The Captain in Khaki

by H. B. Marriott Watson

The Captain
in Khaki

By H. B. MARRIOTT WATSON.

EVELYN stood looking into her mirror with engrossed interest, her heart beating in a heavy rhythm. She had taken off her hat and coat, in which she had travelled that warm summer day, and had partially changed into a light indoor gown. But at that moment she was not thinking of her dress, but of her face. It showed in the glass delicately pallid, with pleasant moulding and youthful curves. Her nose was straight, and her mouth a thick-drawn red line; her eyes were curiously almond-shaped and grey in colour. She arrested the attention easily, and the general impression was one of nervous tension and excitability. Apparently satisfied with what she saw in the glass, she completed her dressing, and then glanced quickly at the door, which was now half-opened. A girl's face appeared at the opening.

"Evelyn," she said eagerly, "are you coming? We are waiting. I do feel so excited!"

Evelyn Melbury smiled, and her smile was very charming, striking light in her face and bringing out its beautiful points.

"I am coming," she cried, "but you mustn't hurry me. I can't tell you all at once."

"Oh, but we may ask questions, mayn't we?"

"I'll answer some—any I can."

She went to the door, and her sister—a girl of eighteen put her arm through hers, and so they descended the stairs. In the dining-room were two other girls—Phœbe, twenty-three years of age, and Peggy, fifteen.

"Now!" said Celia expectantly and breathlessly.

Evelyn sat down. "Well, I don't know where to begin," she said.

"When did you meet him?" gushed Peggy.

"Oh, just soon after I got to Brighton. You know, when Kitty Marlow and I decided to go there, when we got our fortnight from the office, she hadn't a ghost of a notion that her cousin was there."

"Her cousin?" exclaimed Phœbe.

"Yes, he is her cousin. He was on leave, and had gone to Brighton. We met him on the front quite accidentally. Kitty was surprised. Then we went to the music on the pier, you know, and it was delightful!" Evelyn had an ecstatic silence, in which she could conjure up the dramatic situation with all its dreamy sentiment.

"But when did he propose?" asked Celia, with unction.

"Oh, that was later—about a week afterwards."

"Was that when you wrote about a man who——"

Evelyn nodded smilingly. "Of course, it is not exactly an engagement—— Well, yes, it is. But we are keeping it secret until his mother knows."

"What's he like?" cried eager Peggy.

Evelyn almost closed her eyes. "He is tall and dark, and very, very handsome," she said lingeringly, "and, oh, so very distinguished-looking!"

"How old is he?"

Evelyn thought. "About thirty," she said,

"What's he in?" This from Phœbe, the eldest, who, at twenty-three, was engaged to a young lawyer, not in khaki.

Evelyn's pretty eyes drifted out of her dream to her sister.

"He is a captain in the—the Artillery, and he has been recommended for the Military Cross. Kitty thinks he will get the D.S.O."

"I shouldn't be surprised if he got the V.C. also," said Phosbe dryly, and not without a suspicion of envy.

"What does it feel like?" inquired Peggy confidentially.

A blush stained Evelyn's pretty pallor momentarily.

"Oh, how can I tell you?" she said. "Little girls don't know about such things."

"You didn't tell me his name, Evelyn," said Celia suddenly.

"His name is Jack," said her sister, as if lingering on the name affectionately.

"But what else?" cried Peggy. "Jack what?"

Evelyn glanced hastily at the door. "Here's mother. Now, girls, not a word! It's a dead secret from mother."

Mrs. Melbury, who entered at this juncture, was a mild, affectionate woman of the old type, who took consistently and with resignation the attitude of "I don't know what girls are coming to." Her ducklings were beyond her, and went swimming in strange waters. Of course, the War excused Evelyn's being in a Government office and having so much odd independence; but, what with the War and modern notions, life was all topsy-turvy. She saw nothing now in the faces of her children or in their alert excitement, save the result of Evelyn's return from her seaside holiday; and though it was with difficulty that Evelyn's injunction was regarded, it was regarded all that evening.

