Roll-Call — Part 2, Chapter 2, part 2
IV
In front of his own house George saw a tradesman's coupé of the superior, discreet sort, with a smart horse (the same being more 'distinctive' than motor-traction), a driver liveried in black, and the initials of the firm in a restrained monogram on the doors.
He thought: "She's blueing money again.
Of course it's her own, but--" He was extremely sardonic.
In the drawing-room he found not only Lois but Laurencine and an attentive, respectful, bright-faced figure rather stylishly dressed in black.
This last was fastening a tea-gown on the back of pale Lois, who stood up with a fatigued, brave air.
Laurencine sat critically observant on the end of a sofa.
The furniture of the room was heaped with tea-gowns, and other garments not very dissimilar, producing a rich and exciting effect.
All three women quickened to George's entry.
"Oh!
George!"
said Lois querulously.
"Are you going to play tennis?
I
wish I could!
I'm so glad you came in; we'd no idea you were in the house, had we, Laurencine?
Laurencine's giving me a tea-gown.
Which of them do you prefer?
It's no good me having one you don't like."
He had been unjust to her, then.
"It's really her birthday present," said Laurencine, "only a bit late.
Oh!
Dear!
Darling, do sit down, you're standing too long."
Both Laurencine and the young woman in black regarded Lois with soft compassion, and she sat down.
Laurencine too was a mother.
But she had retained her girlhood.
She was a splendid, powerful, erect creature, handsome, with a frank, benevolent, sane face, at the height of her physical perfection.
George had a great fondness for her.
Years earlier he had wondered how it was that he had not fallen in love with her instead of with Lois.
But he knew the reason now.
She lacked force of individuality.
She was an adorer by instinct.
She adored Lois; Lois could do no wrong.
More strange, she adored her husband.
Ingenuous simpleton!
Yet wise!
Another thing was that her mind was too pure.
Instead of understanding, it rejected.
It was a mind absolutely impregnable to certain phenomena.
And this girl still enjoyed musical comedies and their successors in vogue, the revues!
"The Germans have taken Namur," George announced.
The news impressed.
Even the young woman in black permitted herself by a facial gesture to show that she was interested in the war as well as in tea-gowns, and apart from its effect on tea-gowns.
"Oh!
Dear!"
murmured Laurencine.
"Is it serious?"
Lois demanded.
"You bet it is!"
George replied.
"But what's Sir John French doing, then?
I say, Laurencine, I think I shall have that pale blue one, after all, if you don't mind."
The black young woman went across to the piano and brought the pale blue one.
"George, don't you think so?"
The gown was deferentially held out for his inspection.
"Well, I can't judge if I don't see it on, can I?"
he said, yielding superciliously to their mood.
Women were incurable.
Namur had fallen, but the room was full of finery, and the finery claimed attention.
And if Paris had fallen, it would have been the same.
So he told himself.
Nevertheless the spectacle of the heaped finery and its absorbed priestess was very agreeable.
Lois rose.
Laurencine and the priestess helped her to remove the white gown she wore, and to put on the blue one.
The presence of the male somewhat disturbed the priestess, but the male had signified a wish and the wish was flattering and had to be fulfilled.
George, cynically, enjoyed her constraint.
He might at least have looked out of the window, but he would not.
"Yes, that's fine," he decided carelessly, when the operation was done.
He did not care a pin which tea-gown Lois had.
"I knew you'd like it better," said Lois eagerly.
The other two, in words or by demeanour, applauded his august choice.
The affair was over.
The priestess began to collect her scattered stock into a light trunk.
Behind her back, Lois took hold of Laurencine and kissed her fondly.
Laurencine smiled, and persuaded Lois into a chair.
"You will of course keep that on, madam?"
the priestess suggested.
"Oh yes, darling, you must rest, really!"
said Laurencine earnestly.
"Thank you, madam."
In three minutes the priestess, bearing easily the trunk by a strap, had gone, bowing.
Lois's old tea-gown, flung across the head of the sofa, alone remained to brighten the furniture.
The drawing-room door opened again immediately, and a military officer entered.
Laurencine sprang up with a little girlish scream and ran to him.
"Oh!
Dearest!
Have you got them already?
You never told me you would have!
How lovely you look!"
Blushing with pleasure and pride, she kissed him.
It was Everard Lucas.
Laurencine had come to Elm Park Road that afternoon with the first news that Everard, through a major known to his late mother, had been offered a commission in a Territorial line regiment.
George, who saw Lucas but seldom, had not the slightest idea of this enormous family event, and he was astounded; he had not been so taken back by anything perhaps for years.
Lucas was rounder and his face somewhat coarser than in the past;
but the uniform had created a new Lucas.
It was beautifully made and he wore it well; it suited him; he had the fine military air of a regular;
he showed no awkwardness, only a simple vanity.
"Don't you feel as if you must kiss him, Lois darling?"
said Laurencine.
"Oh!
I certainly must!"
Lois cried, forgetting her woes in the new tea-gown and in the sudden ecstasy produced by the advent of an officer into the family.
Lucas bent down and kissed his sister-in-law, while Laurencine beheld the act with delight.
