RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
RGL e-Book Cover 2018©
Ladbroke (Lionel Day) Black (1877-1940) was an English writer and journalist who also wrote under the pseudonym Paul Urquhart. His life and career are summarised in the following entry in Steve Holland's Bear Alley blog:
Black, born in Burley-in-Wharfdale, Yorkshire, on 21 June 1877, was educated in Ireland and at Cambridge where he earned a B.A. He became assistant editor of The Phoenix in 1897 before moving to London in 1899 where he joined The Morning Herald as assistant editor in 1900. He later became assistant editor of the Echo in 1901, joint editor of Today, 1904-05, and special writer on the Weekly Dispatch, 1905-11. After a forgettable first novel, "A Muddied Oaf" (1902), co-written with Francis Rutter, Black collaborated on the collection "The Mantle of the Emperor" (1906) with Robert Lynd, later literary editor of the News Chronicle. He then produced a series of novels in collaboration with [Thomas] Meech under the name Paul Urquhart, beginning with "The Eagles" (1906). Black also wrote for various magazines and newspapers, sometimes using the pen-name Lionel Day. His books ranged from romances to Sexton Blake detective yarns. His recreations included sports (boxing and rugby), reading and long walks. He lived in Wendover, Bucks, for many years and was Chairman of the Mid-Bucks Liberal Party in 1922-24. He died on 27 July 1940, aged 63, survived by his wife (Margaret, née Ambrose), two sons and two daughters."
"I KNOW you'll marry me, Betty, in the end."
Dick Moreland spoke earnestly, and then blushed crimson, as if realising the audacity of his remark. Betty Hammerton saw that blush, and she laughed scornfully.
"You, why you're only a boy! I suppose you think because you've got a commission that entitles you to talk like this?"
They stood together on the shady tennis lawn on The Limes. To Dick the place was consecrated by many happy memories, of long summer days before the war, when he and Betty were boy and girl, spurred to rivalry over the net, laughing and quarrelling, striving their best to get the better of one another, and then afterwards lying exhausted under the old beech-tree, talking.
For ten years they had been intimate friends and companions, and now that he was 21, and she was a year younger, he knew he loved her. In half an hour's time he would be leaving for France. He had already said good-bye to Betty's widowed mother, and he had sought out the girl on the old familiar lawn, and he had asked her the question that lay nearest to his heart.
"I don't care, Betty," he said, quietly. "I know you and I were meant for one another. I can wait."
She appeared convulsed with merriment. "It's what we used to call beastly cheek!" she exclaimed. "Why, I've never, never thought of you like that. We're old friends, of course, but that's all."
He remained silent, watching her with those grave eyes of his. For some inexplicable reason she felt moved to defend herself.
"I've hardly seen any other man—not that I call you a man, Dick, I shouldn't dream of doing anything so preposterous just when there's a chance of meeting real men—not boys, mind you—with this division coming into camp on the hills."
He winced.
"All the same, Betty, I know you'll marry me."
Anger now flashed out in her face. "Never, Dick—never! I don't know what's made you so conceited. As if I should marry you, whom I've known since a child! Why, you aren't anything better than a child even now! When I marry, I shall marry a man—a real man!"
He hesitated a moment, and then glanced at the watch on his wrist. "I've got to go now, Betty. Good-bye."
He held out his hand, but she ignored it. She was more angry than she cared to admit.
"Good-bye," she said coldly.
For some moments he gazed steadfastly, as if half hoping she would relent, and then turning on his heel he disappeared behind a barrier of shrubbery that enclosed the lawn.
When he had gone she would have called him back, not to tell him that she would marry him, that was altogether too ridiculous, but to say goodbye to him as a friend—as an old friend. After all, he was going out to France, and he might not come back.
It was curious she had not thought of that before. Dick had occupied such a prominent place in her life, so prominent that she had come to regard him much as one regards one's father or brother, and if he went out of her life altogether.
She sank down on the grass beneath the old beech tree where they had so often sat. She would write to him regularly, nice friendly letters. He would forgive her being angry—for not saying good-bye to him properly. He always forgave her everything, and he would bear her no ill-will.
Poor old Dick! Having deadened the pangs of her conscience, she strolled back towards the house. The beating of drums and the loud call of bugles fell upon her ears, and she ran hastily to the lodge gates which looked out upon the road.
