“I just have the fancy to. I tell you what. We’ll go at dusk. There won’t be anyone there. That is the witching hour.”
I shivered.
“Come,” he said. “I know the place fascinates you. It does me too.” He added: “You’ll be safe with me.”
We rode out together and he had arranged it so that we reached the pool just as the light was beginning to fade.
“We haven’t improved the countryside, have we?” he said, looking ruefully at the piece of wall with the heaped soil about it.
“Never mind,” I said. “I believe it is the fate of many archaeologists.”
“Well, if you didn’t look you would never find, and it has been a lot of fun being here.”
“Even though you failed?”
“I don’t look on it as failure because I have found some new friends. And now you are coming back to London with us.”
“I’m pleased about that.”
“Listen,” he said. “Listen to the silence.”
How eerie it was! But perhaps it was memories which made it so. The water was just visible in the darkness. There was the faintest breeze which ruffled the grass, and now and then broke the silence with a gentle moan.
“I can understand people’s building up legends about this place,” said Gervaise. “Did you come here often?”
“No … not now.”
“Listen …”
There it was … faint in the stillness of the air but unmistakable. It was like the tolling of a bell.
I turned to look at Gervaise. Had he heard it too? His expression told me that he had. Blank amazement showed on his face. He was staring at the pool. There it was again. The distinct tolling of a bell.
He said: “You’ve gone quite pale. Do you feel all right? There must be a church somewhere near.”
“You couldn’t possibly hear church bells here.”
“How then …?”
I shook my head.
“It can’t be …” he began.
There was silence between us. We stood very still straining our ears, but there was only silence.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “There must be an explanation.”
“They seemed to come from the pool.”
“Impossible.”
“Then where?”
“Let’s look at it like this. We came here to hear them.”
“Did we?”
“Yes, I think that was in our minds. We were expecting to hear them … so we imagined we did.”
“Both of us … at the same time?”
“It must be so.”
He started towards the pool. I hesitated. “Come on,” he said, taking my arm. “We’ll go right up to it and listen … hard.”
I followed him. We were so close now that another step would have taken us into the dark water.
He shouted: “Who’s there? Play the bells again.”
His voice echoed back. It was uncanny.
But there was no sound at all except the faint noise made by the wind in the grass.
“It’s chilly here,” he said. “Let’s get back.”
After we had left the pool he did not speak for some time.
Then he said: “We imagined it.”
But he knew, and I knew, that that was not so.
When we arrived in London I noticed at once that the mood of euphoria about the war had changed considerably.
There had been no speedy conclusion; news had arrived of a cholera epidemic which had been responsible for the death of many of our men. Everyone was talking about William Howard Russell who was sending home disturbing articles which appeared in The Times. Men were dying of diseases and there was a lack of medical supplies to deal with the epidemic. There was chaos, little organization; and this was an enemy more formidable than the Russians. The war was ugly and frustrating—not the glorious road to victory which so many had been led to expect.
British and French armies had won the battle of Alma and hopes revived for a speedy conclusion to the war but those articles in The Times were more disturbing than ever.
There was talk of little else but the war. It seemed to me that everyone knew what should be done. Palmerston should have been brought in earlier; his advice should have been taken. If it had been, the war could have been averted. Palmerston was the hero of the day and war fever was rampant.
I noticed how thoughtful Jonnie had become. He was deeply concerned about news and studied the papers avidly.
Once when we were out we saw soldiers marching on their way to the wharf where they would embark for the Crimea. The people cheered them; bands were playing and they looked magnificent.
Then we went into the Park and sat on a seat watching the ducks on the Serpentine.
“It’s a righteous war,” said Jonnie. “We cannot allow one nation to subdue another just because it is strong and the other weak.”
Grace said that those men were heroes to go into an unknown country and fight for the right.
We walked home in a somewhat somber mood. I thought Jonnie had something on his mind. I wished that he would confide in me and wondered whether he had in Grace.
I had to conquer a smoldering resentment because he really did take more notice of Grace than of me; and not so long ago we had been such friends. He had once implied that he was a little piqued because I seemed to transfer my affection from him to Benedict Lansdon. He had spoken jestingly, of course, but I wondered if he had meant it … just a little. Now I felt the same about him and Grace. Of course she was older than I … older than us both … and she had read so much of archaeology since she had known Jonnie that she could talk to him almost as a fellow student would have done.
I did not see Jonnie all the next day and on the following one he told us what had been on his mind.
He made the announcement just before we went in to dinner. Helena looked very solemn and so did Matthew.
“I have joined the army,” said Jonnie. “We don’t have to do much training. There isn’t time. I expect I shall be leaving soon for the Crimea.”
Jonnie’s action aroused a great storm in the family. Helena was very worried and tried to persuade him to change his mind; Geoffrey was resentful because he was not old enough to do the same. I think his father, in his heart, agreed with Helena, but Uncle Peter saw how the situation could be turned to advantage. There had been hints, in pacific circles, that those who were eagerly clamoring for war were not those who would have to go and fight it. But here was a prominent politician whose son had volunteered. He was a student studying archaeology but as soon as he understood his country’s need he had rallied to the flag.
“This will do infinite good,” said Uncle Peter soothingly. “The war will soon be over. Perhaps before Jonnie gets out there.”
Even so the Russell reports did not echo that view. There was an outcry in Parliament and throughout the country. Something would have to be done.
Then we began to hear a great deal about a lady called Florence Nightingale. Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis knew her family fairly well. They had always thought that Florence was a difficult girl who had caused her parents some concern because she would not do what every girl was expected to do—make a good marriage and settle cozily into society. Florence had all the necessary accomplishments; she was handsome and intelligent, charming and attractive to the opposite sex. But she had a passion for nursing. How ridiculous! they said. Nursing was not for ladies. It was the sort of work people did when they could find no other employment. It was rather like the drifters and ne’er-do-wells who went into the army. Only this comparison was not stressed now for the drifters and ne’er-do-wells had been miraculously turned into heroes.
But now those who had ignored Miss Nightingale began to notice her.
“I heard,” said Uncle Peter, “that Miss Nightingale is being taken very seriously at last. Sydney Herbert is most impressed. They realize the need for good nurses out there. She is suggesting taking a group of women out there … women whom she will train. It is an important step forward.”