CONSEQUENCES & THE WAR-WORKERS. E. M. Delafield

He wishes you to remain at home for the present."

      "It's not fair, it's not reasonable. I do nothing here. I am of no use. It's not as though he really wanted me. It's simply because you—and he—won't be reminded of the war—of the ghastly horrors going on all round us—won't think of the war, or let it be mentioned. You want to shirk it all—"

      "Don't, Char!" said John suddenly. "Don't say things you'll be sorry for afterwards."

      "No. I shall not be sorry for speaking the truth. You know it's true, Johnnie."

      "True!" said Joanna. "What if it is true? Do you suppose that if I can give him one little hour's comfort by ignoring the war, and keeping every thought of it away from him, I wouldn't do so at any cost? The war isn't your responsibility or mine—your father is."

      She rose, and paced rapidly up and down the length of the room. Char had never seen her mother give way to such impetuous agitation before. She eyed her coldly, but strove to speak gently.

      "Mother, if it was anything else I'd give in. But I am doing work in Questerham—real, absolutely necessary work—and here—why, I'm not even justifying my existence."

      "You're working here. You do a lot every day, going through all those letters and things with Miss Jones," Trevellyan pointed out.

      Joanna threw him a quick glance of gratitude.

      "Work here, Char, as much as you like," she exclaimed eagerly. "You can have any one you please out here—so long as they don't make a noise," she added hastily.

      The expression was infelicitous.

      "You talk as though I were a child, and wanted to have other children out here to play with me. Good heavens, mother I do you realize that my work is for the nation, neither more nor less?"

      "If I don't, it's not for want of being told," said her mother with sudden dryness.

      "It's easy to say that sort of thing, to accuse me of self-complacency in the tiny little part I contribute to an enormous whole."

      "It's not that, Char!" cried Joanna hastily. "I don't care if you have megalomania in its acutest form"—Miss Bruce bounded irrepressibly on her chair—"but I will not have your father distressed. That's my one and only concern. Johnnie, help me to make her understand."

      "I do understand, mother," said Char. "You would sacrifice everything to the personal question—women always do. But I can't see it like that. The broader issue lies there, under my very eyes, and I can't shirk it."

      "Johnnie!" said Joanna despairingly. "Tell her that she's blinding herself."

      "Can't you give it up, Char?" he asked her gently. "You can do work here, you know, and let some one else carry on at Questerham."

      "Yes, yes, a deputy. Some one who'll be under your orders," breathed Miss Bruce eagerly.

      She cordially wished her contribution to the discussion unuttered, however, when it evoked from Johnnie the inspired suggestion: "Miss Jones! Make her your deputy, Char, and the whole thing will go like a house on fire."

      Joanna, still pacing the room, gave a quick, short laugh, which made Trevellyan look at her in wondering surprise, and Char in sudden anger.

      "May I suggest—" Miss Bruce began timidly, and paused.

      "Anything!" said Joanna brusquely.

      "Couldn't Dr. Prince tell us whether there is any reason—anything to fear—any danger," faltered Miss Bruce, becoming terribly involved.

      Trevellyan came to her rescue.

      "You mean whether there is likely to be any immediate change, for worse or for better, in Sir Piers's condition?"

      "Of course I couldn't go if my father was in immediate danger," quoth Char impatiently. "But he's not. We've already been told so. He may go on in this state for months and months. And at the end of a telephone! Why, I could be sent for and be back here within an hour."

      "I'm not discussing the question from that point of view at all," Joanna told her. "The point is not that you should be at hand in case of any crisis, but simply that he should not be vexed. Your insensate hours of work at the Depôt vex him."

      The words sounded oddly trivial, but no one doubted that Joanna was angry, angrier than they had, any of them, ever seen her.

      "Look here, Cousin Joanna, can't we settle this later on? There can be no need to arrange it tonight," said John. "Suppose we let the Doctor give the casting vote, as Miss Bruce suggested?"

      He felt pretty sure that no vote of Dr. Prince's would ever be exercised in favour of Char's immediate return to the Midland Supply Depôt.

      "Dr. Prince is coming here tonight," said Lady Vivian. "He ought to be here any minute now, if it's after nine."

      "Ten past," said Miss Bruce, glancing at the clock.

      "Neither he nor any one else can convince me that I ought to remain in idleness when every worker in England is needed," said Char.

      "My dear Char, you can't run any risks with Sir Piers in his present condition," said John unexpectedly. "That's what we want Dr. Prince to tell us—whether there is any danger to him if you persist in going against his wishes."

      Something of condemnation, such as Char had never yet heard in her easy-going cousin's voice, silenced her. She felt bitterly that every one was against her, no one understood.

      Then Miss Bruce's hand came out timidly and patted her on the shoulder. Dear old Brucey! Char recognized her fidelity in a sudden spasm of most unwonted gratitude. Brucey at least knew that a real struggle was in progress between Char's sense of patriotism and the pain that it naturally gave her to resist the wishes of the parents whose point of view she could not share.

      For the first time since she was a child, Char felt moved to one of her rare demonstrations of affection towards the faithful Miss Bruce. She smiled at her, pain and gratitude mingling in her gaze, and let her hand lie for a moment on the little secretary's.

      Trevellyan leant against the chimney-piece, his hands in his pockets, and looked at Joanna with inarticulate, uncomprehending loyalty and admiration in his gaze.

      She was pacing up and down the long room with a sort of restrained impatience, the folds of her black dress sweeping round her tall figure as she moved. In the silence, broken only by the rustling of Joanna's gown, the approach of Dr. Prince's small, old-fashioned motor-car was plainly audible.

      Miss Bruce gave one timid look at Lady Vivian, then got up and went to the door.

      They heard her speak to the servant in the hall, and then she came back again and took up her place close to Char.

      "Did you ask him to come in here?"

      "Yes, Lady Vivian. At least, I told them to show him in here."

      Joanna resumed her restless pacing.

      Then the drawing-room door opened and closed again upon the doctor, entering with the stooping gait of a hard-worked, tired man at the end of the day.

      "Good-evening, Dr. Prince," said Joanna abruptly. "Will you give us the benefit of your advice?"

      "On whose account?" demanded the doctor, glancing sharply from one to another of the group.

      "It's just this," said Char's cool, incisive tones. "My mother wishes to persuade me that my father is not in a fit state for me to take up my work at Questerham again. That I ought to remain here, doing practically nothing, while there's work crying out to be done."

      "Sir Piers is in no immediate danger," said the doctor slowly. "In fact, there is every reason to hope that he is getting better. Otherwise, I suppose, you would hardly contemplate leaving home."

      "But she's not suggesting leaving home!" cried Miss Bruce. "It's only a case of going backwards and forwards every day."

      The doctor shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Lady Vivian.