Sir Jacques came quickly forward. "Come, come!" he said sharply, and taking her by the arm he shook her violently. "This won't do at all——" he gave a warning look at the other man. "Of course Miss Rose will do exactly what she wishes to do! She's quite right in saying that she's as good as married to him already, Sir John. And it's our business—yours, hers, and mine—to think of Jervis, and of Jervis only just now. But she won't be able to do that if she allows herself to be upset!"

"I'm so sorry—please forgive me!" Rose, to her own measureless relief, had stopped laughing, but she felt oddly faint and queer. Sir Jacques poured out a very small wineglassful of brandy, and made her drink it. How odd to have a bottle of brandy here, in Mr. Robey's study! Mr. Robey was a teetotaller.

"Would you like me to go up to Jervis now?" asked Sir John slowly.

Sir Jacques looked into the speaker's face. It was generally a clear, healthy tan colour; now it had gone quite grey. "No," he said. "Not now. If you will forgive me for making a suggestion, I should advise that you and Miss Rose take Lady Blake out somewhere for an hour's walk. There's nothing like open air and a high road for calming the nerves."

"I would rather not see my wife just now," muttered Sir John frowning.

But Sir Jacques answered sternly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to do so; and once you've got her out of doors for an hour, I'll give her a sleeping draught. She'll be all right to-morrow morning. I don't want any tears round my patient."

It was Rose Otway who led Sir John Blake by the hand down the passage. The dreadful sounds coming from Mrs. Robey's sitting-room had died down a little, but they still pierced one listener's heart.

"Do be kind to her," whispered the girl. "Think what she must be going through. She was so happy about him this morning——"

"Yes, yes! You're quite right," he said hastily. "I've been a brute—I know that. I promise you to do my best. And Rose?"

"Yes," she said.

"What that man said is right—quite right. What we've got to do now is to start the boy on the right way—nothing else matters."

She nodded.

"You and I can do it."

"Yes, I know we can—and will," said Rose; and then she opened the door of Mrs. Robey's sitting-room.

At the sight of her husband, Lady Blake's sobs died down in long, convulsive sighs.

"Come, my dear," he said, in rather cold, measured tones. "This will not do. You must try for our boy's sake to pull yourself together. After all, it might have been much worse. He might have been killed."

"I would much rather he had been killed," she exclaimed vehemently. "Oh, John, you don't know, you don't understand, what this will mean to him!"

"Don't I?" he asked. He set his teeth. And then, "You're acting very wrongly!" he said sternly. "We've got to face this thing out. Remember what Sir Jacques said to you." He waited a moment, then, in a gentler, kinder tone, "Rose and I are going out for a walk, and we want you to come too."

"Oh, I don't think I could do that." She spoke uncertainly, and yet even he could see that she was startled, surprised, and yes, pleased.

"Oh, yes, you can!" Rose came forward with the poor lady's hat and black lace cloak. Very gently, but with the husband's strong arm gripping the wife's rather tightly, they between them led her out of the front door into the Close.

"I think," said Sir John mildly, "that you had better run back and get your hat, Rose."

She left them, and Sir John Blake, letting go of his wife's arm looked down into her poor blurred face for a moment. "That girl," he said hoarsely, "sets us both an example, Janey."

"That's true," she whispered, "But John?"

"Yes."

"Don't you sometimes feel dreadfully jealous of her?"

"I? God bless my soul, no!" But a very sweet smile, a smile she had not seen shed on her for many, many years, lit up his face. "We'll have to think more of one another, and less of the boy—eh, my dear?"

Lady Blake was too surprised to speak—and so, for once doing the wise thing, she remained silent.

Rose, hurrying out a moment later, saw that the open air had already done them both good.



CHAPTER XXIV

"You've got to make him believe that you wish for the marriage to take place now, for your own sake, not for his."

It was with those words, uttered by Sir Jacques Robey, still sounding in her ears, that Rose Otway walked up to the door of the room where Jervis Blake, having just seen his father, was now waiting to see her.

Sir John Blake's brief "He has taken it very well. He has a far greater sense of discipline than I had at his age," had been belied, discounted, by the speaker's own look of suffering and of revolt.

Rose waited outside the door for a few moments. She was torn with conflicting fears and emotions. A strange feeling of oppression and shyness had come over her. It had seemed so easy to say that she would be married at once, to-morrow, to Jervis. But she had not known that she would have to ask Jervis's consent. She had supposed, foolishly, that it would all be settled for her by Sir Jacques....

At last she turned the handle of the door, and walked through into the room. And then, to her unutterable relief, she saw that Jervis looked exactly as usual, except that his face, instead of being pale, as it had been the last few days, was rather flushed.

Words which had been spoken to him less than five minutes ago were also echoing in Jervis's brain, pushing everything else into the background. He had said, "I suppose you think that I ought to offer to release Rose?" and his father had answered slowly: "All I can say is that I should do so—if I were in your place."

But now, when he saw her coming towards him, looking as she always looked, save that something of the light and brightness which had always been in her dear face had faded out of it, he knew that he could say nothing of the sort. This great trouble which had come on him was her trouble as well as his, and he knew she was going to take it and to bear it, as he meant to take it and to bear it.

But Jervis Blake did make up his mind to one thing. There should be no hurrying of Rose into a hasty marriage—the kind of marriage they had planned—the marriage which was to have taken place a week before he went back to the Front. It must be his business to battle through this grim thing alone. It would be time enough to think of marriage when he was up and about again, and when he had taught himself, as much as might be possible, to hide or triumph over his infirmity.

As she came and sat down quietly by the side of his bed, on the chair which his father had just left, he put out his hand and took hers.

"I want to tell you," he said slowly, "that what my father has just told me was not altogether a surprise. I've felt rather—well, rather afraid of it, since Sir Jacques first examined me. There was something in the nurses' manner too—but of course I knew I might be wrong. I'm sorry now that I didn't tell you."

She still said nothing—only gripped his hand more and more tightly.

"And Rose? One thing father said is being such a comfort to me. Father thinks that I shall still be able to be of use—I mean in the way I should like to be, especially if the war goes on a long time. I wonder if he showed you this?" He picked up off his bed a little piece of paper and held it out to her.

Through her bitter tears she read the words: "German thoroughness"—and then a paragraph which explained how the German military authorities were using their disabled officers in the training of recruits.

"Father thinks that in time they'll do something of the sort here—not yet, perhaps, but in some months from now."

And then, as she still did not speak, he grew uneasy. "Come a little nearer," he whispered. "I feel as if you were so far away. We needn't be afraid of any one coming in. Father has promised that no one shall disturb us till you ring."

She did as he asked, and putting his uninjured arm right round her, he held her closely to him.

It was the first time since that strange home-coming of his that Jervis had felt secure against the sudden irruption into the room of some well-meaning person. Of the two it was Jervis who had been silently determined to give the talkative, sentimental nurses no excuse for even the mildest, the kindliest comment.

But now everything was merged in this great ordeal of love and grief they were battling through together—secure from the unwanted presence of others as they had not been since he had last felt her heart fluttering beneath his, in the porch of the cathedral.

"Oh, Rose," he whispered at last, "you don't know what a difference having you makes to me! If it wasn't for you, I don't know how I could face it."

For a moment she clung a little closer to him. He felt her trembling with a wave of emotion to which he had no present clue. "Oh, Jervis—dear Jervis, is that true?" she asked piteously.

"Do you doubt it?" he whispered.

"Then there's something I want you to do for me."

"You know that there isn't anything in the world you could ask me to do that I wouldn't do, Rose."

"I want you to marry me to-morrow," she said. And then, as for a moment he remained silent, she began to cry. "Oh, Jervis, do say yes—unless you very, very much want to say no!"

* * * * *

During the next forty-eight hours Sir Jacques Robey settled what was to be done, when it should be done, and how it was to be done.

Of the people concerned, it was perhaps Lady Blake who seemed the most under his influence. She submitted without a word to his accompanying her into her son's bedroom, and it was in response to his insistent command—for it was no less—that instead of alluding to the tragic thing which filled all her thoughts, she only spoke of the morrow's wedding, and of her happiness in the daughter her son was giving her.

It was Sir Jacques, too, who persuaded Mrs. Otway to agree that an immediate marriage was the best of all possible solutions for Rose as well as for Jervis; and it was he, also, who suggested that Sir John Blake should go over to the Deanery and make all the necessary arrangements with Dr. Haworth. But perhaps the most striking example of Sir Jacques's good sense and thoroughness occurred after Sir John had been to the Deanery.

