The Aerodrome: A Love Story (19 page)

CHAPTER XIX

The Decision

BUT I WAS to meet the Air Vice-Marshal before my leave expired, and this interview took a form which I could never have anticipated. Perhaps I would of my own initiative have asked to speak with him again before the three days had elapsed, for I had made up my mind as to what attitude I should adopt and the generosity, according to Air Force standards, which he was showing me made me most reluctant to deceive him any further with thoughts that I should ever again be a willing helper towards his aims; but, even supposing that he would consent to see me, I thought it best not to disturb him on the following day, for I knew that he and Eustasia's husband and several other heads of departments were to fly that day to the airfield of a neighbouring town, where an important conference was to be held. Normally I should have accompanied the Air Vice-Marshal, and I could imagine that in his view it was already a sufficiently grave punishment for me not to be able to do so; for this conference might well fix a date in the near future upon which our long-matured plans would be put into operation. I remember well that early in the morning I noticed on the airfield near the Air Vice-Marshal's office the large twenty-seater passenger aircraft which was to fly the officers to the conference. It was surrounded by mechanics, and among them I recognized the Flight-Lieutenant working on one of the wings. As I watched him I saw him straighten his back and look at his wrist watch. I was about to wave to him, but he turned round quickly, while the other mechanics were busy on the further side of the aircraft, and walked away with long strides towards his barracks. I fancied that he had gone to fetch some tool which he had forgotten, and I watched him until he was out of sight. Then, since Eustasia's apartment lay somewhere in the same direction, I went slowly after him, for I had promised Eustasia that I would, if I were able, tell her about my interview of the preceding day. I should perhaps have been in time to see her and him, too, if I had not met on my way the Doctor, who hurried towards me across the flying field, evidently bent on a conversation. Indeed, I soon learnt that it was at the Air Vice-Marshal's own request that he had come to speak with me, and I saw that he was performing his task with a certain amount of unwillingness; for, while both his duty and his friendship made him support the Air Vice-Marshal's side of the question, he had become also, I knew, very friendly both with me and with Bess during the hours which we had spent together, and there was a lack of assurance now in his repetition of the Air Vice-Marshal's views. I felt sorry for him as I looked at his harassed face, and at the same time I was aware of my gratitude to him for his attention to Bess and his kindness to myself. So without any dissembling I told him of my true state of mind--my shame at having brought Eustasia into a position where I could be of little use to her, my devotion to Bess which would continue whether or not Eustasia's child should be born, my conviction that the code under which I had been living for the past year was, in spite of its symmetry and its perfection, a denial of life, its difficulty, its perplexity, and its suffering, rather than an affirmation of its nobility and its grandeur. Even the tortured existence of the Rector, I said, even the self-sacrifice of the Squire's sister, seemed to me nobler and richer than the Air Vice-Marshal's undeviating success. "You yourself," I said to the Doctor, "who have spent your time in saving life and sanity indiscriminately, you must agree with me." I fancied that he nodded his head as he smiled at me, with a remarkable kindness in his eyes. But his words expressed nothing but perplexity. "Why on earth," he said, "did you ever join the Air Force? Don't you realize that if you say such things to the Chief you will be shot?" It was a thought that had occurred to me myself, since it was obvious that no high official of our organization would wish me, with the knowledge I had of our plans, to be at large and opposed to them. The Doctor patted me on the shoulder, seeming afraid to make the gesture, but relieved when he had done so. "It is no use my saying more," he said. "I would help you if I could, but I fear the consequences of anything I might do." He smiled again and shook hands. This time it was not so much the kindliness as the irresolution of his face that impressed me. I continued on my way and remember that at one point I had to step back hurriedly against the wall of a building as six motor-cyclists of our special police force came round a corner at high speed, and proceeded out of the gates of the aerodrome and along the main road. At the time I attached little importance to this incident but was soon to know what the object of the policemen was, for when I had arrived at Eustasia's apartment I found the doors open and the rooms