STEADY OLD ADELA.

‘Leave, boys; leave!’ shouted Beefy one night, rushing in with battalion orders in his hand.

‘When is it?’ Ginger asked.

‘Next week.’

‘How long do we get, Beefy?’ I inquired.

‘Four days, my boys—four priceless days of priceless fun. Cheero!’ he concluded, throwing his cap in the air.

This was excellent news. Leave is our greatest joy in the army. At once we commenced to plan out days of fun and nights of glory. All were rather secret about their arrangements. They were scheming out timetables in which not one lady but many were involved. Nobby, however, confided to me that he was going off to see rather a pretty widow. She was good fun, and had lots of brass. (Nobby was after the brass.) Beefy whispered that he had a wonderful woman in Cambridge, and another in Bath. He was going to see both. Tosher, thoroughly practical, decided to investigate the claims of Scottish girls, and see whether a Scottish wife would be a sound investment for his dollars and his affections. Even Billy, the padre, was after a girl—a V.A.D. commandant, slightly over the popular age, but ‘a fine woman, a fine woman,’ as Billy confidentially remarked. Ginger announced that he was going to have a quiet holiday at the Sweetville Hotel. I said nothing, but thought of—the barmaid.

My own arrangements were not decided. Like that of every soldier, my visiting list was rather heavy, and in my address-book were the names of pre-war charmers and war charmers. To see them all was quite impossible. Fours days did not allow of that. Like a sub-editor, I had ‘to cut down,’ and eventually arrived at a very brief, yet interesting, programme. Having learnt something about organisation at the school, I knew how essential it was that there should be no hitch. So I sent off the following telegrams:

The Replies.

These replies came in one by one, and each was like a bomb. Truly, the war had upset things, and khaki provided a terrific opposition. I was mad, I may tell you. Like the others, I had invested in a first-class sleeping-berth on the London Express, and had arranged for a royal luncheon with the boys en route. Now the whole scheme had fizzled out. Of course, I could have gone to see the dear old mater; but as I had told her such a ‘whopper,’ this would have been rather embarrassing. Wasn’t it rotten bad luck? Molly Charming running a staff-captain; Phyllis Plunger in the W.A.A.C.’s; Jeanette, of wonderful memory, in a convent; and Gladys Sprightly actually linked to an army chaplain! I did feel offended. Of course, there was Adela—steady old Adela. She was only five miles away, and she was dying to see me. But I didn’t want to go, for the very plain reason that she wanted me to come. Whether you agree or not, that is the attitude of the average man. When the Blue Bird of Happiness is in his hand, he does not want it. His eyes look away and afar. Man always desires to chase the unknown, to court the uncertain, and fritter away his time and his manhood pursuing the bubbles and the maddening mirage.

‘You look glum, John,’ remarked Beefy that night.

‘Yes. My scheme has fizzled out.’

‘You’re a silly ass.’

‘Why?’

‘Hang it all! you wire women, asking to see them. That isn’t the plan. You don’t understand the dear girls.’

‘Well, old Bluebeard, what would you do?’

‘I simply wire: “Coming to see you. Meet me at So-and-so—certain.” That’s all! They turn up all right. It’s an order. Women love to be ordered about. When you start to say “please,” they think you’re a bally old fool. I’m getting fed up trying to educate you,’ concluded Beefy, going off.

On this subject Beefy was an authority.

However, I decided to go and see Adela. When all the boys had left I jumped on my bike, and in a short time was sitting in the lovely old garden. It was a charming day. High in the heavens the sun shone gloriously. The earth was a panorama of pastoral beauty, and above The Grange garden birds and bees went blithely on their way. Everything was restful. Everything seemed clean. And I thought it a much better atmosphere than the fug of a London lounge or the sooty surroundings of Oxford Street. And yet there was a longing for the lights that glitter, and the women who understand. I was only a boy, and just human. My virtues and vices were not entirely formed. One day I could with ease have become a parson; next, I wanted—’to risk it.’ Heredity tells. I had the blood of parsons, soldiers, and dreamers in my veins. In my soul God and the Devil were always struggling for victory. I was the mere tool of moods and passions which had been handed on.

We are all like that.

Then I looked at Adela. She was reclining in an Oriental hammock reading a book, and between-times picking up a chocolate. She looked calm and restful, without nerves, and with a suggestion of decision in her pose. Adela was not so fetching as a ballet-girl, or so charming as one of those creatures of Mayfair. London women are very hard to beat in the little things which captivate and enthral. Their experience is gained in a cosmopolitan world. They talk with the intellectuals and dance with the fools. And they can charm both.

Adela was of the soil, the fresh, clean-smelling earth which breeds health and strength, and few illusions. She had no tricks, no little bag with a puff for her nose, or the dainty fads of millinery to enhance her complexion or form. Plain skirt, plain blouse, neat stockings, and well-cut shoes. And yet she was well dressed. The girl of taste is not a bag of glad rags. But the real charm of Adela lay in her magnificent physique, and in her personality.

Adela was different.

No man can define a woman’s personality. It is as baffling as it is alluring. And what I wondered about was this: Adela knew me, yet I didn’t know Adela. A man is an open book even to a schoolgirl. She can find him out in ten minutes, but you will never find a girl out in a thousand years. A man hates this. It is rather an insult to his intellect, but it is a woman’s secret and her strength. She knows it, and she uses it, sometimes in a very cruel way, as history proves. Still, it is a gift of nature with which Providence has endowed the sex, which for centuries has been in chains.

Adela was young. Yet she was ‘old.’

‘Johnnie,’ she said, putting down her book and looking at me, ‘why didn’t you go to the tailor?’