Dr. Haworth had fallen in with every suggestion with the most eager, ready sympathy; and Sir John, who before coming to Witanbury had regarded him as a pacifist and pro-German, had come really to like and respect him. So it was that now, as he came back from the Deanery, and up to the gate of the Trellis House, he was in a softer, more yielding mood than usual.

Sir Jacques hurried out to meet him. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes—everything's settled. But it's your responsibility, not mine!"

"I've been wondering, Sir John, whether the Dean reminded you that we shall require a wedding ring?"

"No, he did not." Sir John Blake looked rather taken aback. "I wonder what I'd better do?" he muttered helplessly.

"You and Lady Blake had better go into the town and buy one," said Sir Jacques. "I don't feel that we can put that job on poor little Rose. She's had quite enough to do as it is—and gallantly she's done it!"

And as Sir John began to look cross and undecided, the other said with a touch of sharpness, "Of course if you'd rather not do it, I'll buy the ring myself. But I've been neglecting my work this morning."

Ashamed of his ungraciousness, as the other had meant him to be, Sir John said hastily, "Of course I'll get it! I was only wondering whether I hadn't better go alone."

"Lady Blake would be of great use in choosing it, and for the matter of that, in trying it on. If you wait here a moment I'll go and fetch her. She's got her hat on, I know."

So it happened that, in three or four minutes, just long enough for Sir John to begin to feel impatient, Jervis's mother came out of the Trellis House. She was smiling up into the great surgeon's face, and her husband told himself that it was an extraordinary thing how this wedding had turned their minds—all their minds—away from Jervis's coming ordeal.

"I wonder if Rose would like a broad or narrow wedding ring?" said Lady Blake thoughtfully. "I'm afraid there won't be very much choice in a place like Witanbury."

Sir Jacques looked after the couple for a few moments, then he turned and went into the Trellis House, and so into the drawing-room.

"Bachelors," he said meditatively, "sometimes have a way of playing the very mischief between married couples—eh, Mrs. Otway? So it's only fair that now and again a bachelor should do something towards bringing a couple together again."

She looked at him, surprised. What odd—and yes, rather improper things—Sir Jacques sometimes said! But—but he was a very kind man. Mrs. Otway was a simple woman, though she would have felt a good deal nettled had anyone told her so.

"I rather wonder," she said impulsively, "why you never married. You seem to approve of marriage, Sir Jacques?" She was looking into his face with an eager, kindly look.

"If you look at me long enough," he said slowly, "I think you'll be able to answer that question for yourself. The women I wanted—there were three of them——" and then, as he saw that she again looked slightly shocked, he added, "Not altogether, but consecutively, you understand—well, not one of them would have me! The women who might have put up with me—well, I didn't seem to want them! But I should like to say one thing to you, Mrs. Otway. This particular affair in which you and I are interested does seem to me, if you'll allow me to say so, 'a marriage of true minds——'" He stopped abruptly, and to her great surprise left the room without finishing his sentence.

* * * * *

Such trifling, and at the time such seemingly unimportant, little happenings are often those which long afterwards leap out from the past, bringing with them poignant memories of joy, of sorrow, of pain, and of happiness.

Rose Blake will always remember that it was her poor old German nurse, Anna Bauer, who, on her wedding day, made her wear a white dress and a veil. She had meant to be married, in so far as she had given any thought to the matter at all, in her ordinary blue serge skirt and a clean blouse.

Those about her might be able to forget, for a few merciful hours, what lay before Jervis; but she, Rose Otway, could not forget it. She knew that she was marrying him now, not in order that she might be even closer to him than she felt herself to be—that seemed to her impossible—but in order that others might think so. She would have preferred the ceremony to take place only in the presence of his parents and of her mother. But as to that she had been given no say; Sir Jacques and Mr. and Mrs. Robey had announced as a matter of course that they would be present, and so she had assented to her mother's suggestion that Miss Forsyth should be asked. If Mr. and Mrs. Robey and Sir Jacques were to be there, then she did not mind Miss Forsyth, her kind old friend, being there too.

Anna had protested with tearful vehemence against the blue serge skirt and the pretty blouse—nay, more, she had already taken the white gown she intended that her beloved nursling should wear, out of the bag which she, Anna, had made for it last year. It was a very charming frock, a fine exquisitely embroidered India muslin, the only really beautiful day-dress Rose had ever had in her young life. And oddly enough it had been a present from Miss Forsyth.

Miss Forsyth—it was nearly eighteen months ago—had invited Rose to come up to London with her for a day's shopping, and then she had suddenly presented her young friend with this attractive, and yes, expensive gown. There had been a blue sash, but this had now been taken off by Anna, and a bluey-white satin band substituted. As to that Rose now rebelled. "If I am to wear this dress to-day, I should like the blue sash put back," she said quickly. "Blue is supposed to bring luck to brides, Anna."

What had really turned the scale in Rose's mind had been Anna's tears, and the fact that Miss Forsyth would be pleased to see her married in that gown.

But over the lace veil there had been something like a tug of war. And this time it was Mrs. Otway who had won the day. "If you wear that muslin dress, then I cannot see why you should not wear your grandmother's wedding veil," she had exclaimed—and again Rose had given in.

Poor old Anna! It was a day of days for her—far more a day of days than had been the marriage of her own daughter. Yet Louisa Bauer's wedding had been a great festival. And the old woman remembered what pains Mrs. Otway had taken to make that marriage of five years ago, as far as was possible in such a very English place as Witanbury, a German bridal. In those days they had none of them guessed what an unsatisfactory fellow George Pollit was going to turn out; and Louisa had gone to her new home with quite a German trousseau—that is, with what would have appeared to English eyes stacks of under-clothing, each article beautifully embroidered with a monogram and lavishly trimmed with fine crochet; each set tied up with a washing band or Waschebander, a strip of canvas elaborately embroidered in cross-stitch.

It seemed strangely sad and unnatural that Anna's gracious young lady should have no trousseau at all! But that doubtless would come afterwards, and she, Anna, felt sure that she would be allowed to have a hand in choosing it. This thought was full of consolation, as was also her secret supposition that the future trousseau would be paid for by the bridegroom.

There was certainly cause for satisfaction in that thought, for Anna had become conscious of late that her dear mistress felt anxious about money. Prices were going up, but thanks to her, Anna's, zealous care, the housekeeping bills at the Trellis House were still kept wonderfully low. It was unfortunate that Mrs. Otway, being the kind of gracious lady she was, scarcely gave Anna sufficient credit for this. It was not that she was ungrateful, it was simply that she did not think anything about it—she only remembered that she was short of money when the household books were there, open in front of her.



CHAPTER XXV

And now the small group of men and women who were to be present at the marriage of Rose Otway and Jervis Blake were gathered together in Mrs. Robey's large drawing-room. Seven people in all, for the Dean had not yet arrived.

In addition to the master and mistress of the hospitable house in which they now all found themselves, there were there Sir John and Lady Blake; Miss Forsyth—who, alone of the company, had dressed herself with a certain old-fashioned magnificence; Sir Jacques, who had just come into the room after taking Rose and her mother up to Jervis's room; and lastly good old Anna Bauer, who sat a little apart by herself, staring with a strange, rather wild look at the group of people standing before her.

To Anna's excited mind, they did not look like a wedding party; they looked, with the exception of Miss Forsyth, who wore a light grey silk dress trimmed with white lace, like people waiting to start for a funeral.

No one spoke, with the exception of Lady Blake, who occasionally addressed a nervous question, in an undertone, to Mrs. Robey.

At last there came the sound of the front door opening and shutting. Mr. Robey went out, rather hurriedly, and his wife exclaimed, "I think that must be the Dean. My husband is taking him upstairs——" And then she waited a moment, and glanced anxiously at her brother-in-law, Sir Jacques. It was strange how even she, who had never particularly liked Sir Jacques, looked to him for guidance to-day.

In answer to that look he moved forward a little, and made a queer little sound, as if clearing his throat. Then, very deliberately, he addressed the people before him.

"Before we go upstairs," he began, "I want to say something to you all. I cannot help noticing that you all look very sad. Now of course I don't ask you to try and look gay during the coming half-hour, but I do earnestly beg of you to try and feel happy. Above all—" and he looked directly at Lady Blake as he spoke—"above all," he repeated, "I must beg of you very earnestly indeed to allow yourselves no show of emotion. We not only hope, but we confidently expect, that our young friends are beginning to-day what will be an exceptionally happy, and—and——" he waited for a moment, then apparently found the word he wanted—"an exceptionally harmonious married life. I base that view of what we all believe, not on any exaggerated notion of what life generally brings to the average married couple, but on the knowledge we possess of both these young people's characters. Nothing can take away from Jervis Blake his splendid past, and we may reasonably believe that he is going to have with this sweet, brave young woman, who loves him so well, a contented future."

