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TATTERDEMALION

by

JOHN GALSWORTHY

"Gentillesse cometh fro' God allone. "--_Chaucer_

New YorkCharles Scribner's Sons1920

Copyright, 1917, 1918, 1920, byCharles Scribner's Sons

Copyright, 1915, 1916, by The Ridgway CompanyCopyright, 1919, by The New Republic Publishing Co. , Inc. Copyright, 1914, 1916, 1919, by The Atlantic Monthly Co. 

[Illustration]

 * * * * *

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

VILLA RUBEIN, and Other StoriesTHE ISLAND PHARISEESTHE MAN OF PROPERTYTHE COUNTRY HOUSEFRATERNITYTHE PATRICIANTHE DARK FLOWERTHE FREELANDSBEYONDFIVE TALESSAINT'S PROGRESSTATTERDEMALION

A COMMENTARYA MOTLEYTHE INN OF TRANQUILLITYTHE LITTLE MAN, and Other SatiresA SHEAFANOTHER SHEAFADDRESSES IN AMERICA: 1919

PLAYS: FIRST SERIES_and Separately_

THE SILVER BOXJOYSTRIFE

PLAYS: SECOND SERIES_and Separately_

THE ELDEST SONTHE LITTLE DREAMJUSTICE

PLAYS: THIRD SERIES_and Separately_

THE FUGITIVETHE PIGEONTHE MOB

A BIT O' LOVE

MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELSMEMORIES. Illustrated

 * * * * *

TOELIZABETH LUCAS

CONTENTS

 PART I. --OF WAR-TIME PAGE

 I. THE GREY ANGEL 3

 II. DEFEAT 27

 III. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 51

 IV. THE BRIGHT SIDE 75

 V. "CAFARD" 105

 VI. RECORDED 117

 VII. THE RECRUIT 125

 VIII. THE PEACE MEETING 137

 IX. "THE DOG IT WAS THAT DIED" 147

 X. IN HEAVEN AND EARTH 169

 XI. THE MOTHER STONE 173

 XII. POIROT AND BIDAN 179

 XIII. THE MUFFLED SHIP 187

 XIV. HERITAGE 191

 XV. 'A GREEN HILL FAR AWAY' 199

 PART II. --OF PEACE-TIME

 I. SPINDLEBERRIES 209

 II. EXPECTATIONS 227

 III. MANNA 239

 IV. A STRANGE THING 255

 V. TWO LOOKS 271

 VI. FAIRYLAND 279

 VII. THE NIGHTMARE CHILD 283

 VIII. BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 295

TATTERDEMALION

_PART I_

OF WAR-TIME

I

THE GREY ANGEL

Her predilection for things French came from childish recollections ofschool-days in Paris, and a hasty removal thence by her father duringthe revolution of '48, of later travels as a little maiden, bydiligence, to Pau and the then undiscovered Pyrenees, to a Montpellierand a Nice as yet unspoiled. Unto her seventy-eighth year, her Frenchaccent had remained unruffled, her soul in love with French gloves anddresses; and her face had the pale, unwrinkled, slightly aquilineperfection of the 'French marquise' type--it may, perhaps, be doubtedwhether any French marquise ever looked the part so perfectly. 

How it came about that she had settled down in a southern French town, in the summer of 1914, only her roving spirit knew. She had been a widowten years, which she had passed in the quest of perfection; all her lifeshe had been haunted by that instinct, half-smothered in ministering toher husband, children, and establishments in London and the country. Now, in loneliness, the intrinsic independence of her soul was able toassert itself, and from hotel to hotel she had wandered in England, Wales, Switzerland, France, till now she had found what seeminglyarrested her. Was it the age of that oldest of Western cities, thatlittle mother of Western civilisation, which captured her fancy? Or dida curious perversity turn her from more obvious abodes, or was she keptthere by the charm of a certain church which she would enter every dayto steep herself in mellow darkness, the scent of incense, the drone ofincantations, and quiet communion with a God higher indeed than she hadbeen brought up to, high-church though she had always been? She had apretty little apartment, where for very little--the bulk of her smallwealth was habitually at the service of others--she could manage withone maid and no "fuss. " She had some "nice" French friends there, too. But more probably it was simply the war which kept her there, waiting, like so many other people, for it to be over before it seemed worthwhile to move and re-establish herself. The immensity and wickedness ofthis strange event held her, as it were, suspended, body and spirit, high up on the hill which had seen the ancient peoples, the Romans, Gauls, Saracens, and all, and still looked out towards the flatCamargue. Here in her three rooms, with a little kitchen, the maidAugustine, a parrot, and the Paris _Daily Mail_, she dwelt as it weremarooned by a world event which seemed to stun her. Not that sheworried, exactly. The notion of defeat or of real danger to her countryand to France never entered her head. She only grieved quietly over thedreadful things that were being done, and every now and then would glowwith admiration at the beautiful way the King and Queen were behaving. It was no good to "fuss, " and one must make the best of things, just asthe "dear little Queen" was doing; for each Queen in turn, and she hadseen three reign in her time, was always that to her. Her ancestors hadbeen uprooted from their lands, their house burned, and her pedigreediverted, in the Stuart wars--a reverence for royalty was fastened inher blood. 

Quite early in the business she had begun to knit, moving her slimfingers not too fast, gazing at the grey wool through glasses, speciallyrimless and invisible, perched on the bridge of her firm, well-shapednose, and now and then speaking to her parrot. The bird could say, "Scratch a poll, Poll, " already, and "Hullo!" those keys to the Englishlanguage. The maid Augustine, having completed some small duty, wouldoften come and stand, her head on one side, gazing down with a sort ofinquiring compassion in her wise, young, clear-brown eyes. It seemed toher who was straight and sturdy as a young tree both wonderful and sadthat _Madame_ should be seventy-seven, and so frail--_Madame_ who had nolines in her face and such beautiful grey hair; who had so strong awill-power, too, and knitted such soft comforters "_pour nos braveschers poilus_. " And suddenly she would say: "_Madame n'est pasfatiguée?_" And _Madame_ would answer: "No. Speak English, Augustine--Polly will pick up your French! Come here!" And, reaching upa pale hand, she would set straight a stray fluff of the girl'sdark-brown hair or improve the set of her fichu. 

Those two got on extremely well, for though madame was--oh! but veryparticular, she was always "_très gentille et toujours grande dame_. "And that love of form so deep in the French soul promoted the girl'sadmiration for one whom she could see would in no circumstances lose herdignity. Besides, _Madame_ was full of dainty household devices, andcould not bear waste; and these, though exacting, were qualities whichappealed to Augustine. With her French passion for "the family" she usedto wonder how in days like these _Madame_ could endure to be far awayfrom her son and daughter and the grandchildren, whose photographs hungon the walls; and the long letters her mistress was always writing in abeautiful, fine hand, beginning, "My darling Sybil, " "My darlingReggie, " and ending always "Your devoted mother, " seemed to a warm andsimple heart but meagre substitutes for flesh-and-blood realities. Butas _Madame_ would inform her--they were too busy doing things for thedear soldiers, and working for the war; they could not come to her--thatwould never do. And to go to them would give so much trouble, when therailways were so wanted for the troops; and she had their lovelyletters, which she kept--as Augustine observed--every one in alavender-scented sachet, and frequently took out to read. Another pointof sympathy between those two was their passion for military music andseeing soldiers pass. Augustine's brother and father were at the front, and _Madame's_ dead brother had been a soldier in the Crimean war--"longbefore you were born, Augustine, when the French and English fought theRussians; I was in France then, too, a little girl, and we lived atNice; it was so lovely, you can't think--the flowers! And my poorbrother was so cold in the siege of Sebastopol. " Somehow, that time andthat war were more real to her than this. 

In December, when the hospitals were already full, her French friendsfirst took her to the one which they attended. She went in, her facevery calm, with that curious inward composure which never deserted it, carrying in front of her with both hands a black silk bag, wherein shehad concealed an astonishing collection of treasures for the poor men! Abottle of acidulated drops, packets of cigarettes, two of her ownmufflers, a pocket set of drafts, some English riddles translated byherself into French (very curious), some ancient copies of anillustrated paper, boxes of chocolate, a ball of string to make "cat'scradles" (such an amusing game), her own packs of Patience cards, somephotograph frames, post-cards of Arles, and--most singular--akettle-holder. At the head of each bed she would sit down and rummage inthe bag, speaking in her slow but quite good French, to explain the useof the acidulated drops, or to give a lesson in cat's cradles. And the_poilus_ would listen with their polite, ironic patience, and be leftsmiling, and curiously fascinated, as if they had been visited by acreature from another world. She would move on to other beds, quiteunconscious of the effect she had produced on them and of their remarks:"_Cette vieille dame, comme elle est bonne!_" or "_Espèce d'ange auxcheveux gris. _" "_L'ange anglaise aux cheveux gris_" became in fact hername within those walls. And the habit of filling that black silk bagand going there to distribute its contents soon grew to be with her aruling passion which neither weather nor her own aches and pains, notinconsiderable, must interfere with. The things she brought became moremarvellous every week. But, however much she carried coals to Newcastle, or tobacco pouches to those who did not smoke, or homoeopathicglobules to such as crunched up the whole bottleful for the sake of thesugar, as soon as her back was turned, no one ever smiled now withanything but real pleasure at sight of her calm and truly sweet smile, and the scent of soap on her pale hands. "_Cher fils, je croyais quececi vous donnerait un peu de plaisir. Voyez-vous comme c'est commode, n'est ce pas?_" Each newcomer to the wards was warned by his comradesthat the English angel with the grey hair was to be taken without asmile, exactly as if she were his grandmother. 

In the walk to the hospital Augustine would accompany her, carrying thebag and perhaps a large peasant's umbrella to cover them both, for thewinter was hard and snowy, and carriages cost money, which must now bekept entirely for the almost daily replenishment of the bag and othercalls of war. The girl, to her chagrin, was always left in a safe place, for it would never do to take her in and put fancies into her head, andperhaps excite the dear soldiers with a view of anything so taking. Andwhen the visit was over they would set forth home, walking very slowlyin the high, narrow streets, Augustine pouting a little and shootingswift glances at anything in uniform, and _Madame_ making firm her lipsagainst a fatigue which sometimes almost overcame her before she couldget home and up the stairs. And the parrot would greet them indiscreetlywith new phrases--"Keep smiling!" and "Kiss Augustine!" which hesometimes varied with "Kiss a poll, Poll!" or "Scratch Augustine!" to_Madame's_ regret. Tea would revive her somewhat, and then she wouldknit, for as time went on and the war seemed to get farther and fartherfrom that end which, in common with so many, she had expected beforenow, it seemed dreadful not to be always doing something to help thepoor dear soldiers; and for dinner, to Augustine's horror, she now hadnothing but a little soup, or an egg beaten up with milk and brandy. Itsaved such a lot of time and expense--she was sure people ate too much;and afterwards she would read the _Daily Mail_, often putting it down tosigh, and press her lips together, and think, "One must look on thebright side of things, " and wonder a little where it was. AndAugustine, finishing her work in the tiny kitchen, would sigh too, andthink of red trousers and peaked caps, not yet out of date in thatSouthern region, and of her own heart saying "Kiss Augustine!" and shewould peer out between the shutters at the stars sparkling over theCamargue, or look down where the ground fell away beyond an old, oldwall, and nobody walked in the winter night, and muse on her nineteenthbirthday coming, and sigh with the thought that she would be old beforeany one had loved her; and of how _Madame_ was looking "_trèsfatiguée_. "

Indeed, Madame was not merely _looking "très fatiguée"_ in these days. The world's vitality and her own were at sad January ebb. But to thinkof oneself was quite impossible, of course; it would be all rightpresently, and one must not fuss, or mention in one's letters to thedear children that one felt at all poorly. As for a doctor--that wouldbe sinful waste, and besides, what use were they except to tell you whatyou knew? So she was terribly vexed when Augustine found her in a faintone morning, and she found Augustine in tears, with her hair all overher face. She rated the girl soundly, but feebly, for making such a fussover "a little thing like that, " and with extremely trembling fingerspushed the brown hair back and told her to wash her face, while theparrot said reflectively: "Scratch a poll--Hullo!" The girl who had seenher own grandmother die not long before, and remembered how "_fatiguée_"she had been during her last days, was really frightened. Coming backafter she had washed her face, she found her mistress writing on anumber of little envelopes the same words: "_En bonne Amitié. _" Shelooked up at the girl standing so ominously idle, and said:

"Take this hundred-franc note, Augustine, and go and get it changed intosingle francs--the ironmonger will do it if you say it's for me. I amgoing to take a rest. I sha'n't buy anything for the bag for a wholeweek. I shall just take francs instead. "

"Oh, _Madame!_ You must not go out: _vous êtes trop fatiguée_. "

"Nonsense! How do you suppose our dear little Queen in England would geton with all she has to do, if she were to give in like that? We mustnone of us give up in these days. Help me to put on my things; I amgoing to church, and then I shall take a long rest before we go to thehospital. "

"Oh, _Madame!_ Must you go to church? It is not your kind of church. Youdo not pray there, do you?"

"Of course I pray there. I am very fond of the dear old church. God isin every church, Augustine; you ought to know that at your age. "

"But _Madame_ has her own religion?"

"Now, don't be silly. What does that matter? Help me into my clothcoat--not the fur--it's too heavy--and then go and get that moneychanged. "

"But _Madame_ should see a doctor. If _Madame_ faints again I shall diewith fright. _Madame_ has no colour--but no colour at all; it must bethat there is something wrong. "

_Madame_ rose, and taking the girl's ear between thumb and fingerpinched it gently. 

"You are a very silly girl. What would our poor soldiers do if all thenurses were like you?"

Reaching the church she sat down gladly, turning her face up towards herfavourite picture, a Virgin standing with her Baby in her arms. It wasonly faintly coloured now; but there were those who said that anArlésienne must have sat for it. Why it pleased her so she never quiteknew, unless it were by its cool, unrestored devotion, by the faintsmiling in the eyes. Religion with her was a strange yet very realthing. Conscious that she was not clever, she never even began to tryand understand what she believed. Probably she believed nothing morethan that if she tried to be good she would go to God--whatever andwherever God might be--some day when she was too tired to live any more;and rarely indeed did she forget to try to be good. As she sat there shethought, or perhaps prayed, whichever it should be called: "Let meforget that I have a body, and remember all the poor soldiers who havethem. "

It struck cold that morning in the church--the wind was bitter from thenortheast; some poor women in black were kneeling, and four candlesburned in the gloom of a side aisle--thin, steady little spires of gold. There was no sound at all. A smile came on her lips. She was forgettingthat she had a body, and remembering all those young faces in the wards, the faces too of her own children far away, the faces of all she loved. They were real and she was not--she was nothing but the devotion shefelt for them; yes, for all the poor souls on land and sea, fighting andworking and dying. Her lips moved; she was saying below her breath, "Ilove them all"; then, feeling a shiver run down her spine, shecompressed those lips and closed her eyes, letting her mind alone murmurher chosen prayer: "O God, who makes the birds sing and the stars shine, and gives us little children, strengthen my heart so that I may forgetmy own aches and wants and think of those of other people. "

On reaching home again she took gelseminum, her favourite remedy againstthat shivering, which, however hard she tried to forget her own body, would keep coming; then, covering herself with her fur coat, she laydown, closing her eyes. She was seemingly asleep, so that Augustine, returning with the hundred single francs, placed them noiselessly besidethe little pile of envelopes, and after looking at the white, motionlessface of her mistress and shaking her own bonny head, withdrew. When shehad gone, two tears came out of those closed eyes and clung on the palecheeks below. The seeming sleeper was thinking of her children, awayover there in England, her children and their children. Almostunbearably she was longing for a sight of them, not seen for so longnow, recalling each face, each voice, each different way they had ofsaying, "Mother darling, " or "Granny, look what I've got!" and thinkingthat if only the war would end how she would pack at once and go tothem, that is, if they would not come to her for a nice long holiday inthis beautiful place. She thought of spring, too, and how lovely itwould be to see the trees come out again, and almond blossom against ablue sky. The war seemed so long, and winter too. But she must notcomplain; others had much greater sorrows than she--the poor widowedwomen kneeling in the church; the poor boys freezing in the trenches. God in his great mercy could not allow it to last much longer. It wouldnot be like Him! Though she felt that it would be impossible to eat, shemeant to force herself to make a good lunch so as to be able to go downas usual, and give her little presents. They would miss them so if shedidn't. Her eyes, opening, rested almost gloatingly on the piles offrancs and envelopes. And she began to think how she could reduce stillfurther her personal expenditure. It was so dreadful to spend anythingon oneself--an old woman like her. Doctor, indeed! If Augustine fussedany more she would send her away and do for herself! And the parrot, leaving his cage, which he could always do, perched just behind her andsaid: "Hullo! Kiss me, too!"

That afternoon in the wards every one noticed what a beautiful colourshe had. "_L'ange anglaise aux cheveux gris_" had never been morepopular. One _poilu_, holding up his envelope, remarked to hisneighbour: "_Elle verse des gouttes d'ciel, notr' 'tite gran'mè_. " Tothem, grateful even for those mysterious joys "cat's cradles, " francswere the true drops from heaven. 

She had not meant to give them all to-day, but it seemed dreadful, whenshe saw how pleased they were, to leave any out, and so the wholeninety-seven had their franc each. The three over would buy Augustine alittle brooch to make up to the silly child for her fright in themorning. The buying of this brooch took a long time at the jeweller's inthe _rue des Romains_, and she had only just fixed on an amethyst beforefeeling deadly ill with a dreadful pain through her lungs. She went outwith her tiny package quickly, not wanting any fuss, and began to mounttowards home. There were only three hundred yards to go, and with eachstep she said to herself: "Nonsense! What would the Queen think of you!Remember the poor soldiers with only one leg! You have got both yourlegs! And the poor men who walk from the battlefield with bulletsthrough the lungs. What is your pain to theirs! Nonsense!" But the pain, like none she had ever felt--a pain which seemed to have sharp doubleedges like a knife--kept passing through and through her, till her legshad no strength at all, and seemed to move simply because her will said:"If you don't, I'll leave you behind. So there!" She felt as ifperspiration were flowing down, yet her face was as dry as a dead leafwhen she put up her hand to it. Her brain stammered; seemed to flyloose; came to sudden standstills. Her eyes searched painfully eachgrey-shuttered window for her own house, though she knew quite wellthat she had not reached it yet. From sheer pain she stood still, a wrylittle smile on her lips, thinking how poor Polly would say: "Keepsmiling!" Then she moved on, holding out her hand, whether because shethought God would put his into it or only to pull on some imaginary ropeto help her. So, foot by foot, she crept till she reached her door. Amost peculiar floating sensation had come over her. The pain ceased, andas if she had passed through no doors, mounted no stairs--she was up inher room, lying on her sofa, with strange images about her, painfullyconscious that she was not in proper control of her thoughts, and thatAugustine must be thinking her ridiculous. Making a great effort, shesaid:

"I forbid you to send for a doctor, Augustine. I shall be all right in aday or two, if I eat plenty of francs. And you must put on this littlebrooch--I bought it for you from an angel in the street. Put my fur coaton Polly--he's shivering; dry your mouth, there's a good girl. Tell myson he mustn't think of leaving the poor War Office; I shall come andsee him after the war. It will be over to-morrow, and then we will allgo and have tea together in a wood. Granny will come to you, mydarlings. "

And when the terrified girl had rushed out she thought: "There, nowshe's gone to get God; and I mustn't disturb Him with all He has to seeto. I shall get up and do for myself. " When they came back with thedoctor they found her half-dressed, trying to feed a perch in the emptycage with a spoon, and saying: "Kiss Granny, Polly. God is coming; kissGranny!" while the parrot sat away over on the mantelpiece, with hishead on one side, deeply interested. 

When she had been properly undressed and made to lie down on the sofa, for she insisted so that she would not go to bed that they dared notoppose her, the doctor made his diagnosis. It was double pneumonia, ofthat sudden sort which declares for life or death in forty-eight hours. At her age a desperate case. Her children must be wired to at once. Shehad sunk back, seemingly unconscious; and Augustine, approaching thedrawer where she knew the letters were kept, slipped out the lavendersachet and gave it to the doctor. When he had left the room to extractthe addresses and send those telegrams, the girl sat down by the foot ofthe couch, leaning her elbows on her knees and her face on her hands, staring at that motionless form, while the tears streamed down her broadcheeks. For many minutes neither of them stirred, and the only soundwas the restless stropping of the parrot's beak against a wire of hiscage. Then her mistress's lips moved, and the girl bent forward. Awhispering came forth, caught and suspended by breathless pausing:

"Mind, Augustine--no one is to tell my children--I can't have themdisturbed--over a little thing--like this--and in my purse you'll findanother--hundred-franc note. I shall want some more francs for the dayafter to-morrow. Be a good girl and don't fuss, and kiss poor Polly, andmind--I won't have a doctor--taking him away from his work. Give me mygelseminum and my prayer-book. And go to bed just as usual--we mustall--keep smiling--like the dear soldiers--" The whispering ceased, thenbegan again at once in rapid delirious incoherence. And the girl sattrembling, covering now her ears from those uncanny sounds, now her eyesfrom the flush and the twitching of that face, usually so pale andstill. She could not follow--with her little English--the swerving, intricate flights of that old spirit mazed by fever--the memoriesreleased, the longings disclosed, the half-uttered prayers, the curiouslittle half-conscious efforts to regain form and dignity. She could onlypray to the Virgin. When relieved by the daughter of _Madame's_ Frenchfriend, who spoke good English, she murmured desperately: "_Oh!mademoiselle, madame est très fatiguée--la pauvre tête--faut-il enleverles cheveux? Elle fait ça toujours pour elle-même. _" For, to the girl, with her reverence for the fastidious dignity which never left hermistress, it seemed sacrilege to divest her of her crown of fine greyhair. Yet, when it was done and the old face crowned only by the thinwhite hair of nature, that dignity was still there surmounting thewandering talk and the moaning from her parched lips, which every nowand then smiled and pouted in a kiss, as if remembering the maxims ofthe parrot. So the night passed, with all that could be done for her, whose most collected phrase, frequently uttered in the doctor's face, was: "Mind, Augustine, I won't have a doctor--I can manage for myselfquite well. " Once for a few minutes her spirit seemed to recover itscoherence, and she was heard to whisper: "God has given me this so thatI may know what the poor soldiers suffer. Oh! they've forgotten to coverPolly's cage. " But high fever soon passes from the very old; and earlymorning brought a deathlike exhaustion, with utter silence, save for thelicking of the flames at the olive-wood logs, and the sound as theyslipped or settled down, calcined. The firelight crept fantasticallyabout the walls covered with tapestry of French-grey silk, crept roundthe screen-head of the couch, and betrayed the ivory pallor of thatmask-like face, which covered now such tenuous threads of life. Augustine, who had come on guard when the fever died away, sat in thearmchair before those flames, trying hard to watch, but dropping offinto the healthy sleep of youth. And out in the clear, hard shiveringSouthern cold, the old clocks chimed the hours into the winter dark, where, remote from man's restless spirit, the old town brooded aboveplain and river under the morning stars. And the girl dreamed--dreamedof a sweetheart under the acacias by her home, of his pinning theirwhite flowers into her hair, till she woke with a little laugh. Lightwas already coming through the shutter chinks, the fire was but redembers and white ash. She gathered it stealthily together, put on freshlogs, and stole over to the couch. Oh! how white! how still! Was hermistress dead? The icy clutch of that thought jerked her hands up to herfull breast, and a cry mounted in her throat. The eyes opened. The whitelips parted, as if to smile; a voice whispered: "Now, don't be silly!"The girl's cry changed into a little sob, and bending down she put herlips to the ringed hand that lay outside the quilt. The hand movedfaintly as if responding, the voice whispered: "The emerald ring is foryou, Augustine. Is it morning? Uncover Polly's cage, and open his door. "

_Madame_ spoke no more that morning. A telegram had come. Her son anddaughter would arrive next morning early. They waited for a moment ofconsciousness to tell her; but the day went by, and in spite of oxygenand brandy it did not come. She was sinking fast; her only movementswere a tiny compression now and then of the lips, a half-opening of theeyes, and once a smile when the parrot spoke. The rally came at eighto'clock. _Mademoiselle_ was sitting by the couch when the voice camefairly strong: "Give my love to my dear soldiers, and take them theirfrancs out of my purse, please. Augustine, take care of Polly. I want tosee if the emerald ring fits you. Take it off, please"; and, when it hadbeen put on the little finger of the sobbing girl: "There, you see, itdoes. That's very nice. Your sweetheart will like that when you haveone. What do you say, _Mademoiselle_? My son and daughter coming? Allthat way?" The lips smiled a moment, and then tears forced their wayinto her eyes. "My darlings! How good of them! Oh! what a cold journeythey'll have! Get my room ready, Augustine, with a good fire! What areyou crying for? Remember what Polly says: 'Keep smiling!' Think how badit is for the poor soldiers if we women go crying! The Queen nevercries, and she has ever so much to make her!"

No one could tell whether she knew that she was dying, except perhapsfor those words, "Take care of Polly, " and the gift of the ring. 

She did not even seem anxious as to whether she would live to see herchildren. Her smile moved _Mademoiselle_ to whisper to Augustine: "_Ellea la sourire divine_. "

"_Ah! mademoiselle, comme elle est brave, la pauvre dame! C'est qu'ellepense toujours aux autres. _" And the girl's tears dropped on the emeraldring. 

Night fell--the long night; would she wake again? Both watched with her, ready at the faintest movement to administer oxygen and brandy. She wasstill breathing, but very faintly, when at six o'clock they heard theexpress come in, and presently the carriage stop before the house. _Mademoiselle_ stole down to let them in. 

Still in their travelling coats her son and daughter knelt down besidethe couch, watching in the dim candle-light for a sign and cherishingher cold hands. Daylight came; they put the shutters back and blew outthe candles. Augustine, huddled in the far corner, cried gently toherself. _Mademoiselle_ had withdrawn. But the two still knelt, tearsrunning down their cheeks. The face of their mother was so transparent, so exhausted; the least little twitching of just-opened lips showed thatshe breathed. A tiny sigh escaped; her eyelids fluttered. The son, leaning forward, said:

"Sweetheart, we're here. "

The eyes opened then; something more than a simple human spirit seemedto look through--it gazed for a long, long minute; then the lips parted. They bent to catch the sound. 

"My darlings--don't cry; smile!" And the eyes closed again. On her facea smile so touching that it rent the heart flickered and went out. Breath had ceased to pass the faded lips. 

In the long silence the French girl's helpless sobbing rose; the parrotstirred uneasily in his still-covered cage. And the son and daughterknelt, pressing their faces hard against the couch. 

II

DEFEAT

She had been standing there on the pavement a quarter of an hour or soafter her shilling's worth of concert. Women of her profession are notsupposed to have redeeming points, especially when--like May Belinski, as she now preferred to dub herself--they are German; but this womancertainly had music in her soul. She often gave herself these "musicbaths" when the Promenade Concerts were on, and had just spent half hertotal wealth in listening to some Mozart and a Beethoven symphony. 

She was feeling almost elated, full of divine sound, and of thewonderful summer moonlight which was filling the whole dark town. Women"of a certain type" have, at all events, emotions--and what a comfortthat is, even to themselves! To stand just there had become rather ahabit of hers. One could seem to be waiting for somebody coming out ofthe concert, not yet over--which, of course, was precisely what she_was_ doing. One need not forever be stealthily glancing and perpetuallymoving on in that peculiar way, which, while it satisfied the policeand Mrs. Grundy, must not quite deceive others as to her business inlife. She had only "been at it" long enough to have acquired a nervousdread of almost everything--not long enough to have passed through thatdread to callousness. Some women take so much longer than others. Andeven for a woman "of a certain type" her position was exceptionallynerve-racking in war-time, going as she did by a false name. Indeed, inall England there could hardly be a greater pariah than was this Germanwoman of the night. 

She idled outside a book-shop humming a little, pretending to read thetitles of the books by moonlight, taking off and putting on one of herstained yellow gloves. Now and again she would move up as far as theposters outside the Hall, scrutinising them as if interested in thefuture, then stroll back again. In her worn and discreet dark dress, andher small hat, she had nothing about her to rouse suspicion, unless itwere the trail of violet powder she left on the moonlight. 

For the moonlight this evening was almost solid, seeming with its coolstill vibration to replace the very air; in it the war-time precautionsagainst light seemed fantastic, like shading candles in a room stillfull of daylight. What lights there were had the effect of strokes andstipples of dim colour laid by a painter's brush on a background ofghostly whitish blue. The dreamlike quality of the town was perhapsenhanced for her eyes by the veil she was wearing--in daytime no longerwhite. As the music died out of her, elation also ebbed. Somebody hadpassed her, speaking German, and she was overwhelmed by a rush ofnostalgia. On this moonlight night by the banks of the Rhine--whence shecame--the orchards would be heavy with apples; there would be murmurs, and sweet scents; the old castle would stand out clear, high over thewoods and the chalky-white river. There would be singing far away, andthe churning of a distant steamer's screw; and perhaps on the water alog raft still drifting down in the blue light. There would be Germanvoices talking. And suddenly tears oozed up in her eyes, and crept downthrough the powder on her cheeks. She raised her veil and dabbed at herface with a little, not-too-clean handkerchief, screwed up in heryellow-gloved hand. But the more she dabbed, the more those treacheroustears ran. Then she became aware that a tall young man in khaki was alsostanding before the shop-window, not looking at the titles of the books, but eyeing her askance. His face was fresh and open, with a sort ofkindly eagerness in his blue eyes. Mechanically she drooped her wetlashes, raised them obliquely, drooped them again, and uttered a littlesob. .. . 

This young man, Captain in a certain regiment, and discharged fromhospital at six o'clock that evening, had entered Queen's Hall athalf-past seven. Still rather brittle and sore from his wound, he hadtreated himself to a seat in the Grand Circle, and there had sat, verystill and dreamy, the whole concert through. It had been like eatingafter a long fast--something of the sensation Polar explorers mustexperience when they return to their first full meal. For he was of theNew Army, and before the war had actually believed in music, art, andall that sort of thing. With a month's leave before him, he could affordto feel that life was extraordinarily joyful, his own experiencesparticularly wonderful; and, coming out into the moonlight, he had takenwhat can only be described as a great gulp of it, for he was a young manwith a sense of beauty. When one has been long in the trenches, lain outwounded in a shell-hole twenty-four hours, and spent three months inhospital, beauty has such an edge of novelty, such a sharp sweetness, that it almost gives pain. And London at night is very beautiful. Hestrolled slowly towards the Circus, still drawing the moonlight deepinto his lungs, his cap tilted up a little on his forehead in thatmoment of unmilitary abandonment; and whether he stopped before thebook-shop window because the girl's figure was in some sort a part ofbeauty, or because he saw that she was crying, he could not have madeclear to any one. 

Then something--perhaps the scent of powder, perhaps the yellow glove, or the oblique flutter of the eyelids--told him that he was making whathe would have called "a blooming error, " unless he wished for company, which had not been in his thoughts. But her sob affected him, and hesaid:

"What's the matter?"

Again her eyelids fluttered sideways, and she stammered:

"Not'ing. The beautiful evening--that's why!"

That a woman of what he now clearly saw to be "a certain type" shouldperceive what he himself had just been perceiving, struck him forcibly, and he said:

"Cheer up. "

She looked up again swiftly: "Cheer up! You are not lonelee like me. "

For one of that sort, she looked somehow honest; her tear-streaked facewas rather pretty, and he murmured:

"Well, let's walk a bit, and talk it over. "

They turned the corner, and walked east, along streets empty, andbeautiful, with their dulled orange-glowing lamps, and here and therethe glint of some blue or violet light. He found it queer and ratherexciting--for an adventure of just this kind he had never had. And hesaid doubtfully:

"How did you get into this? Isn't it an awfully hopeless sort of life?"

"Ye-es, it ees--" her voice had a queer soft emphasis. "You arelimping--haf you been wounded?"

"Just out of hospital to-day. "

"The horrible war--all the misery is because of the war. When will itend?"

He looked at her attentively, and said:

"I say--what nationality are you?"

"Rooshian. "

"Really! I never met a Russian girl. "

He was conscious that she looked at him, then very quickly down. And hesaid suddenly:

"Is it as bad as they make out?"

She slipped her yellow-gloved hand through his arm. 

"Not when I haf any one as nice as you; I never haf yet, though"; shesmiled--and her smile was like her speech, slow, confiding--"you stoppedbecause I was sad, others stop because I am gay. I am not fond of menat all. When you know, you are not fond of them. "

"Well! You hardly know them at their best, do you? You should see themat the front. By George! they're simply splendid--officers and men, every blessed soul. There's never been anything like it--just one longbit of jolly fine self-sacrifice; it's perfectly amazing. "

Turning her blue-grey eyes on him, she answered:

"I expect you are not the last at that. You see in them what you haf inyourself, I think. "

"Oh! not a bit--you're quite out. I assure you when we made the attackwhere I got wounded, there wasn't a single man in my regiment who wasn'tan absolute hero. The way they went in--never thinking of themselves--itwas simply superb!"

Her teeth came down on her lower lip, and she answered in a queer voice:"It is the same too perhaps with--the enemy. "

"Oh yes, I know that. "

"Ah! You are not a mean man. How I hate mean men!"

"Oh! they're not mean really--they simply don't understand. "

"Oh! you are a baby--a good baby, aren't you?"

He did not quite like being called a baby, and frowned; but was at oncetouched by the disconcertion in her powdered face. How quickly she wasscared!

She said clingingly:

"But I li-ike you for it. It is so good to find a ni-ice man. "

This was worse, and he said abruptly:

"About being lonely? Haven't you any Russian friends?"

"Rooshian! No!" Then quickly added: "The town is so beeg! Haf you beenin the concert?"

"Yes. "

"I, too--I love music. "

"I suppose all Russians do. "

She looked up at his face again, and seemed to struggle to keep silent;then she said quietly:

"I go there always when I haf the money. "

"What! Are you so on the rocks?"

"Well, I haf just one shilling now. " And she laughed. 

The sound of that little laugh upset him--she had a way of making himfeel sorry for her every time she spoke. 

They had come by now to a narrow square, east of Gower Street. 

"This is where I lif, " she said. "Come in!"

