III
As soon as Longton was well enough to be allowed out of the hospital, I arranged one or two small parties to keep him amused till the time came for his next medical board. Sonia would not dine in public so soon after her brother's death, but we all met on one occasion at the flat, on another I took Longton to the Carlton, and on yet another Bertrand insisted on our both dining with him at the Club and spending the evening at a music-hall.
Longton enjoyed everything and was only disappointed because I sent him home to bed each night at eleven-thirty instead of going on to a night club. I cannot say that a trying day's work at the Admiralty in the middle of a war is the best or even a good preparation for appreciating the lighter relaxations of London. Frankly, I was not sorry when Longton, with a wry face, departed to the parental vicarage in Worcestershire.
It was Bertrand who seemed to derive the most lasting, if also the grimmest, satisfaction from our bout of mild dissipation.
"When the Devil was sick, the Devil a monk would be," he murmured, as we put Longton into a taxi on the last night and dispatched him to Paddington. "August to April. The war's only been going on eight months, George."
"'Only'?"
"The Devil's almost well again. I don't see him ordering his cowl and sandals."
I knew quite well what he meant, for in the first week of August we had dined together at the Eclectic Club and marvelled at the new spirit of uncomplaining frugality in unexpected quarters. By April the grumblers grumbled again and no longer attempted to live as simply as soldiers under fire.
"We were quite sorry for the Belgians," my uncle went on. "We couldn't do too much for them; they were the one topic of conversation——"
"They're still that," I said.
"Yes. Women who have not seen their husbands killed or their daughters violated can always raise a laugh by saying, 'How are your Belgian atrocities getting on? I can't get my creatures to take baths.'" Bertrand heaved a sigh. "So the great nations of the world help the weak. I'm glad they keep the streets darkened—we must have something to remind us we're at war. And of course we can't get alcohol after ten."
"Unless you know the manager personally," I said, "or call it by another name."
Bertrand linked his arm in mine and leaned on my shoulder.
"George, there are moments when I think we deserve to be beaten," he said. "Not the fellows who are fighting—they ought to win, they will win. But it would be a rough-and-ready poetic justice if they marched to Berlin to find the German Army had gone up in air-ships and was wiping out the people at home. I wouldn't mind driving about with a light to show 'em where to go. We'd clear out a few politicians first—fellows who are trying to grab Cabinet rank out of the turmoil of the war, other fellows who are using the war as an excuse for fomenting some dirty conspiracy to attack a class or push a nostrum thrice-damned in times of peace. And we'd clear out the Press. And the strike leaders. And the women who flutter about in Red Cross uniforms and high-heeled patent leather shoes seeking whom they may devour."
"I could spare the Erckmann group," I added.
"It takes more than a war to drive them out of the limelight," said my uncle. "I had supper at the Empire Hotel the other night, and they were all there—Erckmann (by the way, he calls himself Erskine now) and Mrs. Welman and that fellow Pennington et illud genus omne."
"I thought they were running a hospital near Boulogne," I said. "There was some scandal or other in connexion with it."
Bertrand nodded. "The authorities don't allow anybody to go to it now, so there's nothing for the promoters to do but come back to England. I met Mrs. Welman as I was putting on my coat, and she said, 'Isn't this war dreadful? There'll be no Season this year.' I said to her, 'Mrs. Welman, the saddest thing about this war is the number of people who haven't been killed.'"
As we turned into St. James's Park, Bertrand paused and swept his arm demonstratively round.
"Little has been left of the London I knew as a boy," he said—"or of the England, or the world, for that matter. It's all changed—except Man. I'm old, George: devilish near eighty. Half a century ago, when I was your age, I used to think we were moving slowly upwards; our laws, our sports, our whole attitude of mind, everything seemed to be becoming more humane. Bless my soul! I went to cockfights when I was a youngster! And I've seen men hanged in public outside Newgate.... When the war came I watched my ideals being blown away like cobwebs over the mouth of a gun.... I—I outgrew that phase. And though there was a reaction and I thought I saw the country sobering, hang me if I haven't outgrown that phase too! If we non-combatants can't keep the promises we made to ourselves eight short months ago ... is it only want of imagination, George?... There's but one person I see much whose life has been changed by the war—and I don't know how long it will last there. You know your friend Miss Dainton washes saucepans and cleans grates?"
"And a number of other things," I said.
"Her brother's death——"
"It began before that, Bertrand."
"I believe it did. She's got pluck, that girl. I shall be sorry to lose her."
"Is she leaving the hospital?"
He nodded.
"She's strained her heart. Nothing serious, but she's got to rest. As soon as I can get someone to take her place she's leaving me. Well, she's the one and pretty well the only one. George, I can't believe the people of this country is the rotten stuff it pretends to be!"