Again Sir Jacques paused, and then not less earnestly he continued: "I want Jervis Blake to look back on to-day as on a happy and hallowed day. If anyone here feels that they will not be able to command themselves, then I beg him or her most strongly to stay away."

He turned and opened the door behind him, and as he did so, his sister-in-law heard him mutter to himself: "Of course at the great majority of weddings if the people present knew what was going to come afterwards, they would do nothing but cry. But this is not that sort of wedding, thank God!"

Sir Jacques and old Anna came last up the staircase leading to Jervis Blake's room. He and the old German woman were on very friendly terms. Before the War Sir Jacques had been in constant correspondence with two eminent German surgeons, and as a young man he had spent a year of study in Vienna. He now addressed a few cheerful, heartening remarks in German to Rose's old nurse, winding up rather peremptorily with the words: "There must be no tears. There is here only matter for rejoicing." And Anna, in a submissive whisper, had answered, "Ja! Ja!"

And then, as she walked last into the room, Anna uttered a guttural expression of delighted surprise, for it was as if every hothouse flower in Witanbury had been gathered to do honour to the white-clad, veiled figure who now stood, with downcast eyes, by the bridegroom's bedside.

The flowers were Mr. Robey's gift. He had gone out quite early that morning and had pressed all those of his acquaintances who had greenhouses, as well as the flower shops in Witanbury, under contribution; and the delicate, bright colouring with which the room was now filled gave a festive, welcoming air to this bridal chamber.

Rose looked up, and as her eyes met the loving, agitated glance of her nurse, she felt a sudden thrill of warm gratitude to good old Anna, for Jervis had whispered, "How lovely you look, darling! Somehow I thought you would wear an everyday dress—but this is much, much nicer!"

Those present followed the order of the marriage service with very varying emotions, and never had the Dean delivered the familiar, awesome words with more feeling and more grace of diction.

But the only two people in that room whose breasts were stirred to really happy memories were Mr. and Mrs. Robey. They, standing together a little in the background, almost unconsciously clasped each other's hands.

Across the mind of Sir John Blake there flashed a vivid memory of his own wedding day. The marriage had been celebrated in the cantonment church of an up-country station, where, after a long, wearying engagement, and a good deal of what he had even then called "shilly-shallying," his betrothed had come out from England to marry him. He remembered, in a queer jumble of retrospective gratitude and impatience, how certain of the wives of his brother officers had decorated the little plain church; and the mingled scents of the flowers now massed about him recalled that of the orange blossoms and the tuberoses at his own wedding.

But real as that long-vanished scene still was to Jervis's father, what he now remembered best of all the emotions which had filled his heart as he had stood waiting at the chancel steps for his pretty, nervous bride were the good resolutions he had made—made and so soon broken....

As for Sir Jacques, he had never been to a wedding since he had been last forced to do so as a boy by his determined mother. The refusal of all marriage invitations was an eccentricity which friends and patients easily pardoned to the successful and popular surgeon, and so the present ceremony had the curious interest of complete novelty. He had meant to read over the service to see what part he himself had to play, but the morning had slipped away and he had not had time.

Jervis, in answer to perhaps the most solemn and awful question ever put to man, had just answered fervently "I will," and Rose's response had also been uttered very clearly, when suddenly someone gave Sir Jacques a little prod, and the Dean, with the words, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?" made him a quiet sign.

Sir Jacques came forward, and in answer, said "I do," in a loud tone. And then he saw the Dean take Jervis's right hand and place it in Rose's left, and utter the solemn words with which even he was acquainted.

"I, Jervis, take thee, Rose, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

A series of tremendous promises to make and to keep! But for the moment cynicism had fallen away from Sir Jacques's heart, and somehow he felt sure that, at any rate in this case, those tremendous promises would be kept.

He had been afraid that the Dean would make an address, or at the least would say a few words that would reduce some of the tiny congregation to tears. But Dr. Haworth was too wise for that, and perhaps he knew that nothing he could say could improve on the Beati omnes.

And it was then, towards the close of that wedding ceremony, that Sir Jacques suddenly made up his mind what should be the words graven inside what he intended should be his wedding gift to Rose Blake—that gift was a fine old-fashioned ruby ring, the only one of his mother's jewels he possessed, and the words he then chose in his own mind were those of the Psalmist, "O well is thee, and happy shalt thou be."



CHAPTER XXVI

"DEAR MRS. OTWAY,

"I am so very glad to be able to send you the enclosed. Of course I have not read it. In fact I do not know German. But I gather that it contains news of Major Guthrie, and that it is written with a kindly intention. It was probably intended to arrive for Christmas.

"Yours very truly,

"ANNABEL GAUNT.

"P.S.—Any letters you write in answer must be left open."

The envelope enclosed by Mrs. Gaunt, which bore the Censor's stamp, had come from Switzerland, and had been forwarded by favour of the Geneva Red Cross.

With an indescribable feeling of suspense, of longing, and of relief, Mrs. Otway drew out the sheet of paper. It was closely covered with the cramped German characters with which she was, of course, familiar.

"MINDEN,

"15 December, 1914.

"DEAR MADAM,

"As Medical Superintendent of the Field Lazarette at Minden, I write on behalf of a British prisoner of war, Major Guthrie, who has now been under my care for fourteen weeks.

"I wish to assure you that he has had the very highest medical skill bestowed on him since he came here. Owing to the exceptional exigencies and strain put on our Medical Service at the Front, he did not perhaps obtain the care to which he was entitled by our merciful and humane usages of war, as soon as would have been well. He received a most serious wound in the shoulder. That wound, I am pleased to tell you, is in as good a state as possible, and will leave no ill-effects.

"But I regret to tell you, Madam, that Major Guthrie has lost his eyesight. He bears this misfortune with remarkable fortitude. As a young man I myself spent a happy year in Edinburgh, and so we have agreeable subjects of conversation. He tells me you are quite familiar with my language, or I should of course have written to you in English.

"Believe me, Madam,

"To remain with the utmost respect,

"Yours faithfully,

"KARL BRECHT."

Underneath the signature of the doctor was written in hesitating, strange characters the words in English, "God bless you.—ALEXANDER GUTHRIE."

And then, under these five words, came another sentence in German:

"I may tell you for your consolation that it is extremely probable that Major Guthrie will be exchanged in the course of the next few weeks. But I have said nothing of that to him, for it will depend on the good-will of the British Government, and it is a good-will which we Germans have now learnt to distrust."

She read the letter through again. There came over her a feeling of agony such as she never imagined any human being could suffer.

During the past weeks of suspense, she had faced in her own mind many awful possibilities, but of this possibility she had not thought.

Now she remembered, with piteous vividness, the straight, kindly gaze in his bright blue eyes—eyes which had had a pleasant play of humour in them. Sight does not mean the same to all men, but she knew that it meant a very great deal to the man she loved. He had always been an out-door man, a man who cared for everything that concerned open-air life—for birds, for trees, for flowers, for shooting, fishing, and gardening.

Ever since she had known that Major Guthrie was alive and wounded, a prisoner in Germany, she had allowed her thoughts to dwell on the letters she would write to him when she received his address. She had composed so many letters in her mind—alternative letters—letters which should somehow make clear to him all that was in her heart, while yet concealing it first from the British Censors and then from his German jailers.

But now she did not give these Censors and jailers a thought. She sat down and wrote quite simply and easily the words which welled up out of her heart:

"MY DEAREST,

"To-day is New Year's Day, and I have had the great joy of receiving news of you. Also your blessing, which has already done me good. I wish you to get this letter quickly, so I will not make it long.

"I am forbidden to give you any news, so I will only say that Rose and I are well. That I love you and think of you all the time, and look forward to being always with you in God's good time."

She hesitated a moment as to how she would sign herself, and then she wrote:

"Your own

"MARY."

She looked over the letter, wondering if she could say any more, and then a sudden inspiration came to her. She added a postscript:

"I am spending the money you left with me. It is a great comfort."

This was not strictly true, but she made up her mind that it should become true before the day was out.

Far longer did she take over her letter to the German doctor—indeed, she made three drafts of it, being so pitifully anxious to say just the right thing, neither too much nor too little, which might favourably incline him to his prisoner patient.