She was just in time to see the head of the division that was going into camp on the hills appear. They came tramping through the dust singing and whistling. Some of the men called out to her, but she was quite unmoved by their familiarity. She stood there watching, enthralled by the sight. More than one young officer glanced in the direction of her graceful figure; but out of the whole division one man especially attracted her attention.
He was riding a horse, a beautiful chestnut, and as he passed her across the: intervening space his dark eyes met and held hers momentarily. She had a vision of a sunburnt face with a small black moustache—a handsome face. She saw him smile, and then bend over his horse and pat its neck. That was all, but it moved her strangely.
Somehow something seemed to tell her that she would know more, of this man.
MRS. HAMMERTON was a wealthy, elderly lady, very concerned about her social
duties, and it was inevitable, therefore, that The Limes soon became the
rendezvous of most of the officers of the division. They came regularly,
every afternoon, nominally to see Mrs. Hammerton, but actually, to talk and
play tennis with Betty. And one day, before the week was out, the man on the
horse appeared. She was engaged in a violent game of tennis when her eye
caught sight of her mother coming out on to the lawn with a tall, soldierly
figure by her side.
The man looked up and searched the lawn for a moment. For a second his eye lighted upon Betty, and then he turned quietly to Mrs. Hammerton, and seemed to ignore her presence.
The set was over at last. Her mother called to her, and she approached the seat where she was sitting.
"Captain Lansing, let me introduce you to my daughter Betty."
Those bold dark eyes were fixed upon her face. Somehow or other she felt herself blush. She became conscious that he was speaking to her in a deep, vibrant voice.
"Don't you find it dreadfully hot for such violent exercise, Miss Hammerton?" he said. "Won't you sit down and let me get you something to drink?"
AFTER that day Captain Lansing called often. He rode with her, he motored
with her, he was unfailing in his attentions. And he fascinated her. Here was
a man who knew life—a real man. He could talk of society in London in a
slightly bored tone, like one satiated with experience, and she listened
enthralled. In her letters to Dick she was quite frank about Captain
Lansing—purposely frank, because of the irritating post-script that
Dick always added to his letters: "I know you will marry me one day, Betty,
and I can wait."
Except for these postscripts, which she always ignored, they were such jolly letters, full of descriptions of his life, and casting over all his hardships a humour that made them appear almost nothing. He never made any reference to Captain Lansing, though she filled sheets about Captain Lansing. In one letter she even mischievously referred to him by his Christian name of Ralph, But even this failed to draw any comment from Dick,
THE teas and the tennis parties came suddenly to an abrupt end. When the division had been in camp for nearly six weeks, Mrs. Hammerton fell seriously ill, and though all the officers called to make polite inquiries, there was no opportunity for the jolly tennis parties and teas and after-dinner talks that had been the attraction at The Limes.
The only person who did not call was Captain Lansing, but he made up for this omission by writing every day.
A week later the crisis in Mrs. Hammerton's illness had passed, and Betty, exhausted by her constant attendance in the sick room, went out after dinner into the cool of the evening. She made her way to the seat under the old beech tree. Dusk had fallen and the stars were already shining in the sky. She sat there, dreaming idly.
Presently she was startled by a footfall, and, looking up, she saw the tall figure of Captain Lansing striding across the lawn towards her.
"The servants told me you were in the garden, Miss Hammerton, and I thought I would come and find you. I am so glad to hear that your mother is better. I hope that the strain of the nursing hasn't upset you."
Before she quite knew what had happened he had seated himself by her side. Somehow she realised that she ought not to be there alone with him, but she stayed, partly because it was difficult to invent an excuse for beating a retreat.
"Isn't it a lovely night?" he exclaimed. "Look, the moon is coming up over the hills."
He pointed to where the golden orb of the moon just showed it's edge above the hilltop. She was conscious of being stirred by some strange emotions. She could see his face in the dusk—so strong, so masterful.
"Yes, it's very beautiful," she stammered, and then made as if to rise.
"I think I must be going in, Captain Lansing." In an instant his arm was about her waist, forcing her back into the seat.
