Mrs. Warren's Daughter — Chapter XVIII, The Bomb in Portland Place, Part 2

They went out very little into Society.

Rossiter held that war-time parties were scandalous.

He poohpoohed the idea that immodest dancing with frisky matrons or abandoned spinsters was necessary to restore the shell-shocked nerves of temporary captains, locally-ranked majors, or the recently-joined subaltern.

He was far too busy for twaddly tea-fights and carping at hard-worked generals who were doing their best and a good best too.

He and Linda did dine occasionally with Honoria, but the latter felt she could not let herself go about Vivie in the presence of Mrs. Rossiter and seemed a little cold in manner.

Ordinarily, after working hard all day while the daylight lasted they much preferred an evening of complete solitude.

Rossiter's new robustness of taste included love of a gramophone.

Money being no consideration with them, they acquired a tip-top one with superlative records; not so much the baaing, bellowing and shrieking of fashionable singers, but orchestral performances, heart-melting duets between violin and piano (_what_ human voice ever came up to a good violin or violoncello?

), racy comic songs, inspiriting two steps, xylophone symphonies, and dreamy, sensuous waltzes.

This gramophone Linda learnt to work; and while Michael read voraciously the works of Hunter, Hugh Owen Thomas, Stromeyer, Duchenne, Goodsir, Wolff, and Redfern on bones, muscles, ligaments, tendons, cartilage, periosteum and osteogenesis--or, more often, Keith's compact and lucid analysis of their experiments and conclusions--Linda let loose in the scented air of a log fire these varied melodies which attuned the mind to extraordinary perceptibility.

The little Adamses were allowed to steal in and listen, on condition they never uttered a word to break the spell of Colonel Rossiter's thoughts.

I think also Rossiter felt his wife had been unjustly snubbed by the great ladies and the off-hand, harum-scarum young war-workers; so he flatly declined to have any of them messing around his studio or initiated into his research work.

It was intimated that the Rossiter Thursday afternoons of long ago would not be resumed until after the peace.

Linda therefore derived much consolation and satisfaction for past injuries to her pride when Lady Vera--or Victoria--Freebooter called one day just before Christmas and said "Oh--er--mother's let our house till February and thinks we'd better--I mean the Marrybone Guild of war-workers--meet at _your_ house instead"; and she, Linda, had the opportunity of replying: "Oh, I'm sorry, _but_ It's QUITE impossible.

The Professor--I mean, Colonel Rossiter--and I are so _very_ busy ...

we are seeing _no_ one just now.

Indeed we've enlisted all the servants to help the Colonel in his work, so I can't even offer you a cup of tea....

I must _rush_ back at once....

You'll excuse me?"

"That Rossiter woman is quite off her head with grandeur," said Lady Vera to Lady Helen.

"I expect Uncle Algy has let out that her husband is in the New Year's honours."

And so he was.

But Uncle Algy, though he might have babbled to his nieces, had not written a word to the Rossiters.

So they just enjoyed Christmas--too much, they thought, more than any Christmas before--in the simple satisfaction of being Colonel and Mrs. Rossiter, all in all to each other, but rendered additionally happy by making those about them happy.

The little Adamses staggered under their presents and had a Christmas Tree to which they were allowed to ask their two grannies--Mrs. Laidly from Fig Tree Court and Mrs. Adams from the Kilburn Laundry--and numerous little friends from Marylebone, who had been washed and curled and crimped and adjured not to disgrace their parents, _or_ father--in the trenches--would be told "as sure as I stand here."

(The little Adamses were also warned that if they _ever_ again were heard calling Mrs. Rossiter "Gran'ma," they'd--but the threat was too awful to be uttered, especially as their mother at this time was always on the verge of tears, either at getting no news of Bert or at the unforgettable kindness of Bert's employer.

) Mrs. Rossiter, quite unaware that she was soon to be a Dame, gave Christmas entertainments at St. Dunstan's, at the Marylebone Workhouse, and to all the wounded soldiers in the parish.

And on December 31, 1916, Michael received a note from the Prime Minister to say that His Majesty, in recognition of his exceptional services in curative surgery at the front, had been pleased to bestow on him a Knight Commandership of the Bath.

"So that, Linda, you can call yourself Lady Rossiter, and you will have to get some new cards printed for both of us."

Linda didn't feel quite that ecstasy over her title that she had expected in her day-dreams.

She was getting a little frightened at her happiness.

Generations of Puritan forefathers and mothers had left some influence of Calvinism on her mentality.

She was brought up to believe in a jealous God, whose Providence when you felt too happy on earth just landed you in some unexpected disaster to fit you for the Kingdom of Heaven--a Kingdom which all healthy human beings shrink from entering with the terror of the unknown and a certain homeliness of disposition which is humbly content with this cosy planet and a corporeal existence.