All the time she was writing this second letter she felt as if the Censors were standing by her, frowning, picking out a sentence here, a sentence there. She would have liked to say something of the time she had spent at Weimar, but she dared not do so; perhaps if she said anything of the kind her letter might not get through.

There was nothing Mrs. Otway desired to say which the sternest Censor could have found fault with in either country, but the poor soul did not know that. Still, even so, she wrote a very charming letter of gratitude—so charming, indeed, and so admirably expressed, that when the Medical Superintendent at last received it, he said to himself, "The gracious lady writer of this letter must be partly German. No Englishwoman could have written like this!"

There was one more letter to write, but Mrs. Otway found no difficulty in expressing in few sentences her warm gratitude to her new friend at Arlington Street.

She put the three letters in a large envelope—the one for the German hospital carefully addressed according to the direction at the top of the Medical Superintendent's letter, but open as she had been told to leave it. On chance, for she was quite ignorant whether the postage should be prepaid, she put a twopenny-halfpenny stamp on the letter, and then, having done that, fastened down the big envelope and addressed it to Mrs. Gaunt, at 20, Arlington Street.

Then she took another envelope out of her drawer—that containing Major Guthrie's bank-notes. There, in with them, was still the postcard he had written to her from France, immediately after the landing of the Expeditionary Force. She looked at the clearly-written French sentence—the sentence in which the writer maybe had tried to convey something of his yearning for her. Taking the india-rubber band off the notes, she put one into her purse. She was very sorry now that she hadn't done as he had asked her—spent this money when, as had happened more than once during the last few weeks, she had been disagreeably short.

And then she went out, walking very quietly through the hall. She did not feel as if she wanted old Anna to know that she had heard from Germany. It would be hard enough to have to tell Rose the dreadful thing which, bringing such anguish to herself, could only give the girl, absorbed in her own painful ordeal, a passing pang of sympathy and regret.

* * * * *

Poor old Anna! Mrs. Otway was well aware that as the days went on Anna became less and less pleasant to live with.

Not for the first time of late, she wondered uneasily if Miss Forsyth had been right, on that August day which now seemed so very long ago. Would it not have been better, even from Anna's point of view, to have sent her back to her own country, to Berlin, to that young couple who seemed to have so high an opinion of her, and with whom she had spent so successful a holiday three years ago? At the time it had seemed unthinkable, a preposterous notion, but now—Mrs. Otway sighed—now it was only too clear that old Anna was not happy, and that she bitterly resented the very slight changes the War had made in her own position.

Anna was even more discontented and unhappy than her mistress knew. True, both Mrs. Otway and Rose had given her their usual Christmas gifts, and one of these gifts had been far more costly than ever before. But there had been no heart for the pretty Tree which, as long as Rose could remember anything, had been the outstanding feature of each twenty-fifth of December in her young life.

Yes, it had indeed been a dull and dreary Christmas for Anna! Last year she had received a number of delightful presents from Berlin. These had included a marzipan sausage, a marzipan turnip, and a wonderful toy Zeppelin made of sausage—a real sausage fitted with a real screw, a rudder, and at each end a flag.

But this autumn, as the weeks had gone by without bringing any answer to her affectionate letters, she had told herself that Minna, or if not Minna then Willi, would surely write for Christmas. And most bitterly disappointed had Anna felt when the Christmas week went by bringing no letter.

In vain Mrs. Otway told her that perhaps Willi and Minna felt, as so many Germans were said to do, such hatred of England that they did not care even to send a letter to someone living there. To Anna this seemed quite impossible. It was far more likely that the cruel English Post Office had kept back the letter because it came from Germany.

Now it was New Year's Day, and after having heard her mistress go out, Anna, sore at heart, reminded herself that were she now in service in Germany she would have already received this morning a really handsome money gift, more a right than a perquisite, from her mistress. She did not remind herself that this yearly benefaction is always demanded back by a German employer of his servant, if that servant is discharged, owing to her own fault, within a year.

Yes, England was indeed an ill-organized country! How often had she longed in the last eighteen years to possess the privilege of a wish-ticket—that delightful Wunschzettel which enables so many happy people in the Fatherland to make it quite plain what it is they really want to have given them for a birthday or a Christmas present. Strange to say—but Anna did not stop to think of that now—this wonderful bit of organisation does not always work out quite well. Evil has been known to come from a wish-ticket, for a modest person is apt to ask too little, and then is bitterly disappointed at not getting more than he asks for, while the grasping ask too much, and are angered at getting less!

It would be doing Anna a great injustice to suppose that her sad thoughts were all of herself on this mournful New Year's Day of 1915. Her sentimental heart was pierced with pain every time she looked into the face of her beloved nursling. Not that she often had an opportunity of looking into Rose's face, for Mrs. Jervis Blake (never would Anna get used to that name!) only came home to sleep. She almost always stayed and had supper with the Robeys, then she would rush home for the night, and after an early breakfast—during which, to Anna's thinking, she did not eat nearly enough—be off again to spend with her bridegroom whatever time she was not devoting to war work under Miss Forsyth.

Anna had been curious to know how soon Mr. Blake would be able to walk, but in answer to a very simple, affectionate question, the bride, who had just then been looking so happy—as radiant, indeed, as a German bride looks within a month of her marriage day—had burst into tears, and said hurriedly, "Oh, it won't be very long now, dear Anna, but I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

Yet another thing added to Anna's deep depression. It seemed to her that Alfred Head no longer enjoyed her company as he used to do. He had ordained that they must always speak English, even when alone; and to her mingled anger and surprise he had told her plainly that, in spite of his solemn assurance, he neither could nor would pay her the fifty shillings which was now owing to her in connection with that little secret matter arranged between herself and Willi three years ago.

About this question of the fifty shillings Mr. Head had behaved very strangely and rudely indeed. He had actually tried to persuade her that he knew nothing of it—that it was not he but someone else who had given her the five half-sovereigns on that evening of the 4th of August! Then when she, righteously indignant, had forced the reluctant memory upon him, he had explained that everything was now different, and that the passing of this money from him to her might involve them both in serious trouble.

Anna had never heard so flimsy an excuse. She felt sure that he was keeping her out of the money due to her because business was not quite so flourishing now as it had been.



CHAPTER XXVII

The days went on, and to Mrs. Otway's surprise and bitter disappointment, there came no answer to the letter she had written to the German surgeon. She had felt so sure that he would write again very soon—if not exactly by return, then within a week or ten days.

The only people she told were Major Guthrie's solicitor, Robert Allen, and her daughter. But though both, in their different ways, sympathised with her deeply, neither of them could do anything to help her. Rather against her will, Mr. Allen wrote and informed his client of Mrs. Guthrie's death, asking for instructions concerning certain urgent business matters. But even that letter did not draw any answer from the Field Lazarette.

As for Rose, she soon gave up asking if another letter had come, and to Mrs. Otway's sore heart it was as if the girl, increasingly absorbed in her own not always easy problem of keeping Jervis happy under the painful handicap of his present invalid condition, had no time to spare for that of anyone else. Poor Rose often felt that she would give, as runs the old saying, anything in the world to have her man to herself, as a cottage wife would have had hers by now—with no nurses, no friends, no doctor even, save perhaps for a very occasional visit.

But Mrs. Otway was not fair to Rose; in never mentioning Major Guthrie and the terrible misfortune which had befallen him, she was treating her mother as she herself would have wished to be treated in a like case.

A great trouble overshadows all little troubles. One disagreeable incident which, had life been normal with her then, would have much irritated and annoyed the mistress of the Trellis House, was the arrival of a curt notice stating that her telephone was to be disconnected, owing to the fact that there resided in her house an enemy alien in the person of one Anna Bauer.

Now the telephone had never been as necessary to Mrs. Otway as it was to many of her acquaintances, but lately, since her life had become so lonely, she had fallen into the way of talking over it each morning with Miss Forsyth.

Miss Forsyth, whom the people of Witanbury thought so absurdly old-fashioned, had been one of the very first telephone subscribers in Witanbury. But she had sternly set her face against its frivolous and extravagant use. This being so, it was a little strange that she so willingly spent five minutes or more of her morning work-time in talking over it to Mrs. Otway. But Miss Forsyth had become aware that all was not well with her friend, and this seemed the only way she was able to help in a trouble or state of mental distress to which she had no clue—though sometimes a suspicion which touched on the fringe of the truth came into her mind.