"The children must see you before you go," said Lois.
"Madam, they shall see their uncle," Lucas answered.
At any rate his agreeable voice had not coarsened.
He turned to George: "What d'you think of it, George?"
"My boy, I'm proud of you," said George.
In his tennis-flannels he felt like one who has arrived at an evening party in morning-dress.
And indeed he was proud of Lucas.
Something profound and ingenuous in him rose into his eyes and caused them to shine.
Lucas related his adventures with the tailor and other purveyors, and explained that he had to 'join his regiment' the next day, but would be able to remain in London for the present.
George questioned him about his business affairs.
"No difficulty about that whatever!"
said Lucas lightly.
"The old firm will carry on as usual; Enwright and Orgreave will have to manage it between them; and of course they wouldn't dream of trying to cut off the spondulicks.
Not that I should let that stop me if they did."
"Yes, it's all very well for _you_ to talk like that!"
said Lois, with a swift change of tone.
"You've got partners to do your work for you, and you've got money....
Have you written to mother, Laurencine?"
George objected to his wife making excuses.
His gaze faltered.
"Of course, darling!"
Laurencine answered eagerly, agreeing with her sister's differentiation between George and Everard.
"No, not yet.
But I'm going to to-night.
Everard, we ought to be off."
"I've got a taxi outside," said Lucas.
"A taxi?"
she repeated in a disappointed tone.
And then, as an afterthought: "Well, I have to call at Debenham's." The fact was that Laurencine wanted to be seen walking with her military officer in some well-frequented thoroughfare.
They lived at Hampstead.
Lois rang the bell.
"Ask nurse to bring the children down, please--at once," she told the parlourmaid.
"So this is the new tea-gown, if I mistake not!"
observed Lucas in the pause.
"_Très chic_!
I suppose Laurencine's told you all about the chauffeur being run off with against his will by a passionate virgin.
_I_ couldn't start the car this morning myself."
"You never could start a car by yourself, my boy," said George.
"What's this about the passionate virgin?"
V
George woke up in the middle of the night.
Lois slept calmly; he could just hear her soft breathing.
He thought of all the occupied bedrooms, of the health of children, the incalculable quality in wives, the touchy stupidity of nurses and servants.
The mere human weight of the household oppressed him terribly.
And he thought of the adamant of landlords, the shifty rapacity of tradesmen, the incompetence of clerks, the mere pompous foolishness of Government departments, the arrogance of Jew patrons, and the terrifying complexity of problems of architecture on a large scale.
He was the Atlas supporting a vast world a thousand times more complex than any problem of architecture.
He wondered how he did it.
But he did do it, alone; and he kept on doing it.
Let him shirk the burden, and not a world but an entire universe would crumble.
If he told Lois that he was going to leave her, she would collapse; she would do dreadful things.
He was indispensable not only at home but professionally.
All was upon his shoulders and upon nobody else's. He was bound, he was a prisoner, he had no choice, he was performing his highest duty, he was fulfilling the widest usefulness of which he was capable ...
Besides, supposing he did go insane and shirk the burden, they would all say that he had been influenced by Lucas's uniform--the mere sight of the uniform!
--like a girl!
He could not stand that, because it would be true.
Not that he would ever admit its truth!
He recalled Lucas's tact in refraining from any suggestion, even a jocular suggestion, that he, George, ought also to be in uniform.
Lucas was always tactful.
Be damned to his tact!
And the too eager excuses made by Lois in his behalf also grated on his susceptibility.
He had no need of excuses.
The woman was taciturn by nature, and yet she was constantly saying too much!
And did any of the three of them--Lois, Laurencine, and Lucas--really appreciate the war?
They did not.
They could not envisage it.
Lucas was wearing uniform solely in obedience to an instinct.
At this point the cycle of his reflections was completed, and began again.
He thought of all the occupied bedrooms....
Thus, in the dark, warm night the contents of his mind revolved endlessly, with extreme tedium and extreme distress, and each moment his mood became more morbid.
An occasional sound of traffic penetrated into the room,--strangely mournful, a reminder of the immense and ineffable melancholy of a city which could not wholly lose itself in sleep.
The window lightened.
He could descry his wife's portable clock on the night-table.
A quarter to four.
Turning over savagely in bed, he muttered: "My night's done for.
And nearly five hours to breakfast.
Good God!"
The cycle resumed, and was enlarged.
At intervals he imagined that he dozed; he did doze, if it is possible while you are dozing to know that you doze.
His personality separated into two personalities, if not more.
He was on a vast plain, and yet he was not there, and the essential point of the scene was that he was not there.
Thousands and tens of thousands of men stood on this plain, which had no visible boundaries.
A roll-call was proceeding.
A resounding and mysterious voice called out names, and at each name a man stepped briskly from the crowds and saluted and walked away.
But there was no visible person to receive the salute; the voice was bodiless.
George became increasingly apprehensive; he feared a disaster, yet he could not believe that it would occur.
It did occur.
Before it arrived he knew that it was arriving.
The voice cried solemnly: "George Edwin Cannon."
An awful stillness and silence followed, enveloping the entire infinite plain.
