Major Guthrie looked at Mrs. Otway meditatively.

Apart from his instinctive attraction for her—an attraction which had sprung into being the very first time they had met, at a dinner party at the Deanery—he had always regarded her as an exceptionally clever woman. She was able to do so much more than most of the ladies he had known. To his simple soldier mind there was something interesting and, well, yes, rather extraordinary, in a woman who sat on committees, who could hold her own so well in argument, and who yet remained very feminine, sometimes—so he secretly thought—quite delightfully absurd and inconsequent, with it all.

Major Guthrie had always been sorry that Mrs. Otway and his mother didn’t exactly hit it off. His mother had once been a beauty, and was now a rather shrewish, sharp-tongued old lady, who had outlived most of the people and most of the things she had cared for in life. Mrs. Otway irritated Mrs. Guthrie. The old lady despised the still pretty widow’s eager, interested, enthusiastic outlook on life.

Suddenly Major Guthrie took a large pocket-book out of his right breast pocket. He opened it, and Mrs. Otway saw that it contained a packet of bank-notes held together by an india-rubber band. There was also an empty white envelope in the pocket-book. Slipping off the band, he began counting the notes. When he had counted four, she called out, “Stop! Stop! I am only giving you a twenty-pound cheque.” And then she saw that they were not five-pound notes, as she had supposed, but ten-pound notes.

He went on counting, and mechanically, hardly knowing that she was doing so, she counted with him up to ten. He then took the envelope he had brought with him, put the ten notes inside, and getting up from his chair he laid the envelope on Mrs. Otway’s writing-table by the window.

“I want you to keep this by you in case of need. I know you will forgive me if I say that I shall go away feeling much happier if you will oblige me by doing what I ask in this matter.” Under the tan his face had got very red, and there was a deprecating expression in his dark blue eyes.

“I don’t understand,” she said, and the colour also rushed into her face.

“I beg of you not to be angry with me——” Major Guthrie stood up and looked down at her so humbly, so wistfully, that she felt touched instead of angry. “You see, I don’t like the thought of your being caught, as you’ve been caught this week apparently, without any money in the house.”

But if Mrs. Otway felt touched by the kind thought which had prompted the offer of this uncalled-for loan, she also felt just a little vexed. Major Guthrie was treating her just like a child!

“I’m not in the least likely to be short of money,” she cried, “once the banks are open again. The Dean says that everything will be as usual by Monday, and I have quite a lot of money coming in towards the end of this month. In fact, as we can’t now go abroad, I shall be even richer than usual. Still, please don’t think I’m not grateful!”

She got up too, and looked at him frankly. The colour had now gone from his face, and he looked tired and grey. She told herself that it had been very kind of him to have thought of this—the act of a true friend. And so, a little shyly, she put out her hand for a moment, naturally supposing that he would grasp it in friendship. But he did nothing of the sort, so she quietly let her hand fall again by her side, and feeling rather foolish sat down again by her writing-table.

“With regard to the money you are expecting at the end of this month—do you mean the dividends due on the amount you put in that Six Per Cent. Hamburg Loan?” he asked, quietly going back to his armchair.

“Yes, it is six per cent. on four thousand pounds—quite a lot of money!” She spoke in a playful tone, but she was beginning to feel embarrassed and awkward. It was, after all, an odd thing for Major Guthrie to have done—to bring her the considerable sum of a hundred pounds in bank-notes without even first asking her permission to do so.

The envelope containing the notes was still lying there, close to her elbow.

“I’m afraid, Mrs. Otway, that you’re not likely to have those dividends paid you this August. All money payments from Germany to England, or from England to Germany, have of course stopped since Wednesday.”

And then, when he saw the look of utter dismay deepening into horrified surprise come over her face, he added hastily, “Of course we must hope that these moneys will be kept intact till the end of the war. Still, I doubt very much whether your bankers would allow you to draw on that probability, even if you were willing to pay a high rate of interest. German credit is likely to suffer greatly before this war is over.”

“But Major Guthrie? I don’t suppose you know what this means to me and to Rose. Why, more than half of everything we have in the world is invested in Germany!”

“I know that,” he said feelingly. “In fact, that was among the first things, Mrs. Otway, which occurred to me when I learnt that war had been declared. I expected to find you very much upset about it.”

“I never gave it a thought; I didn’t know a war could affect that sort of thing. What a fool I’ve been! Oh, if only I’d followed your advice—I mean two years ago!” She spoke with a great deal of painful agitation, and Major Guthrie felt very much distressed indeed. It was hard that he should have had to be the bearer of such ill tidings.

“I blame myself very, very much,” he said sombrely, “for not having insisted on your putting that money into English or Colonial securities.”