She went to bed rather late, and tired from her journey and the talk, which, during her mother's absence, had always veered round to the subject of her engagement. She lay awake, gazing into the semi-darkness of her room, and her mind went over her revelation with thrills. She had astonished her sisters, and she felt she had given Phœbe "one" for her airs as an engaged girl. She was sure Phœbe was annoyed, which, alas, gladdened her. Then the excitement of Celia and Peggy was as incense to her. She contemplated mentally the picture she had drawn of the captain in khaki. It was just as she had wanted him to be—a fine, tall, brave fellow, with dark hair and an engaging smile. He was a brilliant conversationalist, of course, and he had a splendid sense of fun. Also he was romantic.

She liked the name "Jack" she had given him, though it had been given on the spur of the moment. There were one or two points she must think out. The surname was rather a trouble, and then there was the correspondence. She must get Kitty to help her there. It could be managed somehow. Or stay she could say the letters all went to the office. Yes, that would be the best plan.

She became drowsy, and her imaginary captain drifted before her closing eyes, so handsome, so devoted. She was glad she had done it. Home life and office life would be so dull after the holiday, unless there was something to relieve the monotony. And her mother needn't know. She fell asleep.

The girls were true to their faith and their injunctions. They did not tell "mother," but there had been no other restriction upon them, so they told Josephine—it was news too greatly exciting and romantic to keep hushed up—and, naturally, Josephine, being married and regarding herself in the light of a co-equal with her mother, told the latter. Mrs. Melbury, for all her helplessness, felt it incumbent upon her to take a parental hand in the extraordinary affair. Her ideas of the modern girl were in rapid process of education, but she felt there were limits. Josephine told her so.

"Who on earth is he?" she asked of her mother, as if she could be expected to know. "You don't even know his name—at least, the girls don't. They say she says it's Jack. Jack what? It all comes of you letting her go into one of those ridiculous Government offices at her age. He is probably a swindler."

"But the girls say he is Miss Marlow's cousin," protested Mrs. Melbury weakly.

"Who is Miss Marlow?" demanded Josephine again with scorn. "You have never seen her, and from all accounts she must be a pretty baggage."

So Mrs. Melbury, worked up to the point of maternal authority, opened fire. Evelyn, having already learnt of the leakage of her secret, was forewarned, but hardly forearmed.

Things looked like getting difficult. Once committed to a course of deception, she did not see where it was to end. She looked down vistas, and turned from them shuddering. It was of no use. She must face one crisis at a time.

"What is his name?"

She had speculated on that, and let her imagination carry her on recklessly.

"Coverdale," said she.

Coverdale sounded so romantic, and she vaguely remembered to have read some poetry about a man named Coverdale.

Mrs. Melbury, egged on by Josephine, exacted more details.

"What was he before the War?"

"Oh"—Evelyn's mind hastily adjusted itself—"in business," she averred.

"What business?"

"I—I didn't ask," she faltered. "I—I only thought of him. But he is quite well off. He has more than a thousand a year."

This, indeed, was the only satisfactory part of the irregular business, and Mrs. Melbury perpended.

"He will have to apply for your hand in proper form," she said, with austere maternality.

"Of course," said Evelyn, and, having emerged successfully from the encounter, drew once more and proudly on her imagination. "Jack is a thorough gentleman, and knows exactly what is necessary."

This also was rather satisfactory, as Mrs. Melbury explained to Josephine.

"I should think he was all right. He is a gentleman and has a thousand a year."

"Look at the stories in the paper every day," said cynical Josephine. But, after all, it was something to have a thousand a year and to be a gentleman, and so the affair was allowed to drift, only with the stipulation that Jack should formally call and go through the conventions suited to the case.

No letters came to the house, for, as Evelyn explained, he wrote to her at the office, and he was now back in France. When he returned on leave again, he would call. These letters gave some trouble to Evelyn, but they also gave rein to her imagination. She rendered to her sisters tit-bits from them—descriptions of battlefields, life in the trenches, miraculous escapes, and pitiful stories of hardships suffered by her Jack. Of course, love-letters were sacred, and only Peggy asked to see them—a privilege she was abruptly denied. There was talk of inviting Kitty to call—Kitty, who was destined, it seemed, to become a near connection—but Evelyn managed to evade this, and Kitty happily solved the problem by getting married herself and going off to the wilds of the West. So that peril was escaped.