I had been waiting for that question, so promptly pulled the telegrams out of my pocket, and said, ‘That’s why,’ as I put them in her hand. It was a brutal thing to do, but it was a fair thing. The dons had always insisted on my speaking the truth. Not a bad rule, but quite a rotten scheme with the average girl.

Insincerity has always been popular.

Her brows contracted as she read each reply, and I noted her breast heaving with suspense. She read them over about a dozen times, then, folding them up, handed them back with the remark, ‘I thought so!’

‘Why did you?’

‘You are all the same.’

‘But aren’t girls good at the game?’

‘Yes—some are. Others are different; at least, a few are.’

‘You are posing, Adela.’

‘No, Johnnie! I like you, but I can do without you. I haven’t much admiration for that sort of thing.’

‘If I hadn’t shown them to you, you wouldn’t have known.’

‘Oh yes, I should. I know you. You are quite a nice boy, but, like all nice boys, you’ve been spoiled. Girls have thrown themselves at you, and you think you may go on like that to the end of the chapter. Nevertheless, I’m rather interested in you.’

‘But, Adela, if, as you say, you expected this, why were you so pressing in your invitation? Why did you want to be “one of the crowd”?’

‘The maternal instinct.’

‘But you are competing with them.’

‘Not at all, old boy; I’m doing salvage-work. I’m giving you a breath of fresh air in this beautiful garden; then afternoon tea; next a game of golf; in the evening a stroll over the Downs, with just a kiss or two, without messing you up with rouge or powder. If, after that, you feel that the dolls of Bond Street want you, you must go; for then I’ll know you’re a decadent, hopelessly neurotic, and bound to end up—a fool.’

‘Where did you learn all this, Adela?’ I said, getting interested.

‘It’s an instinct, and, of course, I use my eyes. We girls have been to school, you know.’

‘The war has made you think, I suppose?’

‘The war, Johnnie, is messing things up. Women are making themselves cheap. They mean well. They want the boys to have a good time, but both are getting burnt in the process. You have learnt too much in France.’

‘But we knew these things before the war, Adela.’

‘The war, Johnnie, has made them fashionable—that’s the difference. Shell-fire makes you boys neurotic. Your nerves want soothing. But you all go the wrong way about it. It’s fresh air and porridge you need, not giggling Jennies, who degrade your manhood.’

‘But, hang it all, Adela! if we’re beating a brute like the Boche, we can’t be hopelessly decadent. You read things in the papers. You’ve got too much time to think. If you saw the soul of the army, you’d know we are at least “not bad.”’

‘Perhaps. But why don’t you all stick to your games?’

‘We try, but you women upset the balance. All the trouble in this world is due either to wine or to women. You’re sent to try us, and sometimes you smash us. Despite that, Adela, you are all very charming. And, to be short, if you hadn’t been decent, I shouldn’t have come to-day. Let’s have tea.’

‘Right, you old darling!’ she whispered into my ear as she tumbled out of the hammock. Then she set out a dainty table, the maid brought the tea, and, under the arms of some old, waving chestnut-trees, we munched a refreshing snack. We didn’t talk much. I was enjoying the scenery, and the presence of Adela; while Her Royal Highness was no doubt wondering what extraordinary creatures we fellows are.

‘Now, Johnnie, I think we’ll cut the golf, and go over the Downs instead.’

‘Any old thing for a quiet life,’ I said, rising.

She got her stick, called her favourite dogs, and away we went across the sweet-smelling fields, where the bees hummed in the clover, and the larks sang high overhead. The air was stimulating, the surrounding country beautiful; while the presence of Adela added the final touch to a rustic dream. It was sporting. It was healthy. It was clean. The spirit of romance was there, and the poetic side of my nature was roused to its heights. I certainly did feel that the green vales of the Old Land, and the real girls of the Old Land, were indeed our best possessions. Somehow the whole thing appeared to me as a sort of moral lesson, as well as a silent sermon on patriotism.

I became prouder of my country.

I felt decent with Adela.

And so we ambled along, drinking in the joys of nature, and chatting of many things. It wasn’t the smart talk of Mayfair, in which I was an expert. It was just straight, frank, none-of-your-damn-nonsense kind, in which we looked at things with our eyes, and not through rose-coloured glasses. And you can talk about many things, once barred, without loss of modesty or self-respect. After all, education has spread. And if education can bring a man and a woman together on an equal plane, our country must benefit. A man wants a girl for a chum, a confidante, and a lifelong companion, and not as a serf, a housekeeper, and just—A COOK.

Yes, that was a memorable day in my life, and it was near the turning-point. The school, with all its deficiencies, was making its mark; while Adela was working hard, although I didn’t notice it at the time. From the dear old commandant, too, I had gained the spirit of tolerance and the milk of human kindness. Captain Cheerall had also stirred me to probe and analyse the human soul; while my comrades had given me the joys of friendship and the value of understanding.

John Brown was beginning to be—A MAN.

After the walk, we had dinner with the family. The mother was a delightful old lady, full of good-nature and shrewd common-sense. The father was equally pleasant; but Winnie, the sister, was down in the depths. She was thinking of Beefy—dear, kind-hearted, devil-may-care, old Beefy.

Women always love the daring Don Juans.

‘Let me help you,’ said Adela, as I took my coat from the stand about half-past ten.

‘Thanks, old girl.’

She lifted it on, then took my arm down the drive. When we got to the gate, she remarked, ‘Johnnie, I want you to do something.’

‘What, Adela?’

‘Give me those telegrams.’

‘With pleasure,’ I said, handing them over. ‘But what are you going to do with them?’

‘Burn them,’ she answered, striking a match and lighting them there and then. As the last telegram flickered out she kissed me good-night, and said, ‘Do try to be a sensible boy, John Brown.’

Next day I bought the engagement-ring.