During these morning talks they would sometimes discuss the War. Mrs. Otway never spoke of the War to anyone else, for even now she could not bring herself to share the growing horror and, yes, contempt, all those about her felt for Germany. Miss Forsyth was an intelligent woman, and, as her friend knew, had sources of information denied to the amateur strategists and gossips of Witanbury Close. So it was that the forced discontinuance of the little morning talk, which so often brought comfort to Mrs. Otway's sore heart, was a real pain and loss.

She had made a spirited protest, pointing out that all her neighbours had the telephone, and that by merely asking any of them to allow her servant to send a message, she could circumvent this, to her, absurd and unnecessary rule. But her protest had only brought a formal acknowledgment, and that very day her telephone had been disconnected.

She would have been astonished, even now, had she known with what ever-swelling suspicion some of her neighbours and acquaintances regarded her.

The great rolling uplands round the city were now covered with vast camps, and Witanbury every day was full of soldiers; there was not a family in the Close, and scarce a family in the town, but had more than one near and dear son, husband, brother, lover, in the New Armies, if not yet—as in very many cases—already out at the Front.

In spite of what was still described as Rose Otway's "romantic marriage," Mrs. Otway was regarded as having no connection with the Army, and her old affection for Germany and the Germans was resented, as also the outstanding fact that she still retained in her service an enemy alien.

And, as is almost always the case, there was some ground for this feeling, for it was true that the mistress of the Trellis House took very little interest in the course of the great struggle which was going on in France and in Flanders. She glanced over the paper each morning, and often a name seen in the casualty lists brought her the painful task of writing a letter of condolence to some old friend or acquaintance. But she did not care, as did all the people around her, to talk about the War. It had brought to her, personally, too much hidden pain. How surprised her critics would have been had an angel, or some equally credible witness informed them that of all the women of their acquaintance there was no one whose life had been more altered or affected by the War than Mary Otway's!

She was too unhappy to care much what those about her thought of her. Even so, it did hurt her when she came, slowly, to realise that the Robeys and Mrs. Haworth, who were after all the most intimate of her neighbours in the Close, regarded with surprise, and yes, indignation, what they imagined to be an unpatriotic disinclination on her part to follow intelligently the march of events.

It took her longer to find out that the continued presence of her good old Anna at the Trellis House was rousing a certain amount of disagreeable comment. At first no one had thought it in the least strange that Anna stayed on with her, but now, occasionally, someone said a word indicative of surprise that there should be a German woman living in Witanbury Close.

But what were these foolish, ignorant criticisms but tiny pin-pricks compared with the hidden wound in her heart? The news for which she craved was not news of victory from the Front, but news that at last the negotiations now in progress for the exchange of disabled prisoners of war had been successful. That news, however, seemed as if it would never come.

In one thing Mrs. Otway was fortunate. There was plenty of hard work to do that winter in Witanbury, and, in spite of her supposed lack of interest in the War, Mrs. Otway had a wonderful way with soldiers' wives and mothers, so much so that in time all the more difficult cases were handed over to her.

* * * * *

"This is to warn you that you are being watched. A friend of England is keeping an eye on you, not ostentatiously, but none the less very closely. Dismiss the German woman who has already been too long in your employment. England can take no risks."

Mrs. Otway had come home, after a long afternoon of visiting, and found this anonymous letter waiting for her. On the envelope her name and address were inscribed in large capitals.

She stared down at the dictatorial message—written of course in a disguised hand—with mingled disgust and amusement. Then, suddenly, she made up her mind to show it to Miss Forsyth before burning it.

Tired though she was, she left the house again, and slowly walked round to see her old friend.

Miss Forsyth smiled over it, but she also frowned, and she frowned more than she smiled when Mrs. Otway exclaimed, "Did you ever see such an extraordinary thing?"

"It is not so extraordinary as you think, Mary! I must honestly tell you that in my opinion the writer of this anonymous letter is right in believing that there is a good deal of spying and of conveying valuable information to the enemy."

She waited a moment, and then went on, deliberately: "I suppose you are quite sure of your old Anna, my dear? Used she not to be in very close touch with Berlin? Has she broken all that off since the War began?"

"Indeed she has!" cried Mrs. Otway eagerly. She was surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. Was it conceivable that Miss Forsyth must be numbered henceforth among the spy maniacs of whom she knew there were a good many in Witanbury? "She made every kind of effort early in the War—for the matter of that I did what I could to help her—to get into touch with her relations there, for she was very anxious and miserable about them. But she failed—absolutely failed!"

"And how about her German friends in England? I suppose she has German friends?"

"To the best of my belief, she hasn't a single German acquaintance!" exclaimed Anna's mistress confidently. "She used to know those unfortunate Froehlings rather well, but, as I daresay you know, they left Witanbury quite early in the War—in fact during the first week of war. And she certainly hasn't heard from them. I asked her if she had, some time ago. Dear Miss Forsyth, do believe me when I say that, apart from her very German appearance, and her funny way of talking, my poor old Anna is to all intents and purposes an Englishwoman. Why, she has lived in England twenty-two years!"

There came a very curious, dubious, hesitating expression on Miss Forsyth's face. "I daresay that what you say is true," she said at last. "But even so, if I were you, Mary, I should show her that letter. She may be in touch with some of her own people—I mean in all innocence. It would be very disagreeable for you if such turned out to be the case. I happen to know that Witanbury is believed to be—well, what shall I call it?—a spy centre for this part of England. I don't know that it's so much the city, as the neighbourhood. You see, we're not so very far away from one of the beaches which it is thought the Germans, if they did try a landing, would choose as a good place."

Mrs. Otway's extreme astonishment showed in her face.

"You know I never gossip, Mary, so you may take what I say as being true. But I beg you to keep it to yourself. Don't even tell Rose, or the Dean. My information does not come from anyone here, in Witanbury. It comes from London."

* * * * *

Straws show the way the wind is blowing. The anonymous letter sent to the Trellis House was one straw; another was the revelation made to Mrs. Otway by Miss Forsyth.

The wind indicated by these two small straws suddenly developed, on the 25th of March, into a hurricane. Luckily it was not a hurricane which affected Mrs. Otway or her good old Anna at all directly, but it upset them both, in their several ways, very much indeed, for it took the extraordinary shape of a violent attack by a mob armed with pickaxes and crowbars on certain so-called Germans—for they were all naturalised—and their property.

A very successful recruiting meeting had been held in the Market Place. At this meeting the local worthies had been present in force. Thus, on the platform which had been erected in front of the Council House, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, supported by many religious dignitaries, headed by the Dean, had made an excellent speech, followed by other short, stirring addresses, each a trumpet call to the patriotism of Witanbury. Not one of these speeches incited to violence in any form, but reference had naturally been made to some of the terrible things that the Germans had done in Belgium, and one speaker had made it very plain that should a German invasion take place on the British coast, the civilian population must expect that the fate of Belgium would be theirs.

The meeting had come to a peaceful end, and then, an hour later, as soon as the great personages had all gone and night had begun to fall, rioting had suddenly broken out, the rioters being led by two women, both Irish-women, whose husbands were believed to have been cruelly ill-treated when on their way to a prison camp in Germany.

The story had been published in the local paper, on the testimony of a medical orderly who had come back to England after many strange adventures. True, an allusion had been made to the matter in one of the recruiting speeches, but the speaker had not made very much of it; and though what he had said had drawn groans from his large audience, and though the words he had used undoubtedly made it more easy for the magistrate, when he came to deal with the case of these two women, to dismiss them with only a caution, yet no one could reasonably suppose that it was this which led to the riot.

For a few minutes things had looked very ugly. A good deal of damage was done, for instance, to the boot factory, which was still being managed (and very well managed too) by a naturalised German and his son. Then the rioters had turned their attention to the Witanbury Stores. "The Kaiser," as Alfred Head was still called by his less kindly neighbours, had always been disliked in the poorer quarters of the town, and that long before the War. Now was the time for paying off old scores. So the plate-glass windows were shivered with a will, as well as with pickaxes; and all the goods, mostly consisting of bacon, butter, and cheese, which had dressed those windows, had been taken out, thrown among the rioters, and borne off in triumph. It was fortunate that no damage had been done there to life or limb.

Alfred Head had fled at once to the highest room in the building. There he had stayed, locked in, cowering and shivering, till the police, strongly reinforced by soldiers, had driven the rioters off.

Polly at first had stood her ground. "Cowards! Cowards!" she had cried, bravely rushing into the shop; and it was no thanks to the rioters that she had not been very roughly handled indeed. Luckily the police just then had got in by the back of the building, and had dragged her away.