He had one long moment of violent hesitation, then yielded to the softtugging of her hand, and followed. The passage-hall was dimly lighted, and they went upstairs into a front room, where the curtains were drawn, and the gas turned very low. Opposite the window were other curtainsdividing off the rest of the apartment. As soon as the door was shut sheput up her face and kissed him--evidently formula. What a room! Itsgreen and beetroot colouring and the prevalence of cheap plushdisagreeably affected him. Everything in it had that callous look ofrooms which seem to be saying to their occupants: "You're here to-dayand you'll be gone to-morrow. " Everything except one little plant, in acommon pot, of maidenhair fern, fresh and green, looking as if it hadbeen watered within the hour; in this room it had just the sameunexpected touchingness that peeped out of the girl's matter-of-factcynicism. 

Taking off her hat, she went towards the gas, but he said quickly:

"No, don't turn it up; let's have the window open, and the moonlightin. " He had a sudden dread of seeing anything plainly--it was stuffy, too, and pulling the curtains apart, he threw up the window. The girlhad come obediently from the hearth, and sat down opposite him, leaningher arm on the window-sill and her chin on her hand. The moonlightcaught her cheek where she had just renewed the powder, caught her faircrinkly hair; it caught the plush of the furniture, and his own khaki, giving them all a touch of unreality. 

"What's your name?" he said. 

"May. Well, I call myself that. It's no good askin' yours. "

"You're a distrustful little party, aren't you?"

"I haf reason to be, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose you're bound to think us all brutes?"

"Well, I haf a lot of reasons to be afraid all my time. I am dreadfullynervous now; I am not trusting anybody. I suppose you haf been killinglots of Germans?"

He laughed. 

"We never know, unless it happens to be hand to hand; I haven't come infor that yet. "

"But you would be very glad if you had killed some?"

"Glad? I don't think so. We're all in the same boat, so far as that'sconcerned. We're not glad to kill each other. We do our job--that'sall. "

"Oh! it is frightful. I expect I haf my broders killed. "

"Don't you get any news ever?"

"News! No indeed, no news of anybody in my country. I might not haf acountry; all that I ever knew is gone--fader, moder, sisters, broders, all--never any more I shall see them, I suppose, now. The war it breaksand breaks, it breaks hearts. " Her little teeth fastened again on herlower lip in that sort of pretty snarl. "Do you know what I was thinkin'when you came up? I was thinkin' of my native town, and the river therein the moonlight. If I could see it again, I would be glad. Were youever homeseeck?"

"Yes, I have been--in the trenches; but one's ashamed, with all theothers. "

"Ah! ye-es!" It came from her with a hiss. "Ye-es! You are all comradesthere. What is it like for me here, do you think, where everybody hatesand despises me, and would catch me, and put me in prison, perhaps?"

He could see her breast heaving with a quick breathing painful to listento. He leaned forward, patting her knee, and murmuring: "Sorry--sorry. "

She said in a smothered voice:

"You are the first who has been kind to me for so long! I will tell youthe truth--I am not Rooshian at all--I am German. "

Hearing that half-choked confession, his thought was: "Does she reallythink we fight against women?" And he said:

"My dear girl, who cares?"

Her eyes seemed to search right into him. She said slowly:

"Another man said that to me. But he was thinkin' of other things. Youare a veree ni-ice boy. I am so glad I met you. You see the good inpeople, don't you? That is the first thing in the world--because thereis really not much good in people, you know. "

He said, smiling:

"You're a dreadful little cynic!" Then thought: "Of course she is--poorthing!"

"Cyneec? How long do you think I would live if I was not a cyneec? Ishould drown myself to-morrow. Perhaps there are good people, but, yousee, I don't know them. "

"I know lots. "

She leaned forward eagerly. 

"Well now--see, ni-ice boy--you haf never been in a hole, haf you?"

"I suppose not a real hole. "

"No, I should think not, with your face. Well, suppose I am still a goodgirl, as I was once, you know, and you took me to some of your goodpeople, and said: 'Here is a little German girl that has no work, and nomoney, and no friends. ' Your good people they will say: 'Oh! how sad! AGerman girl!' and they will go and wash their hands. "

Silence fell on him. He saw his mother, his sisters, others--goodpeople, he would swear! And yet--! He heard their voices, frank andclear; and they seemed to be talking of the Germans. If only she werenot German!

"You see!" he heard her say, and could only mutter:

"I'm sure there _are_ people. "

"No. They would not take a German, even if she was good. Besides, Idon't want to be good any more--I am not a humbug--I have learned to bebad. Aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy?"

She put her face close to his. Her eyes troubled him, but he drew back. He thought she would be offended or persistent, but she was neither;just looked at him fixedly with a curious inquiring stare; and he leanedagainst the window, deeply disturbed. It was as if all clear and simpleenthusiasm had been suddenly knocked endways; as if a certain splendourof life that he had felt and seen of late had been dipped in cloud. Outthere at the front, over here in hospital, life had been seeming so--asit were--heroic; and yet it held such mean and murky depths as well! Thevoices of his men, whom he had come to love like brothers, crude burringvoices, cheery in trouble, making nothing of it; the voices of doctorsand nurses, patient, quiet, reassuring voices; even his own voice, infected by it all, kept sounding in his ears. All wonderful somehow, and simple; and nothing mean about it anywhere! And now so suddenly tohave lighted upon this, and all that was behind it--this scared girl, this base, dark, thoughtless use of her! And the thought came to him: "Isuppose my fellows wouldn't think twice about taking her on! Why! I'mnot even certain of myself, if she insists!" And he turned his face, andstared out at the moonlight. He heard her voice:

"Eesn't it light? No air raid to-night. When the Zepps burned--what ahorrible death! And all the people cheered--it is natural. Do you hateus veree much?"

He turned round and said sharply:

"Hate? I don't know. "

"I don't hate even the English--I despise them. I despise my peopletoo--perhaps more, because they began this war. Oh, yes! I know that. Idespise all the peoples. Why haf they made the world so miserable--whyhaf they killed all our lives--hundreds and thousands and millions oflives--all for not'ing? They haf made a bad world--everybody hating, andlooking for the worst everywhere. They haf made me bad, I know. Ibelieve no more in anything. What is there to believe in? Is there aGod? No! Once I was teaching little English children theirprayers--isn't that funnee? I was reading to them about Christ and love. I believed all those things. Now I believe not'ing at all--no one who isnot a fool or a liar can believe. I would like to work in a hospital; Iwould like to go and help poor boys like you. Because I am a German theywould throw me out a hundred times, even if I was good. It is the samein Germany and France and Russia, everywhere. But do you think I willbelieve in love and Christ and a God and all that?--not I! I think weare animals--that's all! Oh! yes--you fancy it is because my life hasspoiled me. It is not that at all--that's not the worst thing in life. Those men are not ni-ice, like you, but it's their nature, and, " shelaughed, "they help me to live, which is something for me anyway. No, itis the men who think themselves great and good, and make the war withtheir talk and their hate, killing us all--killing all the boys likeyou, and keeping poor people in prison, and telling us to go on hating;and all those dreadful cold-blooded creatures who write in thepapers--the same in my country, just the same; it is because of all themthat I think we are only animals. "

He got up, acutely miserable. He could see her following him with hereyes, and knew she was afraid she had driven him away. She saidcoaxingly: "Don't mind me talking, ni-ice boy. I don't know any one totalk to. If you don't like it, I can be quiet as a mouse. "

He muttered:

"Oh! go on, talk away. I'm not obliged to believe you, and I don't. "

She was on her feet now, leaning against the wall; her dark dress andwhite face just touched by the slanting moonlight; and her voice cameagain, slow and soft and bitter:

"Well, look here, ni-ice boy, what sort of a world is it, where millionsare being tortured--horribly tortured, for no fault of theirs, at all? Abeautiful world, isn't it! 'Umbug! Silly rot, as you boys call it. Yousay it is all 'Comrade'! and braveness out there at the front, andpeople don't think of themselves. Well, I don't think of myself vereemuch. What does it matter--I am lost now, anyway; but I think of mypeople at home, how they suffer and grieve. I think of all the poorpeople there and here who lose those they love, and all the poorprisoners. Am I not to think of them? And if I do, how am I to believeit a beautiful world, ni-ice boy?"

He stood very still, biting his lips. 

"Look here! We haf one life each, and soon it is over. Well, I thinkthat is lucky. "

He said resentfully:

"No! there's more than that. "

"Ah!" she went on softly; "you think the war is fought for the future;you are giving your lives for a better world, aren't you?"

"We must fight till we win, " he said between his teeth. 

"Till you win. My people think that, too. All the peoples think that ifthey win the world will be better. But it will not, you know, it will bemuch worse, anyway. "

He turned away from her and caught up his cap; but her voice followedhim. 

"I don't care which win, I despise them all--animals--animals--animals!Ah! Don't go, ni-ice boy--I will be quiet now. "

He took some notes from his tunic pocket, put them on the table, andwent up to her. 

"Good-night. "

She said plaintively:

"Are you really going? Don't you like me, enough?"

"Yes, I like you. "

"It is because I am German, then?"

"No. "

"Then why won't you stay?"

He wanted to answer: "Because you upset me so"; but he just shrugged hisshoulders. 

"Won't you kees me once?"

He bent, and put his lips to her forehead; but as he took them away shethrew her head back, pressed her mouth to his, and clung to him. 

He sat down suddenly and said:

"Don't! I don't want to feel a brute. "

She laughed. "You are a funny boy, but you are veree good. Talk to me alittle, then. No one talks to me. I would much rather talk, anyway. Tellme, haf you seen many German prisoners?"

He sighed--from relief, or was it from regret?

"A good many. "

"Any from the Rhine?"

"Yes, I think so. "

"Were they very sad?"

"Some were--some were quite glad to be taken. "

"Did you ever see the Rhine? Isn't it beaudiful? It will be wonderfulto-night. The moonlight will be the same here as there; in Rooshia too, and France, everywhere; and the trees will look the same as here, andpeople will meet under them and make love just as here. Oh! isn't itstupid, the war?--as if it was not good to be alive. "

He wanted to say: "You can't tell how good it is to be alive, tillyou're facing death, because you don't live till then. And when a wholelot of you feel like that--and are ready to give their lives for eachother, it's worth all the rest of life put together. " But he couldn'tget it out to this girl who believed in nothing. 

"How were you wounded, ni-ice boy?"

"Attacking across open ground--four machine-gun bullets got me at one gooff. "

"Weren't you veree frightened when they ordered you to attack?" No, hehad not been frightened just then! And he shook his head and laughed. 

"It was great. We did laugh that morning. They got me much too soon, though--a swindle!"

She stared at him. 

"You laughed?"

"Yes, and what do you think was the first thing I was conscious of nextmorning--my old Colonel bending over me and giving me a squeeze oflemon. If you knew my Colonel you'd still believe in things. There _is_something, you know, behind all this evil. After all, you can only dieonce, and if it's for your country all the better. "

Her face, with intent eyes just touched with bistre, had in themoonlight a most strange, otherworld look. Her lips moved:

"No, I believe in nothing. My heart is dead. "

"You think so, but it isn't, you know, or you wouldn't have been crying, when I met you. "

"If it were not dead, do you think I could live my life--walking thestreets every night, pretending to like strange men--never hearing akind word--never talking, for fear I will be known for a German. Soon Ishall take to drinking, then I shall be 'Kaput' very quick. You see, Iam practical, I see things clear. To-night I am a little emotional; themoon is funny, you know. But I live for myself only, now. I don't carefor anything or anybody. "

"All the same, just now you were pitying your people, and prisoners, andthat. "

"Yes, because they suffer. Those who suffer are like me--I pity myself, that's all; I am different from your Englishwomen. I see what I amdoing; I do not let my mind become a turnip just because I am no longermoral. "

"Nor your heart either. "

"Ni-ice boy, you are veree obstinate. But all that about love is 'umbug. We love ourselves, nothing more. "

Again, at that intense soft bitterness in her voice, he felt stifled, and got up, leaning in the window. The air out there was free from thesmell of dust and stale perfume. He felt her fingers slip between hisown, and stay unmoving. Since she was so hard, and cynical, why shouldhe pity her? Yet he did. The touch of that hand within his own rousedhis protective instinct. She had poured out her heart to him--a perfectstranger! He pressed it a little, and felt her fingers crisp in answer. Poor girl! This was perhaps a friendlier moment than she had known foryears! And after all, fellow-feeling was bigger than principalities andpowers! Fellow-feeling was all-pervading as this moonlight, which shehad said would be the same in Germany--as this white ghostly glamourthat wrapped the trees, making the orange lamps so quaint anddecoratively useless out in the narrow square, where emptiness andsilence reigned. He looked around into her face--in spite of bistre andpowder, and the faint rouging on her lips, it had a queer, unholy, touching beauty. And he had suddenly the strangest feeling, as if theystood there--the two of them--proving that kindness and human fellowshipwere stronger than lust, stronger than hate; proving it against meannessand brutality, and the sudden shouting of newspaper boys in someneighbouring street. Their cries, passionately vehement, clashed intoeach other, and obscured the words--what was it they were calling? Hishead went up to listen; he felt her hand rigid within his arm--she toowas listening. The cries came nearer, hoarser, more shrill andclamorous; the empty moonlight seemed of a sudden crowded withfootsteps, voices, and a fierce distant cheering. "Great victory--greatvictory! Official! British! Defeat of the 'Uns! Many thousandprisoners!" So it sped by, intoxicating, filling him with a fearful joy;and leaning far out, he waved his cap and cheered like a madman; and thewhole night seemed to him to flutter and vibrate, and answer. Then heturned to rush down into the street, struck against something soft, andrecoiled. The girl! She stood with hands clenched, her face convulsed, panting, and even in the madness of his joy he felt for her. To hearthis--in the midst of enemies! All confused with the desire to dosomething, he stooped to take her hand; and the dusty reek of thetable-cloth clung to his nostrils. She snatched away her fingers, sweptup the notes he had put down, and held them out to him. 

"Take them--I will not haf your English money--take them. " And suddenlyshe tore them across twice, three times, let the bits flutter to thefloor, and turned her back to him. He stood looking at her leaningagainst the plush-covered table which smelled of dust; her head down, adark figure in a dark room with the moonlight sharpening heroutline--hardly a moment he stayed, then made for the door. .. . 

When he was gone she still stood there, her chin on her breast--she whocared for nothing, believed in nothing--with the sound in her ears ofcheering, of hurrying feet, and voices; stood, in the centre of apattern made by fragments of the torn-up notes, staring out into themoonlight, seeing, not this hated room and the hated square outside, buta German orchard, and herself, a little girl, plucking apples, a big dogbeside her; a hundred other pictures, too, such as the drowning see. Herheart swelled; she sank down on the floor, laid her forehead on thedusty carpet, and pressed her body to it. 

She who did not care--who despised all peoples, even her own--began, mechanically, to sweep together the scattered fragments of the notes, assembling them with the dust into a little pile, as of fallen leaves, and dabbling in it with her fingers, while the tears ran down hercheeks. For her country she had torn them, her country in defeat! She, who had just one shilling in this great town of enemies, who wrung herstealthy living out of the embraces of her foes! And suddenly in themoonlight she sat up and began to sing with all her might--"_Die Wachtam Rhein_. "

1916. 

III

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

A REMINISCENCE

The tides of the war were washing up millions of wrecked lives on allthe shores; what mattered the flotsam of a conscripted deep-sea Bretonfisherman, slowly pining away for lack of all he was accustomed to; orthe jetsam of a tall glass-blower from the 'invaded countries, ' driftedinto the hospital--no one quite knew why--prisoner for twenty monthswith the Boches, released at last because of his half-paralysedtongue--What mattered they? What mattered anything, or any one, in dayslike those?

Corporal Mignan, wrinkling a thin, parchmenty face, full of sufferingand kindly cynicism, used to call them '_mes deux phénomènes_. ' Riddledto the soul by gastritis, he must have found them trying roommates, withthe tricks and manners of sick and naughty children towards along-suffering nurse. To understand all is to forgive all, they say;but, though he had suffered enough to understand much, Mignan wastempted at times to deliver judgment--for example, when Roche, theBreton fisherman, rose from his bed more than ten times in the night, and wandered out into the little courtyard of the hospital, to look atthe stars, because he could not keep still within four walls--sounreasonable of the '_type_. ' Or when Gray, the tall glass-blower--hisgrandfather had been English--refused with all the tenacity of a Britishworkman to wear an undervest, with the thermometer below zero, Centigrade. 

They inhabited the same room, Flotsam and Jetsam, but never spoke to oneanother. And yet in all that hospital of French soldiers they were theonly two who, in a manner of speaking, had come from England. Fourteenhundred years have passed since the Briton ancestors of Roche crossed intheir shallow boats. Yet he was as hopelessly un-French as a Welshman ofthe hills is to this day un-English. His dark face, shy as a wildanimal's, his peat-brown eyes, and the rare, strangely-sweet smile whichonce in a way strayed up into them; his creased brown hands alwaystrying to tie an imaginary cord; the tobacco pouched in his brown cheek;his improperly-buttoned blue trousers; his silence eternal as the starsthemselves; his habit of climbing trees--all marked him out as no trueFrenchman. Indeed, that habit of climbing trees caused every soul whosaw him to wonder if he ought to be at large: monkeys alone pursue thispastime. And yet, --surely one might understand that trees were for Rochethe masts of his far-off fishing barque, each hand-grip on the branch ofplane or pine-tree solace to his overmastering hunger for the sea. Upthere he would cling, or stand with hands in pockets, and look out, farover the valley and the yellowish-grey-pink of the pan-tiled town-roofs, a mile away, far into the mountains where snow melted not, far over thisforeign land of '_midi trois quarts_, ' to an imagined Breton coast andthe seas that roll from there to Cape Breton where the cod are. Since henever spoke unless spoken to--no, not once--it was impossible for hislandsmen comrades to realise why he got up those trees, and they wouldsummon each other to observe this '_phénomène_, ' this humanourang-outang, who had not their habit of keeping firm earth beneaththeir feet. They understood his other eccentricities better. Forinstance, he could not stay still even at his meals, but must get up andslip out, because he chewed tobacco, and, since the hospital regulationsforbade his spitting on the floor, he must naturally go and spitoutside. For '_ces types-la_' to chew and drink was--life! To thepresence of tobacco in the cheek and the absence of drink from thestomach they attributed all his un-French ways, save just that onemysterious one of climbing trees. 

And Gray--though only one-fourth English--how utterly British was that'arrogant civilian, ' as the '_poilus_' called him. Even his clothes, somehow, were British--no one knew who had given them to him; his shortgrey workman's jacket, brown dingy trousers, muffler and checked cap;his long, idle walk, his absolute _sans-gêne_, regardless of any one buthimself; his tall, loose figure, with a sort of grace lurking somewherein its slow, wandering movements, and long, thin fingers. That wambling, independent form might surely be seen any day outside a thousand Britishpublic-houses, in time of peace. His face, with its dust-coloured hair, projecting ears, grey eyes with something of the child in them, andsomething of the mule, and something of a soul trying to wander out ofthe forest of misfortune; his little, tip-tilted nose that never grew onpure-blooded Frenchman; under a scant moustache his thick lips, disfigured by infirmity of speech, whence passed so continually adribble of saliva--sick British workman was stamped on him. Yet he waspassionately fond of washing himself; his teeth, his head, his clothes. Into the frigid winter he would go, and stand at the '_Source_' half anhour at a time, washing and washing. It was a cause of constantirritation to Mignan that his '_phénomène_' would never come to time, onaccount of this disastrous habit; the hospital corridors resoundedalmost daily with the importuning of those shapeless lips for somethingclean--a shirt, a pair of drawers, a bath, a handkerchief. He had afixity of purpose; not too much purpose, but so fixed. --Yes, he wasEnglish!

For '_les deux phénomènes_' the soldiers, the servants, and the 'Powers'of the hospital--all were sorry; yet they could not understand to thepoint of quite forgiving their vagaries. The twain were outcast, wandering each in a dumb world of his own, each in the endless circle ofone or two hopeless notions. It was irony--or the French system--whichhad ordered the Breton Roche to get well in a place whence he could seenothing flatter than a mountain, smell no sea, eat no fish. And Godknows what had sent Gray there. His story was too vaguely understood, for his stumbling speech simply could not make it plain. '_LesBoches--ils vont en payer cher--les Boches_, ' muttered fifty times aday, was the burden of his song. Those Boches had come into his villageearly in the war, torn him from his wife and his '_petite fille_. ' Sincethen he had 'had fear, ' been hungry, been cold, eaten grass; eyeing somefat little dog, he would leer and mutter: '_J'ai mangé cela, c'estbon!_' and with fierce triumph add: '_Ils ont faim, les Boches!_' The'arrogant civilian' had never done his military service, for hisinfirmity, it seemed, had begun before the war. 

Dumb, each in his own way, and differing in every mortal thing exceptthe reality of their misfortunes, never were two beings more lonely. Their quasi-nurse, Corporal Mignan, was no doubt right in his estimateof their characters. For him, so patient in the wintry days, with his'_deux phénomènes_, ' they were divested of all that halo whichmisfortune sets round the heads of the afflicted. He had too much to dowith them, and saw them as they would have been if undogged by Fate. OfRoche he would say: '_Il n'est pas mon rêve. Je n'aime pas ces typestaciturnes; quand même, il n'est pas mauvais. Il est marin--lesmarins--!_' and he would shrug his shoulders, as who should say: 'Thosepoor devils--what can you expect?' '_Mais ce Gray_'--it was one bitterday when Gray had refused absolutely to wear his great-coat during amotor drive--'_c'est un mauvais type! Il est malin--il sait très bien cequ'il veut. C'est un egoiste!_' An egoist! Poor Gray! No doubt he was, instinctively conscious that if he did not make the most of what littlepersonality was left within his wandering form, it would slip and hewould be no more. Even a winter fly is mysteriously anxious not tobecome dead. That he was '_malin_'--cunning--became the accepted viewabout Gray; not so '_malin_' that he could 'cut three paws off a duck, 'as the old grey Territorial, Grandpère Poirot, would put it, but'_malin_' enough to know very well what he wanted, and how, by stickingto his demand, to get it. Mignan, typically French, did not allow enoughfor the essential Englishman in Gray. Besides, one _must_ be _malin_ ifone has only the power to say about one-tenth of what one wants, andthen not be understood once in twenty times. Gray did not like hisgreat-coat--a fine old French-blue military thing with brassbuttons--the arrogant civilian would have none of it! It was easier toshift the Boches on the Western front than to shift an idea, once in hishead. In the poor soil of his soul the following plants of thought alonenow flourished: Hatred of the Boches; love of English tobacco--'_Il estbon--il est bon!_' he would say, tapping his Virginian cigarette; thewish to see again his 'petite fille'; to wash himself; to drink a '_cafénatur_' and bottled beer every day after the midday meal, and to go toLyons to see his uncle and work for his living. And who shall say thatany of these fixed ideas were evil in him?

But back to Flotsam, whose fixed idea was Brittany! Nostalgia is a longword, and a malady from which the English do not suffer, for they carrytheir country on their backs, walk the wide world in a cloud of theirown atmosphere, making that world England. The French have eyes to see, and, when not surrounded by houses that have flatness, shutters, andsubtle colouring--yellowish, French-grey, French-green--by café's, byplane-trees, by Frenchwomen, by scents of wood-smoke and coffee roastedin the streets; by the wines, and infusions of the herbs of France; bythe churches of France and the beautiful silly chiming of theirbells--when not surrounded by all these, they know it, feel it, suffer. But even they do not suffer so dumbly and instinctively, so like a wildanimal caged, as that Breton fisherman, caged up in a world of hill andvalley--not the world as he had known it. They called his case'shell-shock'--for the French system would not send a man toconvalescence for anything so essentially civilian as home-sickness, even when it had taken a claustrophobic turn. A system recognises onlycauses which you can see; holes in the head, hamstrung legs, frostbittenfeet, with other of the legitimate consequences of war. But it was notshell-shock. Roche was really possessed by the feeling that he wouldnever get out, never get home, smell fish and the sea, watch thebottle-green breakers roll in on his native shore, the sun gleamingthrough wave-crests lifted and flying back in spray, never know theaccustomed heave and roll under his feet, or carouse in a seaportcabaret, or see his old mother--_la veuve_ Roche. And, after all, therewas a certain foundation for his fear. It was not as if this war couldbe expected to stop some day. There they were, in the trenches, they andthe enemy set over against each other, 'like china dogs, ' in the wordsof Grandpère Poirot; and there they would be, so far as Roche's ungearednerves could grasp, for ever. And, while like china dogs they sat, heknew that he would not be released, not allowed to go back to the seaand the smells and the sounds thereof; for he had still all his limbs, and no bullet-hole to show under his thick dark hair. No wonder he gotup the trees and looked out for sight of the waves, and fluttered theweak nerves of the hospital 'Powers, ' till they saw themselves buryinghim with a broken spine, at the expense of the subscribers. Nothing tobe done for the poor fellow, except to take him motor-drives, and toinsist that he stayed in the dining-room long enough to eat some food. 

Then, one bright day, a 'Power, ' watching his hands, conceived the ideaof giving him two balls of string, one blue, the other buff, and allthat afternoon he stayed up a single tree, and came down with one of hisrare sweet smiles and a little net, half blue, half buff, with a handlecovered with a twist of Turkey-red twill--such a thing as one scoops upshrimps with. He was paid for it, and his eyes sparkled. You see, he hadno money--the '_poilu_' seldom has; and money meant drink, and tobaccoin his cheek. They gave him more string, and for the next few days itrained little nets, beautifully if simply made. They thought that hissalvation was in sight. It takes an eye to tell salvation fromdamnation, sometimes. .. . In any case, he no longer roamed from tree totree, but sat across a single branch, netting. The 'Powers' began tospeak of him as 'rather a dear, ' for it is characteristic of humannature to take interest only in that which by some sign of progressmakes you feel that you are doing good. 

Next Sunday a distinguished doctor came, and, when he had been fed, someone conceived the notion of interesting him, too, in Flotsam. A learned, kindly, influential man--well-fed--something might come of it, even that'_réforme_, ' that sending home, which all agreed was what poor Rocheneeded, to restore his brain. He was brought in, therefore, amongst thechattering party, and stood, dark, shy, his head down, like the man inMillet's 'Angelus, ' his hands folded on his cap, in front of hisunspeakably buttoned blue baggy trousers, as though in attitude ofprayer to the doctor, who, uniformed and grey-bearded, like an oldsomnolent goat, beamed on him through spectacles with a sort of shrewdbenevolence. The catechism began. So he had something to ask, had he? Aswift, shy lift of the eyes: 'Yes. ' 'What then?' 'To go home. ' 'To gohome? What for? To get married?' A swift, shy smile. 'Fair or dark?' Noanswer, only a shift of hands on his cap. 'What! Was there no one--noladies at home?' '_Ce n'est pas ça qui manque!_' At the laughtergreeting that dim flicker of wit the uplifted face was cast down again. That lonely, lost figure must suddenly have struck the doctor, for hiscatechism became a long, embarrassed scrutiny; and with an: '_Eh bien!mon vieux, nous verrons!_' ended. Nothing came of it, of course. '_Casde réforme?_' Oh, certainly, if it had depended on the learned, kindlydoctor. But the system--and all its doors to be unlocked! Why, by thetime the last door was prepared to open, the first would be closedagain! So the 'Powers' gave Roche more string--so good, you know, to seehim interested in something!. .. It does take an eye to tell salvationfrom damnation! For he began to go down now of an afternoon into thelittle old town--not smelless, but most quaint--all yellowish-grey, withrosy-tiled roofs. Once it had been Roman, once a walled city of theMiddle Ages; never would it be modern. The dogs ran muzzled; from afirst-floor a goat, munching green fodder, hung his devilish black beardabove your head; and through the main street the peasant farmers, abovemilitary age, looking old as sun-dried roots, in their dark _pélerines_, drove their wives and produce in little slow carts. Parched oleanders inpots one would pass, and old balconies with wilting flowers hanging downover the stone, and perhaps an umbrella with a little silver handle, setout to dry. Roche would go in by the back way, where the old towngossips sat on a bench in the winter sunshine, facing the lonely crossshining gold on the high hill-top opposite, placed there in days whenthere was some meaning in such things; past the little '_Place_' withthe old fountain and the brown plane-trees in front of the Mairie; pastthe church, so ancient that it had fortunately been forgotten, andremained unfinished and beautiful. Did Roche, Breton that he was--halfthe love-ladies in Paris, they say--falsely, no doubt--areBretonnes--ever enter the church in passing? Some rascal had tried toburn down its beautiful old door from the inside, and the flames hadleft on all that high western wall smears like the fingermarks of hell, or the background of a Velasquez Crucifixion. Did he ever enter andstand, knotting his knot which never got knotted, in the dark lovelinessof that grave building, where in the deep silence a dusty-gold littleangel blows on his horn from the top of the canopied pulpit, and a dimcarved Christ of touching beauty looks down on His fellow-men from abovesome dry chrysanthemums; and a tall candle burned quiet and lonely hereand there, and the flags of France hung above the altar, that men mightknow how God--though resting--was with them and their country? Perhaps!But, more likely, he passed it, with its great bell riding high and openamong scrolls of ironwork, and--Breton that he was--entered the nearestcabaret, kept by the woman who would tell you that her soldier husbandhad passed 'within two fingers' of death. One cannot spend one'searnings in a church, nor appease there the inextinguishable longings ofa sailor. 

And lo!--on Christmas day Roche came back so drunk that his nurse Mignantook him to his bedroom and turned the key of the door on him. But youmust not do this to a Breton fisherman full of drink andclaustrophobia. It was one of those errors even Frenchmen may make, tothe after sorrow of their victims. One of the female 'Powers, ' standingoutside, heard a roar, the crash of a foot against the panel of a door, and saw Roche, 'like a great cat' come slithering through the hole. Heflung his arm out, brushed the 'Power' back against the wall, cried outfiercely: '_La boîte--je ne veux pas la boîte!_' and rushed for thestairs. Here were other female 'Powers'; he dashed them aside and passeddown. But in the bureau at the foot was a young Corporal of the '_LegionEtrangère_'--a Spaniard who had volunteered for France--great France; heran out, took Roche gently by the arm, and offered to drink with him. And so they sat, those two, in the little bureau, drinking black coffee, while the young Corporal talked like an angel and Roche like a wildman--about his mother, about his dead brother who had been sitting onhis bed, as he said, about '_la boîte_, ' and the turning of that key. And slowly he became himself--or so they thought--and all went in tosupper. Ten minutes later one of the 'Powers, ' looking for the twentiethtime to make sure he was eating, saw an empty place: he had slipped outlike a shadow and was gone again. A big cavalryman and the Corporalretrieved him that night from a _café_ near the station; they had touse force at times to bring him in. Two days later he was transferred toa town hospital, where discipline would not allow him to get drunk orclimb trees. For the 'Powers' had reasoned thus: To climb trees is bad;to get drunk is bad; but to do both puts on us too much responsibility;he must go! They had, in fact, been scared. And so he passed away to aroom under the roof of a hospital in the big town miles away--_la boîte_indeed!--where for liberty he must use a courtyard without trees, andbut little tobacco came to his cheek; and there he eats his heart out tothis day, perhaps. But some say he had no heart--only the love of drink, and climbing. Yet, on that last evening, to one who was paying him for alittle net, he blurted out: 'Some day I will tell you something--notnow--in a year's time. _Vous êtes le seul--!_' What did he mean by that, if he had no heart to eat?. .. The night after he had gone, a littleblack dog strayed up, and among the trees barked and barked at someportent or phantom. 'Ah! the camel! Ah! the pig! I had him on my backall night!' Grandpère Poirot said next morning. That was the very lastof Flotsam. .. . 

And now to Jetsam! It was on the day but one after Roche left that Graywas reported missing. For some time past he had been getting stronger, clearer in speech. They began to say of him: 'It's wonderful--theimprovement since he came--wonderful!' His salvation also seemed insight. But from the words 'He's rather a dear!' all recoiled, for as hegrew stronger he became more stubborn and more irritable--'cunningegoist' that he was! According to the men, he was beginning to showhimself in his true colours. He had threatened to knife any one whoplayed a joke on him--the arrogant civilian! On the day that he wasmissing it appears that after the midday meal he had asked for a '_cafénatur_' and for some reason had been refused. Before his absence wasnoted it was night already, clear and dark; all day something as ofSpring had stirred in the air. The Corporal and a 'Power' set forth downthe wooded hill into the town, to scour the _cafés_ and hang over theswift, shallow river, to see if by any chance Gray had been overtaken byanother paralytic stroke and was down there on the dark sand. The sleepygendarmes too were warned and given his description. But the only newsnext morning was that he had been seen walking on the main road up thevalley. Two days later he was found, twenty miles away, wanderingtowards Italy. '_Perdu_' was his only explanation, but it was notbelieved, for now began that continual demand: '_Je voudrais aller àLyon, voir mon oncle--travailler!_' As the big cavalryman put it: 'He isbored here!' It was considered unreasonable, by soldiers who foundthemselves better off than in other hospitals; even the 'Powers'considered it ungrateful, almost. See what he had been like when hecame--a mere trembling bag of bones, only too fearful of being sentaway. And yet, who would not be bored, crouching all day long about thestoves, staunching his poor dribbling mouth, rolling his inevitablecigarette, or wandering down, lonely, to hang over the bridge parapet, having thoughts in his head and for ever unable to express them. Hisstate was worse than dumbness, for the dumb have resigned hope ofconversation. Gray would have liked to talk if it had not taken aboutfive minutes to understand each thing he said--except the refrain whichall knew by heart: '_Les Boches--ils vont en payer cher--les Boches!_'The idea that he could work and earn his living was fantastic to thosewho watched him dressing himself, or sweeping the courtyard, pausingevery few seconds to contemplate some invisible difficulty, or do overagain what he had just not done. But with that new access of strength, or perhaps the open weather--as if Spring had come before its time--hisfixed idea governed him completely; he began to threaten to kill himselfif he could not go to work and see his uncle at Lyon; and every fivedays or so he had to be brought back from far up some hill road. Thesituation had become so ridiculous that the 'Powers' said in despair:'Very well, my friend! Your uncle says he can't have you, and you can'tearn your own living yet; but you shall go and see for yourself!' And gohe did, a little solemn now that it had come to his point--in speciallybought yellow boots--he refused black--and a specially bought overcoatwith sleeves--he would have none of a _pélerine_, the arrogant civilian, no more than of a military _capote_. For a week the hospital knew himnot. Deep winter set in two days before he went, and the whole land waswrapped in snow. The huge, disconsolate crows seemed all the life leftin the valley, and poplar-trees against the rare blue sky were doweredwith miraculous snow-blossoms, beautiful as any blossom of Spring. Andstill in the winter sun the town gossips sat on the bench under thewall, and the cross gleamed out, and the church bell, riding high in itswhitened ironwork, tolled almost every day for the passing of somewintered soul, and long processions, very black in the white street, followed it, followed it--home. Then came a telegram from Gray's uncle:'Impossible to keep Aristide (the name of the arrogant civilian), takesthe evening train to-morrow. Albert Gray. ' So Jetsam was coming back!What would he be like now that his fixed idea had failed him? Well! Hecame at midday; thinner, more clay-coloured in the face, with a badcold; but he ate as heartily as ever, and at once asked to go to bed. Atfour o'clock a 'Power, ' going up to see, found him sleeping like achild. He slept for twenty hours on end. No one liked to question himabout his time away; all that he said--and bitterly--was: 'They wouldn'tlet me work!' But the second evening after his return there came a knockon the door of the little room where the 'Powers' were sitting aftersupper, and there stood Gray, long and shadowy, holding on to thescreen, smoothing his jaw-bone with the other hand, turning eyes like achild's from face to face, while his helpless lips smiled. One of the'Powers' said: 'What do you want, my friend?'

