Changing Winds

"You still want me, Mary?..."

"My dear," she said, half laughing and half crying, "I've always wanted you!... Oh, what's the good," she went on with an impetuous rush of words, "of loving a man only when he comes up to your expectations. I want to love you even when you don't come up to my expectations, Quinny, and I do love you, dear. It hasn't anything to do with whether you're brave or not brave, or good or bad, or great or common. I just love you... don't you see?... because you're _you_!..."

He stared at her incredulously. He had been so certain that she would bid him leave her when she learned of his cowardice.

"But!..."

"Come home," she said. "You must be very tired, and cold!"

She put her arm in his, and drew him homewards, and he yielded to her like a little child.

As they turned the corner of the apple-orchard, they could see lights s.h.i.+ning from the windows of the Manor, making a warm splash on the snow that lay in drifts about the garden. There was a great quietness that was broken now and then by the twittering of birds in the hedges as they nestled for the night, or the cries made by the screech-owls, hooting in the copse.

8

Mrs. Graham and Rachel had left them alone for a while, after dinner, and as he sat, with her at his feet, fondling her hair, she spoke of her feeling for him again.

"I've wondered sometimes," she said, "about your not joining... it seemed odd... but I thought that perhaps there was something that would explain it. I'd like you to join, Quinny... I can't pretend that I wouldn't... but I don't feel that I ought to ask you to do so. If I were a man I should join, I think, but I'm not a man, and I'm not likely to have to suffer any of the things that a man has to suffer if he goes... and so I don't say anything. I don't know why I'd like you to go...

I ought to be glad that you haven't gone because I love you and I don't want to lose you... but all the same I'd like you to go. It isn't just because other men have gone, and I don't feel any desire for revenge because Ninian's been killed... it's just because England's England, I suppose...." She laughed a little nervously. "I can hardly expect you to feel about England as I do. You're Iris.h.!.+.."

"I've made that excuse for myself, Mary. Don't you make it for me. I know inside me that the war isn't England's war... it's the world's war. John Marsh admits that much. He doesn't like English rule in Ireland, but he doesn't pretend that German rule would be better... not seriously, anyhow. No, dear, I haven't that excuse. I know that if we lose this war, the world will be a worse place to live in than it is. I haven't any conscientious objection... I don't feel that we are in the wrong... I feel that we're in the right... that we never were so right as we are. I'm simply anxious to save my skin. And even if I felt that John Marsh were right in being anti-English, I don't feel that I have any right to take up that att.i.tude. England's done no wrong to my family.... You see, dear, I haven't any excuse that's worth while...

except the wish to preserve my life... and that's a poor excuse.

"Don't, dear!" she murmured.

"Perhaps I shall conquer this... this meanness. I want to conquer it. I want to behave as I believe. I believe that there are things one should be glad to fight for and die for... and I want to feel glad to fight for them and be ready to die for them. But now I feel most that I want to be safe... to go on living and living and enjoying things...."

"But can you enjoy things if they're not worth dying for, Quinny? If England weren't worthy dying for, would it be worth living in! That's how I feel!"

"That's how I _think_, Mary, but it isn't how I _feel_. I feel that I want to be safe no matter what happens... if civilisation is to go to smash and we're to be driven back to savagery, distrusting and being distrusted... I feel that I don't care... that I want to be safe, to go on living, even if I have to live in a cave and hide from everything.... Oh, my dear, don't you see what a poor thing I am!"

"Yes," she said simply.

"And yet you're willing to marry me?"

"Yes. I can't help loving you, any more than I can help loving my country. I can't explain it and I don't want to explain it. If I were a man and England were in the wrong, I'd fight for England just because she's England. Everything makes me feel like that. When Ninian was killed, something went on saying, 'You're Englis.h.!.+ You mustn't cry!

You're Englis.h.!.+' And when I look at the trees outside, I feel that they're English, too, and that they're telling me I'm English... that somehow they're special trees, different from the trees in other countries... that they've got something that I've got, and that I've got something they've got... something that a French tree or a German tree hasn't got.... Oh, I know it's silly, but I can't help it... and when I used to walk about the lanes and fields after Ninian's death...

I felt that the birds and the gra.s.s and the ferns and everything were saying 'You're Englis.h.!.+' and I wanted to say back to them, 'You're English, too!...' I suppose people feel like that everywhere... those friends of yours in Ireland must feel like that about Ireland... and Germans, too!..."

He nodded his head. "It's a madness, this nationality," he said, "but you can't get a cure for it. Even I feel it!"

"Quinny!"

"Yes, Mary!"

There was a nervous note in her voice. She got up, so that she was on her knees, and fingered the lapels of his coat.

"Quinny!" she said again, and he waited for her to proceed. "I... I want us to get married... soon! You'll probably go into the Army...

n.o.body could go on feeling as you do, and not go in... and I'd like us to... to have had some time together... before you go. I don't want to be married to you just... just a day or two before you go. I... I want to have lived with you and to... to have taken care of your house...

with you in it!..."

He folded her in his arms.

"You will, Quinny?" she said.

"Yes," he answered.

THE ELEVENTH CHAPTER

1

They were to be married as soon as Lent was over. Mrs. Graham, reluctant to lose Mary, had pleaded for delay, urging that Ballymartin was so far from Boveyhaven that she would seldom see her. "Two days' post," she protested.

"But you'll come and stay with us, mother," Mary declared, "and we'll come and stay with you!"

It would be quite easy for Henry to come to Devons.h.i.+re, for he could carry his work about with him. Then Mrs. Graham had yielded to them, and it was settled that the marriage was to take place at the beginning of May. Neither Mary nor he had spoken again of the question of enlistment.

She had said all that was in her mind about it, and what followed was for him to decide.

He went back to Ballymartin. There were things to be done at home in preparation for the coming of a bride. The house had not known a mistress since his mother's death, and his father had been too preoccupied with his agricultural experiments to bother greatly about the interior of his house. So long as he could find things more or less where he had left them, Mr. Quinn had been content.

"You won't overhaul it too much, Quinny?" Mary said to him, "because I'd like to do some of that!"

He had promised that he would do no more than was immediately necessary; and then he went.

"I shall have to go to Dublin," he had told her. "There'll be a lot of stuff to settle with lawyers!" Her settlement, for example. "I'll go home first, then on to Dublin, and then back here. I shall get to Boveyhayne just after Easter!"

2

Mr. Quinn had not greatly bothered about the interior of the house, but Hannah had, and although there were things that needed to be done, there was less than he had imagined.

"I'm going to be married, Hannah!" he said to her soon after he had arrived home.

"Are you, now?" she exclaimed.

"Yes. You remember Mr. Graham?..."

"Ay, poor sowl, I mind him... the nice-spoken, well-behaved lad he was!..."

"Well, I'm going to marry his sister!"

"It'll be quaren nice to think o' this house havin' a mistress in it again, an' wee weans, mebbe. I was here, a young girl, when your father brought your mother home... I mind it well... she was a quiet woman, an' she stud in the hall there as nervous as a child 'til I went forrit to her, an' said, 'Ye're right an' welcome, ma'am!', an' then she plucked up her heart, an' she give me a wee bit of a smile, an' said 'Thank ye, Hannah!' for your father told her who I was. An' she used to come an' talk to me afore you were born... she was terrible frightened, poor woman. Ay, she was terrible frightened of havin' you! Your father couldn't make her out at all. It was a quare pity!"