Even into the quiet Close there had penetrated certain ominous sounds indicative of what was going on in the Market Place. And poor old Anna had gone quite white, or rather yellow, with fright.

By the next morning the cold fit had succeeded the hot fit, and all Witanbury was properly ashamed of what had happened. The cells under the Council Chamber were fuller than they had ever been, and no one could be found to say a good word for the rioters.

As for Dr. Haworth, he was cut to the heart by what had occurred, and it became known that he had actually offered the hospitality of the Deanery to Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Head, even to sending his own carriage for them—or so it was averred. Gratefully had they accepted his kindness; and though Alfred Head was now back in his place of business, trying to estimate the damage and to arrange for its being made good, Polly was remaining on at the Deanery for a few hours.

* * * * *

But those two days, which will be always remembered by the people of the cathedral city as having witnessed the one War riot of Witanbury, were to have very different associations for Mrs. Otway and her daughter, Rose Blake. For on the morning of the 26th a telegram arrived at the Trellis House containing the news that at last the exchange of disabled prisoners had been arranged, and that Major Guthrie's name was in the list of those British officers who might be expected back from Germany, via Holland, within the next forty-eight hours.

And, as if this was not joy enough, Sir Jacques, on the same day, told his young friends that now at last the time had come when they might go off, alone together, to the little house, within sound of the sea, which an old friend of Lady Blake had offered to lend them for Jervis's convalescence—and honeymoon.



CHAPTER XXVIII

Anna was hurrying through the quiet streets of Witanbury on her way to Mr. Head's Stores.

As she walked along, looking neither to the right nor to the left, for she had of late become unpleasantly conscious of her alien nationality, she pondered with astonishment and resentment the events of the last two days—the receipt of a telegram by Mrs. Otway, and its destruction, or at any rate its disappearance, before she, Anna, could learn its contents; and, evidently in consequence of the telegram, her mistress's hurried packing and departure for London.

Then had followed a long, empty day, the old woman's feelings of uneasiness and curiosity being but little relieved by Rose's eager words, uttered late on the same evening: "Oh, Anna, didn't mother tell you the great news? Major Guthrie is coming home. She has gone up to meet him!" The next morning Mrs. Jervis Blake herself had gone to London, this being the first time she had left her husband since their marriage.

There had come another day of trying silence for Anna, and then a letter from Rose to her old nurse. It was a letter which contained astounding news. Mrs. Otway was coming back late to-night, and was to be married—married, to-morrow morning in the Cathedral, to Major Guthrie!

The bride-elect sent good old Anna her love, and bade her not worry.

Of all the injunctions people are apt to give one another, perhaps the most cruel and the most futile is that of not to worry. Mrs. Otway had really meant to be kind, but her message gave Anna Bauer a most unhappy day. The old German woman had long ago made up her mind that when it suited herself she would leave the Trellis House, but never, never had it occurred to her that anything could happen which might compel her to do so.

At last, when evening fell, she felt she could no longer bear her loneliness and depression. Also she longed to tell her surprising news to sympathetic ears.

All through that long day Anna Bauer had been making up her mind to go back to Germany. She knew that there would be no difficulty about it, for something Mrs. Otway had told her a few weeks ago showed that many German women were going home, helped thereto by the British Government. As for Willi and Minna, however bitterly they might feel towards England, they would certainly welcome her when they realised how much money, all her savings, she was bringing with her.

As she walked quickly along—getting very puffy, for she was stout and short of breath—it seemed to her as if the kindly old city, where she had lived in happiness and amity for so many years, had changed in character. She felt as if the windows of the houses were frowning down at her, and as if cruel pitfalls yawned in her way.

Her depression was increased by her first sight of the building for which she was bound, for, as she walked across the Market Place, she saw the boarded up shop-front of the Stores. "Mr. Head hoped to get the plate-glass to-morrow"—so the boy who had brought the butter and eggs that morning had exclaimed—"but just now there was a great shortage of that particular kind of shop-front glass, as it was mostly made in Belgium."

Meanwhile the Witanbury Stores presented a very sorry appearance—the more so that some evilly disposed person had gone in the dark, after the boarding had been put up, and splashed across the boards a quantity of horrid black stuff!

Anna hurried round to the back door. In answer to her ring, the door was opened at last a little way, and Polly's pretty, anxious face looked out cautiously. But when she saw who it was, she smiled pleasantly.

"Oh, come in, Mrs. Bauer! I'm glad to see you. You'll help me cheer poor Alfred up a bit. Not but what he ought to be happy now—for what d'you think happened at three o'clock to-day? Why, the Dean himself came along and left a beautiful letter with us—an Address, he called it." She was walking down the passage as she spoke, and when she opened the parlour door she called out cheerfully, "Here's Mrs. Bauer come to see us! I tell her she'll have to help cheer you up a bit."

And truth to tell Alfred Head did look both ill and haggard—but no, not unhappy. Even Anna noticed that there was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. "Very pleased to see you, I'm sure!" he exclaimed cordially. "Yes, it is as Polly says—out of evil good has come to us. See here, my dear friend!"

Anna came forward. She already felt better, less despondent, but it was to Polly she addressed her condolences. "What wicked folk in this city there are!" she exclaimed. "Even Mr. Robey to me says, 'Dastardly conduct!'"

"Yes, yes," said Polly hastily. "It was dreadful! But look at this, Mrs. Bauer——" She held towards Anna a large sheet of thick, fine cream-laid paper. Across the top was typed—

"TO ALFRED HEAD, CITY COUNCILLOR OF WITANBURY."

Then underneath, also in typewriting, the following words:

"We the undersigned, your fellow-countrymen and fellow-citizens of Witanbury, wish to express to you our utter abhorrence and sense of personal shame in the dastardly attack which was made on your house and property on March 25, 1915. As a small token of regard we desire to inform you that we have started a fund for compensating you for any material loss you may have incurred which is not covered by your plate-glass insurance."

There followed, written in ink, a considerable number of signatures. These were headed by the Dean, and included the names of most of the canons and minor canons, four Dissenting ministers, and about a hundred others belonging to all classes in and near the cathedral city.

True, there were certain regrettable omissions, but fortunately neither Mr. and Mrs. Head nor Anna seemed aware of it. One such omission was that of the Catholic priest. Great pressure had been brought to bear on him, but perhaps because there was little doubt that members of his congregation had been concerned in the outrage, he had obstinately refused to sign the Address. More strange and regrettable was the fact that Miss Forsyth's name was also omitted from the list. In answer to a personal appeal made to her by the Dean, who had himself gone to the trouble of calling in order to obtain her signature, she had explained that she never did give her signature. She had made the rule thirty years ago, and she saw no reason for breaking it to-day.

* * * * *

Anna looked up from the paper, and her pale blue, now red-rimmed, eyes sparkled with congratulation. "This is good!" she exclaimed in German. "Very, very good!"

Her host answered in English, "Truly I am gratified. It is a compensation to me for all I have gone through these last few days."

"Yes," said Polly quickly. "And as you see, Mrs. Bauer, we are to be really compensated. We were thinking only yesterday that the damage done—I mean the damage by which we should be out of pocket—was at least L15. But, as Alfred says, that was putting it very low. He thinks, and I quite agree—don't you, Mrs. Bauer?—that it would be fair to put the damage down at—let me see, what did you say, Alfred?"

"According to my calculation," he said cautiously, "I think we may truly call it twenty-seven pounds ten shillings and ninepence."

"That," said Polly, "is allowing for the profit we should certainly have made on the articles those wretches stole out of the windows. I think it's fair to do that, don't you, Mrs. Bauer?"

"Indeed yes—that thoroughly to agree I do!" exclaimed Anna.

And then rather sharply, perhaps a trifle anxiously, Alfred Head leant over to his visitor, and looking at her very straight, he said, "And do you bring any news to-night? Not that there ever seems any good news now—and the other sort we can do without."

She understood that this was Mr. Head's polite way of asking why she had come this evening, without an invitation. Hurriedly she answered, "No news of any special kind I have—though much that me concerns. Along to ask your advice I came. Supper require I do not."

"Oh, but you must stop and have supper with us—with me I mean," said Polly eagerly, "for Alfred is going out—aren't you, Alfred?"

He hesitated a moment. "I shall see about doing that. There is no hurry. Well, what is it you want to ask me, Mrs. Bauer?"