'_Je voudrais aller à Paris, voir ma petite fille. _'

'Yes, yes; after the war. Your _petite fille_ is not in Paris, youknow. '

'_Non?_' The smile was gone; it was seen too plainly that Gray was notas he had been. The access of vigour, stirring of new strength, 'improvement' had departed, but the beat of it, while there, must havebroken him, as the beat of some too-strong engine shatters a frailframe. His 'improvement' had driven him to his own undoing. With thefailure of his pilgrimage he had lost all hope, all 'egoism. '. .. Ittakes an eye, indeed, to tell salvation from damnation! He was trulyJetsam now--terribly thin and ill and sad; and coughing. Yet he kept theindependence of his spirit. In that bitter cold, nothing could preventhim stripping to the waist to wash, nothing could keep him lying in bed, or kill his sense of the proprieties. He would not wear his overcoat--itwas invalidish; he would not wear his new yellow boots and keep his feetdry, except on Sundays: '_Ils sont bons!_' he would say. And before hewould profane their goodness, his old worn-out shoes had to be reft fromhim. He would not admit that he was ill, that he was cold, that hewas--anything. But at night, a 'Power' would be awakened by groans, and, hurrying to his room, find him huddled nose to knees, moaning. And now, every evening, as though craving escape from his own company, he wouldcome to the little sitting-room, and stand with that deprecating smile, smoothing his jaw-bone, until some one said: 'Sit down, my friend, andhave some coffee. ' '_Merci, ma soeur--il est bon, il est bon!_' anddown he would sit, and roll a cigarette with his long fingers, taperingas any artist's, while his eyes fixed themselves intently on anythingthat moved. But soon they would stray off to another world, and he wouldsay thickly, sullenly, fiercely: '_Les Boches--ils vont en payercher--les Boches!_' On the walls were some trophies from the war of'seventy. ' His eyes would gloat over them, and he would get up andfinger a long pistol, or old _papier-maché_ helmet. Never was a man whoso lacked _gêne_--at home in any company; it inspired reverence, thatindependence of his, which had survived twenty months of imprisonmentwith those who, it is said, make their victims salute them--to such adepth has their civilisation reached. One night he tried to tell aboutthe fright he had been given. The Boches--it seemed--had put him and twoothers against a wall, and shot those other two. Holding up two taperingfingers, he mumbled: '_Assassins--assassins! Ils vont en payer cher--lesBoches!_' But sometimes there was something almost beautiful in hisface, as if his soul had rushed from behind his eyes, to answer somelittle kindness done to him, or greet some memory of the days before hewas 'done for'--_foutu_, as he called it. 

One day he admitted a pain about his heart; and time, too, for atmoments he would look like death itself. His nurse, Corporal Mignan, had long left his _'deux phénomènes!_' having drifted away on the tidesof the system, till he should break down again and drag through thehospitals once more. Gray had a room to himself now; the arrogantcivilian's groaning at night disturbed the others. Yet, if you asked himin the morning if he had slept well, he answered invariably, '_Oui--oui--toujours, toujours!_' For, according to him, you see, he wasstill strong; and he would double his arm and tap his very littlemuscle, to show that he could work. But he did not believe it now, forone day a 'Power, ' dusting the men's writing-room, saw a letter on theblotter, and with an ashamed eye read these words:--

 _'Cher Oncle, _

 _J'ai eu la rage contre toi, mais c'est passé maintenant. Je veux seulement me reposer. Je ne peux pas me battre pour la France--j'ai voulu travailler pour elle; mais on ne m'a pas permi. _

 _Votre neveu, qui t'embrasse de loin. '_

_Seulement me reposer_--only to rest! Rest he will, soon, if eyes canspeak. Pass, and leave for ever that ravished France for whom he wishedto work--pass, without having seen again his _petite fille_. No more inthe corridor above the stove, no more in the little dining-room or theavenue of pines will be seen his long, noiseless, lonely figure, or beheard his thick stumbling cry:

_'Les Boches--ils vont en payer cher--les Boches!_'

1917. 

IV

THE BRIGHT SIDE

A little Englishwoman, married to a German, had dwelt with him eighteenyears in humble happiness and the district of Putney, where her husbandworked in the finer kinds of leather. He was a harmless, busy little manwith the gift for turning his hand to anything which is bred into thepeasants of the Black Forest, who on their upland farms make all thenecessaries of daily life--their coarse linen from home-grown flax, their leather gear from the hides of their beasts, their clothes fromthe wool thereof, their furniture from the pine logs of the Forest, their bread from home-grown flour milled in simple fashion and baked inthe home-made ovens, their cheese from the milk of their own goats. Whyhe had come to England he probably did not remember--it was so long ago;but he would still know why he had married Dora, the daughter of thePutney carpenter, she being, as it were, salt of the earth: one of thoseCockney women, deeply sensitive beneath a well-nigh impermeable mask ofhumour and philosophy, who quite unselfconsciously are always doingthings for others. In their little grey Putney house they had dweltthose eighteen years, without perhaps ever having had time to move, though they had often had the intention of doing so for the sake of thechildren, of whom they had three, a boy and two girls. Mrs. Gerhardt--she shall be called, for her husband had a very German name, and there is more in a name than Shakespeare dreamed of--Mrs. Gerhardtwas a little woman with large hazel eyes and dark crinkled hair in whichthere were already a few threads of grey when the war broke out. Her boyDavid, the eldest, was fourteen at that date, and her girls, Minnie andViolet, were eight and five, rather pretty children, especially thelittle one. Gerhardt, perhaps because he was so handy, had never risen. His firm regarded him as indispensable and paid him fair wages, but hehad no "push, " having the craftsman's temperament, and employing hisspare time in little neat jobs for his house and his neighbours, whichbrought him no return. They made their way, therefore, without thatprovision for the future which necessitates the employment of one's timefor one's own ends. But they were happy, and had no enemies; and eachyear saw some mild improvements in their studiously clean house and tinyback garden. Mrs. Gerhardt, who was cook, seamstress, washerwoman, besides being wife and mother, was almost notorious in that street ofsemi-detached houses for being at the disposal of any one in sickness ortrouble. She was not strong in body, for things had gone wrong when shebore her first, but her spirit had that peculiar power of seeing thingsas they were, and yet refusing to be dismayed, which so embarrassesFate. She saw her husband's defects clearly, and his good qualities noless distinctly--they never quarrelled. She gauged her children'scharacters too, with an admirable precision, which left, however, loopholes of wonder as to what they would become. 

The outbreak of the war found them on the point of going to Margate forBank Holiday, an almost unparalleled event; so that the importance ofthe world catastrophe was brought home to them with a vividness whichwould otherwise have been absent from folks so simple, domestic, andfar-removed from that atmosphere in which the egg of war is hatched. Over the origin and merits of the struggle, beyond saying to each otherseveral times that it was a dreadful thing, Mr. And Mrs. Gerhardt heldbut one little conversation, lying in their iron bed with an immortalbrown eiderdown patterned with red wriggles over them. They agreed thatit was a cruel, wicked thing to invade "that little Belgium, " and thereleft a matter which seemed to them a mysterious and insane perversion ofall they had hitherto been accustomed to think of as life. Reading theirpapers--a daily and a weekly, in which they had as much implicit faithas a million other readers--they were soon duly horrified by the reportstherein of "Hun" atrocities; so horrified that they would express theircondemnation of the Kaiser and his militarism as freely as if they hadbeen British subjects. It was therefore with an uneasy surprise thatthey began to find these papers talking of "the Huns at large in ourmidst, " of "spies, " and the national danger of "nourishing such vipers. "They were deeply conscious of not being "vipers, " and such sayings beganto awaken in both their breasts a humble sense of injustice as it were. This was more acute in the breast of little Mrs. Gerhardt, because, ofcourse, the shafts were directed not at her but at her husband. She knewher husband so well, knew him incapable of anything but homely, kindlybusyness, and that he should be lumped into the category of "Huns" and"spies" and tarred with the brush of mass hatred amazed and stirred herindignation, or would have, if her Cockney temperament had allowed herto take it very seriously. As for Gerhardt, he became extremely silent, so that it was ever more and more difficult to tell what he was feeling. The patriotism of the newspapers took a considerable time to affect thecharity of the citizens of Putney, and so long as no neighbour showedsigns of thinking that little Gerhardt was a monster and a spy it wasfairly easy for Mrs. Gerhardt to sleep at night, and to read her paperswith the feeling that the remarks in them were not really intended forGerhardt and herself. But she noticed that her man had given up readingthem, and would push them away from his eyes if, in the tinysitting-room with the heavily-flowered walls, they happened to restbeside him. He had perhaps a closer sense of impending Fate than she. The boy, David, went to his first work, and the girls to their school, and so things dragged on through that first long war winter and spring. Mrs. Gerhardt, in the intervals of doing everything, knitted socks for"our poor cold boys in the trenches, " but Gerhardt no longer sought outlittle jobs to do in the houses of his neighbours. Mrs. Gerhardt thoughtthat he "fancied" they would not like it. It was early in that springthat she took a deaf aunt to live with them, the wife of her mother'sbrother, no blood-relation, but the poor woman had nowhere else to go;so David was put to sleep on the horsehair sofa in the sitting-roombecause she "couldn't refuse the poor thing. " And then, of an Aprilafternoon, while she was washing the household sheets, her neighbour, Mrs. Clirehugh, a little spare woman all eyes, cheekbones, hair, anddecision, came in breathless and burst out:

"Oh! Mrs. Gerhardt, 'ave you 'eard? They've sunk the _Loositania_! Has Isaid to Will: Isn't it horful?"

Mrs. Gerhardt, with her round arms dripping soap-suds, answered: "What adreadful thing! The poor drowning people! Dear! Oh dear!"

"Oh! Those Huns! I'd shoot the lot, I would!"

"They _are_ wicked!" Mrs. Gerhardt echoed: "That was a dreadful thing todo!"

But it was not till Gerhardt came in at five o'clock, white as a sheet, that she perceived how this dreadful catastrophe affected them. 

"I have been called a German, " were the first words he uttered; "Dollee, I have been called a German. "

"Well, so you are, my dear, " said Mrs. Gerhardt. 

"You do not see, " he answered, with a heat and agitation which surprisedher. "I tell you this _Lusitania_ will finish our business. They willhave me. They will take me away from you all. Already the papers have:'Intern all the Huns. '" He sat down at the kitchen table and buried hisface in hands still grimy from his leather work. Mrs. Gerhardt stoodbeside him, her eyes unnaturally big. 

"But Max, " she said, "what has it to do with you? You couldn't help it. Max!"

Gerhardt looked up, his white face, broad in the brow and tapering to athin chin, seemed all distraught. 

"What do they care for that? Is my name Max Gerhardt? What do they careif I hate the war? I am a German. That's enough. You will see. "

"Oh!" murmured Mrs. Gerhardt, "they won't be so unjust. "

Gerhardt reached up and caught her chin in his hand, and for a momentthose two pairs of eyes gazed, straining, into each other. Then he said:

"I don't want to be taken, Dollee. What shall I do away from you and thechildren? I don't want to be taken, Dollee. "

Mrs. Gerhardt, with a feeling of terror and a cheerful smile, answered:

"You mustn't go fancyin' things, Max. I'll make you a nice cup of tea. Cheer up, old man! Look on the bright side!"

But Gerhardt lapsed into the silence which of late she had begun todread. 

That night some shop windows were broken, some German names effaced. TheGerhardts had no shop, no name painted up, and they escaped. In Pressand Parliament the cry against "the Huns in our midst" rose with a freshfury; but for the Gerhardts the face of Fate was withdrawn. Gerhardtwent to his work as usual, and their laborious and quiet existenceremained undisturbed; nor could Mrs. Gerhardt tell whether her man'sever-deepening silence was due to his "fancying things" or to thedemeanour of his neighbours and fellow workmen. One would have said thathe, like the derelict aunt, was deaf, so difficult to converse with hadhe become. His length of sojourn in England and his value to hisemployers, for he had real skill, had saved him for the time being; but, behind the screen, Fate twitched her grinning chaps. 

Not till the howl which followed some air raids in 1916 did they takeoff Gerhardt, with a variety of other elderly men, whose crime it was tohave been born in Germany. They did it suddenly, and perhaps it was aswell, for a prolonged sight of his silent misery must have upset hisfamily till they would have been unable to look on that bright side ofthings which Mrs. Gerhardt had, as it were, always up her sleeve. When, in charge of a big and sympathetic constable, he was gone, taking allshe could hurriedly get together for him, she hastened to the policestation. They were friendly to her there: She must cheer up, Missis, 'e'd be all right, she needn't worry. Ah! she could go down to the 'OmeOffice, if she liked, and see what could be done. But they 'eld out no'ope! Mrs. Gerhardt waited till the morrow, having the little Violet inbed with her, and crying quietly into her pillow; then, putting on herSunday best she went down to a building in Whitehall, larger than anyshe had ever entered. Two hours she waited, sitting unobtrusive, withbig anxious eyes, and a line between her brows. At intervals of half anhour she would get up and ask the messenger cheerfully: "I 'ope theyhaven't forgotten me, sir. Perhaps you'd see to it. " And because she wascheerful the messenger took her under his protection, and answered: "Allright, Missis. They're very busy, but _I'll_ wangle you in some'ow. "

When at length she was wangled into the presence of a grave gentleman ineye-glasses, realisation of the utter importance of this moment overcameher so that she could not speak. "Oh! dear"--she thought, while herheart fluttered like a bird--"he'll never understand; I'll never beable to make him. " She saw her husband buried under the leaves ofdespair; she saw her children getting too little food, the deaf aunt, now bedridden, neglected in the new pressure of work that must fall onthe only breadwinner left. And, choking a little, she said:

"I'm sure I'm very sorry to take up your time, sir; but my 'usband'sbeen taken to the Palace; and we've been married over twenty years, andhe's been in England twenty-five; and he's a very good man and a goodworkman; and I thought perhaps they didn't understand that; and we'vegot three children and a relation that's bedridden. And of course, weunderstand that the Germans have been very wicked; Gerhardt always saidthat himself. And it isn't as if he was a spy; so I thought if you coulddo something for us, sir, I being English myself. "

The gentleman, looking past her at the wall, answered wearily:

"Gerhardt--I'll look into it. We have to do very hard things, Mrs. Gerhardt. "

Little Mrs. Gerhardt, with big eyes almost starting out of her head, forshe was no fool, and perceived that this was the end, said eagerly:

"Of course I know that there's a big outcry, and the papers are askin'for it; but the people in our street don't mind 'im, sir. He's alwaysdone little things for them; so I thought perhaps you might make anexception in his case. "

She noticed that the gentleman's lips tightened at the word outcry, andthat he was looking at her now. 

"His case was before the Committee no doubt; but I'll inquire. Good-morning. "

Mrs. Gerhardt, accustomed to not being troublesome, rose; a tear rolleddown her cheek and was arrested by her smile. 

"Thank you, sir, I'm sure. Good-morning, sir. "

And she went out. Meeting the messenger in the corridor, and hearinghis: "Well, Missis?" she answered: "I don't know. I must look on thebright side. Good-bye, and thank you for your trouble. " And she turnedaway feeling as if she had been beaten all over. 

The bright side on which she looked did not include the return to her oflittle Gerhardt, who was duly detained for the safety of the country. Obedient to economy, and with a dim sense that her favourite papers werein some way responsible for this, she ceased to take them in, and tookin sewing instead. It had become necessary to do so, for the allowanceshe received from the government was about a quarter of Gerhardt'sweekly earnings. In spite of its inadequacy it was something, and shefelt she must be grateful. But, curiously enough, she could not forgetthat she was English, and it seemed strange to her that, in addition tothe grief caused by separation from her husband from whom she had neverbeen parted not even for a night, she should now be compelled to worktwice as hard and eat half as much because that husband had paid hercountry the compliment of preferring it to his own. But, after all, manyother people had much worse trouble to grieve over, so she looked on thebright side of all this, especially on those days once a week whenalone, or accompanied by the little Violet, she visited that Palacewhere she had read in her favourite journals to her great comfort thather husband was treated like a prince. Since he had no money he was inwhat they called "the battalion, " and their meetings were held in thebazaar, where things which "the princes" made were exposed for sale. Here Mr. And Mrs. Gerhardt would stand in front of some doll, someblotting-book, calendar, or walking-stick, which had been fashioned byone of "the princes. " There they would hold each others' hands and tryto imagine themselves unsurrounded by other men and wives, while thelittle Violet would stray and return to embrace her father's legspasmodically. Standing there, Mrs. Gerhardt would look on the brightside, and explain to Gerhardt how well everything was going, and hemustn't fret about them, and how kind the police were, and how auntieasked after him, and Minnie would get a prize; and how he oughtn't tomope, but eat his food, and look on the bright side. And Gerhardt wouldsmile the smile which went into her heart just like a sword, and say:

"All right, Dollee. I'm getting on fine. " Then, when the whistle blewand he had kissed little Violet, they would be quite silent, looking ateach other. And she would say in a voice so matter-of-fact that it couldhave deceived no one:

"Well, I must go now. Good-bye, old man!"

And he would say:

"Good-bye, Dollee. Kiss me. "

They would kiss, and holding little Violet's hand very hard she wouldhurry away in the crowd, taking care not to look back for fear she mightsuddenly lose sight of the bright side. But as the months went on, became a year, eighteen months, two years, and still she went weekly tosee her "prince" in his Palace, that visit became for her the hardestexperience of all her hard week's doings. For she was a realist, as wellas a heroine, and she could see the lines of despair not only in herman's heart but in his face. For a long time he had not said: "I'mgetting on fine, Dollee. " His face had a beaten look, his figure hadwasted, he complained of his head. 

"It's so noisy, " he would say constantly; "oh! it's so noisy--never aquiet moment--never alone--never--never--never--never. And not enough toeat; it's all reduced now, Dollee. "

She learned to smuggle food into his hands, but it was very little, forthey had not enough at home either, with the price of living ever goingup and her depleted income ever stationary. They had--her "man" toldher--made a fuss in the papers about their being fed like turkeycocks, while the "Huns" were sinking the ships. Gerhardt, always a spare littleman, had lost eighteen pounds. She, naturally well covered, was gettingthin herself, but that she did not notice, too busy all day long, andtoo occupied in thinking of her "man. " To watch him week by week, morehopeless, as the months dragged on, was an acute torture, to disguisewhich was torture even more acute. She had long seen that there _was_ nobright side, but if she admitted that she knew she would go down; so shedid not. And she carefully kept from Gerhardt such matters as David'sovergrowing his strength, because she could not feed him properly; thecompletely bedridden nature of auntie; and worse than these, thegrowing coldness and unkindness of her neighbours. Perhaps they did notmean to be unkind, perhaps they did, for it was not in their nature towithstand the pressure of mass sentiment, the continual personaldiscomfort of having to stand in queues, the fear of air raids, thecumulative indignation caused by stories of atrocities true and untrue. In spite of her record of kindliness towards them she became tarred withthe brush at last, for her nerves had given way once or twice, and shehad said it was a shame to keep her man like that, gettin' iller andiller, who had never done a thing. Even her reasonableness--and she wasvery reasonable--succumbed to the strain of that weekly sight of him, till she could no longer allow for the difficulties which Mrs. Clirehughassured her the Government had to deal with. Then one day she used thewords "fair play, " and at once it became current that she had "Germansympathies. " From that time on she was somewhat doomed. Those who hadreceived kindnesses from her were foremost in showing her coldness, being wounded in their self-esteem. To have received little benefits, such as being nursed when they were sick, from one who had "Germansympathies" was too much for the pride which is in every human being, however humble an inhabitant of Putney. Mrs. Gerhardt's Cockney spiritcould support this for herself, but she could not bear it for herchildren. David came home with a black eye, and would not say why he hadgot it. Minnie missed her prize at school, though she had clearly wonit. That was just after the last German offensive began; but Mrs. Gerhardt refused to see that this was any reason. Little Violet twiceput the heart-rending question to her: "Aren't I English, Mummy?"

She was answered: "Yes, my dear, of course. "

But the child obviously remained unconvinced in her troubled mind. 

And then they took David for the British army. It was that which soupset the applecart in Mrs. Gerhardt that she broke out to her lastfriend, Mrs. Clirehugh:

"I do think it's hard, Eliza. They take his father and keep him therefor a dangerous Hun year after year like that; and then they take hisboy for the army to fight against him. And how I'm to get on without himI don't know. "

Little Mrs. Clirehugh, who was Scotch, with a Gloucestershire accent, replied:

"Well, we've got to beat them. They're such a wicked lot. I daresay it's'ard on you, but we've got to beat them. "

"But _we_ never did nothing, " cried Mrs. Gerhardt; "it isn't us that'swicked. We never wanted the war; it's nothing but ruin to him. They didought to let me have my man, or my boy, one or the other. "

"You should 'ave some feeling for the Government, Dora; they 'ave to do'ard things. "

Mrs. Gerhardt, with a quivering face, had looked at her friend. 

"I have, " she said at last in a tone which implanted in Mrs. Clirehugh'sheart the feeling that Dora was "bitter. "

She could not forget it; and she would flaunt her head at any mention ofher former friend. It was a blow to Mrs. Gerhardt, who had now nofriends, except the deaf and bedridden aunt, to whom all things were thesame, war or no war, Germans or no Germans, so long as she was fed. 

About then it was that the tide turned, and the Germans began to knowdefeat. Even Mrs. Gerhardt, who read the papers no longer, learned itdaily, and her heart relaxed; that bright side began to reappear alittle. She felt they could not feel so hardly towards her "man" now aswhen they were all in fear; and perhaps the war would be over before herboy went out. But Gerhardt puzzled her. He did not brighten up. The ironseemed to have entered his soul too deeply. And one day, in the bazaar, passing an open doorway, Mrs. Gerhardt had a glimpse of why. There, stretching before her astonished eyes, was a great, as it were, encampment of brown blankets, slung and looped up anyhow, dividing fromeach other countless sordid beds, which were almost touching, and awhiff of huddled humanity came out to her keen nostrils, and a hum ofsound to her ears. So that was where her man had dwelt these thirtymonths, in that dirty, crowded, noisy place, with dirty-looking men, such as those she could see lying on the beds, or crouching by the sideof them, over their work. He had kept neat somehow, at least on the dayswhen she came to see him--but _that_ was where he lived! Alone again(for she no longer brought the little Violet to see her German father), she grieved all the way home. Whatever happened to him now, even if shegot him back, she knew he would never quite get over it. 

And then came the morning when she came out of her door like the otherinhabitants of Putney, at sound of the maroons, thinking it was an airraid; and, catching the smile on the toothless mouth of one of her oldneighbours, hearing the cheers of the boys in the school round thecorner, knew that it was Peace. Her heart overflowed then, and, withdrawing hastily, she sat down on a shiny chair in her little emptyparlour. Her face crumpled suddenly, the tears came welling forth; shecried and cried, alone in the little cold room. She cried from reliefand utter thankfulness. It was over--over at last! The long waiting--thelong misery--the yearning for her "man"--the grieving for all those poorboys in the mud, and the dreadful shell holes, and the fighting, thegrowing terror of anxiety for her own boy--over, all over! Now theywould let Max out, now David would come back from the army; and peoplewould not be unkind and spiteful to her and the children any more!

For all she was a Cockney, hers was a simple soul, associating Peacewith Good-will. Drying her tears, she stood up, and in the little cheapmirror above the empty grate looked at her face. It was lined, and shewas grey; for more than two years her man had not seen her without herhat. What ever would he say? And she rubbed and rubbed her cheeks, trying to smooth them out. Then her conscience smote her, and she ranupstairs to the back bedroom, where the deaf aunt lay. Taking up thelittle amateur ear trumpet which Gerhardt himself had made for "auntie, "before he was taken away, she bawled into it:

"Peace, Auntie; it's Peace! Think of that. It's Peace!"

"What's that?" answered the deaf woman. 

"It's Peace, Auntie, Peace. "

The deaf lady roused herself a little, and some meaning came into thelack-lustre black eyes of her long, leathery face. "You don't say, " shesaid in her wooden voice, "I'm so hungry, Dolly, isn't it time for mydinner?"

"I was just goin' to get it, dearie, " replied Mrs. Gerhardt, and hurriedback downstairs with her brain teeming, to make the deaf woman's bowl ofbread, pepper, salt, and onions. 

All that day and the next and the next she saw the bright side of thingswith almost dazzling clearness, waiting to visit her "prince" in hisPalace. She found him in a strange and pitiful state of nerves. The newshad produced too intense and varied emotions among those crowdedthousands of men buried away from normal life so long. She spent all herhour and a half trying desperately to make him see the bright side, buthe was too full of fears and doubts, and she went away smiling, bututterly exhausted. Slowly in the weeks which followed she learned thatnothing was changed. In the fond hope that Gerhardt might be home nowany day, she was taking care that his slippers and some clothes ofDavid's were ready for him, and the hip bath handy for him to have alovely hot wash. She had even bought a bottle of beer and some of hisfavourite pickle, saving the price out of her own food, and was takingin the paper again, letting bygones be bygones. But he did not come. Andsoon the paper informed her that the English prisoners werereturning--many in wretched state, poor things, so that her heart bledfor them, and made her fiercely angry with the cruel men who had treatedthem so; but it informed her too, that if the paper had its way no"Huns" would be tolerated in this country for the future. "Send them allback!" were the words it used. She did not realise at first that thisapplied to Gerhardt; but when she did, she dropped the journal as if ithad been a living coal of fire. Not let him come back to his home, andfamily, not let him stay, after all they'd done to him, and he never didanything to them! Not let him stay, but send him out to that dreadfulcountry, which he had almost forgotten in these thirty years, and hewith an English wife and children! In this new terror of utterdislocation the bright side so slipped from her that she was obliged togo out into the back garden in the dark, where a sou'-westerly wind wasdriving the rain. There, lifting her eyes to the evening sky she uttereda little moan. It couldn't be true; and yet what they said in her paperhad always turned out true, like the taking of Gerhardt away, and thereduction of his food. And the face of the gentleman in the building atWhitehall came before her out of the long past, with his lipstightening, and his words: "We have to do very hard things, Mrs. Gerhardt. " Why had they to do them? Her man had never done no harm to noone! A flood, bitter as sea water, surged in her, and seemed to chokeher very being. Those gentlemen in the papers--why should they go onlike that? Had they no hearts, no eyes to see the misery they brought tohumble folk? "I wish them nothing worse than what they've brought to himand me, " she thought wildly: "nothing worse!"

The rain beat on her face, wetted her grey hair, cooled her eyeballs. "Imustn't be spiteful, " she thought; and bending down in the dark shetouched the glass of the tiny conservatory built against the warmkitchen wall, and heated by the cunning little hot-water pipe her manhad put there in his old handy days. Under it were one little monthlyrose, which still had blossoms, and some straggly small chrysanthemums. She had been keeping them for the feast when he came home; but if hewasn't to come, what should she do? She raised herself. Above the wetroofs sky-rack was passing wild and dark, but in a little cleared spaceone or two stars shone the brighter for the blackness below. "I mustlook on the bright side, " she thought, "or I can't bear myself. " And shewent in to cook the porridge for the evening meal. 

The winter passed for her in the most dreadful anxiety. "Repatriate theHuns!" That cry continued to spurt up in her paper like a terrible faceseen in some recurrent nightmare; and each week that she went to visitGerhardt brought solid confirmation to her terror. He was taking ithard, so that sometimes she was afraid that "something" was happening inhim. This was the utmost she went towards defining what doctors mighthave diagnosed as incipient softening of the brain. He seemed to dreadthe prospect of being sent to his native country. 

"I couldn't stick it, Dollee, " he would say. "What should I do--whatevershould I do? I haven't a friend. I haven't a spot to go to. I should belost. I'm afraid, Dollee. How could you come out there, you and thechildren? I couldn't make a living for you. I couldn't make one formyself now. "

And she would say: "Cheer up, old man. Look on the bright side. Think ofthe others. " For, though those others were not precisely the brightside, the mental picture of their sufferings, all those poor "princes"and their families, somehow helped her to bear her own. But he shookhis head:

"No; I should never see you again. "

"I'd follow you, " she answered. "Never fear, Max, we'd work in thefields--me and the children. We'd get on somehow. Bear up, my dearie. It'll soon be over now. I'll stick to you, Max, never you fear. But theywon't send you, they never will. "

And then, like a lump of ice pressed on her breast, came the thought:"But if they do! Auntie! My boy! My girls! However shall I manage ifthey do!"

Then long lists began to appear, and in great batches men were shovelledwholesale back to the country whose speech some of them had well-nighforgotten. Little Gerhardt's name had not appeared yet. The lists werehung up the day after Mrs. Gerhardt's weekly visit, but she urged him ifhis name did appear to appeal against repatriation. It was with thegreatest difficulty that she roused in him the energy to promise. "Lookon the bright side, Max, " she implored him. "You've got a son in theBritish army; they'll never send you. They wouldn't be so cruel. Neversay die, old man. "

His name appeared but was taken out, and the matter hung again in awfulsuspense, while the evil face of the recurrent nightmare confrontedMrs. Gerhardt out of her favourite journal. She read that journal again, because, so far as in her gentle spirit lay, she hated it. It was slowlykilling her man, and all her chance of future happiness; she hated it, and read it every morning. To the monthly rose and straggly littlebrown-red chrysanthemums in the tiny hothouse there had succeeded springflowers--a few hardy January snowdrops, and one by one blue scillas, andthe little pale daffodils called "angels' tears. "

Peace tarried, but the flowers came up long before their time in theirtiny hothouse against the kitchen flue. And then one wonderful day therecame to Mrs. Gerhardt a strange letter, announcing that Gerhardt wascoming home. He would not be sent to Germany--he was coming home!To-day, that very day--any moment he might be with her. When shereceived it, who had long received no letters save the weekly letters ofher boy still in the army, she was spreading margarine on auntie's breadfor breakfast, and, moved beyond all control, she spread it thick, wickedly, wastefully thick, then dropped the knife, sobbed, laughed, clasped her hands on her breast, and without rhyme or reason, begansinging: "Hark! the herald angels sing. " The girls had gone to schoolalready, auntie in the room above could not hear her, no one heard her, nor saw her drop suddenly into the wooden chair, and, with her bare armsstretched out one on either side of the plate of bread and margarine, cry her heart out against the clean white table. Coming home, cominghome, coming home! The bright side! The little white stars!

It was a quarter of an hour before she could trust herself to answer theknocking on the floor, which meant that "auntie" was missing herbreakfast. Hastily she made the tea and went up with it and the breadand margarine. The woman's dim long face gleamed greedily when she sawhow thick the margarine was spread; but little Mrs. Gerhardt said noword of the reason for that feast. She just watched her only friendeating it, while a little moisture still trickled out from her big eyeson to her flushed cheeks, and the words still hummed in her brain:

 "Peace on earth and mercy mild, Jesus Christ a little child. "

Then, still speaking no word, she ran out and put clean sheets on herand her man's bed. She was on wires, she could not keep still, and allthe morning she polished, polished. About noon she went out into hergarden, and from under the glass plucked every flower that grewthere--snowdrops, scillas, "angels' tears, " quite two dozen blossoms. She brought them into the little parlour and opened its window wide. Thesun was shining, and fell on the flowers strewn on the table, ready tobe made into the nosegay of triumphant happiness. While she stoodfingering them, delicately breaking half an inch off their stalks sothat they should last the longer in water, she became conscious ofsomeone on the pavement outside the window, and looking up saw Mrs. Clirehugh. The past, the sense of having been deserted by her friends, left her, and she called out:

"Come in, Eliza; look at my flowers!"

Mrs. Clirehugh came in; she was in black, her cheekbones higher, herhair looser, her eyes bigger. Mrs. Gerhardt saw tears starting fromthose eyes, wetting those high cheekbones, and cried out:

"Why, what's the matter, dear?"

Mrs. Clirehugh choked. "My baby!"

Mrs. Gerhardt dropped an "angels' tear, " and went up to her. 

"Whatever's happened?" she cried. 

"Dead!" replied Mrs. Clirehugh. "Dead o' the influenza. 'E's to beburied to-day. I can't--I can't--I can't--" Wild choking stopped herutterance. Mrs. Gerhardt put an arm round her and drew her head on toher shoulder. 

"I can't--I can't--" sobbed Mrs. Clirehugh; "I can't find any flowers. It's seein' yours made me cry. "

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Gerhardt. "Have them. I'm sure you'rewelcome, dearie. Have them--I'm so sorry!"

"I don't know, " choked Mrs. Clirehugh, "I 'aven't deserved them. " Mrs. Gerhardt gathered up the flowers. 

"Take them, " she said. "I couldn't think of it. Your poor little baby. Take them! There, there, he's spared a lot of trouble. You must look onthe bright side, dearie. "

Mrs. Clirehugh tossed up her head. 

"You're an angel, that's what you are!" she said, and grasping theflowers she hurried out, a little black figure passing the window in thesunlight. 

