"By the way, how's McPherson?" he asked abruptly. "He _is_ a splendid
gardener and no mistake! I've never seen a garden looking more beautiful
than yours does just now, Janet. I woke early this morning and looked
out of my window. I suppose McPherson's about--I'll go out and speak to
him."
Her face shadowed. "McPherson," she said slowly, "was one of the first
men to leave Beechfield. He was perfectly fit, and he made up his mind to
go at once. You know, Godfrey--or perhaps you don't know--that the Scotch
glens emptied first of men?"
"D'you mean...?"
She nodded. "He was killed at the second battle of Ypres. He was sent to
the Front rather sooner than most, for he was a very intelligent man, and
really keen. I've got a boy now, a lad of seventeen--not half a bad sort,
but it does seem strange to give him every Saturday just double the money
I used to give McPherson!"
She went out, through into the garden, on these last words, and again
there came over Radmore a feeling of poignant sadness. How strange that
he should have spent those weeks in London, knowing so little, nay, not
knowing at all, what the War had really meant to the home country.
He opened the door into the corridor, and listened, wondering where they
had all gone.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175