Evelyn bought herself a nice ring. She could not afford the ring she knew her Jack would have given her, but it was quite a nice ring, and took two whole weeks' salary. Looking at it affectionately, she almost believed she was engaged. Young men came to the house at Hampstead, most of them in khaki, but they were not to her taste, though she did not mind dallying with them. This led to a real triumph, for Celia, bustling and eager, angrily charged her with "carrying on."

"An engaged girl like you has no right to go on like that," exclaimed indignant Celia, sore because her prize seemed to have been cut out from under her nose. Surely, reflected Evelyn's subconsciousness, she was engaged. In the end, however, the drama became trying. She had outlived its surprises, as had the rest of the household, and presently trouble about Jack's non-appearance would arise. Already her mother was complaining that he had never had the decency to write to her. Evelyn got tired of promising: "When he comes back, he'll come and see you."

It became necessary for something to happen to enlist attention and to bring the play to a close. Her ingenious mind saw the change of killing two birds with one stone. She wanted a few days' holiday, and she announced, on return from the office one evening, that Jack was wounded. She announced it tragically, and enjoyed the sensation the news created among her sisters.

"Where is he?" asked Phœbe.

"In France." (That was safe.)

"Are you going to him?" asked Peggy, in excitement.

"Those things are not done," said Mrs. Melbury.

"Oh, he is sure to be sent to England," said Evelyn, thinking of her projected holiday.

So he was. Evelyn made the announcement one day with rather a flurried air. She had just returned from an interview with her chief at the office, who liked her, but had to be persuaded in giving her leave. But it was June, and the sea called, and, of course, she had to meet Jack. It was this statement that turned the scale in her favour. The chief assented.

"You can have four days, then, Miss Melbury."

Four days! There was time enough within them to enjoy herself and to—well, to dispose of Jack somehow. Jack was becoming, not a nuisance, but a difficulty. Jack could not go on being postponed; he must either come up to the scratch or disappear. The question thus was: How best could he disappear? It all went very well until she reached the station, where her mother saw her off to Eastbourne. Jack, you must understand, was in a hospital there. Mrs. Melbury sprang the awful news upon her at the last moment.

"Well, take care of yourself, child. And you won't be lonely. Celia is going to join you to-morrow."

Aghast, Evelyn protested. "Celia! Oh, but, mother, I don't want Celia!"

But Mrs. Melbury's Victorian notions of propriety would not suffer this. It was all very well for Evelyn to have taken a holiday with Kitty, but when it came to going alone to see her fiancé—well, it simply wasn't done.

Evelyn had a wretched journey to Eastbourne, and had looked for such a pleasant one. She had half formulated a plan by which Jack was to die of wounds—a splendid hero.

But how was that to be accomplished with Celia present? The more she considered the problem, the more dreadful it appeared. She passed most of the day in distress, and scarcely was aware of the shining sea, and Beachy Head, and the concourse of summer-clad people. She sat out on a seat on the parade in the evening, and pondered her fate. Celia would come and discover there was no Jack. And then her little fictitious castle of cards came tumbling about her. She hid her face in her hands and wept.

There were plenty of soldiers in the town, some from neighbouring camps and others from hospitals. One of the latter was seated on the next bench, and in the cool, quiet evening light had been occasionally glancing at the girl. As had been said, she was rather an arresting figure. She wept and looked forlorn, weeping and very desolate and pitiful. He got up slowly and deliberately walked towards her.

"I beg your pardon," he said, "can I help? You are in distress."

Evelyn started and mopped her eyes with her handkerchief. She sat bolt upright. Before her was a tall man, an officer with a blue band on his arm, a captain, she saw at once. He was dark, and had friendly eyes. Where had she seen him?

"I don't want to intrude," he said apologetically, and his voice was very musical, "but I thought, perhaps—— You haven't lost your ticket?" he asked hopefully, out of a sudden inspiration.

"No-o," said Evelyn. She liked his looks, and his face seemed familiar. She was a modern girl, and also she was a simple girl, and impulsive. So she spoke almost without thinking—his voice was so kind.

"I am miserable. I have been telling lies."

"So have I, often," he said, nodding as if he comprehended everything.

"They always find you out," said Evelyn bitterly.

He pondered this. "M'm—yes, sometimes," he said. "One or two of mine haven't."