Mrs. Gerhardt stood above the emptied table, thinking: "Poor dear--I'mglad she had the flowers. It was a mercy I didn't call out that Max wascoming!" And from the floor she picked up one "angels' tear" she haddropped, and set it in a glass of water, where the sunlight fell. Shewas still gazing at it, pale, slender, lonely in that coarse tumbler, when she heard a knock on the parlour door, and went to open it. Therestood her man, with a large brown-paper parcel in his hand. He stoodquite still, his head a little down, the face very grey. She cried out;"Max!" but the thought flashed through her: "He knocked on the door!It's _his_ door--he knocked on the door!"

"Dollee?" he said, with a sort of question in his voice. 

She threw her arms round him, drew him into the room, and shutting thedoor, looked hard into his face. Yes, it was his face, but in the eyessomething wandered--lit up, went out, lit up. 

"Dollee, " he said again, and clutched her hand. 

She strained him to her with a sob. 

"I'm not well, Dollee, " he murmured. 

"No, of course not, my dearie man; but you'll soon be all rightnow--home again with me. Cheer up, cheer up!"

"I'm not well, " he said again. 

She caught the parcel out of his hand, and taking the "angels' tear"from the tumbler, fixed it in his coat. 

"Here's a spring flower for you, Max; out of your own little hothouse. You're home again; home again, my dearie. Auntie's upstairs, and thegirls'll be coming soon. And we'll have dinner. "

"I'm not well, Dollee, " he said. 

Terrified by that reiteration, she drew him down on the little horsehairsofa, and sat on his knee. "You're home, Max, kiss me. There's my man!"and she rocked him to and fro against her, yearning yet fearing to lookinto his face and see that "something" wander there--light up, go out, light up. "Look, dearie, " she said, "I've got some beer for you. You'dlike a glass of beer?"

He made a motion of his lips, a sound that was like the ghost of asmack. It terrified her, so little life was there in it. 

He clutched her close, and repeated feebly:

"Yes, all right in a day or two. They let me come--I'm not well, Dollee. " He touched his head. 

Straining him to her, rocking him, she murmured over and over again, like a cat purring to its kitten:

"It's all right, my dearie--soon be well--soon be well! We must look onthe bright side--My man!"

V

"CAFARD"

The soldier Jean Liotard lay, face to the earth, by the bank of theriver Drôme. He lay where the grass and trees ended, and between him andthe shrivelled green current was much sandy foreshore, for summer was atheight, and the snows had long finished melting and passing down. Theburning sun had sucked up all moisture, the earth was parched, butto-day a cool breeze blew, willow and aspen leaves were fluttering andhissing as if millions of tiny kisses were being given up there; and afew swathes of white cloud were drawn, it seemed--not driven--along theblue. The soldier Jean Liotard had fixed his eyes on the ground, wherewas nothing to see but a few dry herbs. He had "_cafard_, " for he wasdue to leave the hospital to-morrow and go up before the militaryauthorities, for "_prolongation_. " There he would answer perfunctoryquestions, and be told at once: _Au dépôt_; or have to lie naked beforethem that some "_major_" might prod his ribs, to find out whether hisheart, displaced by shell-shock, had gone back sufficiently to normalposition. He had received one "_prolongation_, " and so, wherever hisheart now was, he felt sure he would not get another. "_Au dépôt_" wasthe fate before him, fixed as that river flowing down to its death inthe sea. He had "_cafard_"--the little black beetle in the brain, whichgnaws and eats and destroys all hope and heaven in a man. It had beenworking at him all last week, and now he was at a monstrous depth ofevil and despair. To begin again the cursed barrack-round, the drivenlife, until in a month perhaps, packed like bleating sheep, in thetroop-train, he made that journey to the fighting line again--"_À lahachette--à la hachette!_"

He had stripped off his red flannel jacket, and lay with shirt opened tothe waist, to get the breeze against his heart. In his browngood-looking face the hazel eyes, which in these three God-desertedyears had acquired a sort of startled gloom, stared out like a dog's, rather prominent, seeing only the thoughts within him--thoughts andimages swirling round and round in a dark whirlpool, drawing his wholebeing deeper and deeper. He was unconscious of all the summer hum andrustle--the cooing of the dove up in that willow tree, the wingedenamelled fairies floating past, the chirr of the cicadas, that littlebrown lizard among the pebbles, almost within reach, seeming to listento the beating of summer's heart so motionless it lay; unconscious, asthough in verity he were again deep in some stifling trench, with Germanshells whining over him, and the smell of muck and blood making foetidthe air. He was in the mood which curses God and dies; for he wasdevout--a Catholic, and still went to Mass. And God had betrayed theearth, and Jean Liotard. All the enormities he had seen in his two yearsat the front--the mouthless mangled faces, the human ribs whence ratswould steal; the frenzied tortured horses, with leg or quarter rentaway, still living; the rotted farms, the dazed and hopeless peasants;his innumerable suffering comrades; the desert of no-man's land; and allthe thunder and moaning of war; and the reek and the freezing of war;and the driving--the callous perpetual driving, by some great Forcewhich shovelled warm human hearts and bodies, warm human hopes and lovesby the million into the furnace; and over all, dark sky without a break, without a gleam of blue, or lift anywhere--all this enclosed him, lyingin the golden heat, so that not a glimmer of life or hope could get athim. Back into it all again! Back into it, he who had been through fortytimes the hell that the "_majors_" ever endured, five hundred times thehell ever glimpsed at by those _députés_, safe with their fat salaries, and their gabble about victory and the lost provinces, and the future ofthe world--the _Canaille!_ Let them allow the soldiers, whose lives theyspent like water--"_les camarades_" on both sides--poor devils who bled, and froze, and starved, and sweated--let them suffer these to make thepeace! Ah! What a peace that would be--its first condition, all thesacred politicians and pressmen hanging in rows in every country; themouth fighters, the pen fighters, the fighters with other men's blood!Those comfortable citizens would never rest till there was not a youngman with whole limbs left in France! Had he not killed enough Boches, that they might leave him and his tired heart in peace? He thought ofhis first charge; of how queer and soft that Boche body felt when hisbayonet went through; and another, and another. Ah! he had "_joliment_"done his duty that day! And something wrenched at his ribs. They wereonly Boches, but their wives and children, their mothers--facesquestioning, faces pleading for them--pleading with whom? Ah! Not withhim! Who was he that had taken those lives, and others since, but a poordevil without a life himself, without the right to breathe or moveexcept to the orders of a Force which had no mind, which had no heart, had nothing but a blind will to go on, it knew not why. If only hesurvived--it was not possible--but if only he survived, and with hismillions of comrades could come back and hold the reckoning! Somescare-the-crows then would waggle in the wind. The butterflies wouldperch on a few mouths empty at last; the flies enjoy a few silenttongues! Then slowly his fierce unreasoning rancour vanished into a mereawful pity for himself. Was a fellow never again to look at the sky, andthe good soil, the fruit, the wheat, without this dreadful black cloudabove him, never again make love among the trees, or saunter down alighted boulevard, or sit before a café, never again attend Mass, without this black dog of disgust and dread sitting on his shoulders, riding him to death? Angels of pity! Was there never to be an end? Onewas going mad under it--yes, mad! And the face of his mother came beforehim, as he had seen her last, just three years ago, when he left hishome in the now invaded country, to join his regiment--his mother who, with all his family, was in the power of the Boche. He had gone gaily, and she had stood like stone, her hand held over her eyes, in thesunlight, watching him while the train ran out. Usually the thought ofthe cursed Boches holding in their heavy hands all that was dear to him, was enough to sweep his soul to a clear, definite hate, which made allthis nightmare of war seem natural, and even right; but now it was notenough--he had "_cafard_. " He turned on his back. The sky above themountains might have been black for all the joy its blue gave him. Thebutterflies, those drifting flakes of joy, passed unseen. He wasthinking: No rest, no end, except by walking over bodies, dead, mangledbodies of poor devils like himself, poor hunted devils, who wantednothing but never to lift a hand in combat again so long as they lived, who wanted--as he wanted--nothing but laughter and love and rest!_Quelle vie!_ A carnival of leaping demonry! A dream--unutterably bad!"And when I go back to it all, " he thought, "I shall go all shaven andsmart, and wave my hand as if I were going to a wedding, as we all do. _Vive la France!_ Ah! what mockery! Can't a poor devil have a dreamlesssleep!" He closed his eyes, but the sun struck hot on them through thelids, and he turned over on his face again, and looked longingly at theriver--they said it was deep in mid-stream; it still ran fast there!What was that down by the water? Was he really mad? And he uttered aqueer laugh. There was his black dog--the black dog off his shoulders, the black dog which rode him, yea, which had become his very self, justgoing to wade in! And he called out:

"_Hé! le copain!_" It was not his dog, for it stopped drinking, tuckedits tail in, and cowered at the sound of his voice. Then it came fromthe water, and sat down on its base among the stones, and looked at him. A real dog was it? What a guy! What a thin wretch of a little black dog!It sat and stared--a mongrel who might once have been pretty. It staredat Jean Liotard with the pathetic gaze of a dog so thin and hungry thatit earnestly desires to go to men and get fed once more, but has been sokicked and beaten that it dare not. It seemed held in suspense by theequal overmastering impulses, fear and hunger. And Jean Liotard staredback. The lost, as it were despairing look of the dog began to penetratehis brain. He held out his hand and said: "_Viens!_" But at the soundthe little dog only squirmed away a few paces, then again sat down, andresumed its stare. Again Jean Liotard uttered that queer laugh. If thegood God were to hold out his hand and say to him: "_Viens!_" he woulddo exactly as that little beast; he would not come, not he! What was hetoo but a starved and beaten dog--a driven wretch, kicked to hell! Andagain, as if experimenting with himself, he held out his hand and said:"Viens!" and again the beast squirmed a little further away, and againsat down and stared. Jean Liotard lost patience. His head drooped tillhis forehead touched the ground. He smelt the parched herbs, and a faintsensation of comfort stole through his nerves. He lay unmoving, tryingto fancy himself dead and out of it all. The hum of summer, the smell ofgrasses, the caress of the breeze going over! He pressed the palms ofhis outstretched hands on the warm soil, as one might on a woman'sbreast. If only it were really death, how much better than life in thisbutcher's shop! But death, his death was waiting for him away overthere, under the moaning shells, under the whining bullets, at the endof a steel prong--a mangled, foetid death. Death--his death, had nosweet scent, and no caress--save the kisses of rats and crows. Life andDeath what were they? Nothing but the preying of creatures the one onthe other--nothing but that; and love, the blind instinct which madethese birds and beasts of prey. _Bon sang de bon sang!_ The Christ hidhis head finely nowadays! That cross up there on the mountain top, withthe sun gleaming on it--they had been right to put it up where no manlived, and not even a dog roamed, to be pitied! "Fairy tales, fairytales, " he thought; "those who drive and those who are driven, thosewho eat and those who are eaten--we are all poor devils together. Thereis no pity, no God!" And the flies drummed their wings above him. Andthe sun, boring into his spine through his thin shirt, made him reachfor his jacket. There was the little dog, still, sitting on its base, twenty yards away. It cowered and dropped its ears when he moved; and hethought "Poor beast! Someone has been doing the devil's work on you, notbadly!" There were some biscuits in the pocket of his jacket, and heheld one out. The dog shivered, and its thin pink tongue lolled out, panting with desire, and fear. Jean Liotard tossed the biscuit gentlyabout half way. The dog cowered back a step or two, crept forward three, and again squatted. Then very gradually it crept up to the biscuit, bolted it, and regained its distance. The soldier took out another. Thistime he threw it five paces only in front of him. Again the little beastcowered, slunk forward, seized the biscuit, devoured it; but this timeit only recoiled a pace or two, and seemed, with panting mouth and faintwagging of the tail, to beg for more. Jean Liotard held a third biscuitas far out in front of him as he could, and waited. The creature creptforward and squatted just out of reach. There it sat, with salivadripping from its mouth; seemingly it could not make up its mind tothat awful venture. The soldier sat motionless; his outstretched handbegan to tire; but he did not budge--he meant to conquer its fear. Atlast it snatched the biscuit. Jean Liotard instantly held out a fourth. That too was snatched, but at the fifth he was able to touch the dog. Itcowered almost into the ground at touch of his fingers, and then lay, still trembling violently, while the soldier continued to stroke itshead and ears. And suddenly his heart gave a twitter, the creature hadlicked his hand. He took out his last biscuit, broke it up, and fed thedog slowly with the bits, talking all the time; when the last crumb wasgone he continued to murmur and crumple its ears softly. He had becomeaware of something happening within the dog--something in the nature ofconversion, as if it were saying: "O my master, my new master--Iworship, I love you!" The creature came gradually closer, quite close;then put up its sharp black nose and began to lick his face. Its littlehot rough tongue licked and licked, and with each lick the soldier'sheart relaxed, just as if the licks were being given there, andsomething licked away. He put his arms round the thin body, and huggedit, and still the creature went on feverishly licking at his face, andneck, and chest, as if trying to creep inside him. The sun poured down, the lizards rustled and whisked among the pebbles; the kissing neverceased up there among the willow and aspen leaves, and every kind offlying thing went past drumming its wings. There was no change in thesummer afternoon. God might not be there, but Pity had come back; JeanLiotard no longer had "_cafard_. " He put the little dog gently off hislap, got up, and stretched himself. "_Voyons, mon brave, faut aller voirles copains! Tu es à moi. _" The little dog stood up on its hind legs, scratching with its forepaws at the soldier's thigh, as if trying to getat his face again; as if begging not to be left; and its tail wavedfeverishly, half in petition, half in rapture. The soldier caught thepaws, set them down, and turned his face for home, making the noisesthat a man makes to his dog; and the little dog followed, close as hecould get to those moving ankles, lifting his snout, and panting withanxiety and love. 

1917

VI

RECORDED

Just as the train was going out the compartment was stormed by a figurein khaki, with a rifle, a bad cold, a wife, a basket, a small bundle, and two babies. Setting his rifle down in the corner, he said:

"Didn't think we shud ever 'a caught it!"

His lean face was streaming with perspiration, and when he took off hisovercoat there rose the sweetish sourish scent of a hot goatskinwaistcoat. It reached below his waist, and would have kept cold out froma man standing in a blizzard, and he had been carrying a baby, a rifle, a bundle, a basket, and running, on a warmish day. 

"Grand things, these, " he said, and took it off. He also took off hiscap, and sat down with the elder baby in a howling draught. 

"Proper cold I've caught comin' over here, " he added. 

His wife, quite a girl, broad-faced, fresh-coloured, with small greyeyes and a wonderfully placid, comely face, on which a faint shadowseemed printed, sat beside him with the younger baby, a real hairlessone, as could be seen when its white knitted cap slipped. The elderbaby, perhaps two years old, began whimpering a little. He jigged itgently, and said:

"We 'ad a lot o' trouble wi' this one yesterday. The Doctor didn't think'er fit to travel; but I got to see the old people down there, before Igo back out across. Come over Sunday night--only got a week's leave. Sohere we are, " and he laughed. 

"What is your corps?" I asked. 

"Engineers. "

"Join since the war?"

He looked at me as if to say: What a question!

"Twelve years' service. Been everywhere--India, South Africa, Egypt. Come over to the front from Egypt. "

"Where? Ypres?"

"Beg pardon? Wipers? No, Labassy. "

"Rough time?"

He winked. "Proper rough time. "

He looked straight at me, and his eyes--Celtic-grey, with a good deal oflight in them--stared, wide and fixed, at things beyond me, as only dothe eyes of those who have seen much death. There was a sort ofburnt-gunpowder look about their rims and lashes, and a fixity thatnothing could have stared down. 

"The Kazer he says it'll all be over by April!" He laughed, abandoningthe whole of him to enjoyment of that joke. 

He was thin as a rail; his head with its thick brown hair was narrow, his face narrowish too. He had irregular ears, and no feature that couldbe called good, but his expression was utterly genuine and unconsciousof itself. When he sat quiet his face would be held a little down, hiseyes would be looking at something--or was it at nothing?--far-off, in akind of frowning dream. But if he glanced at his babies his rather thickmouth became all smiles, and he would make a remark to his wife aboutthem. Once or twice she looked at him softly, but I could never catchhim responding to that; his life was rather fuller than hers just now. Presently she took from him the elder baby which, whimpering again, wasquieted at once by her broad placidity. The younger baby she passed tohim; and, having secured it on his knee, he said:

"This one's a proper little gem; never makes a sound; she's a properlittle gem. Never cude stand hearin' a baby cry. " It certainly was anadmirable baby, whether her little garments were lifted so that you sawportions of her--scarlet from being held too tight, whether the shawlwas wrapped over her too much or too little, or her little knittedtrousers seemed about to fall off. For both these babies were elegantlydressed, and so was the mother, with a small blue hat and alarge-checked blouse over her broad bosom, and a blue skirt all crumbsand baby. It was pleasant to see that he had ceased to stream withperspiration now, and some one at the other end of the carriage havingclosed the window, he and the babies no longer sat in a howlingdraught--not that they had ever noticed it. 

"Yes, " he said suddenly, "proper rough time we 'ad of it at first. Terrible--yu cude 'ardly stick it. We Engineers 'ad the worst of it, tu. But must laugh, you know; if yu're goin' to cop it next minute--mustlaugh!" And he did. But his eyes didn't quite lose that stare. 

"How did you feel the first day under fire?"

He closed one eye and shook his head. 

"Not very grand--not very grand--not for two or three days. Soon getused to it, though. Only things I don't care about now are those JackJohnsons. Long Toms out in South Africa--now Jack Johnsons--funnynames--" and he went into a roar. Then leaning forward and, to make sureof one's attention, sawing the air with a hand that held perhaps thelongest used handkerchief ever seen, "I seen 'em make a hole where youcould 'ave put two 'underd and fifty horses. Don't think I shall everget to like 'em. Yu don't take no notice o' rifle fire after alittle--not a bit o' notice. I was out once with a sapper and two o' theDevons, fixin' up barbed wire--bullets strikin' everywhere just likerain. One o' the Devons, he was sittin' on a biscuit-tin, singin': 'Thefields were white wi' daisies'--singing. All of a sudden he goes likethis--" And giving a queer dull "sumph" of a sound, he jerked his bodylimp towards his knees--"Gone! Dig a hole, put 'im in. Your turnto-morrow, perhaps. Pals an' all. Yu get so as yu don't take no notice. "

On the face of the broad, placid girl with the baby against her breastthe shadow seemed printed a little deeper, but she did not wince. Thetiny baby on his knees woke up and crowed faintly. He smiled. 

"Since I been out there, I've often wished I was a little 'un again, like this. Well, I made up my mind when first I went for a soldier, thatI'd like to 'ave a medal out of it some day. Now I'll get it, if theydon't get me!" and he laughed again: "Ah! I've 'ad some good times, an'I've 'ad some bad times----"

"But never a time like this?"

"Yes, I reckon this has about put the top hat on it!" and he nodded hishead above the baby's. "About put the top hat on! Oh! I've seenthings--enough to make your 'eart bleed. I've seen a lot of them countrypeople. Cruel it is! Women, old men, little children, 'armlesspeople--enough to make your 'eart bleed. I used to think of the folkover 'ere. Don't think English women'd stand what the French and Belgianwomen do. Those poor women over there--wonderful they are. There yu'llsee 'em sittin' outside their 'omes just a heap o' ruins--clingin' to'em. Wonderful brave and patient--make your 'eart bleed to see 'em. Things I've seen! There's some proper brutes among the Germans--must be. Yu don't feel very kind to 'em when yu've seen what I've seen. We 'avesome games with 'em, though"--he laughed again: "Very nervous people, the Germans. If we stop firin' in our lines, up they send the starshells, rockets and all, to see what's goin' on--think we're goin' toattack--regular 'lumination o' fireworks--very nervous people. Then wesend up some rockets on our side--just to 'ave some fun--proper displayo' fireworks. " He went off into a roar: "Must 'ave a bit o' fun, youknow. "

"Is it true they can't stand the bayonet?"

"Yes, that's right--they'll tell yu so themselves--very sensitive, nervous people. "

And after that a silence fell. The elder babe was still fretful, and themother's face had on it that most moving phenomenon of this world--thestrange, selfless, utterly absorbed look, mouth just loosened, eyes offwhere we cannot follow, the whole being wrapped in warmth of her babyagainst her breast. And he, with the tiny placid baby, had gone off intoanother sort of dream, with his slightly frowning, far-away look. Whatwas it all about?--nothing perhaps! A great quality, to be able to restin vacancy. 

He stirred and I offered him the paper, but he shook his head. 

"Thank yu; don't care about lookin' at 'em. They don't know half what wedo out there--from what I've seen of 'em since I come back, I don't seemto 'ave any use for 'em. The pictures, too--" He shrugged and shook hishead. "We 'ave the real news, y'see. They don't keep nothin' from us. But we're not allowed to say. When we advance there'll be some liveslost, I tell yu!"

He nodded, thinking for a second perhaps of his own. "Can't be helped!Once we get 'em on the run, we shan't give 'em much time. " Just then thebaby on his knee woke up and directed on him the full brunt of itswide-open bright grey eyes. Its rosy cheeks were so broad and fat thatits snub nose seemed but a button; its mouth, too tiny, one would think, for use, smiled. Seeing that smile he said:

"Well, what do yu want? Proper little gem, ain't yu!" And suddenlylooking up at me, he added with a sort of bashful glee: "My oldpeople'll go fair mad when they see me--go fair mad they will. " Heseemed to dwell on the thought, and I saw the wife give him a long softsmiling look. He added suddenly:

"I'll 'ave to travel back, though, Saturday--catch the six o'clock fromVictoria, Sunday--to cross over there. "

Very soon after that we arrived at where he changed, and putting on hisgoatskin, his cap, and overcoat, he got out behind his wife, carryingwith the utmost care those queer companions, his baby and his rifle. 

Where is he now? Alive, dead? Who knows?

1915. 

VII

THE RECRUIT

Several times since that fateful Fourth of August he had said: "I sh'll'ave to go. "

And the farmer and his wife would look at him, he with a sort ofamusement, she with a queer compassion in her heart, and one or theother would reply smiling: "That's all right, Tom, there's plentyGermans yet. Yu wait a bit. "

His mother, too, who came daily from the lonely cottage in the littlecombe on the very edge of the big hill to work in the kitchen and farmdairy, would turn her dark taciturn head, with still plentiful blackhair, towards his face which, for all its tan, was so weirdlyreminiscent of a withered baby, pinkish and light-lashed, with forelockand fair hair thin and rumpled, and small blue eyes, and she wouldmutter:

"Don't yu never fret, boy. They'll come for 'ee fast enough when theywant 'ee. " No one, least of all perhaps his mother, could take quiteseriously that little square short-footed man, born when she was justseventeen. Sure of work because he was first-rate with every kind ofbeast, he was yet not looked on as being quite 'all there. ' He couldneither read nor write, had scarcely ever been outside the parish, andthen only in a shandrydan on a Club treat, and he knew no more of theworld than the native of a small South Sea Island. His life from schoolage on had been passed year in, year out, from dawn till dark, with thecattle and their calves, the sheep, the horses and the wild moor ponies;except when hay or corn harvest, or any exceptionally exacting festivalabsorbed him for the moment. From shyness he never went into the bar ofthe Inn, and so had missed the greater part of village education. Hecould of course read no papers, a map was to him but a mystic mass ofmarks and colours; he had never seen the sea, never a ship; no waterbroader than the parish streams; until the war had never met anythingmore like a soldier than the constable of the neighbouring village. Buthe had once seen a Royal Marine in uniform. What sort of creatures theseGermans were to him--who knows? They were cruel--he had grasped that. Something noxious, perhaps, like the adders whose backs he broke withhis stick; something dangerous like the chained dog at Shapton Farm; orthe big bull at Vannacombe. When the war first broke out, and they hadcalled the younger blacksmith (a reservist and noted village marksman)back to his regiment, the little cowman had smiled and said: "Wait tillregiment gets to front, Fred'll soon shoot 'em up. "

But weeks and months went by, and it was always the Germans, theGermans; Fred had clearly not yet shot them up; and now one and nowanother went off from the village, and two from the farm itself; and thegreat Fred returned slightly injured for a few weeks' rest, and, full ofwhisky from morning till night, made the village ring; and finally wentoff again in a mood of manifest reluctance. All this weighed dumbly onthe mind of the little cowman, the more heavily that because of hisinarticulate shyness he could never talk that weight away, nor couldanyone by talk relieve him, no premises of knowledge or vision beingthere. From sheer physical contagion he felt the grizzly menace in theair, and a sense of being left behind when others were going to meetthat menace with their fists, as it were. There was something proud andsturdy in the little man, even in the look of him, for all that he was'poor old Tom, ' who brought a smile to the lips of all. He waspassionate, too, if rubbed up the wrong way; but it needed themalevolence and ingenuity of human beings to annoy him--with his beastshe never lost his temper, so that they had perfect confidence in him. Heresembled indeed herdsmen of the Alps, whom one may see in dumbcommunion with their creatures up in those high solitudes; for he toodwelt in a high solitude cut off from real fellowship with men and womenby lack of knowledge, and by the supercilious pity in them. Living insuch a remote world his talk--when he did say something--had ever thesurprising quality attaching to the thoughts of those by whom the normalproportions of things are quite unknown. His short square figure, hatless and rarely coated in any weather, dotting from foot to foot, abit of stick in one hand, and often a straw in the mouth--he did notsmoke--was familiar in the yard where he turned the handle of theseparator, or in the fields and cowsheds, from daybreak to dusk, savefor the hours of dinner and tea, which he ate in the farm kitchen, making sparse and surprising comments. To his peculiar whistles andcalls the cattle and calves, for all their rumination and stubbornshyness, were amazingly responsive. It was a pretty sight to see thempushing against each other round him--for, after all, he was as much thesource of their persistence, especially through the scanty wintermonths, as a mother starling to her unfledged young. 

When the Government issued their request to householders to return thenames of those of military age ready to serve if called on, he heard ofit, and stopped munching to say in his abrupt fashion: "I'll go--fightthe Germans. " But the farmer did not put him down, saying to his wife:

"Poor old Tom! 'Twidden be 'ardly fair--they'd be makin' game of 'un. "

And his wife, her eyes shining with motherliness, answered: "Poor lad, he's not fit-like. "

The months went on--winter passing to spring--and the slow decking ofthe trees and fields began with leaves and flowers, with butterflies andthe songs of birds. How far the little cowman would notice such a thingas that no one could ever have said, devoid as he was of the vocabularyof beauty, but like all the world his heart must have felt warmer andlighter under his old waistcoat, and perhaps more than most hearts, forhe could often be seen standing stock-still in the fields, his browningface turned to the sun. 

Less and less he heard talk of Germans--dogged acceptance of the stateof war having settled on that far countryside--the beggars were notbeaten and killed off yet, but they would be in good time. It wasunpleasant to think of them more than could be helped. Once in a way ayouth went off and ''listed, ' but though the parish had given moreperhaps than the average, a good few of military age still clung to lifeas they had known it. Then some bright spirit conceived the notion thata county regiment should march through the remoter districts to rousethem up. 

The cuckoo had been singing five days; the lanes and fields, the woodsand the village green were as Joseph's coat, so varied and so bright thefoliage, from golden oak-buds to the brilliant little lime-tree leaves, the feathery green shoots of larches, and the already darkening bunchesof the sycamores. The earth was dry--no rain for a fortnight--when thecars containing the brown-clad men and a recruiting band drew up beforethe Inn. Here were clustered the farmers, the innkeeper, the grey-hairedpostman; by the Church gate and before the schoolyard were knots ofgirls and children, schoolmistress, schoolmaster, parson; and down onthe lower green a group of likely youths, an old labourer or two, andapart from human beings as was his wont, the little cowman in browncorduroys tied below the knee, and an old waistcoat, the sleeves of hisblue shirt dotted with pink, rolled up to the elbows of his brown arms. So he stood, his brown neck and shaven-looking head quite bare, withhis bit of stick wedged between his waist and the ground, staring withall his light-lashed water-blue eyes from under the thatch of hisforelock. 

The speeches rolled forth glib; the khaki-clad men drank their secondfill that morning of coffee and cider; the little cowman stood straightand still, his head drawn back. Two figures--officers, men who had beenat the front--detached themselves and came towards the group of likelyyouths. These wavered a little, were silent, sniggered, stood theirground--the khaki-clad figures passed among them. Hackneyed words, jests, the touch of flattery, changing swiftly to chaff--all thecustomary performance, hollow and pathetic; and then the two figuresre-emerged, their hands clenched, their eyes shifting here and there, their lips drawn back in fixed smiles. They had failed, and were tryingto hide it. They must not show contempt--the young slackers might yetcome in, when the band played. 

The cars were filled again, the band struck up: 'It's a long long way toTipperary. '

And at the edge of the green within two yards of the car's dusty passagethe little cowman stood apart and stared. His face was red. Behind himthey were cheering--the parson and farmers, school children, girls, eventhe group of youths. He alone did not cheer, but his face grew stillmore red. When the dust above the road and the distant blare ofTipperary had dispersed and died, he walked back to the farm dottingfrom one to other of his short feet. All that afternoon and evening hespoke no word; but the flush seemed to have settled in his face for goodand all. He milked some cows, but forgot to bring the pails up. Two ofhis precious cows he left unmilked till their distressful lowing causedthe farmer's wife to go down and see. There he was standing against agate moving his brown neck from side to side like an animal in pain, oblivious seemingly of everything. She spoke to him:

"What's matter, Tom?" All he could answer was:

"I'se goin', I'se goin'. " She milked the cows herself. 

For the next three days he could settle to nothing, leaving his jobshalf done, speaking to no one save to say:

"I'se goin'; I'se got to go. " Even the beasts looked at him surprised. 

On the Saturday the farmer having consulted with his wife, said quietly:

"Well, Tom, ef yu want to go, yu shall. I'll drive 'ee down Monday. Uswon't du nothin' to keep yu back. "

The little cowman nodded. But he was restless as ever all through thatSunday, eating nothing. 

On Monday morning arrayed in his best clothes he got into the dog-cart. There, without good-bye to anyone, not even to his beasts, he satstaring straight before him, square, and jolting up and down beside thefarmer, who turned on him now and then a dubious almost anxious eye. 

So they drove the eleven miles to the recruiting station. He got down, entered, the farmer with him. 

"Well, my lad, " they asked him, "what d'you want to join?"

"Royal Marines. "

It was a shock, coming from the short, square figure of such an obviouslandsman. The farmer took him by the arm. 

"Why, yu'm a Devon man, Tom, better take county regiment. An't they gudeenough for yu?"

Shaking his head he answered: "Royal Marines. "

Was it the glamour of the words or the Royal Marine he had once seen, that moved him to wish to join that outlandish corps? Who shall say?There was the wish, immovable; they took him to the recruiting stationfor the Royal Marines. 

Stretching up his short, square body, and blowing out his cheeks toincrease his height, he was put before the reading board. His eyes weresplendid; little that passed in hedgerows or the heaven, in woods or onthe hillsides, could escape them. They asked him to read the print. 

Staring, he answered: "L. "

"No, my lad, you're guessing. "

"L. "

The farmer plucked at the recruiting officer's sleeve, his face wastwitching, and he whispered hoarsely:

"'E don' know 'is alphabet. "

The officer turned and contemplated that short square figure with thebrowned face so reminiscent of a withered baby, and the little blue eyesstaring out under the dusty forelock. Then he grunted, and going up tohim, laid a hand on his shoulder. 

"_Your_ heart's all right, my lad, but you can't pass. "

The little cowman looked at him, turned, and went straight out. An hourlater he sat again beside the farmer on the way home, staring before himand jolting up and down. 

"They won't get me, " he said suddenly: "I can fight, but I'se notgoin'. " A fire of resentment seemed to have been lit within him. Thatevening he ate his tea, and next day settled down again among hisbeasts. But whenever, now, the war was mentioned, he would look up withhis puckered smile which seemed to have in it a resentful amusement, andsay:

"They a'nt got me yet. "

His dumb sacrifice passing their comprehension, had been rejected--or soit seemed to him He could not understand that they had spared him. Why!He was as good as they! His pride was hurt. No! They should not get himnow!

1916. 

VIII

THE PEACE MEETING

Colin Wilderton, coming from the West on his way to the Peace Meeting, fell in with John Rudstock, coming from the North, and they walked ontogether. After they had commented on the news from Russia and theinflation of money, Rudstock said abruptly:

"We shall have a queer meeting, I expect. "

"God knows!" answered Wilderton. 

And both smiled, conscious that they were uneasy, but predetermined notto show it under any circumstances. Their smiles were different, forRudstock was a black-browed man, with dark beard and strong, thickfigure, and Wilderton a very light-built, grey-haired man, with kindlyeyes and no health. He had supported the war an immense time, and hadonly recently changed his attitude. In common with all men of warmfeelings, he had at first been profoundly moved by the violation ofBelgium. The horrors of the German advance through that little countryand through France, to which he was temperamentally attached, hadstirred in him a vigorous detestation, freely expressed in many ways. Extermination, he had felt all those early months, was hardly goodenough for brutes who could commit such crimes against humanity andjustice; and his sense of the need for signal defeat of a noxious forceriding rough-shod over the hard-won decency of human life had survivedwell into the third year of the war. He hardly knew, himself, when hisfeeling had begun--not precisely to change, but to run, as it were, in adifferent channel. A man of generous instincts, artistic tastes, andunsteady nerves too thinly coated with that God-given assurance whichalone fits a man for knowing what is good for the world, he had becomegradually haunted by the thought that he was not laying down his ownlife, but only the lives of his own and other peoples' sons. And theconsideration that he was laying them down for the benefit of their ownfuture had lost its grip on him. At moments he was still able to seethat the war he had so long supported had not yet attained sufficientdefeat of the Prussian military machine to guarantee that future; buthis pity and distress for all these young lives, cut down without achance to flower, had grown till he had become, as it were, a gambler. What good--he would think--to secure the future of the young in a Europewhich would soon have no young! Every country was sufferinghideously--the criminal country not least, thank God! Suppose the warwere to go on for another year, two, three years, and then stop fromsheer exhaustion of both sides, while all the time these boys were beingkilled and maimed, for nothing more, perhaps, than could be obtainedto-day. What then? True, the Government promised victory, but they neverpromised it within a year. Governments did not die; what if they were togo on promising it a year hence, till everybody else was dead! Didhistory ever show that victory in the present could guarantee thefuture? And even if not so openly defeated as was desirable, thisdamnable Prussianism had got such a knock that it could never again dowhat it had in the past. These last, however, were but side reflections, toning down for him the fact that his nerves could no longer stand thisvicarious butchery of youth. And so he had gradually become that"traitor to his country, a weak-kneed Peace by Negotiation man. "Physically his knees really were weak, and he used to smile a wry smilewhen he read the expression. 