“Oh, but you did insist!” Even now, in the midst of her keen distress, the woman’s native honesty and generosity of nature asserted itself. “You couldn’t have said more! Don’t you remember that we nearly quarrelled over it? Short of forging my name and stealing my money and investing it properly for me, you couldn’t have done anything more than you did do, Major Guthrie.”

“That you should say that is a great comfort to me,” he said in a low voice. “But even so, I don’t feel as if I’d really done enough. You see, I was as sure—as sure as ever man was of anything—that this war was going to come either this year or next! As a matter of fact I thought it would be next year—I thought the Germans would wish to be even more ready than they are.”

“But do you really think they are ready?” she said doubtfully. “Look how badly they’ve been doing at LiÉge.” It was strange how Mrs. Otway’s mind had veered round in the last few minutes. She now wanted the Germans to be beaten, and beaten quickly.

He shook his head impatiently. “Wait till they get into their stride!” And then, in a different, a more diffident voice, “Then you’ll consent to relieve my mind by keeping the contents of that envelope—I mean of course by spending them? As a matter of fact I’ve a confession to make to you.” He looked at her deprecatingly. “I’ve just arranged with my London banker to make up those Hamburg dividends. He’ll send you the money in notes. He understands——” and then he got rather red. “He understands that I’m practically your trustee, Mrs. Otway.”

“But, Major Guthrie—it isn’t true! How could you say such a thing?”

She felt confused, unhappy, surprised, awkward, grateful. Of course she couldn’t take this man’s money! He was a friend, in some ways a very close friend of hers, but she hadn’t known him more than four years. If she should run short of money, why there must be a dozen people or more on whose friendship she had a greater claim, and who could, and would, help her.

And then Mary Otway suddenly ran over in secret review her large circle of old friends and acquaintances, and she realised, with a shock of pain and astonishment, that there was not one of them to whom she would wish to go for help in that kind of trouble. Of her wide circle—and like most people of her class she had a very wide circle—there was only one person, and that was the man who was now sitting looking at her with so much concern in his eyes, to whom it would even have occurred to her to confess that her income had failed through her foolish belief in the stability, and the peaceful intentions, of Germany.

Far, far quicker than it would have taken for her to utter her thoughts aloud, these painful thoughts and realisations flashed through her brain. If she had been content to put into this Hamburg Loan only the amount of the legacy she had inherited three years ago! But she had done more than that—she had sold out sound English railway stock after that interview she had had with a pleasant-speaking German business man in the big London Hamburg Loan office. He had said to her, “Madam, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!” And she had believed him. The kind German friend who had written to her about the matter had certainly acted in good faith. Of that she could rest assured. But this was very small consolation now.

“So you see, Mrs. Otway, that it’s all settled—been settled over your head, as it were. And you’ll oblige me, you’ll make me feel that you’re really treating me as a friend, if you say nothing more about it.”

And then, as she still remained silent, and as Major Guthrie could see by the expression of her face that she meant to refuse what he so generously and delicately offered her, he went on:

“I feel now that I ought to tell you something which I had meant to keep to myself.” He cleared his throat—and hum’d and hum’d a little. “I’m sure you’ll understand that every sensible man, when going on active service, makes a fresh will. I’ve already written out my instructions to my solicitor, and he will prepare a will for me to sign to-morrow.” He waited a moment, and then added, as lightly as he could: “I’ve left you a thousand pounds, which I’ve arranged you should receive immediately on my death. You see, I’m a lonely man, and all my relations are well off. I think you know, without my telling out, that I’ve become very much attached to you—to you and to Miss Rose.”

And still Mrs. Otway was too much surprised, and yes, too much moved, to speak. Major Guthrie was indeed proving himself a true friend.

“Under ordinary circumstances,” he went on slowly, “this clause in my will would be of very little practical interest to you, for I am a healthy man. But we’re up against a very big thing, Mrs. Otway——” He did not like to add that it was quite possible she would receive his legacy before she had had time to dip very far into the money he was leaving with her.

She looked at him with a troubled look. And yet? And yet, though it was not perhaps very reasonable that it should be so, somehow she did feel that the fact that Major Guthrie was leaving her—and Rose—the legacy of which he spoke, made a difference. It would make it easier, that is, to accept the money that lay there on her table. Though Major Guthrie was not, in the technical sense, a clever man, he had a far more intimate knowledge of human character than had his friend.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said at last.

He answered rather sharply, “I don’t want you to thank me. And Mrs. Otway? I can say now what I’ve never had the opportunity of saying, that is, how much I’ve felt honoured by your friendship—what a lot it’s meant to me.”