However it was very nice to leave cards of calling on Lady Towcester--even though she was out of town on account of air-raids--and on others, inscribed: "Lady Rossiter, Colonel Sir Michael Rossiter, Sir Michael and Lady Rossiter;" and to see printed foolscap envelopes for Michael arrive from the War Office and lie on the hall table, addressed: Colonel Sir Michael Rossiter K. C. B.

etc. , etc. , etc. , etc. And later on, in January or February, for some very good reason, Sir Michael and Lady Rossiter were received in audience by the King and Queen at Buckingham Palace.

The King had already watched Sir Michael at work in his laboratory just behind the French front; so they two, as Linda timidly glanced at them, had no lack of subjects for conversation.

But the Queen!

Linda had thought she could _never_ have talked to a Queen without swooning, and indeed had arrived primed with much sal volatile.

Yet there, as in some realistic dream, she was led on to talk about her war charities and Sir Michael's experiments without trembling, and found herself able to listen with intelligence to the Queen's practical suggestions about war work and the application of relief funds in crowded districts.

"_We actually compared notes!

_" said a flushed and triumphant Linda to her Michael, as they drove away through the blue twilight of St. James's Park.

And so far from being puffed up by this, people said they had always thought Lady Rossiter was kind, but they really before had never imagined there was so much in her.

She was even allowed to preside as Vice President, in the absence of Lady Towcester; and got through it quite creditably--kind hearts being more than coronets--and made a little speech to which cook and Nance Adams called out "Hear, _Hear_!"

and roused quite a hearty response.

Of course it was an awful wrench when Michael had to return to France.

But he would be back in the autumn, and meantime she must remember she was a soldier's wife.

So the summer was got through with cheerfulness, especially as she was now treated with much more regard in the different committees whereof she was Vice President.

On these committees she met Honoria Armstrong, and the longing to renew the old friendship and talk about Michael's superlative qualities to one who had long known them, took her over to Kensington Square, impulsively.

Honoria perceived the need instinctively.

The coldness engendered by Linda's silly Anti-suffragism disappeared.

They both talked by the hour together of their respective husbands and their outstanding virtues and charming weaknesses.

The Armstrong children took to calling her Aunt Linda--Michael and Petworth, after all, were brothers-in-arms and friends from youth.

Lady Rossiter was delighted, and lavished presents on them, till Honoria reminded her it was war-time and extravagance in all things was reprehensible, even in British-made toys.

They discussed the Vote, soon to be theirs, and how it should be exercised.

From that--by some instinct--Honoria passed on to a talk about Vivien Warren ...

a selective talk.

She said nothing about David Williams, but enlarged on Vivie's absolute "straightness," especially towards other women; her business capacities, her restoration of her mother to the ranks of the respectable; till at last it seemed as though the burning down of racing stables was a meritorious act ...

"ridding England of an evil that good might come."

And there was poor Vivie, locked up in Brussels, if indeed she were still living.

Linda felt shocked at her own treachery to the Woman's Cause in having betrayed that poor, well-meaning Miss Warren to the police.

Never could she confess this to Lady Armstrong (Sir Petworth had just been knighted for a great success in battle), tell her about the fragment of letter she had forwarded anonymously to Scotland Yard.

Perhaps she might some day tell Michael, when he returned.

In any case she would say at the next opportunity that as soon as Miss Warren reappeared in England, he might ask her to the house as often as he liked--even to stay with them if she were in want of a home.

She said as much to Michael when he came back in September, 1917, to make some further investigations into bone grafting.

He seemed genuinely pleased at her broad-mindedness, and said it would indeed be delightful when the War was over--and it _surely_ must be over soon--now Mr. Lloyd George and Clemenceau and President Wilson had taken it in hand--it would indeed be delightful to form a circle of close friends who had all been interested in the Woman's Movement.

As to Vivie ...

if she were not dead ...

he should advise her to go in for Parliament.

He had had no news of her since ever so long; what was worse, he had now very great misgivings about Bertie Adams.

During the autumn of 1916 he had disappeared in the direction of La Bassée. There were stories of his having joined some American Relief Expedition at Lille--a most dangerous thing to do; insensate, if it were not a mad attempt to get through to Brussels in disguise to rescue Miss Warren.

No one in the Y. M. C. A.

believed for a moment that he had done anything dishonourable.

Most likely he had been killed--as so many Y. M. C. A.

people were just then, assisting to bring in the wounded or going up to the trenches with supplies.

Mrs. Adams had better be prepared, cautiously, for a bereavement.

Rossiter himself was very sad about it.

He had missed Bertie's services much these last three years.

He had never known a better worker--turn his hand to anything--Such a good indexer, for example.

Linda wondered whether _she_ could do any indexing?

Three years ago Michael would have replied: "_You?

_ Nonsense, my dear.

You'd only make a muddle of it.

Much better stick to your housekeeping" (which as a matter of fact was done in those days by cook, butler and parlour-maid).

But now he said, thoughtfully: "Well--I don't know--perhaps you might.

