired of the Pekinese, and has so many flowers she doesn't know what to do with them! On the other hand the Duke wants parlour-maids; and whenever he says so, Evelyn draws all the blinds down and goes to bed. And that annoys him so much that he gives in! Don't you talk, Willy. The Duchess always gets wound you!'

'I don't care twopence about her,' said Farrell, rather savagely. 'What does she matter?' Then he moved towards Nelly, whose absent look and drooping attitude he had been observing for some minutes.

'Shan't we go down to the Lake, Mrs. Sarratt? It seems really a fine evening at last, and there won't be so many more. Let me carry some shawls. Marsworth, lend a hand.'

Soon they were all scattered along the edge of the Lake. Hester Martin had relieved Marsworth of Bridget; Farrell had found a dry rock, and spread a shawl upon it for Nelly's benefit. Marsworth and Cicely had no choice but to pair; and she, with a grey hat and plume half a yard high, preposterously short skirts, and high-heeled boots buttoned to the knee, condescended to stroll beside him, watching his grave embarrassed look with an air of detachment as dramatically complete as she could make it.

* * * * *

'You look awfully tired!' said Farrell to his companion, eyeing her with most sincere concern. 'I wonder what you've been doing to yourself.'

'I'm all right,' she said with emphasis. 'Indeed I'm all right. You said you'd sent for the papers?'

'The motor will wait for them at Windermere. But I don't think there'll be much more to hear. I'm afraid we've shot our bolt.'

She clasped her hands listlessly on her knee, and said nothing.

'Are you quite sure Sarratt has been in it?' he asked her.

'Oh, yes, I'm sure.'

There was a dull conviction in her voice. She began to pluck at the grass beside her, while her dark contracted eyes swept the Lake in front of her—seeing nothing.

'Good God!'—thought Farrell—'Are they all—all the women—suffering like this?'

'You'll get a telegram from him to-morrow, I'm certain you will!' he said, with eager kindness. 'Try and look forward to it. You know the good chances are five to one.'

'Not for a lieutenant,' she said, under her breath. 'They have to lead their men. They can't think of their own lives.'

There was silence a little. Then Farrell said—floundering, 'He'd want you to bear up!'

'I am bearing up!' she said quickly, a little resentfully.

'Yes, indeed you are!' He touched her arm a moment caressingly, as though in apology. It was natural to his emotional temperament to express itself so—through physical gesture. But Nelly disliked the touch.

'I only meant'—Farrell continued, anxiously—'that he would beg you not to anticipate trouble—not to go to meet it.'

She summoned smiles, altering her position a little, and drawing a wrap round her. The delicate arm was no longer within his reach.

And restlessly she began to talk of other things—the conscientious objectors of the morning—Zeppelins—a recruiting meeting at Ambleside. Farrell had the impression of a wounded creature that could not bear to be touched; and it was something new to his prevailing sense of power in life, to be made to realise that he could do nothing. His sympathy seemed to alienate her; and he felt much distressed and rebuffed.

* * * * *

Meanwhile as the clouds cleared away from the September afternoon, Marsworth and Cicely were strolling along the Lake, and sparring as usual.

He had communicated to her his intention of leaving Carton within a week or so, and trying some fresh treatment in London.

'You're tired of us?' she enquired, her head very much in air.

'Not at all. But I think I might do a bit of work.'

'The doctors don't think so.'

'Ah, well—when a man's got to my stage, he must make experiments on his own. It won't be France—I know that. But there's lots else.'

'You'll break down in a week!' she said with energy. 'I had a talk about you with Seaton yesterday.'

He looked at her with amusement. For the moment, she was no longer Cicely Farrell, extravagantly dressed, but the shrewd hospital worker, who although she would accept no responsibility that fettered her goings and comings beyond a certain point, was yet, as he well knew, invaluable, as a force in the background, to both the nursing and medical staff of Carton.

'Well, what did Seaton say?'

'That you would have another bad relapse, if you attempted yet to go to work.'

'I shall risk it.'

'That's so like you. You never take anyone's advice.'

'On the contrary, I am the meekest and most docile of men.' She shrugged her shoulders.

'You were docile, I suppose, when Seaton begged you not to go off to the Rectory, and give yourself all that extra walking backwards and forwards to the hospital every day?'

'I wanted a change of scene. I like the old Rector—I even like family prayers.'

'I am sure everything—and everybody—is perfect at the Rectory!'

'No—not perfect—but peaceable.'

He looked at her smiling. His grey eyes, under their strong black brows, challenged her. She perceived in them a whole swarm of unspoken charges. Her own colour rose.

'So peace is what you want?'

'Peace—and a little sympathy.'