John Rudstock, of vigorous physique, had opposed the war, on principle, from the start, not because, any more than Wilderton, he approved ofPrussianism, but because, as an essentially combative personality, heopposed everything that was supported by a majority; the greater themajority, the more bitterly he opposed it; and no one would have beenmore astonished than he at hearing that this was his principle. Hepreferred to put it that he did not believe in opposing Force by Force. In peace-time he was a "stalwart, " in war-time a "renegade. "

The street leading to the chapel which had been engaged seemed quietenough. Designed to make an impression on public opinion, every care hadbeen taken that the meeting should not attract the public eye. God'sprotection had been enlisted, but two policemen also stood at theentrance, and half a dozen others were suspiciously near by. A thintrickle of persons, mostly women, were passing through the door. ColinWilderton, making his way up the aisle to the platform, wrinkled hisnose, thinking: "Stuffy in here. " It had always been his misfortune tolove his neighbours individually, but to dislike them in a bunch. On theplatform some fifteen men and women were already gathered. He seatedhimself modestly in the back row, while John Rudstock, less retiring, took his place at the chairman's right hand. The speakers began with aprecipitancy hardly usual at a public meeting. Wilderton listened, andthought: "Dreadfully cliché; why can't someone say straight out thatboys enough have been killed?" He had become conscious of a mutteringnoise, too, as of the tide coming in on a heavy wind; it broke suddenlyinto component parts--human voices clamouring outside. He heard blowsraining on the door, saw sticks smashing in the windows. The audiencehad risen to its feet, some rushing to defend the doors, others standingirresolute. John Rudstock was holding up the chair he had been sittingon. Wilderton had just time to think: "I thought so, " when a knot ofyoung men in khaki burst into the chapel, followed by a crowd. He knewhe was not much good in a scrimmage, but he placed himself at once infront of the nearest woman. At that moment, however, some soldiers, pouring through a side-door, invaded the platform from behind, and threwhim down the steps. He arrived at the bottom with a bump, and was unableto get up because of the crowd around him. Someone fell over him; it wasRudstock, swearing horribly. He still had the chair in his hand, for ithit Wilderton a nasty blow. The latter saw his friend recover his feetand swing the weapon, and with each swing down went some friend or foe, until he had cleared quite a space round him. Wilderton, still weak anddizzy from his fall, sat watching this Homeric battle. Chairs, books, stools, sticks were flying at Rudstock, who parried them, or divertedtheir course so that they carried on and hit Wilderton, or crashedagainst the platform. He heard Rudstock roar like a lion, and saw himadvance, swinging his chair; down went two young men in khaki, down wenta third in mufti; a very tall young soldier, also armed with a chair, dashed forward, and the two fought in single combat. Wilderton had goton his feet by now, and, adjusting his eyeglass, for he could see littlewithout, he caught up a hymn-book, and, flinging it at the crowd withall his force, shouted: "Hoo-bloodyray!" and followed with his fistsclenched. One of them encountered what must have been the jaw of anAustralian, it was so hard against his hand; he received a vicious punchin the ribs and was again seated on the ground. He could still hear hisfriend roaring, and the crash of chairs meeting in mid-air. Somethingfell heavily on him. It was Rudstock--he was insensible. There was amomentary lull, and peering up as best he could from underneath thebody, Wilderton saw that the platform had been cleared of all itsoriginal inhabitants, and was occupied mainly by youths in navy-blue andkhaki. A voice called out:

"Order! Silence!"

Rubbing Rudstock's temples with brandy from a flask which he had had theforesight to slip into his pocket, he listened as best he could, withthe feet of the crowd jostling his anatomy. 

"Here we are, boys, " the voice was saying, "and here we'll always bewhen these treacherous blighters try their games on. No peace, no peaceat any price! We've got to show them that we won't have it. Leave thewomen alone--though they ought to be ashamed of themselves; but for themen--the skunks--shooting's too good for them. Let them keep off thecourse or we'll make them. We've broken up this meeting, and we'll breakup every meeting that tries to talk of peace. Three cheers for the oldflag!"

During the cheers which followed Wilderton was discovering signs ofreturning consciousness in his friend. Rudstock had begun to breatheheavily, and, pouring some brandy into his mouth, he propped him up asbest he could against a wooden structure, which he suddenly perceived tobe the chapel's modest pulpit. A thought came to his dazed brain. If hecould get up into that, as if he had dropped from Heaven, they mightalmost listen to him. He disengaged his legs from under Rudstock, andbegan crawling up the steps on hands and knees. Once in the pulpit hesat on the floor below the level of visibility, getting his breath, andlistening to the cheers. Then, smoothing his hair, he rose, and waitedfor the cheers to stop. He had calculated rightly. His suddenappearance, his grey hair, eyeglass, and smile deceived them for amoment. There was a hush. 

"Boys!" he said, "listen to me a second, I want to ask you something. What on earth do you think we came here for? Simply and solely becausewe can't bear to go on seeing you killed day after day, month aftermonth, year after year. That's all, and it's Christ's truth. Amen!"

A strange gasp and mutter greeted this little speech; then a dull voicecalled out:

"Pro-German!"

Wilderton flung up his hand. 

"The Germans to hell!" he said simply. 

The dull voice repeated:

"Pro-German!" And the speaker on the platform called out: "Come out ofthat! When we want you to beg us off we'll let you know. "

Wilderton spun round to him. 

"You're all wonderful!" he began, but a hymn-book hit him fearfully onthe forehead, and he sank down into the bottom of the pulpit. This lastblow, coming on the top of so many others, had deprived him ofintelligent consciousness; he was but vaguely aware of more speeches, cheers, and tramplings, then of a long hush, and presently foundhimself walking out of the chapel door between Rudstock and a policeman. It was not the door by which they had entered, and led to an emptycourtyard. 

"Can you walk?" said the policeman. 

Wilderton nodded. 

"Then walk off!" said the policeman, and withdrew again into the houseof God. 

They walked, holding each other's arms, a little unsteadily at first. Rudstock had a black eye and a cut on his ear, the blood from which hadstained his collar and matted his beard. Wilderton's coat was torn, hisforehead bruised, his cheek swollen, and he had a pain in his back whichprevented him from walking very upright. They did not speak, but in anarchway did what they could with pins and handkerchiefs, and by turningup Rudstock's coat collar, to regain something of respectability. Whenthey were once more under way Rudstock said coldly:

"I heard you. You should have spoken for yourself. I came, as you know, because I don't believe in opposing force by force. At the next peacemeeting we hold I shall make that plainer. "

Wilderton murmured:

"Yes, yes; I saw you--I'm sure you will. I apologise; I was carriedaway. "

Rudstock went on in a deep voice:

"As for those young devils, they may die to a man if they like! Take myadvice and let them alone. "

Wilderton smiled on the side which was not swollen. 

"Yes, " he said sadly, "it does seem difficult to persuade them to go onliving. Ah, well!"

"Ah, well!" he said again, five minutes later, "they're wonderful--pooryoung beggars! I'm very unhappy, Rudstock!"

"I'm not, " said Rudstock, "I've enjoyed it in a way! Good-night!"

They shook hands, screwing up their mouths with pain, for their fistswere badly bruised, and parted, Rudstock going to the North, Wildertonto the West. 

1917. 

IX

"THE DOG IT WAS THAT DIED"

Until the great war was over I had no idea that some of us who stayed athome made the great sacrifice. 

My friend Harburn is, or rather was, a Northumbrian, or some kind ofNortherner, a stocky man of perhaps fifty, with close-clipped grizzledhair and moustache, and a deep-coloured face. He was a neighbour of minein the country, and we had the same kind of dogs--Airedales, never lessthan three at a time, so that for breeding purposes we were useful toeach other. We often, too, went up to Town by the same train. Hisoccupation was one which gave him opportunity of prominence in publiclife, but until the war he took little advantage of this, sunk in a kindof bluff indifferentism which was almost cynical. I used to look on himas a typically good-natured blunt Englishman, rather enjoying hiscynicism, and appreciating his open-air tendencies--for he was a devoteeof golf, and fond of shooting when he had the chance; a good companion, too, with an open hand to people in distress. He was unmarried, anddwelled in a bungalow-like house not far from mine, and next door to aGerman family called Holsteig, who had lived in England nearly twentyyears. I knew them pretty well also--a very united trio, father, mother, and one son. The father, who came from Hanover, was something in theCity, the mother was Scotch, and the son--the one I knew best and likedmost--had just left his public school. This youth had a frank, open, blue-eyed face, and thick light hair brushed back without a parting--avery attractive, slightly Norwegian-looking type. His mother was devotedto him; she was a real West Highlander, slight, with dark hair goinggrey, high cheekbones, a sweet but rather ironical smile, and those greyeyes which have second sight in them. I several times met Harburn attheir house, for he would go in to play billiards with Holsteig in theevenings, and the whole family were on very friendly terms with him. 

The third morning after we had declared war on Germany Harburn, Holsteig, and I went up to Town in the same carriage. Harburn and Italked freely. But Holsteig, a fair, well-set-up man of about fifty, with a pointed beard and blue eyes like his son, sat immersed in hispaper till Harburn said suddenly:

"I say, Holsteig, is it true that your boy was going off to join theGerman army?"

Holsteig looked up. 

"Yes, " he said. "He was born in Germany; he's liable to militaryservice. But thank heaven, it isn't possible for him to go. "

"But his mother?" said Harburn. "She surely wouldn't have let him?"

"She was very miserable, of course, but she thought duty came first. "

"Duty! Good God!--my dear man! Half British, and living in this countryall his life! I never heard of such a thing!" Holsteig shrugged hisshoulders. 

"In a crisis like this, what can you do except follow the law strictly?He is of military age and a German subject. We were thinking of hishonour; but of course we're most thankful he can't get over to Germany. "

"Well, I'm damned!" said Harburn. "You Germans are too ballyconscientious altogether. "

Holsteig did not answer. 

I travelled back with Harburn the same evening, and he said to me:

"Once a German, always a German. Didn't that chap Holsteig astonish youthis morning? In spite of living here so long and marrying a Britishwife, his sympathies are dead German, you see. "

"Well, " I replied; "put yourself in his place. "

"I can't; I could never have lived in Germany. I wonder, " he addedreflectively, "I wonder if the chap's all right, Cumbermere?"

"Of course he's all right. " Which was the wrong thing to say to Harburnif one wanted to re-establish his confidence in the Holsteigs, as Icertainly did, for I liked them and was sure of their good faith. If Ihad said: "Of course he's a spy"--I should have rallied all Harburn'sconfidence in Holsteig, for he was naturally contradictious. 

I only mention this little passage to show how early Harburn's thoughtsbegan to turn to the subject which afterwards completely absorbed andinspired him till he died for his country. 

I am not sure what paper first took up the question of interning all theHuns; but I fancy the point was raised originally rather from theinstinct, deeply implanted in so many journals, for what would pleasethe public, than out of any deep animus. At all events I remembermeeting a sub-editor, who told me he had been opening letters ofapproval all the morning. "Never, " said he, "have we had a stunt catchon so quickly. 'Why should that bally German round the corner get mycustom?' and so forth. Britain for the British!"

"Rather bad luck, " I said, "on people who've paid us the compliment offinding this the best country to live in!"

"Bad luck, no doubt, " he replied, "_mais la guerre c'est la guerre_. Youknow Harburn, don't you? Did you see the article he wrote? By Jove, hepitched it strong. "

When next I met Harburn himself, he began talking on this subject atonce. 

"Mark my words, Cumbermere, I'll have every German out of this country. "His grey eyes seemed to glint with the snap and spark as of steel andflint and tinder; and I felt I was in the presence of a man who hadbrooded so over the German atrocities in Belgium that he was possessedby a sort of abstract hate. 

"Of course, " I said, "there have been many spies, but----"

"Spies and ruffians, " he cried, "the whole lot of them. "

"How many Germans do you know personally?" I asked him. 

"Thank God! Not a dozen. "

"And are they spies and ruffians?"

He looked at me and laughed, but that laugh was uncommonly like a snarl. 

"You go in for 'fairness, '" he said; "and all that slop; take 'em by thethroat--it's the only way. "

It trembled on the tip of my tongue to ask him whether he meant to takethe Holsteigs by the throat, but I swallowed it, for fear of doing theman injury. I was feeling much the same general abhorrence myself, andhad to hold myself in all the time for fear it should gallop over mycommonsense. But Harburn, I could see, was giving it full rein. Hiswhole manner and personality somehow had changed. He had lost geniality, and that good-humoured cynicism which had made him an attractivecompanion; he was as if gnawed at inwardly--in a word, he already had afixed idea. 

Now, a cartoonist like myself has got to be interested in the psychologyof men and things, and I brooded over Harburn, for it seemed to meremarkable that one whom I had always associated with good humour andbluff indifference should be thus obsessed. And I formed this theoryabout him: 'Here'--I said to myself--'is one of Cromwell's Ironsides, born out of his age. In the slack times of peace he discovered no outletfor the grim within him--his fire could never be lighted by love, therefore he drifted in the waters of indifferentism. Now suddenly inthis grizzly time he has found himself, a new man, girt and armed bythis new passion of hate; stung and uplifted, as it were, by the sightof that which he can smite with a whole heart. It's deeplyinteresting'--I said to myself--'Who could have dreamed of such areincarnation; for what on the surface could possibly be less alike thanan 'Ironside, ' and Harburn as I've known him up to now?' And I used hisface for the basis of a cartoon which represented a human weather-vanecontinually pointing to the East, no matter from what quarter the windblew. He recognised himself, and laughed when he saw me--rather pleased, in fact, but in that laugh there was a sort of truculence, as if the manhad the salt taste of blood at the back of his mouth. 

"Ah!" he said, "you may joke about it, but I've got my teeth into themall right. The swine!"

And there was no doubt he had--the man had become a force; unhappyGermans, a few of them spies, no doubt, but the great majority ascertainly innocent, were being wrenched from their trades and families, and piled into internment camps all day and every day. And the fasterthey were piled in, the higher grew his stock, as a servant of hiscountry. I'm sure he did not do it to gain credit; the thing was acrusade to him, something sacred--'his bit'; but I believe he also feltfor the first time in his life that he was really living, getting out oflife the full of its juice. Was he not smiting hip and thigh? Helonged, I am sure, to be in the thick of the actual fighting, but agedebarred him, and he was not of that more sensitive type which shrinksfrom smiting the defenceless if it cannot smite anything stronger. Iremember saying to him once:

"Harburn, do you ever think of the women and children of your victims?"

He drew his lips back, and I saw how excellent his teeth were. 

"The women are worse than the men, I believe, " he said. "I'd put themin, too, if I could. As for the children, they're all the better forbeing without fathers of that kidney. "

He really was a little mad on the subject; no more so, of course, thanany other man with a fixed idea, but certainly no less. 

In those days I was here, there, and everywhere, and had let my countrycottage, so I saw nothing of the Holsteigs, and indeed had pretty wellforgotten their existence. But coming back at the end of 1917 from along spell with the Red Cross I found among my letters one from Mrs. Holsteig:

 "Dear Mr. Cumbermere, You were always so friendly to us that I have summoned up courage to write this letter. You know perhaps that my husband was interned over a year ago, and repatriated last September; he has lost everything, of course; but so far he is well and able to get along in Germany. Harold and I have been jogging on here as best we can on my own little income--'Huns in our midst' as we are, we see practically nobody. What a pity we cannot all look into each other's hearts, isn't it? I used to think we were a 'fair-play' people, but I have learned the bitter truth--that there is no such thing when pressure comes. It's much worse for Harold than for me; he feels his paralysed position intensely, and would, I'm sure, really rather be 'doing his bit' as an interned, than be at large, subject to everyone's suspicion and scorn. But I am terrified all the time that they _will_ intern him. You used to be intimate with Mr. Harburn. We have not seen him since the first autumn of the war, but we know that he has been very active in the agitation, and is very powerful in this matter. I have wondered whether he can possibly realise what this indiscriminate internment of the innocent means to the families of the interned. Could you not find a chance to try and make him understand? If he and a few others were to stop hounding on the government, it would cease, for the authorities must know perfectly well that all the dangerous have been disposed of long ago. You have no notion how lonely one feels in one's native land nowadays; if I should lose Harold too I think I might go under, though that has never been my habit. 

 Believe me, dear Mr. Cumbermere, Most truly yours HELEN HOLSTEIG. "

On receiving this letter I was moved by compassion, for it required nostretch of imagination to picture the life of that lonely Britishmother and her son; and I thought very carefully over the advisabilityof speaking to Harburn, and consulted the proverbs: "Speech is silver, but Silence is golden--When in doubt play trumps. " "Second thoughts arebest--He who hesitates is lost. " "Look before you leap--Delays aredangerous. " They balanced so perfectly that I had recourse toCommonsense, which told me to abstain. But meeting Harburn at the Club afew days later and finding him in a genial mood, I let impulse prevail, and said:

"By the way, Harburn, you remember the Holsteigs? I had a letter frompoor Mrs. Holsteig the other day; she seems terrified that they'llintern her son, that particularly nice boy. Don't you think it's timeyou let up on these unhappy people?"

The moment I reached the word Holsteig I saw I had made a mistake, andonly went on because to have stopped at that would have been worsestill. The hair had bristled up on his back, as it were, and he said:

"Holsteig? That young pup who was off to join the German army if hecould? By George, is he at large still? This Government will neverlearn. I'll remember him. "

"Harburn, " I stammered, "I spoke of this in confidence. The boy is halfBritish, and a friend of mine. I thought he was a friend of yours too. "

"Of mine?" he said. "No thank you. No mongrels for me. As to confidence, Cumbermere, there's no such thing in war time over what concerns thecountry's safety. "

"Good God!" I exclaimed. "You really are crazy on this subject. Thatboy--with his bringing-up!"

He grinned. "We're taking no risks, " he said, "and making no exceptions. The British army or an internment camp. I'll see that he gets thealternatives. "

"If you do, " I said, rising, "we cease to be friends. I won't have myconfidence abused. "

"Oh! Hang it all!" he grumbled; "sit down! We must all do our duty. "

"You once complained to Holsteig himself of that German peculiarity. "

He laughed. "I did, " he said; "I remember--in the train. I've changedsince then. That pup ought to be in with all the other swine-hounds. Butlet it go. "

There the matter rested, for he had said: "Let it go, " and he was a manof his word. It was, however, a lesson to me not to meddle with men oftemperament so different from my own. I wrote to young Holsteig andasked him to come and lunch with me. He thanked me, but could not, ofcourse, being confined to a five-mile radius. Really anxious to see him, I motorbiked down to their house. I found a very changed youth; moodyand introspective, thoroughly forced in upon himself, and growingbitter. He had been destined for his father's business, and, marooned ashe was by his nationality, had nothing to do but raise vegetables intheir garden and read poetry and philosophy--not occupations to take ayoung man out of himself. Mrs. Holsteig, whose nerves were evidently atcracking point, had become extremely bitter, and lost all power ofseeing the war as a whole. All the ugly human qualities and hard peoplewhich the drive and pressure of a great struggle inevitably bring to thetop seemed viewed by her now as if they were the normal character of herfellow countrymen, and she made no allowance for the fact that thosefellow countrymen had not commenced this struggle, nor for the certaintythat the same ugly qualities and hard people were just as surely to thefore in every other of the fighting countries. The certainty she feltabout her husband's honour had made her regard his internment andsubsequent repatriation as a personal affront, as well as a wickedinjustice. Her tall thin figure and high-cheekboned face seemed to havebeen scorched and withered by some inner flame; she could not have beena wholesome companion for her boy in that house, empty even of servants. I spent a difficult afternoon in muzzling my sense of proportion, andjourneyed back to Town sore, but very sorry. 

I was off again with the Red Cross shortly after, and did not return toEngland till August of 1918. I was unwell, and went down to my cottage, now free to me again. The influenza epidemic was raging, and there Ideveloped a mild attack; when I was convalescent my first visitor wasHarburn, who had come down to his bungalow for a summer holiday. He hadnot been in the room five minutes before he was off on his favouritetopic. My nerves must have been on edge from illness, for I cannotexpress the disgust with which I listened to him on that occasion. Heseemed to me just like a dog who mumbles and chews a mouldy old bonewith a sort of fury. There was a kind of triumph about him, too, whichwas unpleasant, though not surprising, for he was more of a 'force' thanever. 'God save me from the fixed idea!' I thought, when he was gone. That evening I asked my old housekeeper if she had seen young Mr. Holsteig lately. 

"Oh! no, " she said; "he's been put away this five month. Mrs. 'Olsteiggoes up once a week to see 'im, 'Olsteig. She's nigh out of her mind, poor lady--the baker says; that fierce she is about the Gover'ment. "

I confess I could not bring myself to go and see her. 

About a month after the armistice had been signed I came down to mycottage again. Harburn was in the same train, and he gave me a lift fromthe station. He was more like his old good-humoured self, and asked meto dinner the next day. It was the first time I had met him since thevictory. We had a most excellent repast, and drank the health of theFuture in some of his oldest port. Only when we had drawn up to theblazing wood fire in that softly lighted room, with our glasses besideus and two Airedales asleep at our feet, did he come round to his hobby. 

"What do you think?" he said, suddenly leaning towards the flames, "someof these blazing sentimentalists want to release our Huns. But I've putmy foot on it; they won't get free till they're out of this country andback in their precious Germany. " And I saw the familiar spark andsmoulder in his eyes. 

"Harburn, " I said, moved by an impulse which I couldn't resist, "Ithink you ought to take a pill. "

He stared at me. 

"This way madness lies, " I went on. "Hate is a damned insidious disease;men's souls can't stand very much of it without going pop. You wantpurging. "

He laughed. 

"Hate! I thrive on it. The more I hate the brutes, the better I feel. Here's to the death of every cursed Hun!"

I looked at him steadily. "I often think, " I said, "that there couldhave been no more unhappy men on earth than Cromwell's Ironsides, or thered revolutionaries in France, when their work was over and done with. "

"What's that to do with me?" he said, amazed. 

"They too smote out of sheer hate, and came to an end of their smiting. When a man's occupation's gone----"

"You're drivelling!" he said sharply. 

"Far from it, " I answered, nettled. "Yours is a curious case, Harburn. Most of our professional Hun-haters have found it a good stunt, or aremerely weak sentimentalists; they can drop it easily enough when itceases to be a good stunt, or a parrot's war-cry. You can't; with youit's mania, religion. When the tide ebbs and leaves you high anddry----"

He struck his fist on the arm of his chair, upsetting his glass andawakening the Airedale at his feet. 

"I won't let it ebb, " he said; "I'm going on with this--Mark me!"

"Remember Canute!" I muttered. "May I have some more port?" I had got upto fill my glass when I saw to my astonishment that a woman was standingin the long window which opened on to the verandah. She had evidentlyonly just come in, for she was still holding the curtain in her hand. Itwas Mrs. Holsteig, with her fine grey hair blown about her face, lookingstrange and almost ghostly in a grey gown. Harburn had not seen her, soI went quickly towards her, hoping to get her to go out again assilently, and speak to me on the verandah; but she held up her hand witha gesture as if she would push me back, and said:

"Forgive my interrupting; I came to speak to that man. "

Startled by the sound of her voice, Harburn jumped up and spun roundtowards it. 

"Yes, " she repeated quite quietly; "I came to speak to you; I came toput my curse on you. Many have put their curses on you silently; I doso to your face. My son lies between life and death in your prison--yourprison. Whether he lives or dies I curse you for what you have done topoor wives and mothers--to British wives and mothers. Be for everaccursed! Good-night!"

She let the curtain fall, and had vanished before Harburn had time toreach the window. She vanished so swiftly and silently, she had spokenso quietly, that both he and I stood rubbing our eyes and ears. 

"A bit theatrical!" he said at last. 

"Perhaps, " I answered slowly; "but you have been cursed by a liveScotswoman. Look at those dogs!"

The two Airedales were standing stock-still with the hair bristling ontheir backs. 

Harburn suddenly laughed, and it jarred the whole room. 

"By George!" he said, "I believe that's actionable. "

But I was not in that mood, and said tartly:

"If it is, we are all food for judges. "

He laughed again, this time uneasily, slammed the window to, bolted it, and sat down again in his chair. 

"He's got the 'flue, ' I suppose, " he said. "She must think me a prizesort of idiot to have come here with such tomfoolery. "

But our evening was spoiled, and I took my leave almost at once. I wentout into the roupy raw December night pondering deeply. Harburn had madelight of it, and though I suppose no man likes being cursed to his facein the presence of a friend, I felt his skin was quite thick enough tostand it. Besides, it was too cheap and crude a way of carrying on. Anybody can go into his neighbour's house and curse him--and no bonesbroken. And yet--what she had said was no doubt true; hundreds ofwomen--of his fellow countrywomen--must silently have put their curse onone who had been the chief compeller of their misery. Still, he had put_his_ curse on the Huns and their belongings, and I felt he was manenough to take what he had given. 'No, ' I thought, 'she has only fannedthe flame of his hate. But, by Jove! that's just it! Her curse hasfortified my prophecy!' It was of his own state of mind that he wouldperish; and she had whipped and deepened that state of mind. And, odd asit may seem, I felt quite sorry for him, as one is for a poor dog thatgoes mad, does what harm he can, and dies. I lay awake that night a longtime thinking of him, and of that unhappy, half-crazed mother, whose sonlay between life and death. 

Next day I went to see her, but she was up in London, hovering roundthe cage of her son, no doubt. I heard from her, however, some dayslater, thanking me for coming, and saying he was out of danger. But shemade no allusion to that evening visit. Perhaps she was ashamed of it. Perhaps she was demented when she came, and had no remembrance thereof. 

Soon after this I went to Belgium to illustrate a book onReconstruction, and found such subjects that I was not back in Town tillthe late summer of 1919. Going into my Club one day I came on Harburn inthe smoking-room. The curse had not done him much harm, it seemed, forhe looked the picture of health. 

"Well, how are you?" I said. "You look at the top of your form. "

"Never better, " he replied. 

"Do you remember our last evening together?"

He uttered a sort of gusty grunt, and did not answer. 

"That boy recovered, " I said. "What's happened to him and his mother, since?"

"The ironical young brute! I've just had this from him. " And he handedme a letter with the Hanover post mark. 

 "Dear Mr. Harburn, It was only on meeting my mother here yesterday that I learned of her visit to you one evening last December. I wish to apologise for it, since it was my illness which caused her to so forget herself. I owe you a deep debt of gratitude for having been at least part means of giving me the most wonderful experience of my life. In that camp of sorrow--where there was sickness of mind and body such as I am sure you have never seen or realised, such endless hopeless mental anguish of poor huddled creatures turning and turning on themselves year after year--I learned to forget myself, and to do my little best for them. And I learned, and I hope I shall never forget it, that feeling for one's fellow creatures is all that stands between man and death; I was going fast the other way before I was sent there. I thank you from my heart, and beg to remain, Very faithfully yours HAROLD HOLSTEIG. "

I put it down, and said:

"That's not ironical. He means it. "

"Bosh!" said Harburn, with the old spark and smoulder in his eyes. "He'spulling my leg--the swinelet Hun!"

"He is not, Harburn; I assure you. "

Harburn got up. "He _is_; I tell you he _is_. Ah! Those brutes! Well! Ihaven't done with them yet. "

And I heard the snap of his jaw, and saw his eyes fixed fiercely on someimaginary object. I changed the subject hurriedly, and soon took mydeparture. But going down the steps, an old jingle came into my head, and has hardly left it since:

 "The man recovered from the bite, The dog it was that died. "

1919. 

X

IN HEAVEN AND EARTH

We were yarning after dinner, and, whether because three of us werefishermen, or simply that we were all English, our yarns were taking acompetitive turn. The queerest thing seen during the War was the subjectof our tongues, and it was not till after several tit-bits had beendigested that Mallinson, the painter, ill and ironical, blue-eyed, andwith a fair pointed beard, took his pipe out of his mouth, and said:

"Well, you chaps, what I saw last week down in Kent takes some beating. I'd been sketching in a hay-field, and was just making back along thetop hedge to the lane when I heard a sound from the other side like aman's crying. I put my eye to a gap, and there, about three yards in, was a grey-haired bloke in a Norfolk jacket and flannel trousers, digging like a fiend, and crying like a baby--blowing, and gasping andsobbing, tears and sweat rolling down into his beard like rivers. He'dplunge his pick in, scratch, and shovel, and hack at the roots as if fordear life--he was making the hole too close to the hedge, ofcourse--and all the time carrying on like that. I thought he must bedigging his own grave at least. Suddenly he put his pick down, and therejust under the hedge I saw a dead brown dog, lying on its side, alllimp. I never see a dead animal myself, you know, without a bit of achoke; they're so soft, and lissom; the peace, and the pity--a sort oflook of: "Why--why--when I was so alive?" Well, this elderly Johnny tooka good squint at it, to see if the hole was big enough, then off he wentagain, sobbing and digging like a fiend. It was really a bit too weird, and I mouched off. But when I'd gone about half a mile, I got an attackof the want-to-knows, came back, and sneaked along the hedge. There hewas still, but he had finished, and was having a mop round, and puttingthe last touches to a heap of stones. I strolled up, and said:

'Hot work, Sir, digging, this weather!'

He was a good-looking old grey-beard, with an intellectual face, highforehead and all that. 

'I'm not used to it, ' he said, looking at his blisters. 

'Been burying a dog? Horrid job that!--favourite, I'm afraid. '

He seemed in two minds whether to shut me up and move off, but hedidn't. 

'Yes, ' he said; 'it's cut me up horribly. I never condemned a creatureto death before. And dogs seem to know. '

'Ah! They're pretty uncanny, ' I said, for I wasn't going to let on, ofcourse, that I had seen him. 

'I wouldn't have done it but for the War, ' he muttered; 'but she stoleeggs, poor thing; you couldn't break her of it. She ate three times asmuch as any other dog, too, and in spite of it was always a perfectskeleton--something wrong inside. The sort of dog, you know, no onewould take, or treat decently if they did. Bad habits of every kind, poor dear. I bought her because she was being starved. But she trustedme, that's why I feel so like a murderer. When the Vet and I were in theyard discussing her, she knew there was something wrong--she keptlooking at my face. I very nearly went back on it; only, having got himout on purpose, I was ashamed to. We brought her down here, and on theway she found the remains of a rabbit about a week old--that was one ofher accomplishments--bringing me the most fearful offal. She brought itup wagging her tail--as much as to say: 'See--I _am_ some use!' The Vettied her up here and took his gun; she wagged her tail at that, too; andI ran away. When the shot came, my own little spaniel fawned onme--they _are_ uncanny--licked me all over, never was so gushing, seemed saying: 'What awful power you have! I do love you! You wouldn'tdo that to me, would you? We've got rid of that other one, though!' WhenI came back here to bury the poor thing, and saw her lying on her sideso still, I made a real fool of myself. I was patting her an hour ago, talking to her as if she were a human being. Judas!'"

Mallinson put his pipe back into his mouth. "Just think of it!" he said:"The same creatures who are blowing each other to little bits all thetime, bombing babies, roasting fellow creatures in the air and cheeringwhile they roast, working day and night to inflict every imaginable kindof horror on other men exactly like themselves--these same chaps arecapable of feeling like that about shooting a wretched ill cur of a dog, no good to anybody. There are more things in Heaven and Earth--!" And herelit his pipe, which had gone out. 

His yarn took the prize. 

1917. 

XI

THE MOTHER STONE

It was after dinner, and five elderly Englishmen were discussing thecauses of the war. 

"Well, " said Travers, a big, fresh-coloured grey-beard, with littletwinkling eyes and very slow speech, "you gentlemen know more about itthan I do, but I bet you I can lay my finger on the cause of the war atany minute. "

There was an instant clamour of jeering. But a man called Askew, whoknew Travers well, laughed and said: "Come, let's have it!" Traversturned those twinkling little eyes of his slowly round the circle, andwith heavy, hesitating modesty began:

"Well, Mr. Askew, it was in '67 or '68 that this happened to a great bigfeller of my acquaintance named Ray--one of those fellers, you know, that are always on the look-out to make their fortunes and never do. This Ray was coming back south one day after a huntin' trip he'd been inwhat's now called Bechuanaland, and he was in a pretty bad way when hewalked one evenin' into the camp of one of those wanderin' Boers. Thatclass of Boer has disappeared now. They had no farms of their own, butjust moved on with their stock and their boys; and when they came togood pasture they'd outspan and stay there till they'd cleared itout--and then trek on again. Well, this old Boer told Ray to come rightin, and take a meal; and heaven knows what it was made of, for those oldBoers, they'd eat the devil himself without onion sauce, and relish him. After the meal the old Boer and Ray sat smokin' and yarnin' in the doorof the tent, because in those days these wanderin' Boers used tents. Right close by in the front, the children were playin' in the dust, agame like marbles, with three or four round stones, and they'd pitch 'emup to another stone they called the Moer-Klip, or Mother-stone--one, two, and pick up--two, three, and pick up--you know the game of marbles. Well, the sun was settin' and presently Ray noticed this Moer-Klip thatthey were pitchin' 'em up to, shinin'; and he looked at it, and he saidto the old Boer: 'What's that stone the children are playin' with?' Andthe old Boer looked at him and looked at the stone, and said: 'It's justa stone, ' and went on smokin'. 

"Well, Ray went down on his knees and picked up the stone, and weighedit in his hand. About the size of a hazel-nut it was, and looked--well, it looked like a piece of alum; but the more he looked at it, the morehe thought: 'By Jove, I believe it's a diamond!'

"So he said to the old Boer: 'Where did the children get this stone?'And the old Boer said: 'Oh! the shepherd picked it up somewhere. ' AndRay said: '_Where_ did he pick it up?' And the old Boer waved his hand, and said: 'Over the Kopje, there, beyond the river. How should I know, brother?--a stone is a stone!' So Ray said: 'You let me take this stoneaway with me!' And the old Boer went on smokin', and he said: 'Onestone's the same as another. Take it, brother!' And Ray said: 'If it'swhat I think, I'll give you half the price I get for it. '

"The old Boer smiled, and said: 'That's all right, brother; take it, take it!'