"What sort?" she asked interestedly.

"Oh, well, military lies. What sort were yours?"

"I—I let my people think I was engaged," she blurted out.

He considered this, and he also considered her. He was still standing in front of her.

"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "that the hypothesis is an egregious one. You see, you might easily be."

"But I am not," she almost snapped.

"I am quite sure it is your own fault," he said pleasantly.

Evelyn had an impulse of confidence.

"You don't understand," she said. "I can speak to you because I don't know who you are, and you don't know who I am, and, when we part, it will be never to meet again."

The young man murmured something which sounded like a polite protest, and then more clearly: "If you would like to tell me, and it would relieve your mind——"

That was just it—it would relieve her surcharged emotions. The captain in khaki sat down on the seat. He had a beautifully sympathetic air, and he modestly looked out into the sea. So in staccato, hurried fashion, with periodic halts and hiatuses, Evelyn's tale gushed forth. As she progressed, she felt a burning sense of shame, and this brought her at last to a stop abruptly.

"It seems to me," said the young man, after a short silence, in which she waited fearfully for condemnation—"it seems to me rather a lark. You see, you haven't done anyone any harm." And for the first time since she began her story, he looked at her. There was a faintly amused expression in his eyes, but he did not smile.

"No, there is no one harmed," she agreed palpitantly; "but you see what an awful hole I put my sister in by my folly."

"By your joke, be corrected mildly. "Of course, your sister is the trouble. If it had not been for her coming, you could have killed him off."

"That's just what I thought of doing," she said eagerly.

"Oh, well, poor fellow, there is enough real killing as it is. It may not be necessary to be so ruthless."

"But how am I to get rid of him?" almost wailed Evelyn.

"Is it necessary to?" he asked, gazing at her, and now he was smiling. Where had she seen him? In a dream?

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What was his name?" he asked evasively.

"I—I called him Jack—Jack Coverdale."

"And he was a captain," he said thoughtfully. And then: "Well, you might kill him later, if you want to, but it can't be done between now and your sister's arrival. Nor is there any need to. Let's keep up the lark a little longer. One of my names is Jack, and I am a captain."

"Oh!" Dismay, wonder, doubt, and a sort of relief blended in Evelyn's exclamation, but doubt and something more were uppermost.

"It's impossible. I don't know you or anything about you," she said shortly, and rose suddenly.

He rose, too. "All the better," he said. "As you say, we don't know each other. I don't even know your name, and to-morrow, or the day after, say, we shall be far apart, and never meet again, as you say."

He was walking with her along the parade, when suddenly he staggered, and seemingly would have fallen but for an effort on his part. Evelyn instinctively held him up with her two hands, wondering.

"Awfully sorry," he said, and his face reddened. "The fact is, I got it in the leg, and something gives way now and then. I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Oh, poor thing," she cried, "you were wounded there!"

He seemed uncomfortable, "Shrapnel," he said. "They didn't get it all out—must have cut ligaments or something. Sorry to have been a nuisance."

It did not seem possible to leave him now, as Evelyn had intended. They continued walking.

"Are you sure you can manage?" She asked anxiously.

"Thanks awfully, yes. It won't come on again. I was thinking of going to the pier to hear the music."

He looked at her inquiringly, almost pathetically, she thought.

"They have good music there," she said simply, and without a word more they found themselves going together in that direction. They sat together and listened to the band for half an hour, and then Evelyn said she must be going. He stood up.

"I say," he said, "what about keeping up that joke just over to-morrow? I may be shifted to a convalescent place the day after."

If that were so—— Evelyn's heart was beating fast.

"Only for to-morrow," she said quickly and in a low voice.

"May I start by seeing you back?" he asked humbly.

"No," said she decisively.

"Oh, well, we'll meet to-morrow when your sister comes," he said, in an off-hand friendly way, "but I most know what to call you, you know."

Of course. She blushed like a rose. "My name is Evelyn," said she.

"Good night, Miss Evelyn." He saluted.

"I mean my Christian name," she said hastily.

"Good night, Evelyn." She blushed again. When she had gone, she felt angry with him for saying that, but her conscience reflected that she had practically invited him to say it. Well, she was in for it now, and at least it could do no harm, and it would break her fall. So she comforted herself, and, indeed, slept with an astonishing sense of relief and even of expectation. It was really an adventure.