He said the words in a rather hard, formal voice, and she answered, with far more emotion than he had betrayed, “And it’s been a very, very great thing for me, too, Major Guthrie. Do please believe that!”

He bowed his head gravely. “Well, I must be going now,” he said, a little heavily and sadly. “Oh, and one thing more—I should be very grateful if you’d go and see my mother sometimes. During the last few days hardly a soul’s been near her. Of course I know how different you are the one from the other, but all the same——” he hesitated a moment. “My mother has fine qualities, once you get under that—well, shall I call it that London veneer? She saw a great deal of the world after she became a widow, while she was keeping house for a brother—when I was in India. She’d like to see Rose, too”—unconsciously he dropped the “Miss.” “She likes young people, especially pretty girls.”

“Of course I’ll go and see her, and so will Rose! You know I’ve always liked Mrs. Guthrie better than she liked me. I’m not ‘smart’ enough for her.” Mrs. Otway laughed without a trace of bitterness. And then with sudden seriousness she asked him a curious question: “How long d’you think you’ll be away?”

“D’you mean how long do I think the War will last?”

Somehow she had not thought of her question quite in that sense. “Yes: I suppose that is what I do mean.”

“I think it will be a long war. It will certainly last a year—perhaps a good deal longer.”

He walked over to the window nearest the door. Standing there, he told himself that he was looking perhaps for the last time on the dear, familiar scene before him: on the green across which high elms now flung their short morning shadows; on the encompassing houses, some of exceeding stateliness and beauty, others of a simpler, less distinguished character, yet each instinct with a dignity and seemliness which exquisitely harmonised it with its finer fellows; and finally on the slender Gothic loveliness of the Cathedral.

“I’m trying to learn this view by heart,” said Major Guthrie, in a queer, muffled voice. “I’ve always thought it the most beautiful view in England—the one that stands for all a man cares for, all he would fight for.”

Mrs. Otway was touched—touched and pleased too. She knew that her friend was baring to her a very secret chamber of his heart.

“It is a beautiful, peaceful outlook,” she said quietly. “I was thinking so not long before you came in—when I was sitting here, reading the strange, dreadful news in to-day’s paper.”

He turned away from the window and looked at her. She saw in the shadow that his face looked grey and strained. “Major Guthrie?” she began, a little shyly.

“Yes?” he said rather quickly. “Yes, Mrs. Otway?”

“I only want to ask if you would like me to write to you regularly with news of Mrs. Guthrie?”

“Will you really? How good of you; I didn’t like to ask you to do that! I know how busy you always are.” But he still lingered, as if loth to go away. Perhaps he was waiting on in the hope that Rose would come in.

“Do you know where you will land in France?” she asked, more to say something than for any real reason, for she knew very little of France.

“I am not sure,” he answered hesitatingly. And then, “Still, I have a very shrewd idea of where they are going to fix the British base. I think it will be Boulogne. But, Mrs. Otway? Perhaps I ought to tell you again that all I’ve told you to-day is private. I may count on your discretion, may I not?” He looked at her a little anxiously.

“Of course I won’t tell any one,” she said quickly. “You really do mean not any one—not even the Dean?”

“Yes,” he said. “I really do mean not any one. In fact I should prefer your not telling even Miss Rose.”

“Oh, let me tell Rose,” she said eagerly. “I always tell her everything. She is far more discreet than I am!” And this was true.

“Well, tell Miss Rose and no one else,” he said. “I don’t even know myself when I am going, where I am going, or how I am going.”

They were now standing in the hall.

“Then you don’t expect to be long in London?” she said.

“No. I should think I shall only be there two or three days. Of course I’ve got to get my kit, and to see people at the War Office, and so on.” He added in a low voice, “There’s not going to be any repetition of the things that went on at the time of the Boer War—no leave-takings, no regiments marching through the streets. It’s our object, so I understand, to take the Germans by surprise. Everything is going to be done to keep the fact that the Expeditionary Force is going to France a secret for the present. I had that news by the second post; an old friend of mine at the War Office wrote to me.”

He gripped her hand in so tight a clasp that it hurt. Then he turned the handle of the front door, opened it, and was gone.

Mrs. Otway felt a sudden longing for sympathy. She went straight into the kitchen. “Anna!” she exclaimed, “Major Guthrie is going back into the Army! England is sending troops over to the Continent to help the Belgians!”

“Ach!” exclaimed Anna. “To Ostend?” She had once spent a summer at Ostend in a boarding-house, where she had been hard-worked and starved. Since then she had always hated the Belgians.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Otway quickly. “Not to Ostend. To Boulogne, in France.”