XIII
In October Walter volunteered under the Derby scheme. He told me before he went out that he should not be taken.
‘I know they will not pass me,’ he said. ‘I know I am a crock’; but his voice was excited, and his eyes very bright. I knew that he hoped, in spite of what he said, that he might be taken.
All that afternoon while he was out at the Recruiting Office I sat indoors with Eleanor and tried to sew. It was a wet afternoon, and I could not face the heavy perambulator walk, pushing up hill to the Heath through the mud and rain.
I sat in the nursery with her, and she played on the floor. She had a cart on wheels that she pushed up and down, the wheels squeaked; I remembered that I had meant to oil them, but the oilcan was downstairs in the kitchen. I was too tired to go down and fetch it, and come back up all the stairs.
Eleanor made a great deal of noise; she upset chairs, and banged on the floor with bricks; she unwound reels of cotton, with which I was trying to sew; then she upset a bowl of flowers, and I had to go down to the bathroom and fetch a towel; and she screamed and screamed, though I had not scolded her at all. Her shrill, piping little voice pierced through my head like needles. I felt that I must scream or hit her, if she would not be quiet.
Then I thought:
‘How horrible that I should feel like this about my baby! I should not have believed, a year ago, that I could feel like this.’
At six o’clock, Walter came in.
I stood up and waited. I heard the front door slam, and then I heard him moving about in the hall. He opened the drawing-room door and looked in, and then I heard him coming up the stairs.
He opened the nursery door and stood still in the door way; and I stood still too, and looked at him.
There was an odd confused expression on his face that I could not make out. I did not know if he was glad or sorry; relieved or disappointed. He came in and threw a bunch of papers on the table in front of me.
‘C3!’ he said, with a laugh. ‘We need not have bothered!’ and it seemed to me as though my heart had stopped beating, and now suddenly it began with a rush.
And I said:
‘Oh, Walter, are you sorry?’
He sat down in the chair beside him, and faced me across the table.
He said:
‘Sorry? I don’t know; nobody likes to be C3, I suppose. Thank you for nothing—that is about all⸺’
I said:
‘I can’t be sorry. I can only be glad,’ and I put out both my hands to him, across the table.
‘It isn’t your fault,’ I said, ‘you have done your best. I think I may be glad.’
His eyes were fixed on the table, and he did not answer me; then he pulled his hands away, and buried his face.
‘I am not sorry either,’ he said huskily, ‘that is what is so awful. I thought I wanted to go. I thought I wanted to prove, to myself and every one else, that I could fight, and be a fine fellow. I made myself believe it, but it wasn’t true. I know now that I was afraid all the time!’
I went round beside him and kneeled on the floor and I leaned my cheek against his arm. I felt as though he were a child, as though he were much younger than me, and weaker, as I used sometimes to feel with Hugo, when we were children.
I said:
‘Dearest, does that matter? Isn’t every one afraid? It is the people who are afraid and go, that are the bravest; and you tried to go.’
He said:
‘Yes; but I haven’t gone. I don’t suppose now that I shall.’
Eleanor pushed herself against his knees.
She called:
‘Dadda, Dadda,’ and beat him with her brick.
At last he noticed her and picked her up on to his knee.
‘Well, Baby,’ he said, ‘are you glad that Dadda is not going to the War?’
‘Dadda dee-ar,’ Eleanor repeated; she laughed and grabbed at his glasses.
Walter put her down again and she began to scream.
Walter put his hands to his head and stood up.
‘Do make her be quiet, Helen,’ he said. ‘I can’t stand the noise.’
I tried to quiet Eleanor, but she went on crying. Walter made for the door, distractedly, and went out.
When at last I had pacified Eleanor, I sat down again in my chair and tried to think; but I could not. It seemed to me then, that I was too tired even to realize my own relief. I felt numb and stupid.
Then Eleanor stumbled over a footstool, and fell, and again she began to scream. I looked at the clock on the chimney-piece; it was bedtime, past bedtime. I picked Eleanor up, but she was angry; she kicked me, and went quite stiff. I struggled with her and carried her off to bed.