George trembled.
He was there, but he was not there.
Men looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.
The voice did not deign to repeat the call.
After a suitable pause, the voice cried solemnly: "Everard Lucas."
And Lucas in his new uniform stepped gravely forward and saluted and walked away.
"Was I asleep or awake?"
George asked himself.
He could not decide.
At any rate the scene impressed him.
The bigness of the plain, the summons, the silence, the utter absence of an expression of reproof or regret--of any comment whatever.
At five o'clock he arose, and sat down in his dressing-gown at Lois's very untidy and very small writing-desk, and wrote a letter on her notepaper.
The early morning was lovely; it was celestial.
"DEAR DAVIDS," the letter began.
--That would annoy the fellow, who liked the address respectful.
--"Dear Davids, I have decided to join the Army, and therefore cannot proceed further with your commission.
However, the general idea is complete.
I advise you to get it carried out by Lucas & Enwright.
Enwright is the best architect in England.
You may take this from me.
I'm his disciple.
You might ring me up at the office this afternoon.
--Yours faithfully, GEORGE CANNON" "P. S.
--Assuming you go to Lucas & Enwright, I can either make some arrangement with them as to sharing fees myself, or you can pay me an agreed sum for the work I've done, and start afresh elsewhere.
I shall want all the money I can get hold of."
Yes, Sir Isaac would be very angry.
George smiled.
He was not triumphant, but he was calm.
In the full sanity of the morning, every reason against his going into the Army had vanished.
The material objection was ridiculous--with Edwin Clayhanger at the back of him!
Moreover, some money would be coming in.
The professional objection was equally ridiculous.
The design for the Indian barracks existed complete;
and middle-aged mediocrity could carry it out in a fashion, and Lucas & Enwright could carry it out better than he could carry it out himself.
As for Davids, he had written.
There was nothing else of importance in his office.
The other competition had not been won.
If people said that he had been influenced by Lucas's uniform, well, they must say it.
They would not say it for more than a few days.
After a few days the one interesting fact would be that he had joined.
By such simple and curt arguments did he annihilate the once overwhelming reasons against his joining the Army.
But he did not trouble to marshal the reasons in favour of his joining the Army.
He had only one reason: he must!
He quite ignored the larger aspects of the war--the future of civilization, freedom versus slavery, right versus wrong, even the responsibilities of citizenship and the implications of patriotism.
His decision was the product, not of argument, but of feeling.
However, he did not feel a bit virtuous.
He had to join the Army, and 'that was all there was to it.'
A beastly nuisance, this world-war!
It was interfering with his private affairs;
it might put an end to his private affairs altogether; he hated soldiering; he looked inimically at the military caste.
An unspeakable nuisance.
But there the war was, and he was going to answer to his name.
He simply could not tolerate the dreadful silence and stillness on the plain after his name had been called.
"Pooh!
Sheer sentimentality!"
he said to himself, thinking of the vision--half-dream, half-fancy.
"Rotten sentimentality!"
He asked: "Damn it!
Am I an Englishman or am I not?"
Like most Englishmen, he was much more an Englishman than he ever suspected.
"What on earth are you doing, George?"
At the voice of his wife he gave a nervous jump, and then instantly controlled himself and looked round.
Her voice was soft, liquid, weak with slumber.
But, lying calmly on one side, her head half buried in the pillow, and the bedclothes pushed back from her shoulders, she was wideawake and gazed at him steadily.
"I'm just writing a letter," he answered gruffly.
"Now?
What letter?"
"Here!
You shall read it."
He walked straight across the room in his gay pyjamas only partly hidden by the splendid dressing-gown, and handed her the letter.
Moving nothing but her hand, she took the letter and held it in front of her eyes.
He sat down between the beds, on the edge of his own bed, facing her.
"Whatever is it?"
"Read it.
You've got it," he said, with impatience.
He was trembling, aware that the crisis had suddenly leapt at him.
"Oh!"
She had read the opening phrase; she had received the first shock.
But the tone of her exclamation gave no clue at all to her attitude.
It might mean anything--anything.
She shut her eyes; then glanced at him, terror-struck, appealing, wistful, implacable.
"Not at once?"
"Yes, at once."
"But surely you'll at least wait until after October."
He shook his head.
"But why can't you?"
"I can't." "But there's no object--" "I've got to do it."
"You're horribly cruel."
"Well, that's me!"
He was sullen, and as hard as a diamond.
"George, I shall never be able to stand it.
It's too much to expect.
It'll kill me."
"Not it!
What's the use of talking like that?
If I'd been in the Territorials before the war, like lots of chaps, I should have been gone long ago, and you'd have stood it all right.
Don't you understand we're at war?
Do you imagine the war can wait for things like babies?"
She cried: "It's no good your going on in that strain.
You can't leave me alone with all this house on my shoulders, and so that's flat."
"Who wants to leave you all alone in the house?
You can go and stay at Ladderedge, children and nurse and all."
This scheme presented itself to him as he spoke.
"Of course I can't!
We can't go and plant ourselves on people like that.
Besides--" "Can't you?
You'll see!"