deserted. The place was no more untidy than usual, but the sight of the open doors caused me to experience a momentary shock, a premonition that I should discover something unexpected and perhaps alarming. I went hurriedly from room to room, and finally noticed on the divan a note scrawled in pencil and addressed to myself. It was to inform me that Eustasia had left that morning with the Flight-Lieutenant, and I realized at once that they could not have started greatly in advance of the police squad who had, no doubt, been sent after the fugitives with instructions to bring back the Flight-Lieutenant as a deserter, dead or alive. I went on reading the letter. "We both hope," she had written, "that if we manage to escape you will benefit from it. The Air Vice-Marshal is very fond of you, and it would be so easy to pretend that the child is not yours. You will know that this is not a love affair that I am embarking on now. We are just anxious to escape, and he is certainly very good to me." So I continued to read and as I read I wished with all my heart that they might be safe and happy, though I dreaded any moment to hear news of their capture. I hurried down the stairs as though my haste could have been of some assistance to them, and walked quickly to the main gates of the aerodrome where I stood for some minutes, and I do not know whether anxiety or admiration for the fugitives was the feeling uppermost in my mind. They seemed to me to have done something noble and desperate in making this deliberate escape along the white and dusty road that would take them almost immediately into a world of towns and villages where our standards no longer applied, or had a less certain application. I thought of Eustasia's generosity and independence, of her love which I had returned, but not fully. I thought of how my feelings for the Flight-Lieutenant had changed from admiration to contempt, from contempt to respect and affection. I was thinking of them as of my closest friends when I heard in the distance the sound of a motor-bicycle engine, and soon saw from the distant corner of the road one of the cyclists approaching. As he slowed down at the gates he recognized me and when I raised my hand he stopped, thinking perhaps that I was bearing a message to him from the Air Vice-Marshal. He was a young man who had only recently been recruited and I thought, when I questioned him, that his face looked pale. "What's happened?" I asked, and he replied, "A nasty mess. We caught them at one of those narrow stone bridges. The car's smashed to bits. So were they. One of our fellows injured, too." He must have been surprised at the consternation in my face, for he added, as though apologizing for this achievement, "Those were our orders, anyway." The phrase came lamely from his lips, and he spoke again hurriedly. "I've got to make my report," he said, and starting his bicycle he went on by the road that led to the Air Vice-Marshal's quarters. By now one of the other cyclists was in sight, but I did not wait to question him. Instead I began to walk back on the way by which I had come, my mind for the moment numbed by the news of which I could still hardly think, and at the back of my mind a dull hatred for the organization which had caused these deaths. I hardly noticed, until I was face to face with him, the Doctor, who was standing again in the spot where I had left him previously. He put his hand on my arm to stop me going by and I observed the worry and strain of his expression. His eyes appeared to be questioning me, and I gathered that he, too, had heard the news and was now anxious to see how I had been affected by it. He took my arm and said: "It's a bad business. I can imagine what you feel." I made no reply, and he went on to speak as though he were frightened and ashamed of the words he used. "There's only one thing that isn't so bad about it," he said. "You needn't quarrel with the Chief. You can keep your job now." He looked at me pathetically, knowing well, I think, that his words would shock rather than impress me. I turned on him angrily, as though it were he who was responsible for what had happened. "Keep my job!" I said. "I wouldn't keep it if my life depended on it." Neither my words nor my manner had offended him. "Wait a bit, my boy," he said. "Don't be in a hurry. I may be able to help you", and I was astonished at the sadness and resignation with which he spoke. He smiled at me, but very gloomily, as though he had come to some momentous decision which greatly depressed him. I was about to ask him what either he or I could do in the case, when we were approached by an orderly who saluted, and informed me that the Air Vice-Marshal wished to see me immediately. I turned to follow him and the Doctor looked round him in a kind of desperation, as though in search of some person who was not present. Then he walked away from us hurriedly, nodding to me before he went. His manner was so strange that at another time I should have sought