'And we give you neither?'

He hesitated.

'Willy never fails one.'

'So it's my crimes that are driving you away? It's all to be laid on my shoulders?'

He laughed—uncertainly.

'Don't you believe me when I say I want to do some work?'

'Not much. So I have offended you?'

His look changed, became grave—touched with compunction.

'Miss Farrell, I oughtn't to have been talking like this. You and Willy have been awfully good to me.'

'And then you call me "Miss Farrell"!' she cried, passionately—'when you know very well that you've called me Cicely for years.'

'Hush!' said Marsworth suddenly, 'what was that?'

He turned back towards Rydal. On the shore path, midway between them and the little bay at the eastern end of the lake, where Farrell and Nelly Sarratt had been sitting, were Hester Martin and Bridget. They too had turned round, arrested in their walk. Beyond them, at the edge of the water, Farrell could be seen beckoning. And a little way behind him on the slope stood a boy with a bicycle.

'He is calling us,' said Marsworth, and began to run.

Hester Martin was already running—Bridget too.

But Hester and Marsworth outstripped the rest. Farrell came to meet them.

'Hester, for God's sake, get her sister!'

'What is it?' gasped Hester. 'Is he killed?'

'No—"Wounded and missing!" Poor, poor child!'

'Where is she?'

'She's sitting there—dazed—with the telegram. She's hardly said anything since it came.'

Hester ran on. There on a green edge of the bank sat Nelly staring at a fluttering piece of paper.

Hester sank beside her, and put her arms round her.

'Dear Mrs. Sarratt!'

'What does it mean?' said Nelly turning her white face. 'Read it.'

'"Deeply regret to inform you your husband reported wounded and missing!"'

'Missing? That means—a prisoner. George is a prisoner—and wounded! Can't I go to him?'

She looked piteously at Hester. Bridget had come up and was standing near.

'If he's a prisoner, he's in a German hospital. Dear Mrs. Sarratt, you'll soon hear of him!'

Nelly stood up. Her young beauty of an hour before seemed to have dropped from her like the petals of a rose. She put her hand to her forehead.

'But I shan't see him—again'—she said slowly—'till the end of the war—the end of the war'—she repeated, pressing her hands on her eyes. The note of utter desolation brought the tears to Hester's cheeks. But before she could say anything, Nelly had turned sharply to her sister.

'Bridget, I must go up to-night!'

'Must you?' said Bridget reluctantly. 'I don't see what you can do.'

'I can go to the War Office—and to that place where they make enquiries for you. Of course, I must go to London!—and I must stay there. There might be news of him any time.'

Bridget and Hester looked at each other. The same thought was in their minds. But Nelly, restored to momentary calmness by her own suggestion, went quickly to Farrell, who with his sister and Marsworth was standing a little way off.

'I must go to London to-night, Sir William. Could you order something for me?'

'I'll take you to Windermere, Mrs. Sarratt,' said Cicely before her brother could reply. 'The motor's there now.'

'No, no, Cicely, I'll take Mrs. Sarratt,' said Farrell impatiently.
'I'll send back a car from Ambleside, for you and Marsworth.'

'You forget Sir George Whitehead,' said Cicely quietly. 'I'll do everything.'

Sir George Whitehead of the A.M.S.C. was expected at Carton that evening on a visit of inspection to the hospital. Farrell, as Commandant, could not possibly be absent. He acknowledged the fact by a gesture of annoyance. Cicely immediately took things in charge.

A whirl of packing and departure followed. By the time she and her charges left for Windermere, Cicely's hat and high heels had been entirely blotted out by a quite extraordinary display on her part of both thoughtfulness and efficiency. Marsworth had seen the same transformation before, but never so markedly. He tried several times to make his peace with her; but she held aloof, giving him once or twice an odd look out of her long almond-shaped eyes.

'Good-bye, and good luck!' said Farrell to Nelly, through the car window; and as she held out her hand, he stooped and kissed it with a gulp in his throat. Her deathly pallor and a grey veil thrown back and tied under her small chin gave her a ghostly loveliness which stamped itself on his recollection.

'I am going up to town myself to-morrow. I shall come and see if I can do anything for you.'

'Thank you,' said Nelly mechanically. 'Oh yes, I shall have thought of many things by then. Good-bye.'

Marsworth and Farrell were left to watch the disappearance of the car along the moonlit road.

'Poor little soul!' said Farrell—'poor little soul!' He walked on along the road, his eyes on the ground. Marsworth offered him a cigar, and they smoked in silence.

'What'll the next message be?' said Farrell, after a little while.
'"Reported wounded and missing—now reported killed"? Most probable!'

Marsworth assented sadly.