X
I was six months in that hospital, and I did not see Harry for seven. For I was at Blackpool, and he at Lady Radmore's in Kensington. His was a quicker business than mine; and when I had finished with the hospitals and the homes and came to London for a three weeks' laze, he was back at the Depot. Then he got seven days' leave for some mysterious reason (I think there was a draft leaving shortly, and everybody had some leave), and I dined twice with him at home. They had a little house in Chelsea, very tastefully furnished by Mrs. Penrose, whom I now saw for the first time. But I saw more of her that evening than I did of Harry, who was hopelessly entangled with two or three 'in-laws.' She was a dark, gentle little person, with brown, and rather sorrowful, eyes. When I first saw her I thought, 'She was never meant to be a soldier's wife,' but after we had talked a little, I added, 'But she is a good one.' She was clearly very much in love with Harry, and delighted to meet some one who had been with him in France, and was fond of him—for, like all wives, she soon discovered that. But all the time I felt that there were questions she wanted to ask me, and could not. I will not pretend to tell you how she was dressed, because I don't know; I seldom notice, and then I never remember. But she appealed to me very much, and I made up my mind to look after her interests if I ever had the chance, if there was ever a question between Harry and a single man. I had no chance of a talk with Harry, and noticed only that he seemed pretty fit again but sleepless-looking.
The second night I went there was the last night of Harry's leave. If I had known that when I was asked I think I should not have gone; for while it showed I was a privileged person, it is a painful privilege to break in on the 'last evening' of husband and wife; I know those last evenings. And though Harry was only going back to the Depot in the morning, it was known there had been heavy losses in the regiment; there was talk of a draft ... it might well be the last evening of all.
I got there early, at Harry's request, about half-past five, on a miserable gusty evening in early November. Harry was sitting in a kind of study, library, or den, writing; he looked less well, and very sleepless about the eyes.
It was the anniversary of one of the great battles of the regiment; and we talked a little of that day, as soldiers will, with a sort of gloomy satisfaction. Then Harry said, slowly:
'I've been offered a job at the War Office—by Major Mackenzie—Intelligence.'
'Oh,' I said, 'that's very good.' (But I was thinking more of Mrs. Harry than Harry.)
Harry went on, as if he had not heard. 'I was writing to him when you came in. And I don't know what to say.'
'Why not?'