to explain it to myself. As it was I could think of nothing but of the death of my friends and my approaching interview which I knew would be decisive. I found the Air Vice-Marshal in his room, not sitting at his desk as usual, but standing with his back to the window. He smiled at me as I entered and with a gesture invited me to sit down. He seemed full of life, even of gaiety, that morning, and there was no severity in his voice when he spoke. "I shall be able to take you with me to-day, after all," he said, and then, sitting on the corner of his desk and looking down on me, he began to speak more gravely. "You may or may not have heard," he said, "of what happened this morning." I nodded my head, and must have shown by my expression that the news had affected me more deeply than he had imagined possible. When he continued to speak there was the same assurance in his voice, but a greater urgency. "From some points of view the affair was regrettable," he said. "Particularly regrettable was the fact that one of our airmen could be found capable of desertion and, I should imagine, of infatuation. But from your point of view the advantages of what has occurred are obvious. You must see to it that you avoid similar mistakes in the future. Another time you may not be so lucky as to escape so easily from their consequences." As he spoke the thought occurred to me, and almost with the force of a conviction, that it was he himself who had given instructions that the two should be killed and not merely arrested. The thought was terrible to me, for in spite of my certain knowledge that I detested his organization and no longer shared in his ambitions, I still retained an admiration for his accomplishments and a gratitude for the consideration which he had shown me. These feelings, combined with the assurance of everything he said and did, made it difficult for me to express myself at all intelligibly. Instead of stating what my feelings were, I now asked: "Was it you who ordered them to be killed?" He looked at me steadily and was well aware, I knew, of my suspicions. "In the ordinary course of events," he said, "the death of a woman and of a deserter would be a matter of complete indifference to me. In this instance old associations made my task a somewhat unpleasant one. But I am glad at least that you have profited from what has taken place." I felt myself overwhelmed by a momentary despair. It was not only the strength of the man, but his utter insensibility to what lay outside his organization that seemed to me now to make any speech of mine useless. I covered my face with my hands and for a second or two was, I think, almost insensible until I felt the Air Vice-Marshal's hand on my shoulder and heard him speakinge in a voice that, for him, was curiously soft. "I can understand your feelings," he said, "and I can assure you that they will soon pass. You will realize even more than you do already how treacherous and undepend-able the heart is, and so are all our actions that are not guided by our will towards a certain aim. What you feel is natural, but it is weakness. I should like to see you think more of what is immediately before us, and of how splendid your own success may be." I took my hands from my face and rose to my feet. There was a strange look in the Air Vice-Marshal's face, almost as though he were ashamed of having made such a concession to me as to have shown sympathy with my weakness; but I hardly noticed this look, for when he spoke of my success and of the splendour of it I was filled suddenly with the saddest thoughts of how desirable to me would be the most ordinary of lives if I might but escape from this iron ring into which I had forced myself. As though I were speaking to myself aloud I said: "I hate the success which I have had here, which has destroyed my friends and may destroy me. There is nothing splendid about it." I saw the Air Vice-Marshal's eyes flash with anger. It seemed to me then that my words had insulted him personally, had stirred his indignation to an extent far greater than I could have anticipated. He sat down again at his desk with his hands extended, the muscles of his arms taut, and his fists clenched. He appeared to be labouring under emotion so strong that he required time to master himself sufficiently to speak. I stood facing him, and for the first time felt capable, if not of holding my own, at any rate of expressing myself in words; for his sudden anger had seemed to me to support the truth of my own conviction. At length he spoke, and though his voice was calm enough, it was evident that he was not speaking without effort. His lips were unusually compressed, and his eyes levelled at me in a look either of hatred or of exceptional concentration. "If those are your real feelings," he said, "you have succeeded very well in deceiving me. You cannot suppose that I shall allow you, thinking as you do and with the knowledge you possess, to remain alive." I thought suddenly of Bess, and