CHAPTER VIII

“Tell me, Mr. Lessingham,” Philippa insisted, “exactly what are you

thinking of? You looked so dark and mysterious from the ridge below that

I've climbed up on purpose to ask you.”

Lessingham held out his hand to steady her. They were standing on

a sharp spur of the cliffs, the north wind blowing in their faces,

thrashing into little flecks of white foam the sea below, on which the

twilight was already resting. For a moment or two neither of them could

speak.

“I was thinking of my country,” he confessed. “I was looking through the

shadows there, right across the North Sea.”

“To Germany?”

He shook his head.

“Further away--to Sweden.”

“I forgot,” she murmured. “You looked as though you were posing for a

statue of some one in exile,” she observed. “Come, let us go a little

lower down--unless you want to stay here and be blown to pieces.”

“I was on my way back to the hotel,” he answered quickly, as he followed

her lead, “but to tell you the truth I was feeling a little lonely.”

“That,” she declared, “is your own fault. I asked you to come to

Mainsail Haul whenever you felt inclined.”

“As I have felt inclined ever since the evening I arrived,” he remarked

with a smile, “you might, perhaps, by this time have had a little too

much of me.”

“On the contrary,” she told him, “I quite expected you yesterday

afternoon, to tell me how you like the place and what you have been

doing. So you were thinking about--over there?” she added, moving her

head seawards.

“Over there absorbs a great deal of one's thoughts,” he confessed, “and

the rest of them have been playing me queer tricks.”

“Well, I should like to hear about the first half,” she insisted.

“Do you know,” he replied, “there are times when even now this war seems

to me like an unreal thing, like something I have been reading about,

some wild imagining of Shelley or one of the unrestrainable poets. I

can't believe that millions of the flower of Germany's manhood and

yours have perished helplessly, hopelessly, cruelly. And France--poor

decimated France!”

“Well, Germany started the war, you know,” she reminded him.

“Did she?” he answered. “I sometimes wonder. Even now I fancy, if the

official papers of every one of the nations lay side by side, with their

own case stated from their own point of view, even you might feel a

little confused about that. Still, I am going to be very honest with

you. I think myself that Germany wanted war.”

“There you are, then,” she declared triumphantly. “The whole thing is

her responsibility.”

“I do not quite go so far as that,” he protested. “You see, the world is

governed by great natural laws. As a snowball grows larger with rolling,

so it takes up more room. As a child grows out of its infant clothes, it

needs the vestments of a youth and then a man. And so with Germany. She

grew and grew until the country could not hold her children, until her

banks could not contain her money, until she stretched her arms out on

every side and felt herself stifled. Germany came late into the world

and found it parcelled out, but had she not a right to her place? She

made herself great. She needed space.”

“Well,” Philippa observed, “you couldn't suppose that other nations

were going to give up what they had, just because she wanted their

possessions, could you?”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “And yet, you see, the immutable law comes

in here. The stronger must possess--not only the stronger by arms,

mind, but by intellect, by learning, by proficiency in science, by

utilitarianism. The really cruel part, the part I was thinking of then,

as I looked out across the sea, is that this crude and miserable resort

to arms should be necessary.”

“If only Germans themselves were as broad-minded and reasonable as

you,” Philippa sighed, “one feels that there might be some hope for the

future!”

“I am not alone,” he assured her, “but, you see, all over Germany there

is spread like a spider's web the lay religion of the citizen--devotion

to the Government, blind obedience to the Kaiser. Independent thought

has made Germany great in science, in political economy, in economics.

But independent thought is never turned towards her political destinies.

Those are shaped for her. For good or for evil her children have learnt

obedience.”

They were descending the hillside now. At their feet lay the little

town, black and silent.

“You have helped me to understand a little,” Philippa said. “You put

things so gently and yet so clearly. Now tell me, will you not, how it

is that you, who are a Swede by birth, are bearing arms for Germany?”

“That is very simple,” he confessed. “My mother was a German, and when

she died she bequeathed to me large estates in Bavaria, and a very

considerable fortune. These I could never have inherited unless I

had chosen to do my military service in Germany. My family is an

impoverished one, and I have brothers and sisters dependent upon me.

Under the circumstances, hesitation on my part was impossible.”

“But when the war came?” she queried.

He looked at her in surprise.