Celia duly arrived and was met by her sister at the station.

"How's Jack?" was the first question that bubbled out of her eager lips.

"He's better than I expected to find him," said Evelyn coolly; "he is allowed out a little."

"When shall I see him?"

"Oh, to-day, if you are good. He said he would meet me on the parade this morning before lunch." This was said carelessly. Celia was estatic.

"Oh, how splendid! I wish I had a soldier lover."

"My dear, you are too young," said Evelyn, who was pleased. Her triumphs were not yet ended.

Jack was on the parade, as she had expected, and he had evidently been waiting some time.

"You didn't tell me you would be so late," he said plaintively.

"I had to meet Celia," responded Evelyn, and made the introduction. Celia gushed.

"Oh, Captain Coverdale, I wanted ever so much to meet you! When were you wounded? Is it pretty bad?"

When these questions and others had been disposed of, they took a turn on the pier; but they didn't talk like lovers, as Celia had anticipated, and she mentioned the fact in the letter she wrote home that afternoon, from which I venture to take a few extracts.

 

"He is a dear. He is ever so handsome, dark, and just what Evelyn described. And his eyes! I call him Jack, not Captain Coverdale. He asked me to. I don't think Evelyn quite liked it. But she has got all of him, so why can't I have just that little? He is awfully gone on her, but she doesn't show much herself. She is quite stand-offish at times. I am sure I shouldn't be, if I had him. He fell against Evy once, because of his horrid wound. I wish it had been me. I let them alone sometimes—you have to—but once or twice Evy turned round and waited for me to come up. It was funny. I didn't think she would be shy like that. I shouldn't. He took us to lunch at the big hotel, and we had wine and lots of things."

 

It was true that he had taken them to lunch; it was also true that he took them to a concert in the evening, but that was after Celia's letter had been written. He also arranged to meet them on the following morning.

"We must make the most of our time," he said; "you have only the four days, Evelyn"

Celia, you see, had babbled; and Celia did more babbling in her letters home. Evelyn had to accept the risks and responsibilities she had courted. They went to concerts, they went to theatres, they had luncheons and teas, and went walks, climbed Beachy Head, and sat watching the wild waves. Sometimes, as Celia explained in her letters, she herself abstained, like a thoughtful sister. But four days is not an æon, and four days soon came to an end. Evelyn must be back in the office on the following morning at nine o'clock.

Jack saw them off at the station in the afternoon, and while Celia was purchasing some papers they spoke.

"Well," he said, with a smile, "I have enjoyed it. It has been very good fun. I hope you have enjoyed it a little."

"You have been awfully good," she said rather nervously.

"And now," said he, "we pass out of each other's lives, I suppose."

"Yes," assented Evelyn. She was plucking at her gloves.

"And the way is clear for you now to kill Jack." She said nothing, but seemed to be watching a train. "You see," he went on, "I shall be going to my depôt for a month or so, and it will be very easy. I will write to you from there, and then I shall be going back to France—hurried out without leave, you know, and no time to call anywhere. And then I can be killed."

"But you won't—you won't——" She didn't finish.

"Oh, yes, I shall be going back," he said.

"But you won't—you won't——" Again she didn't finish.

"Be killed? I hope not. But Jack can be. It's all as simple as A B C."

Evelyn said nothing, for Celia was joining them.

"When are you coming to call, Jack, to see mother?" she asked, her young face flushed with interest.

"Oh, as soon as they'll give me leave. In a month or so," he replied smilingly.

He said good-bye; but, to Celia's surprise and disappointment, he did not kiss Evelyn.

"They got it over on the quiet," she concluded, and retailed the same conclusion as news to her sisters on their return. Of course, she had a great deal to say supplementary to her letters, but Evelyn had very little. Celia explained everything—how Jack was coming to see them when he got leave, and then was going to his depôt, and then to France, and then—— They all turned expectant eyes towards a wedding, all save Evelyn.

It was a week later that she got her first love-letter. It was a real love-letter, couched in proper form and proper terms.