"The next morning Ray left this old Boer, and, when he was going, hesaid to him: 'Well, ' he said, 'I believe this is a valuable stone!' andthe old Boer smiled because he knew one stone was the same as another. 

"The first place Ray came to was C--, and he went to the hotel; and inthe evenin' he began talkin' about the stone, and they all laughed athim, because in those days nobody had heard of diamonds in South Africa. So presently he lost his temper, and pulled out the stone and showed itround; but nobody thought it was a diamond, and they all laughed at himthe more. Then one of the fellers said: 'If it's a diamond, it ought tocut glass. '

"Ray took the stone, and, by Jove, he cut his name on the window, andthere it is--I've seen it--on the bar window of that hotel. Well, nextday, you bet, he travelled straight back to where the old Boer told himthe shepherd had picked up the stone, and he went to a native chiefcalled Jointje, and said to him: 'Jointje, ' he said, 'I go a journey. While I go, you go about and send all your "boys" about, and look forall the stones that shine like this one; and when I come back, if youfind me plenty, I give you gun. ' And Jointje said: 'That all right, Boss. '

"And Ray went down to Cape Town, and took the stone to a jeweller, andthe jeweller told him it was a diamond of about 30 or 40 carats, andgave him five hundred pound for it. So he bought a waggon and a span ofoxen to give to the old Boer, and went back to Jointje. The niggers hadcollected skinfuls of stones of all kinds, and out of all the skinfulsRay found three or four diamonds. So he went to work and got anotherfeller to back him, and between them they made the Government move. Therush began, and they found that place near Kimberley; and after thatthey found De Beers, and after that Kimberley itself. "

Travers stopped, and looked around him. 

"Ray made his fortune, I suppose?"

"No, Mr. Askew; the unfortunate feller made next to nothin'. He was oneof those fellers that never do any good for themselves. "

"But what has all this to do with the war?"

Again Travers looked round, and more slowly than ever, said:

"Without that game of marbles, would there have been aMoer-Klip--without the Moer-Klip, would there have been aKimberley--without Kimberley, would there have been a Rhodes--without aRhodes, would there have been a Raid--without a Raid, would the Boershave started armin'--if the Boers hadn't armed, would there have been aTransvaal War? And if there hadn't been the Transvaal War, would therehave been the incident of those two German ships we held up; and all thegeneral feelin' in Germany that gave the Kaiser the chance to start hisNavy programme in 1900? And if the Germans hadn't built their Navy, would their heads have swelled till they challenged the world, andshould we have had this war?"

He slowly drew a hand from his pocket, and put it on the table. On thelittle finger was blazing an enormous diamond. 

"My father, " he said, "bought it of the jeweller. "

The mother-stone glittered and glowed, and the five Englishmen fixedtheir eyes on it in silence. Some of them had been in the Boer War, andthree of them had sons in this. At last one of them said:

"Well, that's seeing God in a dew-drop with a vengeance. What about theold Boer?"

Travers's little eyes twinkled. 

"Well, " he said, "Ray told me the old feller just looked at him as if hethought he'd done a damn silly thing to give him a waggon; and he noddedhis old head, and said, laughin' in his beard: 'Wish you good luck, brother, with your stone. ' You couldn't humbug that old Boer; he knewone stone was the same as another. "

1914. 

XII

POIROT AND BIDAN

A RECOLLECTION

Coming one dark December evening out of the hospital courtyard into thecorridor which led to my little workroom, I was conscious of two newarrivals. There were several men round the stove, but these two weresitting apart on a bench close to my door. We used to get men in allstages of decrepitude, but I had never seen two who looked so completelyunder the weather. They were the extremes--in age, in colouring, infigure, in everything; and they sat there, not speaking, with everyappearance of apathy and exhaustion. The one was a boy, perhapsnineteen, with a sunken, hairless, grey-white face under his peakedcap--never surely was face so grey! He sat with his long grey-blueovercoat open at the knees, and his long emaciated hands nervouslyrubbing each other between them. Intensely forlorn he looked, and Iremember thinking: "That boy's dying!" This was Bidan. 

The other's face, in just the glimpse I had of it, was as if carved outof wood, except for that something you see behind the masks of drivenbullocks, deeply resentful. His cap was off, and one saw he wasgrey-haired; his cheeks, stretched over cheekbones solid asdoor-handles, were a purplish-red, his grey moustache was damp, hislight blue eyes stared like a codfish's. He reminded me queerly of thoseParisian _cochers_ one still sees under their shining hats, wearing anexpression of being your enemy. His short stocky figure was dumpedstolidly as if he meant never to move again; on his thick legs and feethe wore mufflings of cloth boot, into which his patched and stainedgrey-blue trousers were tucked. One of his gloved hands was stretchedout stiff on his knee. This was Poirot. 

Two more dissimilar creatures were never blown together into our haven. So far as I remember, they had both been in hospital about six months, and their ailments were, roughly speaking, Youth and Age. Bidan had notfinished his training when his weak constitution gave way under it;Poirot was a Territorial who had dug behind the Front till rheumatismclaimed him for its own. Bidan, who had fair hair and rather beautifulbrown eyes over which the lids could hardly keep up, came fromAix-en-Provence, in the very south; Poirot from Nancy, in thenortheast. I made their acquaintance the next morning. 

The cleaning of old Poirot took, literally speaking, days to accomplish. Such an encrusted case we had never seen; nor was it possible to go, otherwise than slowly, against his prejudices. One who, unless takenexactly the right way, considered everyone leagued with Nature to getthe better of him, he had reached that state when the soul sticks itstoes in and refuses to budge. A coachman--in civil life--a socialist, afreethinker, a wit, he was the apex of--shall we say?--determination. His moral being was encrusted with perversity, as his poor hands andfeet with dirt. Oil was the only thing for him, and I, for one, used oilon him morally and physically, for months. He was a "character!" Hisleft hand--which he was never tired of saying the "_majors_" had ruined("_Ah! les cochons!_") by leaving it alone--was stiff in all its joints, so that the fingers would not bend; and the little finger of the righthand, "_le petit_, " "_le coquin_, " "_l'empereur_, " as he would severallycall it, was embellished by chalky excrescences. The old fellow had thatpeculiar artfulness which comes from life-long dealing with horses, andhe knew exactly how far and how quickly it was advisable for him to mendin health. About the third day he made up his mind that he wished toremain with us at least until the warm weather came. For that it wouldbe necessary--he concluded--to make a cheering amount of progress, butnot too much. And this he set himself to do. He was convinced, one couldsee, that after Peace had been declared and compensation assured him, hewould recover the use of his hand, even if "_l'empereur_" remained stiffand chalky. As a matter of fact, I think he was mistaken, and will neverhave a supple left hand again. But his arms were so brawny, hisconstitution so vigorous, and his legs improved so rapidly under thenecessity of taking him down into the little town for his glass, of anafternoon, that one felt he might possibly be digging again sooner thanhe intended. 

"_Ah, les cochons!_" he would say; "while one finger does not move, theyshall pay me!" He was very bitter against all "_majors_" save one, whoit seemed had actually sympathised with him, and all _députés_, who forhim constituted the powers of darkness, drawing their salaries, andsitting in their chairs. ("_Ah! les chameaux!_")

Though he was several years younger than oneself, one always thought ofhim as "Old Poirot" indeed, he was soon called "_le grand-père_, " thoughno more confirmed bachelor ever inhabited the world. He was a regular"Miller of Dee, " caring for nobody; and yet he was likeable, thathumorous old stoic, who suffered from gall-stones, and bore horriblebouts of pain like a hero. In spite of all his disabilities his healthand appearance soon became robust in our easy-going hospital, where noone was harried, the food excellent, and the air good. He would tell youthat his father lived to eighty, and his grandfather to a hundred, both"strong men" though not so strong as his old master, the squire, ofwhose feats in the hunting-field he would give most staggering accountsin an argot which could only be followed by instinct. A great narrator, he would describe at length life in the town of Nancy, where, when theWar broke out, he was driving a market cart, and distributingvegetables, which had made him an authority on municipal reform. Thoughan incorrigible joker, his stockfish countenance would remain perfectlygrave, except for an occasional hoarse chuckle. You would have thoughthe had no more power of compassion than a cat, no more sensibility thana Chinese idol; but this was not so. In his wooden, shrewd, distrustfulway he responded to sympathy, and was even sorry for others. I used tolike very much his attitude to the young "stable-companion" who hadarrived with him; he had no contempt, such as he might easily have feltfor so weakly a creature, but rather a real indulgence towards hisfeebleness. "Ah!" he would say at first; "he won't make old bones--thatone!" But he seemed extremely pleased when, in a fortnight or so, he hadto modify that view, for Bidan (Prosper) prospered more rapidly eventhan himself. That grey look was out of the boy's face within threeweeks. It was wonderful to watch him come back to life, till at last hecould say, with his dreadful Provençal twang, that he felt "_trèsbiang_. " A most amiable youth, he had been a cook, and his chiefambition was to travel till he had attained the summit of mortal hopes, and was cooking at the Ritz in London. When he came to us his limbsseemed almost to have lost their joints, they wambled so. He had nomuscle at all. Utter anæmia had hold of all his body, and all but acorner of his French spirit. Round that unquenchable gleam of gaiety therest of him slowly rallied. With proper food and air and freedom, hebegan to have a faint pink flush in his china-white cheeks; his lids nolonger drooped, his limbs seemed to regain their joints, his handsceased to swell, he complained less and less of the pains about hisheart. When, of a morning, he was finished with, and "_le grand-père_"was having his hands done, they would engage in lively repartee--obliviousof one's presence. We began to feel that this grey ghost of a youth hadbeen well named, after all, when they called him Prosper, so lyricalwould he wax over the constitution and cooking of "_bouillabaisse_, "over the South, and the buildings of his native Aix-en-Provence. In allFrance you could not have found a greater contrast than those two who hadcome to us so under the weather; nor in all France two better instances ofthe way men can regain health of body and spirit in the right surroundings. 

We had a tremendous fall of snow that winter, and had to dig ourselvesout of it. Poirot and Bidan were of those who dug. It was amusing towatch them. Bidan dug easily, without afterthought. "_Le grand-père_"dug, with half an eye at least on his future; in spite of those stifffingers he shifted a lot of snow, but he rested on his shovel wheneverhe thought you could see him--for he was full of human nature. 

To see him and Bidan set off for town together! Bidan pale, and wamblinga little still, but gay, with a kind of birdlike detachment; "_legrand-père_" stocky, wooden, planting his huge feet rather wide apartand regarding his companion, the frosted trees, and the whole wideworld, with his humorous stare. 

Once, I regret to say, when spring was beginning to come, Bidan-Prosperreturned on "_le grand-père's_" arm with the utmost difficulty, owing tothe presence within him of a liquid called Clairette de Die, no amountof which could subdue "_le grand-père's_" power of planting one footbefore the other. Bidan-Prosper arrived hilarious, revealing to theworld unsuspected passions; he awoke next morning sad, pale, penitent. Poirot, _au contraire_, was morose the whole evening, and awoke nextmorning exactly the same as usual. In such different ways does the giftof the gods affect us. 

They had their habits, so diverse, their constitutions, and theirdreams--alas! not yet realised. I know not where they may be now;Bidan-Prosper cannot yet be cooking at the Ritz in London town; but"_grand-père_" Poirot may perchance be distributing again his vegetablesin the streets of Nancy, driving his two good little horses--_desgaillards_--with the reins hooked round "_l'empereur_. " Goodfriends--good luck!

XIII

THE MUFFLED SHIP

It was cold and grey, but the band on shore was playing, and the flagson shore were fluttering, and the long double-tiered wharf crowded withwelcomers in each of its open gaps, when our great ship slowly drewalongside, packed with cheering, chattering crowds of khaki figures, letting go all the pent-up excitement of getting home from the war. Theair was full of songs and laughter, of cheers, and shouted questions, the hooting of the launches' sirens, the fluttering flags and hands andhandkerchiefs; and there were faces of old women, and of girls, intent, expectant, and the white gulls were floating against the grey sky, whenour ship, listed slightly by those thousands of figures strainingtowards the land which had bred them, gently slurred up against the highwharf, and was made fast. 

The landing went on till night had long fallen, and the band was gone. At last the chatter, the words of command, the snatches of song, andthat most favourite chorus: "Me! and my girl!" died away, and the wharfwas silent and the ship silent, and a wonderful clear dark beautyusurped the spaces of the sky. By the light of the stars and a half moonthe far harbour shores were just visible, the huddled buildings on thenear shore, the spiring masts and feathery appanage of ropes on themoored ship, and one blood-red light above the black water. The nighthad all that breathless beauty which steeps the soul in a quivering, quiet rapture. .. . 

Then it was that clearly, as if I had been a welcomer standing on landin one of the wharf gaps, I saw her come--slow, slow, creeping up thenarrow channel, in beside the wharf, a great grey silent ship. At firstI thought her utterly empty, deserted, possessed only by the thickcoiled cables forward, the huge rusty anchors, the piled-up machinery ofstructure and funnel and mast, weird in the blue darkness. A lantern onthe wharf cast a bobbing golden gleam deep into the oily water at herside. Gun-grey, perfectly mute, she ceased to move, coming to restagainst the wharf. And then, with a shiver, I saw that something clunground her, a grey film or emanation, which shifted and hovered, like theinvisible wings of birds in a thick mist. Gradually to my straining eyesthat filmy emanation granulated, and became faces attached to grey filmyforms, thousands on thousands, and every face bent towards the shore, staring, as it seemed, through me, at all that was behind me. Slowly, very slowly, I made them out--faces of helmeted soldiers, bulky with thegear of battle, their arms outstretched, and the lips of every oneopened, so that I expected to hear the sound of cheering; but no soundcame. Now I could see their eyes. They seemed to beseech--like the eyesof a little eager boy who asks his mother something she cannot tell him;and their outstretched hands seemed trying to reach her, lovingly, desperately trying to reach her! And those opened lips, how terriblythey seemed trying to speak! "Mother! Mother Canada!" As if I had heard, I knew they were saying--those opened lips which could speak no more!"Mother! Mother Canada! Home! Home!. .. "

And then away down the wharf some one chanted: "Me and my girl!" And, silent as she had come, the muffled ship vanished in all her length, with those grey forms and those mute faces; and I was standing again inthe bows beside a huge hawser; below me the golden gleam bobbing deep inthe oily water, and above me the cold start in beauty shining. 

XIV

HERITAGE

(AN IMPRESSION)

From that garden seat one could see the old low house of pinkish brick, with a path of queer-shaped flagstones running its length, and the tallgrey chapel from which came the humming and chanting and organ drone ofthe Confirmation Service. But for that, and the voices of two gardenersworking below us among the fruits and flowers, the July hush wascomplete. And suddenly one became aware of being watched. 

That thin white windmill on the hill!

Away past the house, perhaps six hundred yards, it stood, ghostly, witha face like that of a dark-eyed white owl, made by the crossing of itsnarrow sails. With a black companion--a yew-tree cut to pyramid form, onthe central point of Sussex--it was watching us, for though one mustpresume it built of old time by man, it looked up there against the sky, with its owl's face and its cross, like a Christo-Pagan presence. 

What exactly Paganism was we shall never know; what exactly Christianismis, we are as little likely to discover; but here and there the twoprinciples seem to dwell together in amity. For Paganism believed in thehealthy and joyful body; and Christianism in the soul superior thereto. And, where we were sitting that summer day, was the home of bodieswrecked yet learning to be joyful, and of souls not above the process. 

We moved from the grey-wood seat, and came on tiptoe to where house andchapel formed a courtyard. The doors were open, and we stood unseen, listening. From the centre of a square stone fountain a little bubble ofwater came up, and niched along one high wall a number of white pigeonswere preening their feathers, silent, and almost motionless, as thoughattending to the Service. 

The sheer emotion of church sounds will now and then steal away reasonfrom the unbeliever, and take him drugged and dreaming. "Defend, O Lord, this Thy child!. .. . " So it came out to us in the dream and drowse ofsummer, which the little bubble of water cooled. 

In his robes--cardinal, and white, and violet--the good Bishop stood infull sunlight, speaking to the crippled and the air-raid children intheir drilled rows under the shade of the doves' wall; and one felt farfrom this age, as if one had strayed back into that time when thebuilders of the old house laid slow brick on brick, wetting theirwhistles on mead, and knowing not tobacco. 

And then, out by the chapel porch moved three forms in blue, with redneckties, and we were again in this new age, watching the faces of thoselistening children. The good Bishop was making them feel that he washappy in their presence, and that made them happy in his. For the greatthing about life is the going-out of friendliness from being to being. And if a place be beautiful, and friendliness ever on the peace-paththere, what more can we desire? And yet--how ironical this place ofhealing, this beautiful "Heritage!" Verily a heritage of our moderncivilisation which makes all this healing necessary! If life were theoffspring of friendliness and beauty's long companionship, there wouldbe no crippled children, no air-raid children, none of those goodfellows in blue with red ties and maimed limbs; and the colony to whichthe Bishop spoke, standing grey-headed in the sun, would be dissolved. Friendliness seems so natural, beauty so appropriate to this earth! Butin this torn world they are as fugitives who nest together here andthere. Yet stumbling by chance on their dove-cotes and flutteringhappiness, one makes a little golden note, which does not fade off thetablet. 

 * * * * *

How entrancing it is to look at a number of faces never seen before--andhow exasperating!--stamped coins of lives quite separate, quitedifferent from every other; masks pallid, sunburned, smooth, orcrumpled, to peep behind which one longs, as a lover looking for hislady at carnival, or a man aching at summer beauty which he cannot quitefathom and possess. If one had a thousand lives, and time to know andsympathy to understand the heart of every creature met with, one wouldwant--a million! May life make us all intuitive, strip awayself-consciousness, and give us sunshine and unknown faces!

What were they all feeling and thinking--those little cripples doingtheir drill on crutches; those air-raid waifs swelling their Cockneychests, rising on their toes, puffing their cheeks out in anxiety to dotheir best; those soldiers in their blue "slops, " with a hand gone thereand a leg gone here, and this and that grievous disability, all carryingon so cheerfully?

Values are queer in this world. We are accustomed to exalt those who cansay "bo" to a goose; but that gift of expression which twines a haloround a lofty brow is no guarantee of goodness in the wearer. Thereally good are those plucky folk who plod their silent, oftensuffering, generally exploited ways, from birth to death, out of reachof the music of man's praise. 

The first thing each child cripple makes here is a little symbolicladder. In making it he climbs a rung on the way to his sky ofself-support; and when at last he leaves this home, he steps off the topof it into the blue, and--so they say--walks there upright andundismayed, as if he had never suffered at Fate's hands. But what do heand she--for many are of the pleasant sex--think of the sky when theyget there; that dusty and smoke-laden sky of the industrialism whichbegat them? How can they breathe in it, coming from this place offlowers and fresh air, of clean bright workshops and elegant huts, whichthey on crutches built for themselves?

Masters of British industry, and leaders of the men and women who slaveto make its wheels go round, make a pilgrimage to this spot, and learnwhat foul disfigurement you have brought on the land of England theselast five generations! The natural loveliness in this Heritage is nogreater than the loveliness that used to be in a thousand places whichyou have blotted out of the book of beauty, with your smuts and wheels, your wires and welter. And to what end? To manufacture crippledchildren, and pale, peaky little Cockneys whose nerves are gone; (and, to be sure, the railways and motor cars which will bring you here to seethem coming to life once more in sane and natural surroundings!) Blindand deaf and dumb industrialism is the accursed thing in this land andin all others. 

If only we could send all our crippled soldiers to relearn life, inplaces such as this; if, instead of some forty or fifty, forty or fiftythousand could begin again, under the gaze of that white windmill! Ifthey could slough off here not only those last horrors, but the dingeand drang of their upbringing in towns, where wheels go round, lightsflare, streets reek, and no larks sing, save some little blinded victimin a cage. Poor William Blake:

 "I will not cease from fighting, nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem in England's green and pleasant land!"

A long vigil his sword is keeping, while the clock strikes every hour ofthe twenty-four. We have not yet even laid Jerusalem's foundation stone. Ask one of those maimed soldier boys. "I like it here. Oh, yes, it'svery pleasant for a change. " But he hastens to tell you that he goes into Brighton every day to his training school, as if that saved thesituation; almost surprised he seems that beauty and peace and good airare not intolerable to his town-bred soul. The towns have got us--nearlyall. Not until we let beauty and the quiet voice of the fields, and thescent of clover creep again into our nerves, shall we begin to buildJerusalem and learn peacefulness once more. The countryman hates strife;it breaks his dream. And life should have its covering of dream--bird'sflight, bird's song, wind in the ash-trees and the corn, tall liliesglistening, the evening shadows slanting out, the night murmuring ofwaters. There is no other genuine dream; without it to sweeten all, lifeis harsh and shrill and east-wind dry, and evil overruns her morequickly than blight be-gums the rose-tree or frost blackens fern of acold June night. We elders are past re-making England, but our children, even these crippled children here, may yet take a hand. .. . 

We left the tinies to the last--all Montessorians, and some of themlittle cripples, too, but with cheeks so red that they looked as if thecolour must come off. They lived in a house past the white mill, acrossthe common; and they led us by the hand down spotless corridors intowhite dormitories. The smile of the prettiest little maid of them allwas the last thing one saw, leaving that "Heritage" of print frocks andchildren's faces, of flowers and nightingales, under the lee of a groupof pines, the only dark beauty in the long sunlight. 

XV

'A GREEN HILL FAR AWAY'

Was it indeed only last March, or in another life, that I climbed thisgreen hill on that day of dolour, the Sunday after the last great Germanoffensive began? A beautiful sun-warmed day it was, when the wild thymeon the southern slope smelled sweet, and the distant sea was a glitterof gold. Lying on the grass, pressing my cheek to its warmth, I tried toget solace for that new dread which seemed so cruelly unnatural afterfour years of war-misery. 

'If only it were all over!' I said to myself; 'and I could come here, and to all the lovely places I know, without this awful contraction ofthe heart, and this knowledge that at every tick of my watch some humanbody is being mangled or destroyed. Ah, if only I could! Will therenever be an end?'

And now there is an end, and I am up on this green hill once more, inDecember sunlight, with the distant sea a glitter of gold. And there isno cramp in my heart, no miasma clinging to my senses. Peace! It isstill incredible. No more to hear with the ears of the nerves theceaseless roll of gunfire, or see with the eyes of the nerves drowningmen, gaping wounds, and death. Peace, actually Peace! The war has goneon so long that many of us have forgotten the sense of outrage andamazement we had, those first days of August, 1914, when it all began. But I have not forgotten, nor ever shall. 

In some of us--I think in many who could not voice it--the war has leftchiefly this feeling: 'If only I could find a country where men caredless for all that they seem to care for, where they cared more forbeauty, for nature, for being kindly to each other. If only I could findthat green hill far away!' Of the songs of Theocritus, of the life ofSt. Francis, there is no more among the nations than there is of dew ongrass in an east wind. If we ever thought otherwise, we aredisillusioned now. Yet there is Peace again, and the souls of menfresh-murdered are not flying into our lungs with every breath we draw. 

Each day this thought of Peace becomes more real and blessed. I can lieon this green hill and praise Creation that I am alive in a world ofbeauty. I can go to sleep up here with the coverlet of sunlight warm onmy body, and not wake to that old dull misery. I can even dream with alight heart, for my fair dreams will not be spoiled by waking, and mybad dreams will be cured the moment I open my eyes. I can look up atthat blue sky without seeing trailed across it a mirage of the longhorror, a film picture of all the things that have been done by men tomen. At last I can gaze up at it, limpid and blue, without a doggingmelancholy; and I can gaze down at that far gleam of sea, knowing thatthere is no murk of murder on it any more. 

And the flight of birds, the gulls and rooks and little brown waveringthings which flit out and along the edge of the chalk-pits, is once morerefreshment to me, utterly untempered. A merle is singing in a bramblethicket; the dew has not yet dried off the bramble leaves. A feather ofa moon floats across the sky; the distance sends forth homely murmurs;the sun warms my cheeks. And all of this is pure joy. No hawk of dreadand horror keeps swooping down and bearing off the little birds ofhappiness. No accusing conscience starts forth and beckons me away frompleasure. Everywhere is supreme and flawless beauty. Whether one looksat this tiny snail shell, marvellously chased and marked, a very elf'shorn whose open mouth is coloured rose; or gazes down at the flat landbetween here and the sea, wandering under the smile of the afternoonsunlight, seeming almost to be alive, hedgeless, with its many watchingtrees, and silver gulls hovering above the mushroom-coloured 'ploughs, 'and fields green in manifold hues; whether one muses on this little pinkdaisy born so out of time, or watches that valley of brown-rose-greywoods, under the drifting shadows of low-hanging chalky clouds--all isperfect, as only Nature can be perfect on a lovely day, when the mind ofhim who looks on her is at rest. 

On this green hill I am nearer than I have been yet to realisation ofthe difference between war and peace. In our civilian lives hardlyanything has been changed--we do not get more butter or more petrol, thegarb and machinery of war still shroud us, journals still drip hate; butin our spirits there is all the difference between gradual dying andgradual recovery from sickness. 

At the beginning of the war a certain artist, so one heard, shut himselfaway in his house and garden, taking in no newspaper, receiving novisitors, listening to no breath of the war, seeing no sight of it. Sohe lived, buried in his work and his flowers--I know not for how long. Was he wise, or did he suffer even more than the rest of us who shutnothing away? Can man, indeed, shut out the very quality of hisfirmament, or bar himself away from the general misery of his species?

This gradual recovery of the world--this slow reopening of the greatflower, Life--is beautiful to feel and see. I press my hand flat andhard down on those blades of grass, then take it away, and watch themvery slowly raise themselves and shake off the bruise. So it is, andwill be, with us for a long time to come. The cramp of war was deep inus, as an iron frost in the earth. Of all the countless millions whohave fought and nursed and written and spoken and dug and sewn andworked in a thousand other ways to help on the business of killing, hardly any have laboured in real love of war. Ironical, indeed, thatperhaps the most beautiful poem written these four years, JulianGrenfell's 'Into Battle!' was in heartfelt praise of fighting! But ifone could gather the deep curses breathed by man and woman upon warsince the first bugle was blown, the dirge of them could not becontained in the air which wraps this earth. 

And yet the 'green hill, ' where dwell beauty and kindliness, is stillfar away. Will it ever be nearer? Men have fought even on this greenhill where I am lying. By the rampart markings on its chalk and grass, it has surely served for an encampment. The beauty of day and night, thelark's song, the sweet-scented growing things, the rapture of health, and of pure air, the majesty of the stars, and the gladness ofsunlight, of song and dance and simple friendliness, have never beenenough for men. We crave our turbulent fate. Can wars, then, ever cease?Look in men's faces, read their writings, and beneath masks andhypocrisies note the restless creeping of the tiger spirit! There hasnever been anything to prevent the millennium except the nature of thehuman being. There are not enough lovers of beauty among men. It allcomes back to that. Not enough who want the green hill far away--whonaturally hate disharmony, and the greed, ugliness, restlessness, cruelty, which are its parents and its children. 

Will there ever be more lovers of beauty in proportion to those who areindifferent to beauty? Who shall answer that question? Yet on the answerdepends peace. Men may have a mint of sterling qualities--be vigorous, adventurous, brave, upright, and self-sacrificing; be preachers andteachers; keen, cool-headed, just, industrious--if they have not thelove of beauty, they will still be making wars. Man is a fightinganimal, with sense of the ridiculous enough to know that he is a fool tofight, but not sense of the sublime enough to stop him. Ah, well! wehave peace!

It is happiness greater than I have known for four years and fourmonths, to lie here and let that thought go on its wings, quiet and freeas the wind stealing soft from the sea, and blessed as the sunlight onthis green hill. 

1918. 

 _PART II_

 OF PEACE-TIME

 I

 SPINDLEBERRIES

The celebrated painter Scudamore--whose studies of Nature had been hungon the line for so many years that he had forgotten the days when, notyet in the Scudamore manner, they depended from the sky--stood where hiscousin had left him so abruptly. His lips, between comely grey moustacheand comely pointed beard, wore a mortified smile, and he gazed ratherdazedly at the spindleberries fallen on to the flagged courtyard fromthe branch she had brought to show him. Why had she thrown up her headas if he had struck her, and whisked round so that those dull-pinkberries quivered and lost their rain-drops, and four had fallen? He hadbut said: "Charming! I'd like to use them!" And she had answered: "God!"and rushed away. Alicia really was crazed; who would have thought thatonce she had been so adorable! He stooped and picked up the fourberries--a beautiful colour, that dull pink! And from below the coatingsof success and the Scudamore manner a little thrill came up; the stir ofemotional vision. Paint! What good! How express? He went across to thelow wall which divided the courtyard of his expensively restored andbeautiful old house from the first flood of the River Arun wanderingsilvery in pale winter sunlight. Yes, indeed! How express Nature, itstranslucence and mysterious unities, its mood never the same from hourto hour! Those brown-tufted rushes over there against the gold grey oflight and water--those restless hovering white gulls! A kind of disgustat his own celebrated manner welled up within him--the disgust akin toAlicia's "God!" Beauty! What use--how express it! Had she been thinkingthe same thing?

He looked at the four pink berries glistening on the grey stone of thewall, and memory stirred. What a lovely girl she had been with hergrey-green eyes, shining under long lashes, the rose-petal colour in hercheeks and the too-fine dark hair--now so very grey--always blowing alittle wild. An enchanting, enthusiastic creature! He remembered, as ifit had been but last week, that day when they started from Arundelstation by the road to Burpham, when he was twenty-nine and shetwenty-five, both of them painters and neither of them famed--a day ofshowers and sunlight in the middle of March, and Nature preparing forfull Spring! How they had chattered at first; and when their armstouched, how he had thrilled, and the colour had deepened in her wetcheeks; and then, gradually, they had grown silent; a wonderful walk, which seemed leading so surely to a more wonderful end. They hadwandered round through the village and down, past the chalk-pit andJacob's ladder, onto the field path and so to the river-bank. And he hadtaken her ever so gently round the waist, still silent, waiting for thatmoment when his heart would leap out of him in words and hers--he wassure--would leap to meet it. The path entered a thicket of blackthorn, with a few primroses close to the little river running full and gentle. The last drops of a shower were falling, but the sun had burst through, and the sky above the thicket was cleared to the blue of speedwellflowers. Suddenly she had stopped and cried: "Look, Dick! Oh, look! It'sheaven!" A high bush of blackthorn was lifted there, starry whiteagainst the blue and that bright cloud. It seemed to sing, it was solovely; the whole of Spring was in it. But the sight of her ecstaticface had broken down all his restraint; and tightening his arm roundher, he had kissed her lips. He remembered still the expression of herface, like a child's startled out of sleep. She had gone rigid, gasped, started away from him; quivered and gulped, and broken suddenly intosobs. Then, slipping from his arm, she had fled. He had stood at first, amazed and hurt, utterly bewildered; then, recovering a little, hadhunted for her full half an hour before at last he found her sitting onwet grass, with a stony look on her face. He had said nothing, and shenothing, except to murmur: "Let's go on; we shall miss our train!" Andall the rest of that day and the day after, until they parted, he hadsuffered from the feeling of having tumbled down off some high perch inher estimation. He had not liked it at all; it had made him very angry. Never from that day to this had he thought of it as anything but a pieceof wanton prudery. Had it--had it been something else?

He looked at the four pink berries, and, as if they had uncanny power toturn the wheel of memory, he saw another vision of his cousin five yearslater. He was married by then, and already hung on the line. With hiswife he had gone down to Alicia's country cottage. A summer night, justdark and very warm. After many exhortations she had brought into thelittle drawing-room her last finished picture. He could see her nowplacing it where the light fell, her tall slight form already rathersharp and meagre, as the figures of some women grow at thirty, if theyare not married; the nervous, fluttering look on her charming face, asthough she could hardly bear this inspection; the way she raised hershoulder just a little as if to ward off an expected blow ofcondemnation. No need! It had been a beautiful thing, a quitesurprisingly beautiful study of night. He remembered with what a reallyjealous ache he had gazed at it--a better thing than he had ever donehimself. And, frankly, he had said so. Her eyes had shone with pleasure. 

"Do you really like it? I tried so hard!"

"The day you show that, my dear, " he had said, "your name's made!" Shehad clasped her hands and simply sighed: "Oh, Dick!" He had felt quitehappy in her happiness, and presently the three of them had taken theirchairs out, beyond the curtains, on to the dark verandah, had talked alittle, then somehow fallen silent. A wonderful warm, black, grape-bloomnight, exquisitely gracious and inviting; the stars very high and white, the flowers glimmering in the garden-beds, and against the deep, darkblue, roses hanging, unearthly, stained with beauty. There was a scentof honeysuckle, he remembered, and many moths came fluttering by towardsthe tall narrow chink of light between the curtains. Alicia had satleaning forward, elbows on knees, ears buried in her hands. Probablythey were silent because she sat like that. Once he heard her whisper toherself: "Lovely, lovely! Oh, God! How lovely!" His wife, feeling thedew, had gone in, and he had followed; Alicia had not seemed to notice. But when she too came in, her eyes were glistening with tears. She saidsomething about bed in a queer voice; they had taken candles and goneup. Next morning, going to her little studio to give her advice aboutthat picture, he had been literally horrified to see it streaked withlines of Chinese white--Alicia, standing before it, was dashing herbrush in broad smears across and across. She heard him and turned round. There was a hard red spot in either cheek, and she said in a quiveringvoice: "It was blasphemy. That's all!" And turning her back on him, shehad gone on smearing it with Chinese white. Without a word, he hadturned tail in simple disgust. Indeed, so deep had been his vexation atthat wanton destruction of the best thing she had ever done, or was everlikely to do, that he had avoided her for years. He had always had ahorror of eccentricity. To have planted her foot firmly on the ladder offame and then deliberately kicked it away; to have wantonly foregonethis chance of making money--for she had but a mere pittance! It hadseemed to him really too exasperating, a thing only to be explained bytapping one's forehead. Every now and then he still heard of her, livingdown there, spending her days out in the woods and fields, and sometimeseven her nights, they said, and steadily growing poorer and thinner andmore eccentric; becoming, in short, impossibly difficult, as onlyEnglishwomen can. People would speak of her as "such a dear, " and talkof her charm, but always with that shrug which is hard to bear whenapplied to one's relations. What she did with the productions of herbrush he never inquired, too disillusioned by that experience. PoorAlicia!

