Missing by Mrs. Humphry Ward (sight word readers txt) 📕

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 _a 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.'