"He needn't have done that," she reflected uneasily. "I told him they never saw my letters." "Dearest Evelyn" was there, and "your devoted Jack." She put it tremulously away, and waited if by chance there should be another. She did not answer it. There was another. In fact, three came that week—interesting letters, sketches of life in hospital and barracks, amusing stories of his fellows, little bits of observation, and poetical remarks about the scenery. Evelyn put them all away carefully.

"I shall have to wait about two months before I kill Jack," she reflected, and then shuddered.

The letters continued for a whole month, and then suddenly stopped; and Evelyn experienced a sense of disappointment. Something seemed to have gone out of her life; she had no idea that they had meant so much to her. She wondered if it was possible that he had gone back to France and been—— The thought was too dreadful. In her mind she had now a clear vision that the reason he had seemed familiar to her was that he was precisely the man she had figured in her waking dreams. He was the imaginary Jack. And now it had all passed into a limbo of nothingness. The joke was over.

It was about three days after these reflections that he called. He came at a time when she would be at home—in fact, after the evening meal. Evelyn happened to be upstairs in her room, and the maid, answering the ring and knock, was asked—

"Is Mrs. Melbury in? Captain Coverdale."

Celia met him, in high excitement, at the drawing-room door.

"Jack! Jack!" she cried, almost ecstatically. "Mother, it's Jack—Captain Coverdale!"

Mrs. Melbury saw a tall, straight form entering with a smile that propitiates and a deference that charms. She was quite fluttered.

"I have promised myself this pleasure, Mrs. Melbury, for a long time—it seems for an eternity," he said.

Mrs. Melbury, fluttered still, made a suitable reply.

"Tell Evelyn, dear," she commanded.

In flocked Phœbe and Peggy, and, indeed, Josephine also, who had been dining with her mother and sisters. There was an obvious sensation in the small Hampstead home. Evelyn, fetched by Celia, entered doubting, wistful, troubled, and almost scared. Her mind was in a chaotic state. Jack rose and went to her.

"So glad to see you again, dearest," he said, and he kissed her on the cheek without more ceremony.

It was like a blow on the face to Evelyn. She almost staggered under it. Her heart hammered under her bodice, and she dimly heard the others talking, aware that he still held both her hands.

"How horrid of him! How horrid of him!" she cried to herself. "He is taking advantage, because he knows that I can't say anything." But she could not, somehow, take her hands away.

She was not released from her embarrassing confusion until Jack went out of the room with her mother, when she suddenly bolted and locked herself in her bedroom. "How horrid of him!" The kiss smarted on her face still. How horrid of him when she was so helpless!

Celia came to the door presently, tried the handle, and called to her.

"Jack is going," she said; "hurry up. Come down. He is asking for you."

Evelyn's troubled heart paid no heed, and Celia resumed: "What's the matter, Evy? Jack's going. Don't you hear? He is leaving for France to-morrow early. Oh, do hurry up!"

That brought her to her feet. She opened the door and descended. He was going to France. Would he kiss her again? She did not care; she was going to say good-bye. She entered the room, and he was alone, smiling, debonair, a slightly deprecating look in his eyes.

In the hall and in the other room exciting news was flying between sister and sister. "He told mother he had three thousand a year and a place in Hampshire."

But Evelyn knew nothing of all this. All she knew was that an unknown man, whose very name she didn't know, had kissed her and was going to the War. He did not kiss her now, but his smile lingered.

"I've just asked your mother if I may have you. May I?"

It was such a simple sentence, such a simple question, but the significance and portent of it struck her dumb. She stammered at last; "I—I don't know who you are."

"My name is Avery—also Jack."

Was ever a proposal of marriage made after such a fashion? She did not answer it.

"But you said—they would think——"

"Oh," he laughed, "I explained to Mrs. Melbury. It was a Longfellow joke—the poem where they got rather mixed up, you know. Isn't there a line in it: 'Why don't you speak for yourself, John?'^[1] Well, I'm John. I do."

"But there's Kitty," she said weakly, while her heart thrummed.

"Kitty?" he echoed. "Oh, that's the girl—— Good gracious, dearest, if that's all you can say by way of objection——" He did not finish, but quickly advanced two steps and kissed her again, but this time it was not on the cheek.

1. A line in the poem, "The Courtship of Miles Standish (Wikisource contributor note)