“What was there left for me then?” he demanded. “Naturally I heard

nothing but the voice of those whom I had sworn to obey. I was in that

mad rush through Belgium. I was wounded at Maubeuge, or else I should

have followed hard on the heels of that wonderful retreat of yours.

As it was, I lay for many months in hospital. I joined again--shall I

confess it?--almost unwillingly. The bloodthirstiness of it all sickened

me. I fought at Ypres, but I think that it was something of the courage

of despair, of black misery. I was wounded again and decorated. I

suppose I shall never be fit for the front again. I tried to turn to

account some of my knowledge of England and English life. Then they sent

me here.”

“Here, of all places in the world!” Philippa repeated wonderingly.

“Just look at us! We have a single line of railway, a perfectly

straightforward system of roads, the ordinary number of soldiers being

trained, no mysteries, no industries--nothing. What terrible scheme are

you at work upon, Mr. Lessingham?”

He smiled.

“Between you and me,” he confided, “I am not at all sure that I am not

here on a fool's errand--at least I thought so when I arrived.”

She glanced up at him.

“And why not now?”

He made no answer, but their eyes met and Philippa looked hurriedly

away. There was a moment's queer, strained silence. Before them loomed

up the outline of Mainsail Haul.

“You will come in and have some tea, won't you?” she invited.

“If I may. Believe me,” he added, “it has only been a certain diffidence

that has kept me away so long.”

She made no reply, and they entered the house together. They found Helen

and Nora, with three or four young men from the Depot, having tea in the

drawing-room. Lessingham slipped very easily into the pleasant little

circle. If a trifle subdued, his quiet manners, and a sense of humour

which every now and then displayed itself, were most attractive.

“Wish you'd come and dine with us and meet our colonel, sir,” Harrison

asked him. “He was at Magdalen a few years after Major Felstead, and I

am sure you'd find plenty to talk about.”

“I am quite sure that we should,” Lessingham replied. “May I come,

perhaps, towards the end of next week? I am making most strenuous

efforts to lead an absolutely quiet life here.”

“Whenever you like, sir. We sha'n't be able to show you anything very

wild in the way of dissipation. Vintage port and a decent cigar are the

only changes we can make for guests.”

Philippa drew her visitor on one side presently, and made him sit with

her in a distant corner of the room.

“I knew there was something I wanted to say to you,” she began, “but

somehow or other I forgot when I met you. My husband was very much

struck with Helen's improved spirits. Don't you think that we had better

tell him, when he returns, that we had heard from Major Felstead?”

Lessingham agreed.

“Just let him think that your letters came by post in the ordinary way,”

he advised. “I shouldn't imagine, from what I have seen of your husband,

that he is a suspicious person, but it is just possible that he might

have associated them with me if you had mentioned them the other night.

When is he coming back?”

“I never know,” Philippa answered with a sigh. “Perhaps to-night,

perhaps in a week. It depends upon what sport he is having. You are not

smoking.”

Lessingham lit a cigarette.

“I find your husband,” he said quietly, “rather an interesting type. We

have no one like that in Germany. He almost puzzles me.”

Philippa glanced up to find her companion's dark eyes fixed upon her.

“There is very little about Henry that need puzzle any one,” she

complained bitterly. “He is just an overgrown, spoilt child, devoted to

amusements, and following his fancy wherever it leads him. Why do

you look at me, Mr. Lessingham, as though you thought I was keeping

something back? I am not, I can assure you.”

“Perhaps I was wondering,” he confessed, “how you really felt towards a

husband whose outlook was so unnatural.”

She looked down at her intertwined fingers.

“Do you know,” she said softly, “I feel, somehow or other, although we

have known one another such a short time, as though we were friends,

and yet that is a question which I could not answer. A woman must always

have some secrets, you know.”

“A man may try sometimes to preserve his,” he sighed, “but a woman is

clever enough, as a rule, to dig them out.”

A faint tinge of colour stole into her cheeks. She welcomed Helen's

approach almost eagerly.

“A woman must first feel the will,” she murmured, without glancing at

him. “Helen, do you think we dare ask Mr. Lessingham to come and dine?”

“Please do not discourage such a delightful suggestion,” Lessingham

begged eagerly.

“I haven't the least idea of doing so,” Helen laughed, “so long as I may

have--say just ten minutes to talk about Dick.”

“It is a bargain,” he promised.

“We shall be quite alone,” Philippa warned him, “unless Henry arrives.”

“It is the great attraction of your invitation,” he confessed.

“At eight o'clock, then.”