The pink berries glowed on the grey stone, and he had yet anothermemory. A family occasion when Uncle Martin Scudamore departed thislife, and they all went up to bury him and hear his Will. The old chap, whom they had looked on as a bit of a disgrace, money-grubbing up in thelittle grey Yorkshire town which owed its rise to his factory, wasexpected to make amends by his death, for he had never married--too sunkin Industry, apparently, to have the time. By tacit agreement, hisnephews and nieces had selected the Inn at Bolton Abbey, nearest beautyspot, for their stay. They had driven six miles to the funeral in threecarriages. Alicia had gone with him and his brother, the solicitor. Inher plain black clothes she looked quite charming, in spite of thesilver threads already thick in her fine dark hair, loosened by the moorwind. She had talked of painting to him with all her old enthusiasm, andher eyes had seemed to linger on his face as if she still had a littleweakness for him. He had quite enjoyed that drive. They had come ratherabruptly on the small grimy town clinging to the river-banks, with oldMartin's long yellow-brick house dominating it, about two hundred yardsabove the mills. Suddenly under the rug he felt Alicia's hand seize hiswith a sort of desperation, for all the world as if she were clinging tosomething to support her. Indeed, he was sure she did not know it washis hand she squeezed. The cobbled streets, the muddy-looking water, thedingy, staring factories, the yellow staring house, the littledark-clothed, dreadfully plain work-people, all turned out to do a lasthonour to their creator; the hideous new grey church, the dismalservice, the brand-new tombstones--and all of a glorious autumn day! Itwas inexpressibly sordid--too ugly for words! Afterwards the Will wasread to them, seated decorously on bright mahogany chairs in the yellowmansion; a very satisfactory Will, distributing in perfectly adjustedportions, to his own kinsfolk and nobody else, a very considerablewealth. Scudamore had listened to it dreamily, with his eyes fixed on anoily picture, thinking: "My God! What a thing!" and longing to be backin the carriage smoking a cigar to take the reek of black clothes, andsherry--sherry!--out of his nostrils. He happened to look at Alicia. Hereyes were closed; her lips, always sweet-looking, quivered amusedly. Andat that very moment the Will came to her name. He saw those eyes openwide, and marked a beautiful pink flush, quite like that of old days, come into her thin cheeks. "Splendid!" he had thought; "it's reallyjolly for her. I _am_ glad. Now she won't have to pinch. Splendid!" Heshared with her to the full the surprised relief showing in her stillbeautiful face. 

All the way home in the carriage he felt at least as happy over her goodfortune as over his own, which had been substantial. He took her handunder the rug and squeezed it, and she answered with a long, gentlepressure, quite unlike the clutch when they were driving in. That sameevening he strolled out to where the river curved below the Abbey. Thesun had not quite set, and its last smoky radiance slanted into theburnished autumn woods. Some white-faced Herefords were grazing in lushgrass, the river rippled and gleamed, all over golden scales. Aboutthat scene was the magic which has so often startled the hearts ofpainters, the wistful gold--the enchantment of a dream. For some minuteshe had gazed with delight which had in it a sort of despair. A littlecrisp rustle ran along the bushes; the leaves fluttered, then hung quitestill. And he heard a voice--Alicia's--speaking. "My lovely, lovelyworld!" And moving forward a step, he saw her standing on theriver-bank, braced against the trunk of a birch-tree, her head thrownback, and her arms stretched wide apart as though to clasp the lovelyworld she had apostrophised. To have gone up to her would have been likebreaking up a lovers' interview, and he turned round instead and wentaway. 

A week later he heard from his brother that Alicia had refused herlegacy. "I don't want it, " her letter had said simply, "I couldn't bearto take it. Give it to those poor people who live in that awful place. "Really eccentricity could go no further! They decided to go down and seeher. Such mad neglect of her own good must not be permitted without someeffort to prevent it. They found her very thin, and charming; humble, but quite obstinate in her refusal. "Oh! I couldn't, really! I should beso unhappy. Those poor little stunted people who made it all for him!That little, awful town! I simply couldn't be reminded. Don't talk aboutit, please. I'm quite all right as I am. " They had threatened her withlurid pictures of the workhouse and a destitute old age. To no purpose, she would not take the money. She had been forty when she refused thataid from heaven--forty, and already past any hope of marriage. Forthough Scudamore had never known for certain that she had ever wished orhoped for marriage, he had his theory--that all her eccentricity camefrom wasted sexual instinct. This last folly had seemed to him monstrousenough to be pathetic, and he no longer avoided her. Indeed, he wouldoften walk over to tea in her little hermitage. With Uncle Martin'smoney he had bought and restored the beautiful old house over the RiverArun, and was now only five miles from Alicia's across country. She toowould come tramping over at all hours, floating in with wild flowers orferns, which she would put into water the moment she arrived. She hadceased to wear hats, and had by now a very doubtful reputation forsanity about the countryside. This was the period when Watts was onevery painter's tongue, and he seldom saw Alicia without a disputationconcerning that famous symbolist. Personally, he had no use for Watts, resenting his faulty drawing and crude allegories, but Alicia alwaysmaintained with her extravagant fervour that he was great because hetried to paint the soul of things. She especially loved a paintingcalled "Iris"--a female symbol of the rainbow, which indeed in itsfloating eccentricity had a certain resemblance to herself. "Of coursehe failed, " she would say; "he tried for the impossible and went ontrying all his life. Oh! I can't bear your rules, and catchwords, Dick;what's the good of them! Beauty's too big, too deep!" Poor Alicia! Shewas sometimes very wearing. 

He never knew quite how it came about that she went abroad with them toDauphiné in the autumn of 1904--a rather disastrous business--neveragain would he take anyone travelling who did not know how to come inout of the cold. It was a painter's country, and he had hired a little_chateau_ in front of the Glandaz mountain--himself, his wife, theireldest girl, and Alicia. The adaptation of his famous manner to thatstrange scenery, its browns and French greys and filmy blues, sopreoccupied him that he had scant time for becoming intimate with thesehills and valleys. From the little gravelled terrace in front of theannex, out of which he had made a studio, there was an absorbing viewover the pan-tiled old town of Die. It glistened below in the early orlate sunlight, flat-roofed and of pinkish-yellow, with the dim, blueRiver Drôme circling one side, and cut, dark cypress-trees dotting thevineyarded slopes. And he painted it continually. What Alicia did withherself they none of them very much knew, except that she would come inand talk ecstatically of things and beasts and people she had seen. Onefavourite haunt of hers they did visit, a ruined monastery high up inthe amphitheatre of the Glandaz mountain. They had their lunch up there, a very charming and remote spot, where the watercourses and ponds andchapel of the old monks were still visible, though converted by thefarmer to his use. Alicia left them abruptly in the middle of theirpraises, and they had not seen her again till they found her at homewhen they got back. It was almost as if she had resented laudation ofher favourite haunt. She had brought in with her a great bunch of goldenberries, of which none of them knew the name; berries almost asbeautiful as these spindleberries glowing on the stone of the wall. Anda fourth memory of Alicia came. 

Christmas Eve, a sparkling frost, and every tree round the little_chateau_ rimed so that they shone in the starlight, as though doweredwith cherry blossoms. Never were more stars in clear black sky abovethe whitened earth. Down in the little town a few faint points of yellowlight twinkled in the mountain wind, keen as a razor's edge. Afantastically lovely night--quite "Japanese, " but cruelly cold. Fiveminutes on the terrace had been enough for all of them except Alicia. She--unaccountable, crazy creature--would not come in. Twice he had goneout to her, with commands, entreaties, and extra wraps; the third timehe could not find her, she had deliberately avoided his onslaught andslid off somewhere to keep this mad vigil by frozen starlight. When atlast she did come in she reeled as if drunk. They tried to make herreally drunk, to put warmth back into her. No good! In two days she wasdown with double pneumonia; it was two months before she was up again--avery shadow of herself. There had never been much health in her sincethen. She floated like a ghost through life, a crazy ghost, who stillwould steal away, goodness knew where, and come in with a flush in herwithered cheeks, and her grey hair wild blown, carrying her spoil--someflower, some leaf, some tiny bird, or little soft rabbit. She neverpainted now, never even talked of it. They had made her give up hercottage and come to live with them, literally afraid that she wouldstarve herself to death in her forgetfulness of everything. Thesespindleberries even! Why, probably she had been right up this morning tothat sunny chalk-pit in the lew of the Downs to get them, seven milesthere and back, when you wouldn't think she could walk seven hundredyards, and as likely as not had lain there on the dewy grass, looking upat the sky, as he had come on her sometimes. Poor Alicia! And once hehad been within an ace of marrying her! A life spoiled! By what, if notby love of beauty! But who would have ever thought that the intangiblecould wreck a woman, deprive her of love, marriage, motherhood, of fame, of wealth, of health! And yet--by George!--it had!

Scudamore flipped the four pink berries off the wall. The radiance andthe meandering milky waters; that swan against the brown tufted rushes;those far, filmy Downs--there was beauty! _Beauty!_ But, damn itall--moderation! Moderation! And, turning his back on that prospect, which he had painted so many times, in his celebrated manner, he wentin, and up the expensively restored staircase to his studio. It hadgreat windows on three sides, and perfect means for regulating light. Unfinished studies melted into walls so subdued that they looked likeatmosphere. There were no completed pictures--they sold too fast. As hewalked over to his easel, his eye was caught by a spray of colour--thebranch of spindleberries set in water, ready for him to use, just wherethe pale sunlight fell, so that their delicate colour might glow and thefew tiny drops of moisture still clinging to them shine. For a second hesaw Alicia herself as she must have looked, setting them there, hertransparent hands hovering, her eyes shining, that grey hair of hers allfine and loose. The vision vanished! But what had made her bring themafter that horrified "God!" when he spoke of using them? Was it her wayof saying: "Forgive me for being rude!" Really she was pathetic, thatpoor devotee! The spindleberries glowed in their silver-lustre jug, sprayed up against the sunlight. They looked triumphant--as well theymight, who stood for that which had ruined--or, was it, saved?--a life!Alicia! She had made a pretty mess of it, and yet who knew what secretraptures she had felt with her subtle lover, Beauty, by starlight andsunlight and moonlight, in the fields and woods, on the hilltops, and byriverside! Flowers, and the flight of birds, and the ripple of the wind, and all the shifting play of light and colour which made a man despairwhen he wanted to use them; she had taken them, hugged them to her withno afterthought, and been happy! Who could say that she had missed theprize of life? Who could say it?. .. Spindleberries! A bunch ofspindleberries to set such doubts astir in him! Why, what was beauty butjust the extra value which certain forms and colours, blended, gave tothings--just the extra value in the human market! Nothing else on earth, nothing! And the spindleberries glowed against the sunlight, delicate, remote!

Taking his palette, he mixed crimson lake, white, and ultramarine. Whatwas that? Who sighed, away out there behind him? Nothing!

"Damn it all!" he thought; "this is childish. This is as bad as Alicia!"And he set to work to paint in his celebrated manner--spindleberries. 

1918. 

II

EXPECTATIONS

Not many years ago a couple were living in the South of England whosename was Wotchett--Ralph and Eileen Wotchett; a curious name, derived, Ralph asserted, from a Saxon Thegn called Otchar mentioned in Domesday, or at all events--when search of the book had proved vain--on the edgeof that substantial record. 

He--possibly the thirtieth descendant of the Thegn--was close on sixfeet in height and thin, with thirsty eyes, and a smile which had fixeditself in his cheeks, so on the verge of appearing was it. His hairwaved, and was of a dusty shade bordering on grey. His wife, of the sameage and nearly the same height as himself, was of sanguine colouring anda Cornish family, which had held land in such a manner that it hadnearly melted in their grasp. All that had come to Eileen was areversion, on the mortgageable value of which she and Ralph had beenliving for some time. Ralph Wotchett also had expectations. Byprofession he was an architect, but perhaps because of his expectations, he had always had bad luck. The involutions of the reasons why hisclients died, became insolvent, abandoned their projects, or otherwisefailed to come up to the scratch were followed by him alone in the fullof their maze-like windings. The house they inhabited, indeed, was oneof those he had designed for a client, but the 'fat chough' had refusedto go into it for some unaccountable reason; he and Eileen were onlyperching there, however, on the edge of settling down in some morepermanent house when they came into their expectations. 

Considering the vicissitudes and disappointments of their life together, it was remarkable how certain they remained that they would at lastcross the bar and reach the harbour of comfortable circumstance. Theyhad, one may suppose, expectations in their blood. The germ of getting'something for nothing' had infected their systems, so that, though theywere not selfish or greedy people, and well knew how to rough it, theydreamed so of what they had not, that they continually got rid of whatthey had in order to obtain more of it. If for example Ralph received anorder, he felt so strongly that this was the chance of his life ifproperly grasped, that he would almost as a matter of course increaseand complicate the project till it became unworkable, or in his zealomit some vital calculation such as a rise in the price of bricks; norwould anyone be more surprised than he at this, or more certain that allconnected with the matter had been 'fat choughs' except--himself. Onsuch occasions Eileen would get angry, but if anyone suggested thatRalph had overreached himself, she would get still angrier. She was veryloyal, and fortunately rather flyaway both in mind and body; before longshe always joined him in his feeling that the whole transaction had beenjust the usual 'skin-game' on the part of Providence to keep them out oftheir expectations. It was the same in domestic life. If Ralph had toeat a breakfast, which would be almost every morning, he had so many andsuch imaginative ways of getting from it a better breakfast than was init, that he often remained on the edge of it, as it were. He had specialmethods of cooking, so as to extract from everything a more thanordinary flavour, and these took all the time that he would have to eatthe results in. Coffee he would make with a whole egg, shell and all, stirred in; it had to be left on the hob for an incomparable time, andhe would start to catch his train with his first cup in his hand; Eileenwould have to run after him and take it away. They were, in fact, ratherlike a kitten which knows it has a tail, and will fly round and roundall day with the expectation of catching that desirable appendage. Sometimes indeed, by sheer perseverance, of which he had a great deal ina roundabout way, Ralph would achieve something, but, when thishappened, something else, not foreseen by him, had always happenedfirst, which rendered that accomplishment nugatory and left it expensiveon his hands. Nevertheless they retained their faith that some day theywould get ahead of Providence and come into their own. 

In view of not yet having come into their expectations they had waitedto have children; but two had rather unexpectedly been born. The babeshad succumbed, however, one to preparation for betterment too ingeniousto be fulfilled, the other to fulfilment, itself, a special kind of foodhaving been treated so ingeniously that it had undoubtedly engenderedpoison. And they remained childless. 

They were about fifty when Ralph received one morning a solicitor'sletter announcing the death of his godmother, Aunt Lispeth. When he readout the news they looked at their plates a full minute without speaking. Their expectations had matured. At last they were to come into somethingin return for nothing. Aunt Lispeth, who had latterly lived at Ipswichin a house which he had just not built for her, was an old maid. Theyhad often discussed what she would leave them--though in no mean orgrasping spirit, for they did not grudge the 'poor old girl' her fewremaining years, however they might feel that she was long past enjoyingherself. The chance would come to them some time, and when it did ofcourse must be made the best of. Then Eileen said:

"You must go down at once, Ralph!"

Donning black, Ralph set off hurriedly, and just missed his train; hecaught one, however, in the afternoon, and arrived that evening inIpswich. It was October, drizzling and dark; the last cab moved out ashe tried to enter it, for he had been detained by his ticket which hehad put for extra readiness in his glove, and forgotten--as if theticket collector couldn't have seen it there, the 'fat chough!' Hewalked up to his Aunt's house, and was admitted to a mansion where adinner-party was going on. It was impossible to persuade the servantthat this was his Aunt's, so he was obliged to retire to a hotel andwire to Eileen to send him the right address--the 'fat choughs' in thestreet did not seem to know it. He got her answer the following midday, and going to the proper number, found the darkened house. The twoservants who admitted him described the manner of their mistress'sdeath, and showed him up into her room. Aunt Lispeth had been laid outdaintily. Ralph contemplated her with the smile which never moved fromhis cheeks, and with a sort of awe in his thirsty eyes. The poor oldgirl! How thin, how white! It had been time she went! A little stiffenedtwist in her neck, where her lean head had fallen to one side at thelast, had not been set quite straight; and there seemed the ghost of anexpression on her face, almost cynical; by looking closer he saw that itcame from a gap in the white lashes of one eye, giving it an air of notbeing quite closed, as though she were trying to wink at him. He wentout rather hastily, and ascertaining that the funeral was fixed for noonnext day, paid a visit to the solicitor. 

There he was told that the lawyer himself was sole executor, andhe--Ralph--residuary legatee. He could not help a feeling of exultation, for he and Eileen were at that time particularly hard pressed. Herestrained it, however, and went to his hotel to write to her. Hereceived a telegram in answer next morning at ten o'clock: 'Forgoodness' sake leave all details to lawyer, Eileen, ' which he thoughtvery peculiar. He lunched with the lawyer after the funeral, and theyopened his Aunt's will. It was quite short and simple, made certainspecific bequests of lace and jewellery, left a hundred pounds to herexecutor the lawyer, and the rest of her property to her nephew RalphWotchett. The lawyer proposed to advertise for debts in the usual way, and Ralph with considerable control confined himself to urging all speedin the application for Probate, and disposal of the estate. He caught alate train back to Eileen. She received his account distrustfully; shewas sure he had put his finger in the pie, and if he had it would all gowrong. Well, if he hadn't, he soon would! It was really as if loyaltyhad given way in her now that their expectations were on the point ofbeing realised. 

They had often discussed his Aunt's income, but they went into it againthat night, to see whether it could not by fresh investment beincreased. It was derived from Norwich and Birmingham CorporationStocks, and Ralph proved that by going into industrial concerns the fourhundred a year could quite safely be made into six. Eileen agreed thatthis would be a good thing to do, but nothing definite was decided. Nowthat they had come into money they did not feel so inclined to movetheir residence, though both felt that they might increase their scaleof living, which had lately been at a distressingly low ebb. They spoke, too, about the advisability of a small car. Ralph knew of one--asecond-hand Ford--to be had for a song. They ought not--he thought--tomiss the chance. He would take occasion to meet the owner casually andthrow out a feeler. It would not do to let the fellow know that therewas any money coming to them, or he would put the price up for acertainty. In fact it would be better to secure the car before the newsgot about. He secured it a few days later for eighty pounds, includingrepairs, which would take about a month. A letter from the lawyer nextday informed them that he was attending to matters with all speed; andthe next five weeks passed in slowly realising that at last they hadturned the corner of their lives, and were in smooth water. They orderedamong other things the materials for a fowl-house long desired, whichRalph helped to put up; and a considerable number of fowls, for feedingwhich he had a design which would enable them to lay a great many moreeggs in the future than could reasonably be expected from the amount offood put into the fowls. He also caused an old stable to be convertedinto a garage. He still went to London two or three times a week, toattend to business, which was not, as a rule, there. On his way fromSt. Pancras to Red Lion Square, where his office was, he had long beenattracted by an emerald pendant with pearl clasp, in a jeweller's shopwindow. He went in now to ask its price. Fifty-eight pounds--emeraldswere a rising market. The expression rankled in him, and going to HattonGarden to enquire into its truth, he found the statement confirmed. 'Thechief advantage of having money, ' he thought, 'is to be able to buy atthe right moment. ' He had not given Eileen anything for a long time, andthis was an occasion which could hardly be passed over. He bought thependant on his way back to St. Pancras, the draft in payment absorbingpractically all his balance. Eileen was delighted with it. They spentthat evening in the nearest approach to festivity that they had knownfor several years. It was, as it were, the crown of the long waiting forsomething out of nothing. All those little acerbities which creep intothe manner of two married people who are always trying to round thecorner fell away, and they sat together in one large chair, talking andlaughing over the countless tricks which Providence--that 'fatchough'--had played them. They carried their light-heartedness to bed. 

They were awakened next morning by the sound of a car. The Ford wasbeing delivered with a request for payment. Ralph did not pay; it wouldbe 'all right' he said. He stabled the car, and wrote to the lawyer thathe would be glad to have news, and an advance of £100. On his returnfrom town in the evening two days later he found Eileen in thedining-room with her hair wild and an opened letter before her. Shelooked up with the word: "Here!" and Ralph took the letter:

 Lodgers & Wayburn, Solicitors, Ipswich

 Dear Mr. Wotchett, In answer to yours of the fifteenth, I have obtained Probate, paid all debts, and distributed the various legacies. The sale of furniture took place last Monday. I now have pleasure in enclosing you a complete and I think final account, by which you will see that there is a sum in hand of £43 due to you as residuary legatee. I am afraid this will seem a disappointing result, but as you were doubtless aware (though I was not when I had the pleasure of seeing you), the greater part of your Aunt's property passed under a Deed of Settlement, and it seems she had been dipping heavily into the capital of the remainder for some years past. 

 Believe me, Faithfully yours, EDWARD LODGERS. 

For a minute the only sounds were the snapping of Ralph's jaws, andEileen's rapid breathing. Then she said:

"You never said a word about a Settlement. I suppose you got it muddledas usual!"

Ralph did not answer, too deep in his anger with the old woman who hadleft that 'fat chough' a hundred pounds to provide him--Ralph--withforty-three. 

"You always believe what you want to believe!" cried Eileen; "I neversaw such a man. "

Ralph went to Ipswich on the morrow. After going into everything withthe lawyer, he succeeded in varying the account by fifteen shillings, considerably more than which was absorbed by the fee for this interview, his fare, and hotel bill. The conduct of his Aunt, in having caused himto get it into his head that there was no Settlement, and in living onher capital, gave him pain quite beyond the power of expression; andmore than once he recalled with a shudder that slightly quizzical lookon her dead face. He returned to Eileen the following day, with hisbrain racing round and round. Getting up next morning, he said:

"I believe I can get a hundred for that car; I'll go up and see aboutit. "

"Take this too, " said Eileen, handing him the emerald pendant. Ralphtook it with a grunt. 

"Lucky, " he muttered, "emeralds are a rising market. I bought it onpurpose. "

He came back that night more cheerful. He had sold the car for £65, andthe pendant for £42--a good price, for emeralds were now on the fall!With the cheque for £43, which represented his expectations, he provedthat they would only be £14 out on the whole business when the fowls andfowl-house had been paid for; and they would have the fowls--the priceof eggs was going up. Eileen agreed that it was the moment to developpoultry-keeping. They might expect good returns. And holding up herface, she said:

"Give me a kiss, dear Ralph?"

Ralph gave it, with his thirsty eyes fixed, expectant, on somethinground the corner of her head, and the smile, which never moved, on hischeeks. 

After all there was her reversion! They would come into it some day. 

1919. 

III

MANNA

I

The Petty Sessions court at Linstowe was crowded. Miracles do not happenevery day, nor are rectors frequently charged with larceny. The interestroused would have relieved all those who doubt the vitality of ourancient Church. People who never went outside their farms or plots ofgarden, had walked as much as three miles to see the show. Mrs. Gloyn, the sandy-haired little keeper of the shop where soap and herrings, cheese, matches, boot-laces, bulls'-eyes, and the other luxuries of acountryside could be procured, remarked to Mrs. Redland, the farmer'swife, ''Tis quite a gatherin' like. ' To which Mrs. Redland replied, ''Most like Church of a Sunday. '

More women, it is true, than men, were present, because of their greaterpiety, and because most of them had parted with pounds of butter, chickens, ducks, potatoes, or some such offertory in kind during thepast two years, at the instance of the rector. They had a vestedinterest in this matter, and were present, accompanied by their grief atvalue unreceived. From Trover, their little village on the top of thehill two miles from Linstowe, with the squat church-tower, beautifullyuntouched, and ruined by the perfect restoration of the body of thebuilding, they had trooped in; some even coming from the shore of theAtlantic, a mile beyond, across the downs, whence other upland squarechurch-towers could be viewed on the sky-line against the grey Januaryheavens. The occasion was in a sense unique, and its piquancystrengthened by that rivalry which is the essence of religion. 

For there was no love lost between Church and Chapel in Trover, and therector's flock had long been fortified in their power of 'parting' byfear lest 'Chapel' (also present that day in court) should mock at hisimpecuniousness. Not that his flock approved of his poverty. It hadseemed 'silly-like' ever since the news had spread that his difficultieshad been caused by a faith in shares. To improve a secure if moderateposition by speculation, would not have seemed wrong, if he had notfailed instead, and made himself dependent on their butter, theirpotatoes, their eggs and chickens. In that parish, as in others, thesaying 'Nothing succeeds like success' was true, nor had the villagersany abnormal disposition to question the title-deeds of affluence. 

But it is equally true that nothing irritates so much as finding thatone of whom you have the right to beg is begging of you. This was whythe rector's tall, thin, black figure, down which a ramrod surely hadbeen passed at birth; his narrow, hairless, white and wasted face, withred eyebrows over eyes that seemed now burning and now melting; hisgrizzled red hair under a hat almost green with age; his abrupt anddictatorial voice; his abrupt and mirthless laugh--all were on theirnerves. His barked-out utterances, 'I want a pound of butter--pay youMonday!' 'I want some potatoes--pay you soon!' had sounded too often inthe ears of those who had found his repayments so far purely spiritual. Now and then one of the more cynical would remark, 'Ah! I told un _my_butter was all to market. ' Or, 'The man can't 'ave no principles--hedidn't get no chicken out o' me. ' And yet it was impossible to let himand his old mother die on them--it would give too much pleasure 'overthe way. ' And they never dreamed of losing him in any other manner, because they knew his living had been purchased. Money had passed inthat transaction; the whole fabric of the Church and of Society wasinvolved. His professional conduct, too, was flawless; his sermons longand fiery; he was always ready to perform those supernumeraryduties--weddings, baptisms, and burials--which yielded him what revenuehe had, now that his income from the living was mortgaged up to thehilt. Their loyalty held as the loyalty of people will when some greatinstitution of which they are members is endangered. 

Gossip said that things were in a dreadful way at the Rectory; theexternal prosperity of that red-brick building surrounded by laurelswhich did not flower, heightened ironically the conditions within. Theold lady, his mother, eighty years of age, was reported never to leaveher bed this winter, because they had no coal. She lay there, with herthree birds flying about dirtying the room, for neither she nor her sonwould ever let a cage-door be shut--deplorable state of things! The oneservant was supposed never to be paid. The tradesmen would no longerleave goods because they could not get their money. Most of thefurniture had been sold; and the dust made you sneeze 'fit to bustyourself like. '

With a little basket on his arm, the rector collected for his householdthree times a week, pursuing a kind of method, always in the apparentbelief that he would pay on Monday, and observing the Sabbath as a dayof rest. His mind seemed ever to cherish the faith that his shares wereon the point of recovery; his spirit never to lose belief in his divineright to be supported. It was extremely difficult to refuse him; thepostman had twice seen him standing on the railway line that ran pastjust below the village, 'with 'is 'at off, as if he was in twominds-like. ' This vision of him close to the shining metals hadpowerfully impressed many good souls who loved to make flesh creep. Theywould say, 'I wouldn' never be surprised if something 'appened to 'imone of these days!' Others, less romantic, shook their heads, insistingthat 'he wouldn' never do nothin' while his old mother lived. ' Othersagain, more devout, maintained that 'he wouldn' never go against theScriptures, settin' an example like that!'

II

The Petty Sessions court that morning resembled Church on the occasionof a wedding; for the villagers of Trover had put on their black clothesand grouped themselves according to their religious faiths--'Church' inthe right, 'Chapel' in the left-hand aisle. They presented all that richvariety of type and monotony of costume which the remoter country stillaffords to the observer; their mouths were almost all a little open, and their eyes fixed with intensity on the Bench. The threemagistrates--Squire Pleydell in the chair, Dr. Becket on his left, and'the Honble' Calmady on his right--were by most seen for the first timein their judicial capacity; and curiosity was divided between theirproceedings and observation of the rector's prosecutor, a small bakerfrom the town whence the village of Trover derived its necessaries. Theface of this fellow, like that of a white walrus, and the back of hisbald head were of interest to everyone until the case was called, andthe rector himself entered. In his thin black overcoat he advanced andstood as if a little dazed. Then, turning his ravaged face to the Bench, he jerked out:

'Good morning! Lot of people!'

A constable behind him murmured:

'Into the dock, sir, please. '

Moving across, he entered the wooden edifice. 

'Quite like a pulpit, ' he said, and uttered his barking laugh. 

Through the court ran a stir and shuffle, as it might be of sympathywith his lost divinity, and every eye was fixed on that tall, leanfigure, with the shaven face, and red, grey-streaked hair. 

Entering the witness-box, the prosecutor deposed as follows:

'Last Tuesday afternoon, your Honours, I 'appened to be drivin' my cartmeself up through Trover on to the cottages just above the dip, and I'dgone in to Mrs. 'Oney's, the laundress, leavin' my cart standin' same asI always do. I 'ad a bit o' gossip, an' when I come out, I see thisgentleman walkin' away in front towards the village street. It so'appens I 'appened to look in the back o' my cart, and I thinks tomeself, That's funny! There's only two flat rounds--'ave I left two 'ereby mistake? I calls to Mrs. 'Oney, an' I says, "I 'aven't been absent, 'ave I, an' left ye two?" "No, " she says, "only one--'ere 'tis! Why?"she says. "Well, " I says, "I 'ad four when I come in to you, there'sonly two now. 'Tis funny!" I says. "'Ave you dropped one?" she says. "No, " I says, "I counted 'em. " "That's funny, " she says; "perhaps adog's 'ad it. " "'E may 'ave, " I says, "but the only thing I see on theroad is that there. " An' I pointed to this gentleman. "Oh!" she says, "that's the rector. " "Yes, " I says, "I ought to know that, seein' 'e'sowed me money a matter of eighteen months. I think I'll drive on, " Isays. Well, I drove on, and come up to this gentleman. 'E turns 'is'ead, and looks at me. "Good afternoon!" he says--like that. "Goodafternoon, sir, " I says. "You 'aven't seen a loaf, 'ave you?" 'E pullsthe loaf out of 'is pocket. "On the ground, " 'e says; "dirty, " 'e says. "Do for my birds! Ha! ha!" like that. "Oh!" I says, "indeed! Now Iknow, " I says. I kept my 'ead, but I thinks: "That's a bit toolight-'earted. You owes me one pound, eight and tuppence; I've whistledfor it gettin' on for two years, but you ain't content with that, itseems! Very well, " I thinks; "we'll see. An' I don't give a darn whetheryou're a parson or not!" I charge 'im with takin' my bread. '

Passing a dirty handkerchief over his white face and huge gingerymoustache, the baker was silent. Suddenly from the dock the rectorcalled out: 'Bit of dirty bread--feed my birds. Ha, ha!'

There was a deathly little silence. Then the baker said slowly:

'What's more, I say he ate it 'imself. I call two witnesses to that. '

The Chairman, passing his hand over his hard, alert face, that of amaster of hounds, asked:

'Did you see any dirt on the loaf? Be careful!'

The baker answered stolidly:

'Not a speck. '

Dr. Becket, a slight man with a short grey beard, and eyes restive fromhaving to notice painful things, spoke. 

'Had your horse moved?'

''E never moves. '

'Ha, ha!' came the rector's laugh. 

The Chairman said sharply:

'Well, stand down; call the next witness. --Charles Stodder, carpenter. Very well! Go on, and tell us what you know. '

But before he could speak the rector called out in a loud voice:'Chapel!'

'Hsssh! Sir!' But through the body of the court had passed a murmur, ofchallenge, as it were, from one aisle to the other. 

The witness, a square man with a red face, grey hair, whiskers, andmoustache, and lively excitable dark eyes, watering with anxiety, spokein a fast soft voice:

'Tuesday afternoon, your Worships, it might be about four o'clock, I waspassin' up the village, an' I saw the rector at his gate, with a loaf in'is 'and. '

'Show us how. '

The witness held his black hat to his side, with the rounded topoutwards. 

'Was the loaf clean or dirty?'

Sweetening his little eyes, the witness answered:

'I should say 'twas clean. '

'Lie!'

The Chairman said sternly:

'You mustn't interrupt, sir. --You didn't see the bottom of the loaf?'

The witness's little eyes snapped. 

'Not eggzactly. '

'Did the rector speak to you?'

The witness smiled. 'The rector wouldn' never stop me if I was passin'. I collects the rates. '

The rector's laugh, so like a desolate dog's bark, killed the bubble ofgaiety rising in the court; and again that deathly little silencefollowed. 

Then the Chairman said:

'Do you want to ask him anything?'

The rector turned. 'Why d' you tell lies?'

The witness screwing up his eyes, said excitedly:

'What lies 'ave I told, please?'

'You said the loaf was clean. '

'So 'twas clean, so far as I see. '

'Come to Church, and you won't tell lies. '

'Reckon I can learn truth faster in Chapel. '

The Chairman rapped his desk. 

'That'll do, that'll do! Stand down! Next witness. --Emily Bleaker. Yes?What are you? Cook at the rectory? Very well. What do you know about theaffair of this loaf last Tuesday afternoon?'

The witness, a broad-faced, brown-eyed girl, answered stolidly:'Nothin', zurr. '

'Ha, ha!'

'Hssh! Did you see the loaf?'

'Noa. '

'What are you here for, then?'

'Master asked for a plate and a knaife. He an' old missus ate et fordinner. I see the plate after; there wasn't on'y crumbs on et. '

'If you never saw the loaf, how do you know they ate it?'

'Because ther' warn't nothin' else in the 'ouse. '

The rector's voice barked out:

'Quite right!'

The Chairman looked at him fixedly. 

'Do you want to ask her anything?'

The rector nodded. 

'You been paid your wages?'

'Noa, I 'asn't. '

'D'you know why?'

'Noa. '

'Very sorry--no money to pay you. That's all. '

This closed the prosecutor's case; and there followed a pause, duringwhich the Bench consulted together, and the rector eyed thecongregation, nodding to one here and there. Then the Chairman, turningto him, said:

'Now, sir, do you call any witnesses?'