"No, no, you mustn't—you really mustn't!" he exclaimed. "There's no reason why you should, and I never hoped to have the luck to be with you alone on such a night as this."
A curious anxiety seized upon her which she tried to cover with a laugh.
"But I oughtn't to be out here with you alone," she managed to say.
"Of course you ought! What could be more pleasant? And what is pleasant must be right."
His arm tightened about her waist. She felt insensibly that he was drawing her closer to him. Terror awoke in her mind.
"Please let me go. Captain Lansing," she whispered. For answer he suddenly put his arms about her.
"My darling little girl, one kiss, just one kiss."
She felt his hot breath upon her cheek. She found herself looking into his dark eyes—hungry and passionate.
"Didn't you know that I've been looking forward to this opportunity?" he whispered, and as be spoke his lips touched her cheek.
INSTANTLY the paralysis of terror gave way to violent anger. She tore herself
away from him, striking him in the face with her hands.
"How dare you—how dare you!" she cried. "Oh, you cad!"
She had sprung to her feet, and for one second she stood staring at him, her face crimson, her little hands clenched. And then, with fury in her heart, she turned from him and sped across the lawn. She never stopped running until she had reached her own bedroom. Then she locked her door and flung herself, panting and sobbing, upon the bed.
This was the man whom she had thought such a real man, whose knowledge and experience of life had fascinated her; this common, cheap libertine, who had taken advantage of her mother's illness to insult her in her own home! This was the wonderful creature whose dark eyes and bold, confident manner had woven a spell round her heart and brain.
She rose presently, and, going to the washstand, bathed and scrubbed the cheek that he had kissed, as if hoping by this action to erase from her mind the memory of the insult. This was the man she had thought so wonderful, about whose doings, about whose talk she had filled her letters to Dick.
Dick! Her whole mind became concentrated suddenly upon Dick. She saw him again as she had seen him that last time on the lawn, with his grave, manly face. How good and brave and splendid he had always been, how different in everything that mattered to the brute she had just left. Dear old Dick!
Her heart cried out for the man she had spurned. He loved her. He had never faltered in his love. True and faithful he had been always to her throughout his life. Memories of him crowded thickly back upon her mind. Dear, dear Dick! The tears streamed from her eyes down her cheek. And then there came to her in a wonderful glimpse of illumination that she loved him, that it had only wanted just this to show bow there was no man in the world who could compare with Dick.
A dreadful horror seized her. Supposing out there in France he had been killed without ever knowing that she loved him. Some strange psychic premonition possessed her. With the tears still streaming down her face she sat down at her writing-table. Whether he got the letter or not she must write to him and make her confession.
"My darling," she wrote, "I have been horrid to you, wilfully horrid to you. I know now that I love you, and have always loved you, and I will marry you whenever you wish."
She simply signed her name at the end, and then, placing it in an envelope, she addressed it to R. Moreland, Esq., care General Post Office, B.E.F., France.
A few seconds later she crept quietly, out of the house, and with that unreasoning dread still upon her, dropped the letter into the box at the lodge gates.
"CAN'T you sleep?" The figure on the bed smiled feebly and shook his head. "Not unless you give me morphia, nurse," he answered.
"But I don't want to give you morphia, Mr. Moreland, if I can help it. You ought to try and sleep without it. Is the pain so bad?"
"Yes, it's pretty rotten, nurse."
The nurse bent over him and felt his pulse. "I believe, you're worrying about something really, you know. I've got a letter for you, but I don't know whether I ought to read it to you."
She took a letter from the pocket of her apron.
"Hold it close to my eyes, and let me see the handwriting," he begged. She did as she was asked. She watched his face curiously—she saw his eyes light up.
"Would you mind reading it me, nurse?" he stammered.
She tore open the envelope, and began to read. He lay very still when she had finished. She herself felt the tears gathering in her eyes. He was only a boy, after all, and her heart yearned over him.
"I know that I love you, and have always loved you, and I will marry you whenever you wish." He repeated the words in a low voice. Then he looked up at the nurse, his face radiant.
"Will you put it under my pillow, nurse?" he said. "I know I shall sleep to-night all right." And he did sleep that night, and in that sleep Death, that had so nearly touched him, passed by, leaving him a space for happiness with the girl he loved so finely and so steadfastly.