There's no reason you shouldn't try."

And Linda began trying.

But she also worked regularly in the laboratory now, calling it at his suggestion the lab, and stumbling no more over the word.

She wore a neat overall with tight sleeves and her hair plainly dressed under a little white, pleated cap.

She never now caught anything with her sleeve and switched it off the table; she never let anything drop, and was a most judicious duster and wiper-up.

Rossiter in this autumn of 1917 was extremely interested in certain crucial experiments he was making with spiculum in sponge-cells;

with scleroblasts, "mason-cells," osteoblasts, and "consciousness" in bone-cells.

Most of the glass jars in which these experiments were going on (those of the sponges in sea-water) required daylight for their progress.

There was no place for their storage more suitable than that portion of his studio-laboratory which was above ground; and the situation of his house in regard to air attacks, bombs, shrapnel seemed to him far more favourable than the upper rooms at the College of Surgeons.

That great building was often endangered because of its proximity to the Strand and Fleet Street;

and the Strand and Fleet Street, being regarded by the Germans as arteries of Empire, were frequently attacked by German air-craft.

But in Rossiter's studio there was an under-ground annex as continuation of the house cellars; and the household was instructed that if, in Rossiter's absence, official warnings of an air-raid were given, certain jars were to be lifted carefully off the shelves and brought either into the library or taken down below in case, through shrapnel or through the vibration of neighbouring explosions, the glass of the studio roof was broken.

One day in October, 1917, the German air fleet made a determined attack on London.

It was intended this time to belie the stories of the heart of the Western district being exempted from punishment because Lady So-and-so lived there and had lent her house in East Anglia to the Empress and her children in 1912, or because Sir Somebody-else was really an arch spy of the Germans and had to go on residing in London.

So the aeroplanes this time began distributing their explosives very carefully over the residential area between Regent's Park and Pall Mall, the Tottenham Court Road and Selfridge's. Lady Rossiter in her overall was disturbed at her indexing by the clamour of an approaching daylight raid; by the maroons, the clanging of bells, the hooters, the gunfire; and finally by the not very distant sounds of exploding bombs.

She called and rang for the servants, and then rushed from the library into the studio to commence removing the more important of the jars to a place of greater safety.

She had seized two of them, one under each arm, and was making for the library door, when there came the most awful crash she had ever heard, and resounding bangs which seemed to echo indefinitely in her ears....

Rossiter was working in the Prosectorium at the Zoo when the daylight air-raid began.

It seemed to be coming across the middle of London; so, hastily doffing his overall, he left the Gardens and walked rapidly towards Portland Place.

He had hardly got past the fountain presented by Sir Jamsetjee Jeejeebhoy in wasted benevolence, than he heard the deafening report of the bomb which had wrecked his studio, reduced it to a tangle of iron girders and stanchions, strewn its floor with brick rubble and thick dust, and left his wife a human wreck, lying unconscious with a broken spine, surrounded by splinters of glass, broken jars, porcelain trays, and nasty-looking fragments of sponge and vertebrate anatomy.

With an almost paralyzing premonition of disaster he ran as quickly as possible towards Park Crescent.

The Marylebone Road was strewn with glass, and a policeman--every one else had taken shelter--was ringing and knocking at his front door to ascertain the damage and possible loss of life.

Michael let both of them in with his latch-key.

In the hall the butler was lying prone, stunned by a small statue which had been flung at him by the capricious violence of the explosion.

All the mirrors were shivered and most of the pictures were down.

At the entrance to the library cook was standing, all of a tremble.

The two little Adamses rushed up to him: "Oh Sir Michael!

Mummie is dead and Gran'ma is awfully hurted."

But Mummie--Mrs. Adams--was not dead; neither was the expensive parlour-maid.

Both had fainted or been stunned by the explosion on their way to help their mistress.

Both lay inanimate on the library floor.

The library glass door was shivered to dangerous jagged splinters, but the iron framework--"Curse it"--remained a tangled, maddening obstacle to his further progress.

He could see through the splinters of thick glass something that looked like Linda, lying on her back--and--something that looked like blood.

The policeman who followed him was strong and adroit.

Together they detached the glass splinters and wrenched open the framework, with space enough, at any rate, to pass through without the rending of clothes into the studio.

Linda Rossiter was regaining consciousness for just a few more minutes of sentient life.

She was aware there had been a dreadful accident to some one; perhaps to herself.

But she fully believed she had first of all saved the precious jars.

No doubt they had put her to bed, and as there was something warm (her blood, poor thing) round her body, they must have packed her with hot water bottles.

Some idea of Michael's no doubt.

How _kind_ he was!

She would soon get right, with him to look after her.

She opened her eyes to meet his, as he bent over her, and said with the ghost of an arch smile: "I--have been--of some use--to you, haven't--I?

(then the voice faltered and trailed away) ...

I ...

saved--your--specimens--" CHAPTER XIX