At once Anna plunged into her woes, disappointment, and fears. Now that the excitement and pride induced by the Address had gone from his face, Alfred Head looked anxious and uneasy; but on hearing Anna's great piece of news he looked up eagerly.

"Mrs. Otway and this Major Guthrie to be married at the Cathedral to-morrow? But this is very exciting news!" he exclaimed. "D'you hear that, Polly? I think we must go to this ceremony. It will be very interesting——" his eyes gleamed; there was a rather wolfish light in them. "The poor gentleman is blind, is he? It is lucky he will not see how old his bride looks——" he added a word or two in German.

Anna shrank back, and, speaking German too, she answered, "Mrs. Otway has a very young face, and when not unhappy, she is very bright and lively. For my part, I think this Major a very-much-to-be-envied man!" Her loyalty to the woman who had been kind and good to her over so many years awakened, tardily.

"No doubt, no doubt," said Alfred Head carelessly. "But now I suppose you are thinking of yourself, Frau Bauer?"

Polly broke in: "Do talk in English," she said pettishly. "You can't think how tiresome it is to hear that rook's language going on all the time!"

Her husband laughed. "Well, I suppose this marriage will make a difference to you?" he said in English.

"A difference?" exclaimed Anna ruefully. "Why, my good situation me it loses. Home to the Fatherland my present idea is——" her eyes filled with big tears.

Her host looked at her thoughtfully. What an old fool she was! But that, from his point of view, was certainly not to be regretted. She had served his purpose well—and more than once.

"Mrs. Otway she a friend has who a German maid had. The maid last week to Holland was sent, so no trouble can there be. However, one thing there is——" she looked dubiously at Polly. "Mrs. Head here knows, does she, about my——?"

And then at once between Alfred Head's teeth came the angry command, in her own language, to speak German.

She went on eagerly, fluently now: "You will understand, Mr. Head, that I cannot behave wrongly to my dear nephew Willi's superior. I have been wondering to-night whether I could hand the affair over to you. After all, a hundred marks a year are not to be despised in these times. You yourself say that after the War the money will be made up——" she looked at him expectantly.

He said rather quickly to his wife, "Look here, Polly! Never mind this—it's business you wouldn't understand!" And his wife shrugged her shoulders. She didn't care what the old woman was saying to Alfred. She supposed it was something about the War—the War of which she was so heartily sick, and which had brought them, personally, such bad luck.

"It is difficult to decide such a thing in a hurry," said Alfred Head slowly.

"But it will have to be decided in a hurry," said Anna firmly. "What is to happen if to-morrow Mrs. Otway comes and tells me that I am to go away to London, to Louisa? English people are very funny, as you know well, Herr Hegner!" In her excitement she forgot his new name, and he winced a little when he heard the old appellation, but he did not rebuke her, and she went on: "Willi told me, and so did the gentleman, that on no account must I move that which was confided to me."

"Attend to me, Frau Bauer!" he said imperiously. "This matter is perhaps more important than even you know, especially at such a time as this."

"Ach, yes!" she said. "I have often said that to myself. Willi's friend may be interned by now in one of those horrible camps—it is indeed a difficult question!"

"I do not say I shall be able to do it, but I will make a big effort to have the whole business settled for you to-morrow morning. What do you say to that?"

"Splendid!" she exclaimed. "You are in truth a good friend to poor old Anna Bauer!"

"I wish to be," he said. "And you understand, do you not, Frau Bauer, that under no conceivable circumstances are you to bring me into the affair? Have I your word—your oath—on that?"

"Certainly," she said soberly. "You have my word, my oath, on it."

"You see it does not do for me to be mixed up with any Germans," he went on quickly. "I am an Englishman now—as this gratifying Address truly says——" he waited a moment. "What would be the best time for the person who will come to call?"

Anna hesitated. "I don't know," she said helplessly. "The marriage is to be at twelve, and before then there will be a great deal of coming and going at the Trellis House."

"Is it necessary for you to attend the bridal?" he asked.

Anna shook her head. "No," she said, "I do not think so; I shall not be missed." There was a tone of bitterness in her voice.

"Then the best thing will be for your visitor to come during the marriage ceremony. That marriage will draw away all the busybodies. And it is not as if your visitor need stay long——"

"Not more than a very few minutes," she said eagerly, and then, "Will it be the same gentleman who came three years ago?"

"Oh, no; it will be someone quite different. He will come in a motor, and I expect a Boy Scout will be with him."

A gleam of light shot across Anna's mind. But she made no remark, and her host went on:

"You realise that great care must be taken of those things. In fact, you had better leave it all to him."

"Oh, yes," she nodded understandingly. "I know they are fragile. I was told so."

It was extraordinary the relief she felt—more than relief, positive joy.

"As to the other matter—the matter of your returning to Germany," he said musingly, still speaking in his and her native language, "I think, yes, on the whole your idea is a good one, Frau Bauer. It is shameful that it should be so, but England is no place at present for an honest German woman who has not taken out her certificate. I wonder if you are aware that you will only be allowed to take away a very little money? You had better perhaps confide the rest of your savings to me. I will take care of them for you till the end of the War."

"Very little money?" repeated Anna, in a horrified, bewildered tone. "What do you mean, Herr Hegner? I do not understand."

"And yet it is clear enough," he said calmly. "The British Government will not allow anyone going to the Fatherland to take more than a very few pounds—just enough to get them where they want to go, and a mark or two over. But that need not distress you, Frau Bauer."

"But it does distress me very much!" exclaimed Anna. "In fact, I do not see now how I can go——" She began to cry. "Are you sure—quite sure—of what you say?"

"Yes, I am quite sure," he spoke rather grimly. "Well, if you feel in that way, there is nothing more to be said. You will either stay with your present lady, or you will have to go to the Pollits."

She looked up at him quickly; she was surprised that he remembered her daughter's married name, but it had slipped off his tongue quite easily.

"Never will I do that!" she exclaimed.

"Then you had better arrange to stop here. There are plenty of people in Witanbury who would be only too glad to have such an excellent help as you are, Frau Bauer."

"I shall not be compelled to look out for a new situation," she said quickly. "My young lady would never allow that—neither would Mrs. Otway!"

But even so, poor Anna felt disturbed—disturbed and terribly disheartened. The money she had saved was her own money! She could not understand by what right the British Government could prevent her taking it with her. It was this money alone that would ensure a welcome from the Warshauers. Willi and Minna could not be expected to want her unless she brought with her enough, not only to feed herself, but to give them a little help in these hard times. But soon she began to feel more cheerful. Mrs. Otway and the Dean would surely obtain permission for her to take her money back to Germany. It was a great deal of money—over three hundred pounds altogether.

* * * * *

Within an hour of her return to the Trellis House Anna heard the fly which had been ordered to meet Mrs. Otway at the station drive into the Close. For the first time, the very first time in over eighteen years, Anna did not long to welcome her two ladies home. Indeed, her heart now felt so hurt and sore that when she heard the familiar rumble she would have liked to run away and hide herself, instead of going to the front door.

And yet, when the two came through into the hall, Rose with something of her old happy look back again, and Mrs. Otway's face radiant as Anna had never seen it during all the peaceful years they two had dwelt so near to one another, the poor old woman's heart softened. "Welcome!" she said, in German. "Welcome, my dear mistress, and all happiness be yours!"

And then, after Rose had hurried off to Robey's, Mrs. Otway, while taking off her things, and watching Anna unpack her bag, told of Major Guthrie's home-coming.

In simple words she described the little group of people—of mothers, of wives, of sweethearts and of friends—who had waited at the London Docks for that precious argosy, the ship from Holland, to come in. And Anna furtively wiped away her tears as she heard of the piteous case of all those who thus returned home, and of the glowing joy of certain of the reunions which had then taken place. "Even those who had no friends there to greet them—only kind strangers—seemed happier than anyone I had ever seen."

Anna nodded understandingly. So she herself would feel, even if maimed and blind, to be once more in her own dear Fatherland. But she kept her thoughts to herself....

At last, after she had a little supper, Mrs. Otway came into the kitchen, and motioning to Anna to do likewise, she sat down.

"Anna?" she asked rather nervously, "do you know what is going to happen to-morrow?"

Anna nodded, and Mrs. Otway went on, almost as if speaking to herself rather than to the woman who was now watching her with strangely conflicting feelings: "It seems the only thing to do. I could not bear for him to go and live alone—even for only a short time—in that big house where he left his mother. But it was all settled very hurriedly, partly by telephone to the Deanery." She paused, for what she felt to be the hardest part of her task lay before her, and before she could go on, Anna spoke.

"I think," she said slowly, "I think, dear honoured lady, that it will be best for me to go to Germany, to stay with Minna and Willi till the War is over."

Mrs. Otway's eyes filled with tears, yet she felt as if a load of real anxiety had suddenly been lifted from her heart.

"Perhaps that will be best," she said. "But of course there is no hurry about it. There will be certain formalities to go through, and meanwhile——" Again she stopped speaking for a moment, then went on steadily: "A friend of Major Guthrie's—one of his brother officers who has just come home from the Front—is also to be married to-morrow. His name is Captain Pechell, and the lady also is known to Major Guthrie; her name is Miss Trepell. I have arranged to let the Trellis House to them for six weeks, and I have to tell you, Anna, that they will bring their own servants. Before I knew of this new plan of yours, I arranged for you to go to Miss Forsyth while this house is let. However, the matter will now be very much simpler to arrange, and you will only stay with Miss Forsyth till arrangements have been made for your comfortable return to Germany."

The colour rushed to Anna's face. Then she was being turned out—after all these years of devoted service!

Perhaps something of what Anna was feeling betrayed itself, for Mrs. Otway went on, nervously and conciliatingly: "I did try to arrange for you to go and spend the time with your daughter, but apparently they will not allow Germans to be transferred from one town to another without a great deal of fuss, and I knew, Anna, that you would not really want to go to the Pollits. I felt sure you would rather stay in Witanbury. But if you dislike the idea of going to Miss Forsyth, then I think I can arrange for you to come out to Dorycote——" But even as she said the words she knew that such an arrangement would never work.

"No, no," said Anna, in German. "It does not matter where I go for a few days. If I am in Miss Forsyth's house I can see my gracious young lady from time to time. She will ever be kind to her poor old nurse." And Mrs. Otway could not find it in her heart to tell Anna that Rose was also going away.



CHAPTER XXIX

Anna stood peeping behind the pretty muslin curtain of her kitchen window. She was standing in exactly the same place and attitude she had stood in eight months before, on the first day of war. But oh, how different were the sensations and the thoughts with which she now looked out on the familiar scene! She had then been anxious and disturbed, but not as she was disturbed and anxious to-day.

The Trellis House had become so entirely her home that she resented bitterly being forced to leave it against her will. Also, she dreaded the thought of the days she would have to spend under Miss Forsyth's roof.

Anna had never liked Miss Forsyth. Miss Forsyth had a rather short, sharp way with her, or so the old German woman considered—and her house was always full of such queer folk below and above stairs. Just now there was the Belgian family, and also, as Anna had managed to discover, three odd-come-shorts in the kitchen.

Anna's general unease had not been lessened by a mysterious letter which she had received from her daughter this morning. In it the writer hinted that her husband was getting into some fresh trouble. Louisa had ended with a very disturbing sentence: "I feel as if I can't bear my life!"—that was what Louisa had written.

The minutes dragged by, and Anna, staring out into the now deserted Close—deserted, save for a number of carriages and motors which were waiting by the little gate leading into the Cathedral enclosure—became very worried and impatient.

From her point of view it was much to be wished that the visitor she was expecting should be come and gone before the marriage party came out of the Cathedral; yet when she had seen how surprised, and even hurt, both her dear ladies had been on learning of her intention to stay at home this morning, she had nearly told them the truth! Everything was different now—Willi would not, could not, mind!

What had restrained her was the memory of how strongly Alfred Head had impressed on her the importance of secrecy—of secrecy as concerned himself. If she began telling anything, she might find herself telling everything. Also, Mrs. Otway might think it very strange, what English people call "sly," that Anna had not told her before.

And yet this matter she had kept so closely hidden within herself for three years was a very simple thing, after all! Only the taking charge of a number of parcels—four, as a matter of fact—for a gentleman who was incidentally one of Willi Warshauer's chiefs.

The person who had brought them to the Trellis House had come in the March of 1912, and she remembered him very distinctly. He had arrived in a motor, and had only stayed a very few minutes. Anna would have liked to have given him a little supper, but he had been in a great hurry, and in fact had hardly spoken to her at all.

From something which he had said when himself carefully bringing the parcels through the kitchen into her bedroom, and also from a word Willi had let fall, she knew that what had been left with her was connected with some new, secret process in the chemical business. In that special branch of trade, as Anna was aware, the Germans were far, far ahead of the British.

And as she stood there by the window, waiting, staring across the now deserted green, at the group of carriages which stood over near the gate leading to the Cathedral, she began to wonder uneasily if she had made it quite clear to Mr. Head that the man who was coming on this still secret business must be sure to come to-day! The lady and gentleman to whom the house had been let were arriving at six, and their maids two hours before.

* * * * *

Suddenly the bells rang out a joyous peal, and Anna felt a thrill of exasperation and sharp regret. If she had known that her visitor would be late, then she, too, could have been present in the Cathedral. It had been a bitter disappointment to her not to see her gracious lady married to Major Guthrie.

Letting the curtain fall, she went quickly upstairs into what had been Miss Rose's bedroom. From there she knew she could get a better view.

Yes, there they all were—streaming out of the great porch. She could now see the bride and bridegroom, arm-in-arm, walking down the path. They were walking more slowly than most newly married couples walked after a wedding. As a rule, wedding parties hurried rather quickly across the open space leading from the porch to the gate.

She lost sight of them while they were getting into the motor which had been lent to them for the occasion, but she did catch a glimpse of Mrs. Otway's flushed face as the car sped along to the left, towards the gate house.

The path round the green was gradually filling up with people, for the congregation had been far larger than anyone had thought it would be. News in such a place as Witanbury spreads quickly, and though the number of invited guests had been very, very few, the number of uninvited sympathisers and interested spectators had been many.

Suddenly Anna caught sight of her young lady and of Mr. Jervis Blake. As she did so the tears welled up into her eyes, and rolled down her cheeks. She could never get used to the sight of this young bridegroom with his crutch, and that though he managed it very cleverly, and would soon—so Rose had declared—be able to do with only a stick.

Anna hoped that the two would come in and see her for a minute, but instead they joined Mr. and Mrs. Robey, and were now walking round the other side of the Close.

Anna went downstairs again. In a moment, Mr. Hayley, whom she had never liked, and who she felt sure did not like her, would be coming in to have his luncheon, with another gentleman from London.

Yes, there was the ring. She went to the front door and opened it with an unsmiling face. The two young men walked through into the hall. It would have been very easy for James Hayley to have said a kind word to the old German woman he had known so long, but it did not occur to him to do so; had anyone suggested it, he would certainly have done it.

"We've plenty of time," she heard him say to the other gentleman. "Your train doesn't go till two o'clock. As for me, I'm very hungry! I made a very early start, you know!" and he led his guest into the dining-room, calling out as he did so: "It's all right, Anna! We can wait on ourselves."

Anna went back into her kitchen. She reminded herself that Mr. Hayley was one of those gentlemen who give a great deal of trouble and never a tip—unless, that is, they are absolutely forced to do so by common custom.

In Germany a gentleman who was always lunching and dining at a house would, by that common custom, have been compelled to tip the servants—not so in this hospitable but foolish, ill-regulated England. Here people only tip when they sleep. Anna had always thought it an extremely unfair arrangement. Now Major Guthrie, though he was an Englishman, had lived enough in Germany to know what was right and usual, and several times, in the last few years, he had presented Anna with half a sovereign. This had naturally made her like him more than she would otherwise have done.

* * * * *

There came another ring at the door. This time it was Miss Forsyth, and there was quite a kindly smile on her face. "Well," she said, "well, Mrs. Bauer?" (she had never been as familiar with Anna as were most of Mrs. Otway's friends). "I have come to find something for Mrs. Ot—— I mean Mrs. Guthrie. She has given me the key of her desk." And she went through into the drawing-room.

Anna began moving about restlessly. Her tin trunk was packed, and all ready to be moved to Miss Forsyth's. And Mrs. Otway, busy as she had been and absorbed in her own affairs while in town, had yet remembered to stipulate that one of the large cupboards in Anna's bedroom should remain locked, and full of Anna's things.

It was now nearly one o'clock. What could have happened to her business visitor? And then, just as she was thinking this for the hundredth time, she heard the unmistakable sound of a motor coming slowly down the road outside. Quickly she went out to the back door.

The motor was a small, low, open car, and without surprise she saw that the man who now was getting out of it was the same person whom she had seen in the autumn leaving Alfred Head's house. But this time there was no Boy Scout—the stranger was alone.