'Yes. My bell-ringer. He's a good man. You can believe him. '

The bell-ringer, Samuel Bevis, who took his place in the witness-box, was a kind of elderly Bacchus, with permanently trembling hands. Hedeposed as follows:

'When I passed rector Tuesday arternoon, he calls after me: "See this!"'e says, and up 'e held it. "Bit o' dirrty bread, " 'e says; "do for myburrds. " Then on he goes walkin'. '

'Did you see whether the loaf was dirty?'

'Yaas, I think 'twas dirrty. '

'Don't _think_! Do you _know_?'

'Yaas; 'twas dirrty. '

'Which side?'

'Which saide? I think 'twas dirrty on the bottom. '

'Are you sure?'

'Yaas; 'twas dirrty on the bottom, for zartain. '

'Very well. Stand down. Now, sir, will you give us your version of thismatter?'

The rector, pointing at the prosecutor and the left-hand aisle, jerkedout the words:

'All Chapel--want to see me down. '

The Chairman said stonily:

'Never mind that. Come to the facts, please. '

'Certainly! Out for a walk--passed the baker's cart--saw a loaf fallenin the mud--picked it up--do for my birds. '

'What birds?'

'Magpie and two starlings; quite free--never shut the cage-door; wellfed. '

'The baker charges you with taking it from his cart. '

'Lie! Underneath the cart in a puddle. '

'You heard what your cook said about your eating it. Did you?'

'Yes, birds couldn't eat all--nothing in the house--Mother andI--hungry. '

'Hungry?'

'No money. Hard up--very! Often hungry. Ha, ha!'

Again through the court that queer rustle passed. The three magistratesgazed at the accused. Then 'the Honble' Calmady said:

'You say you found the loaf under the cart. Didn't it occur to you toput it back? You could see it had fallen. How else could it have comethere?'

The rector's burning eyes seemed to melt. 

'From the sky. Manna. ' Staring round the court, he added: 'Hungry--God'select--to the manna born!' And, throwing back his head, he laughed. Itwas the only sound in a silence as of the grave. 

The magistrates spoke together in low tones. The rector stoodmotionless, gazing at them fixedly. The people in the court sat as if ata play. Then the Chairman said:

'Case dismissed. '

'Thank you. '

Jerking out that short thanksgiving, the rector descended from the dock, and passed down the centre aisle, followed by every eye. 

III

From the Petty Sessions court the congregation wended its way back toTrover, by the muddy lane, 'Church' and 'Chapel, ' arguing the case. Todim the triumph of the 'Church' the fact remained that the baker hadlost his loaf and had not been compensated. The loaf was worth money; nomoney had passed. It was hard to be victorious and yet reduced tosilence and dark looks at girding adversaries. The nearer they came tohome, the more angry with 'Chapel' did they grow. Then the bell-ringerhad his inspiration. Assembling his three assistants, he hurried to thebelfry, and in two minutes the little old tower was belching forth themerriest and maddest peal those bells had ever furnished. Out it swungin the still air of the grey winter day, away to the very sea. 

A stranger, issuing from the inn, hearing that triumphant sound, andseeing so many black-clothed people about, said to his driver:

'What is it--a wedding?'

'No, zurr, they say 'tis for the rector, like; he've a just beenacquitted for larceny. '

 * * * * *

On the Tuesday following, the rector's ravaged face and red-grey hairappeared in Mrs. Gloyn's doorway, and his voice, creaking like a saw, said:

'Can you let me have a pound of butter? Pay you soon. '

What else could he do? Not even to God's elect does the sky always senddown manna. 

1916. 

IV

A STRANGE THING

Not very long ago, during a sojourn in a part of the West country neveryet visited by me, I went out one fine but rather cold March morning fora long ramble. I was in one of those disillusioned moods that come towriters, bankrupt of ideas, bankrupt of confidence, a prey to thatrecurrent despair, the struggle with which makes the profession of thepen--as a friend once said to me--"a manly one. " "Yes"--I was thinking, for all that the air was so brisk, and the sun so bright--"nothing comesto me nowadays, no flashes of light, none of those suddenly shapedvisions that bring cheer and warmth to a poor devil's heart, and set hisbrain and pen to driving on. A bad, bad business!" And my eyes, wandering over the dip and rise, the woods, the moor, the rocks of thatfine countryside, took in the loveliness thereof with the profounddiscontent of one who, seeing beauty, feels that he cannot render it. The high lane-banks had just been pollarded, one could see right downover the fields and gorse and bare woods tinged with that rosy brown ofbeech and birch twigs, and the dusty saffron of the larches. Andsuddenly my glance was arrested by something vivid, a sort of black andwhite excitement in the air. "Aha!" I thought, "a magpie. Two! Three!Good! Is it an omen?" The birds had risen at the bottom of a field, their twining, fluttering voyage--most decorative of all birdflights--was soon lost in the wood beyond, but something it had leftbehind in my heart; I felt more hopeful, less inclined to think aboutthe failure of my spirit, better able to give myself up to this newcountry I was passing through. Over the next rise in the very windinglane I heard the sound of brisk church bells, and not three hundredyards beyond came to a village green, where knots of men dressed in thedark clothes, light ties, and bowler hats of village festivity, and ofwomen smartened up beyond belief, were gathered, chattering, round theyard of an old, grey, square-towered church. 

"What's going on?" I thought. "It's not Sunday, not the birthday of aPotentate, and surely they don't keep Saint days in this manner. It mustbe a wedding. Yes--there's a favour! Let's go in and see!" And, passingthe expectant groups, I entered the church and made my way up the aisle. There was already a fair sprinkling of folk all turned round towardsthe door, and the usual licensed buzz and whisper of a weddingcongregation. The church, as seems usual in remote parishes, had beenbuilt all those centuries ago to hold a population in accordance withthe expectations of its tenet, "Be fruitful and multiply. " But the wholepopulation could have been seated in a quarter of its space. It waslofty and unwarmed save by excitement, and the smell of bear's-grease. There was certainly more animation than I had ever seen or savoured in atruly rural district. 

The bells which had been ringing with a sort of languid joviality, fellnow into the hurried crashing which marks the approach of a bride, andthe people I had passed outside came thronging in. I perceived a youngman--little more than a boy, who by his semi-detachment, the fumbling ofhis gloved hands, and the sheepishness of the smile on his good-looking, open face, was obviously the bridegroom. I liked the looks of him--a cutabove the usual village bumpkin--something free and kind about his face. But no one was paying him the least attention. It was for the bride theywere waiting; and I myself began to be excited. What would this youngthing be like? Just the ordinary village maiden with tight cheeks, anddress; coarse veil, high colour, and eyes like a rabbit's; orsomething--something like that little Welsh girl on the hills whom Ionce passed and whose peer I have never since seen? Bending forward, Iaccosted an apple-faced woman in the next pew. "Can you tell me who thebride is?"

Regarding me with the grey, round, defensive glance that one bestows onstrangers, she replied:

"Aw, don't 'ee know? 'Tes Gwenny Mara--prettiest, brightest maid inthese parts. " And, jerking her thumb towards the neglected bridegroom, she added: "He's a lucky young chap. She'm a sunny maid, for sure, and agude maid tu. "

Somehow the description did not reassure me, and I prepared for theworst. 

A bubble, a stir, a rustle!

Like everyone else, I turned frankly round. She was coming up the aisleon the arm of a hard-faced, rather gipsy-looking man, dressed in afarmer's very best. 

I can only tell you that to see her coming down the centre of that greychurch amongst all those dark-clothed people, was like watching thedance of a sunbeam. Never had I seen a face so happy, sweet, andradiant. Smiling, eager, just lost enough to her surroundings, her hairunconquerably golden through the coarse veil; her dancing eyes clearand dark as a peat pool--she was the prettiest sight. One could onlythink of a young apple-tree with the spring sun on its blossom. She hadthat kind of infectious brightness which comes from very simplegoodness. It was quite a relief to have taken a fancy to the young man'sface, and to feel that she was passing into good hands. 

The only flowers in the church were early daffodils, but those firstchildren of the sun were somehow extraordinarily appropriate to thewedding of this girl. When she came out she was pelted with them, andwith that miserable confetti without which not even the simplest soulscan pass to bliss, it seems. There are things in life which make onefeel good--sunshine, most music, all flowers, many children, someanimals, clouds, mountains, bird-songs, blue sky, dancing, and here andthere a young girl's face. And I had the feeling that all of us therefelt good for the mere seeing of her. 

When she had driven away, I found myself beside a lame old man, withwhiskers, and delightful eyes, who continued to smile after the carriagehad quite vanished. Noticing, perhaps, that I, too, was smiling, hesaid: "'Tes a funny thing, tu, when a maid like that gets married--makesyou go all of a tremble--so it du. " And to my nod he added: "Brave bito' sunshine--we'll miss her hereabout; not a doubt of it. We ain't gotanother one like that. "

"Was that her father?" I asked, for the want of something to say. With asharpish look at my face, he shook his head. 

"No, she an't got no parents, Mr. Mara bein' her uncle, as you may say. No, she an't got no parents, " he repeated, and there was something illat ease, yet juicy, about his voice, as though he knew things that hewould not tell. 

Since there was nothing more to wait for, I went up to the little inn, and ordered bread and cheese. The male congregation was whetting itswhistle noisily within, but, as a stranger, I had the verandah tomyself, and, finishing my simple lunch in the March sunlight, I paid andstarted on. Taking at random one of the three lanes that debouched fromthe bottom of the green, I meandered on between high banks, happy in theconsciousness of not knowing at all where it would lead me--thatessential of a country ramble. Except one cottage in a bottom and onefarm on a rise, I passed nothing, nobody. The spring was late in theseparts, the buds had hardly formed as yet on any trees, and now and thenbetween the bursts of sunlight a few fine specks of snow would comedrifting past me on the wind. Close to a group of pines at a highcorner, the lane dipped sharply down to a long farm-house standing backin its yard, where three carts were drawn up, and an empty waggonettewith its shafts in the air. And suddenly, by some broken daffodils onthe seats and confetti on the ground, I perceived that I had stumbled onthe bride's home, where the wedding feast was, no doubt, in progress. 

Gratifying but by no means satisfying my curiosity by gazing at thelichened stone and thatch of the old house, at the pigeons, pigs, andhens at large between it and the barns, I passed on down the lane, whichturned up steeply to the right beside a little stream. To my left was along larch wood, to my right rough fields with many trees. The lanefinished at a gate below the steep moorside crowned by a rocky tor. Istood there leaning on the top bar, debating whether I should ascend orno. The bracken had, most of it, been cut in the autumn, and not ahundred yards away the furze was being swaled; the little blood-redflames and the blue smoke, the yellow blossoms of the gorse, thesunlight, and some flecks of drifting snow were mingled in an amazingtangle of colour. 

I had made up my mind to ascend the tor, and was pushing through thegate, when suddenly I saw a woman sitting on a stone under the wallbordering the larch wood. She was holding her head in her hands, rockingher body to and fro; and her eyes were evidently shut, for she had notnoticed me. She wore a blue serge dress; her hat reposed beside her, andher dark hair was straggling about her face. That face, all blowsy andflushed, was at once wild and stupefied. A face which has beenbeautiful, coarsened and swollen by life and strong emotion, is apitiful enough sight. Her dress, hat, and the way her hair had been donewere redolent of the town, and of that unnameable something which clingsto women whose business it is to attract men. And yet there was agipsyish look about her, as though she had not always been of the town. 

The sight of a woman's unrestrained distress in the very heart ofuntouched nature is so rare that one must be peculiar to remain unmoved. And there I stood, not knowing what on earth to do. She went on rockingherself to and fro, her stays creaking, and a faint moaning sound comingfrom her lips; and suddenly she drooped over her lap, her hands fallento her sides, as though she had gone into a kind of coma. How go on andleave her thus; yet how intrude on what did not seem to me mere physicalsuffering?

In that quandary I stood and watched. This corner was quite shelteredfrom the wind, the sun almost hot, and the breath of the swaling reachedone in the momentary calms. For three full minutes she had not moved afinger; till, beginning to think she had really fainted, I went up toher. From her drooped body came a scent of heat, and of stale violetpowder, and I could see, though the east wind had outraddled them, traces of rouge on her cheeks and lips; their surface had a sort ofswollen defiance, but underneath, as it were, a wasted look. Herbreathing sounded faint and broken. 

Mustering courage, I touched her on the arm. She raised her head andlooked up. Her eyes were the best things she had left; they must haveonce been very beautiful. Bloodshot now from the wind, their wild, stupefied look passed after a moment into the peculiar, half-bold, half-furtive stare of women of a certain sort. She did not speak, and inmy embarrassment I drew out the flask of port I always take with me onmy rambles, and stammered:

"I beg your pardon--are you feeling faint? Would you care--?" And, unscrewing the top, I held out the flask. She stared at it a momentblankly, then taking it, said:

"That's kind of you. I feel to want it, tu. " And, putting it to herlips, she drank, tilting back her head. Perhaps it was the tell-talesoftness of her u's, perhaps the naturally strong lines of her figurethus bent back, but somehow the plumage of the town bird seemed to dropoff her suddenly. 

She handed back the flask, as empty as it had ever been, and said, witha hard smile:

"I dare say you thought me funny sittin' 'ere like that. "

"I thought you were ill. "

She laughed without the faintest mirth, and muttered:

"I did go on, didn't I?" Then, almost fiercely, added: "I got somereason, too. Seein' the old place again after all these years. " Her darkeyes, which the wine seemed to have cleared and boldened, swept me upand down, taking me in, making sure perhaps whether or no she had everseen me, and what sort of a brute I might be. Then she said: "I was bornhere. Are you from these parts?" I shook my head--"No, from the otherside of the county. "

She laughed. Then, after a moment's silence, said abruptly:

"I been to a weddin'--first I've seen since I was a girl. "

Some instinct kept me silent. 

"My own daughter's weddin', but nobody didn't know me--not likely. "

I had dropped down under the shelter of the wall on to a stone opposite, and at those words looked at her with interest indeed. She--thiscoarsened, wasted, suspiciously scented woman of the town--the mother ofthat sweet, sunny child I had just seen married. And again instinctivelysilent about my own presence at the wedding, I murmured:

"I thought I saw some confetti in that farmyard as I came up the lane. "

She laughed again. 

"Confetti--that's the little pink and white and blue things--plenty o'that, " and she added fiercely: "My own brother didn' know me--let alonemy girl. How should she?--I haven't seen her since she was a baby--shewas a laughin' little thing, " and she gazed past me with that look inthe eyes as of people who are staring back into the bygone. "I guess wewas laughin' when we got her. 'Twas just here--summer-time. I 'ad themoon in my blood that night, right enough. " Then, turning her eyes on myface, she added: "That's what a girl _will_ 'ave, you know, once in awhile, and like as not it'll du for her. Only thirty-five now, I am, an'pretty nigh the end o' my tether. What can you expect?--I'm a gay woman. Did for me right enough. Her father's dead, tu. "

"Do you mean, " I said, "because of your child?"

She nodded. "I suppose you can say that. They made me bring an orderagainst him. He wouldn't pay up, so he went and enlisted, an' in tuyears 'e was dead in the Boer War--so it killed him right enough. Butthere she is, a sweet sprig if ever there was one. That's a strangething, isn't it?" And she stared straight before her in a suddensilence. Nor could _I_ find anything to say, slowly taking in thestrangeness of this thing. That girl, so like a sunbeam, of whom thepeople talked as though she were a blessing in their lives--her cominginto life to have been the ruin of the two who gave her being!

The woman went on dully: "Funny how I knew she was goin' to bemarried--'twas a farmer told me--comes to me regular when he goes toExeter market. I always knew he came from near my old home. 'There's aweddin' on Tuesday, ' 'e says, 'I'd like to be the bridegroom at. Prettiest, sunniest maid you ever saw'; an' he told me where she comefrom, so I knew. He found me a bit funny that afternoon. But he don'tknow who I am, though he used to go to school with me; I'd never tell, not for worlds. " She shook her head vehemently. "I don't know why I toldyou; I'm not meself to-day, and that's a fact. " At her half-suspicious, half-appealing look, I said quickly:

"I don't know a soul about here. It's all right. "

She sighed. "It was kind of you; and I feel to want to talk sometimes. Well, after he was gone, I said to myself: 'I'll take a holiday and goan' see my daughter married. '" She laughed--"I never had no pink andwhite and blue little things myself. That was all done up for me thatnight I had the moon in me blood. Ah! my father was a proper hard man. 'Twas bad enough before I had my baby; but after, when I couldn't getthe father to marry me, an' he cut an' run, proper life they led me, himand stepmother. Cry! Didn' I cry--I was a soft-hearted thing--never wentto sleep with me eyes dry--never. 'Tis a cruel thing to make a younggirl cry. "

I said quietly: "Did you run away, then?"

She nodded. "Bravest thing I ever did. Nearly broke my 'eart to leave mybaby; but 'twas that or drownin' myself. I was soft then. I went offwith a young fellow--bookmaker that used to come over to the sportsmeetin', wild about me--but he never married me"--again she uttered herhard laugh--"knew a thing worth tu o' that. " Lifting her hand towardsthe burning furze, she added: "I used to come up here an' help 'emlight that when I was a little girl. " And suddenly she began to cry. Itwas not so painful and alarming as her first distress, for it seemednatural now. 

At the side of the cart-track by the gate was an old boot thrown away, and it served me for something to keep my eyes engaged. The dilapidatedblack object among the stones and wild plants on that day of strangemixed beauty was as incongruous as this unhappy woman herself revisitingher youth. And there shot into my mind a vision of this spot as it mighthave been that summer night when she had "the moon in her blood"--queerphrase--and those two young creatures in the tall soft fern, in thewarmth and the darkened loneliness, had yielded to the impulse in theirblood. A brisk fluttering of snowflakes began falling from the sky stillblue, drifting away over our heads towards the blood-red flames andsmoke. They powdered the woman's hair and shoulders, and with a sob anda laugh she held up her hand and began catching them as a child might. 

"'Tis a funny day for my girl's weddin', " she said. Then with a sort offierceness added: "She'll never know her mother--she's in luck there, tu!" And, grabbing her feathered hat from the ground, she got up. "Imust be gettin' back for my train, else I'll be late for anappointment. "

When she had put her hat on, rubbed her face, dusted and smoothed herdress, she stood looking at the burning furze. Restored to her townplumage, to her wonted bravado, she was more than ever like that olddiscarded boot, incongruous. 

"I'm a fool ever to have come, " she said; "only upset me--and you don'twant no more upsettin' than you get, that's certain. Good-bye, and thankyou for the drink--it lusened my tongue praaper, didn't it?" She gave mea look--not as a professional--but a human, puzzled look. "I told you mybaby was a laughin' little thing. I'm glad she's still like that. I'mglad I've seen her. " Her lips quivered for a second; then, with a fakedjauntiness, she nodded. "So long!" and passed through the gate down intothe lane. 

I sat there in the snow and sunlight some minutes after she was gone. Then, getting up, I went and stood by the burning furze. The blowingflames and the blue smoke were alive and beautiful; but behind them theywere leaving blackened skeleton twigs. 

"Yes, " I thought, "but in a week or two the little green grass-shootswill be pushing up underneath into the sun. So the world goes! Out ofdestruction! It's a strange thing!"

1916. 

V

TWO LOOKS

The old Director of the 'Yew Trees' Cemetery walked slowly across fromhis house, to see that all was ready. 

He had seen pass into the square of earth committed to his charge somany to whom he had been in the habit of nodding, so many whose faceseven he had not known. To him it was the everyday event; yet thisfuneral, one more in the countless tale, disturbed him--a sharp reminderof the passage of time. 

For twenty years had gone by since the death of Septimus Godwin, thecynical, romantic doctor who had been his greatest friend; by whosecleverness all had sworn, of whose powers of fascination all hadgossiped! And now they were burying his son!

He had not seen the widow since, for she had left the town at once; buthe recollected her distinctly, a tall, dark woman with bright browneyes, much younger than her husband, and only married to him eighteenmonths before he died. He remembered her slim figure standing by thegrave, at that long-past funeral, and the look on her face which hadpuzzled him so terribly--a look of--a most peculiar look!

He thought of it even now, walking along the narrow path towards his oldfriend's grave--the handsomest in the cemetery, commanding from thetopmost point the whitened slope and river that lay beyond. He came toits little private garden. Spring flowers were blossoming; the railingshad been freshly painted; and by the door of the grave wreaths awaitedthe new arrival. All was in order. 

The old Director opened the mausoleum with his key. Below, seen througha thick glass floor, lay the shining coffin of the father; beneath, onthe lower tier, would rest the coffin of the son. 

A gentle voice, close behind him, said:

"Can you tell me, sir, what they are doing to my old doctor's grave?"

The old Director turned, and saw before him a lady well past middle age. He did not know her face, but it was pleasant, with faded rose-leafcheeks, and silvered hair under a shady hat. 

"Madam, there is a funeral here this afternoon. "

"Ah! Can it be his wife?"

"Madam, his son; a young man of only twenty. "

"His son! At what time did you say?"

"At two o'clock. "

"Thank you; you are very kind. "

With uplifted hat, he watched her walk away. It worried him to see aface he did not know. 

All went off beautifully; but, dining that same evening with his friend, a certain doctor, the old Director asked:

"Did you see a lady with grey hair hovering about this afternoon?"

The doctor, a tall man, with a beard still yellow, drew his guest'schair nearer to the fire. 

"I did. "

"Did you remark her face? A very odd expression--a sort of--what shall Icall it?--Very odd indeed! Who is she? I saw her at the grave thismorning. "

The doctor shook his head. 

"Not so very odd, I think. "

"Come! What do you mean by that?"

The doctor hesitated. Then, taking the decanter, he filled his oldfriend's glass, and answered:

"Well, sir, you were Godwin's greatest chum--I will tell you, if youlike, the story of his death. You were away at the time, if youremember. "

"It is safe with me, " said the old Director. 

"Septimus Godwin, " began the doctor slowly, "died on a Thursday aboutthree o'clock, and I was only called in to see him at two. I found himfar gone, but conscious now and then. It was a case of--but you know thedetails, so I needn't go into that. His wife was in the room, and on thebed at his feet lay his pet dog--a terrier; you may recollect, perhaps, he had a special breed. I hadn't been there ten minutes, when a maidcame in and whispered something to her mistress. Mrs. Godwin answeredangrily, 'See him? Go down and say she ought to know better than to comehere at such a time!' The maid went, but soon came back. Could the ladysee Mrs. Godwin for just a moment? Mrs. Godwin answered that she couldnot leave her husband. The maid looked frightened, and went away again. She came back for the third time. The lady had said she must see Dr. Godwin; it was a matter of life and death! 'Death--indeed!' exclaimedMrs. Godwin: 'Shameful! Go down and tell her, if she doesn't goimmediately, I will send for the police!'

"The poor maid looked at me. I offered to go down and see the visitormyself. I found her in the dining room, and knew her at once. Never mindher name, but she belongs to a county family not a hundred miles fromhere. A beautiful woman she was then; but her face that day was quitedistorted. 

"'For God's sake, Doctor, ' she said, 'is there any hope?'

"I was obliged to tell her there was none. 

"'Then I must see him, ' she said. 

"I begged her to consider what she was asking. But she held me out asignet ring. Just like Godwin--wasn't it--that sort of Byronism, eh?

"'He sent me this, ' she said, 'an hour ago. It was agreed between usthat if ever he sent that, I must come. If it were only myself I couldbear it--a woman can bear anything; but he'll die thinking I wouldn'tcome, thinking I didn't care--and I would give my life for him thisminute!'

"Now, a dying man's request is sacred. I told her she should see him. Imade her follow me upstairs, and wait outside his room. I promised tolet her know if he recovered consciousness. I have never been thankedlike that, before or since. 

"I went back into the bedroom. He was still unconscious, and the terrierwhining. In the next room a child was crying--the very same young man weburied to-day. Mrs. Godwin was still standing by the bed. 

"'Have you sent her away?'

"I had to say that Godwin really wished to see her. At that she brokeout:

"'I won't have her here--the wretch!'

"I begged her to control herself, and remember that her husband was adying man. 

"'But I'm his wife, ' she said, and flew out of the room. "

The doctor paused, staring at the fire. He shrugged his shoulders, andwent on: "I'd have stopped her fury if I could! A dying man is not thesame as the live animal, that he must needs be wrangled over! Andsuffering's sacred, even to us doctors. I could hear their voicesoutside. Heaven knows what they said to each other. And there lay Godwinwith his white face and his black hair--deathly still--fine-lookingfellow he always was! Then I saw that he was coming to! The women hadbegun again outside--first, the wife, sharp and scornful; then theother, hushed and slow. I saw Godwin lift his finger and point it at thedoor. I went out, and said to the woman, 'Dr. Godwin wishes to see you;please control yourself. '

"We went back into the room. The wife followed. But Godwin had lostconsciousness again. They sat down, those two, and hid their faces. Ican see them now, one on each side of the bed, their eyes covered withtheir hands, each with her claim on him, all murdered by the other'spresence; each with her torn love. H'm! What they must have suffered, then! And all the time the child crying--the child of one of them, thatmight have been the other's!"

The doctor was silent, and the old Director turned towards him hiswhite-bearded, ruddy face, with a look as if he were groping in thedark. 

"Just then, I remember, " the doctor went on suddenly, "the bells of St. Jude's close by began to peal out for the finish of a wedding. Thatbrought Godwin back to life. He just looked from one woman to the otherwith a queer, miserable sort of smile, enough to make your heart break. And they both looked at him. The face of the wife--poor thing!--was asbitter hard as a cut stone, but she sat there, without ever stirring afinger. As for the other woman--I couldn't look at her. He beckoned tome; but I couldn't catch his words, the bells drowned them. A minutelater he was dead. 

"Life's a funny thing! You wake in the morning with your foot firm onthe ladder--One touch, and down you go! You snuff out like a candle. Andit's lucky when your flame goes out, if only one woman's flame goes outtoo. 

"Neither of those women cried. The wife stayed there by the bed. I gotthe other one away to her carriage, down the street. --And so she wasthere to-day! That explains, I think, the look you saw. "

The doctor ceased, and in the silence the old Director nodded. Yes! Thatexplained the look he had seen on the face of that unknown woman, thedeep, unseizable, weird look. That explained the look he had seen on thewife's face at the funeral twenty years ago!

And peering wistfully, he said:

"They looked--they looked--almost triumphant!"

Then, slowly, he rubbed his hands over his knees, with the secretcraving of the old for warmth. 

1914. 

VI

FAIRYLAND

It was about three o'clock, this November afternoon, when I rode downinto "Fairyland, " as it is called about here. The birch-trees there aremore beautiful than any in the world; and when the clouds are streamingover in rain-grey, and the sky soaring above in higher blue, just-seen, those gold and silver creatures have such magical loveliness as makesthe hearts of mortals ache. The fairies, who have been driven off themoor, alone watch them with equanimity, if they be not indeed thebirch-trees themselves--especially those little very golden ones whichhave strayed out into the heather, on the far side of the glen. "Revenge!" the fairies cried when a century ago those, whom they do notexist just to amuse, made the new road over the moor, cutting rightthrough the home of twilight, that wood above the "Falls, " where tillthen they had always enjoyed inviolable enchantment. They troopedforthwith in their multitudinous secrecy down into the glen, to swarmabout the old road. In half a century or so they had it almostabandoned, save for occasional horsemen and harmless persons seekingbeauty, for whom the fairies have never had much feeling of aversion. And now, after a hundred years, it is all theirs; the ground so goldenwith leaves and bracken that the old track is nothing but a vaguehardness beneath a horse's feet, nothing but a runnel for the rains togather in. There is everywhere that glen scent of mouldering leaves, sosweet when the wind comes down and stirs it, and the sun frees andlivens it. Not very many birds, perhaps because hawks are fond ofhovering here. This was once the only road up to the village, the onlycommunication with all that lies to the south and east! Now the fairieshave got it indeed, they have witched to skeletons all the littlebridges across the glen stream; they have mossed and thinned the gatesto wraiths. With their dapple-gold revelry in sunlight, and their danceof pied beauty under the moon, they have made all their own. 

I have ridden many times down into this glen; and slowly up among thebeeches and oaks into the lanes again, hoping and believing that, someday, I should see a fairy take shape to my thick mortal vision; andto-day, at last, I have seen. 

I heard it first about half-way up the wood, a silvery voice piping outvery true what seemed like mortal words, not quite to be caught. Resolved not to miss it this time, I got off quietly and tied my mareto a tree. Then, tiptoeing in the damp leaves which did not rustle, Istole up till I caught sight of it, from behind an oak. 

It was sitting in yellow bracken as high as its head, under a birch-treethat had a few branches still gold-feathered. It seemed to be clothed inblue, and to be swaying as it sang. There was something in its arms, asit might be a creature being nursed. Cautiously I slipped from that treeto the next, till I could see its face, just like a child's, fascinating, very, very delicate, the little open mouth poised andshaped ever so neatly to the words it was singing; the eyes wide apartand ever so wide open, fixed on nothing mortal. The song, and the littlebody, and the spirit in the eyes, all seemed to sway--sway together, like a soft wind that goes sough-sough, swinging, in the tops of theferns. And now it stretched out one arm, and now the other, beckoning into it those to which it was singing; so that one seemed to feel theinvisible ones stealing up closer and closer. 

These were the words which came so silvery and slow through that littlemouth: "Chil-dren, chil-dren! Hussh!"

It seemed as if the very rabbits must come and sit-up there, the jaysand pigeons settle above; everything in all the wood gather. Even one'sown heart seemed to be drawn in by those beckoning arms, and the slowenchantment of that tinkling voice, and the look in those eyes, which, lost in the unknown, were seeing no mortal glen, but only that mazedwood, where friendly wild things come, who have no sound to theirpadding, no whirr to the movement of their wings; whose gay whisperingshave no noise, whose eager shapes no colour--the fairy dream-wood of theunimaginable. 

"Chil-dren, chil-dren! Hus-s-h!"

For just a moment I could see that spirit company, ghosts of the fernsand leaves, of butterflies and bees and birds, and four-footed thingsinnumerable, ghosts of the wind, the sun-beams, and the rain-drops, andtiny flickering ghosts of moon-rays. For just a moment I saw what thefairy's eyes were seeing, without knowing what they saw. 

And then my mare trod on a dead branch, and all vanished. My fairy wasgone; and there was only little "Connemara, " as we called her, nursingher doll, and smiling up at me from the fern, where she had come topractise her new school-song. 

1911. 

VII

THE NIGHTMARE CHILD

I set down here not precisely the words of my friend, the countrydoctor, but the spirit of them:

"You know there are certain creatures in this world whom one simply darenot take notice of, however sorry one may be for them. That has oftenbeen borne in on me. I realised it, I think, before I met that littlegirl. I used to attend her mother for varicose veins--one of those womenwho really ought not to have children, since they haven't the very leastnotion of how to bring them up. The wife of a Sussex agriculturallabourer called Alliner, she was a stout person, with most peculiarprominent epileptic eyes, such eyes as one usually associates with menof letters or criminals. And yet there was nothing in her. She was justa lazy, slatternly, easy-going body, rather given to drink. Her husbandwas a thin, dirty, light-hearted fellow, who did his work and offendednobody. Her eldest daughter, a pretty and capable girl, was wild, gotinto various kinds of trouble, and had to migrate, leaving twoillegitimate children behind her with their grandparents. The youngergirl, the child of this story, who was called Emmeline, of allnames--pronounced Em'leen, of course--was just fifteen at the time of myvisits to her mother. She had eyes like a hare's, a mouth which readilyfell open, and brown locks caught back from her scared and knobbyforehead. She was thin, and walked with her head poked a little forward, and she so manoeuvred her legs and long feet, of which one turned inrather and seemed trying to get in front of the other, that there wassomething clodhopperish in her gait. Once in a way you would see her incurl-papers, and then indeed she was plain, poor child! She seemed tohave grown up without ever having had the least attention paid to her. Idon't think she was ill-treated--she was simply not treated at all. Atschool they had been kind enough, but had regarded her as almostdeficient. Seeing that her father was paid about fifteen shillings aweek, that her mother had no conception of housekeeping, and that therewere two babies to be fed, they were, of course, villainously poor, andEm'leen was always draggle-tailed and badly shod. One side of hertoo-short dress seemed ever to hang lower than the other, her stockingsalways had one hole at least, and her hat--such queer hats--would seemabout to fly away. I have known her type in the upper classes passmuster as "eccentric" or "full of character. " And even in Em'leen therewas a sort of smothered natural comeliness, trying pathetically to pushthrough, and never getting a chance. She always had a lost-dog air, andwhen her big hare's eyes clung on your face, it seemed as if she onlywanted a sign to make her come trailing at your heels, looking up for apat or a bit of biscuit. 

"She went to work, of course, the moment she left school. Her firstplace was in a small farm where they took lodgers, and her duties wereto do everything, without, of course, knowing how to do anything. Shehad to leave because she used to take soap and hairpins, and food thatwas left over, and was once seen licking a dish. It was just about thenthat I attended her mother for those veins in her unwieldy legs, and thechild was at home, waiting to secure some other fate. It was impossiblenot to look at that little creature kindly, and to speak to her now andthen; she would not exactly light up, because her face was not made thatway, but she would hang towards you as if you were a magnet, and you hadat once the uncomfortable sensation that you might find her clinging, impossible to shake off. If one passed her in the village, too, orcoming down from her blackberrying in the thickets on the Downs--theircottage lay just below the South Downs--one knew that she would belingering along, looking back till you were out of sight. Somehow onehardly thought of her as a girl at all, she seemed so far from all humanhearts, so wandering in a queer lost world of her own, and to imaginewhat she could be thinking was as impossible as it is with animals. OnceI passed her and her mother dawdling slowly in a lane, then heard thedot-and-go-one footsteps pattering after me, and the childish voice, rather soft and timid, say behind my shoulder: "Would you please buysome blackberries, sir?" She was almost pretty at that moment, flushedand breathless at having actually spoken to me, but her eyes hanging onmy face brought a sort of nightmare feeling at once of being unable toget rid of her. 

"Isn't it a cruel thing when you come to think of it, that there shouldbe born into the world poor creatures--children, dogs, cats, horses--whowant badly to love and be loved, and yet whom no one can quite put upwith, much less feel affection for!

"Well, what happened to her is what will always happen to such as those, one way or another, in a world where the callous abound; for, howeverunlovable a woman or girl, she has her use to a man, just as a dog or ahorse has to a master who cares nothing for it. 

"Soon after I bought those blackberries I went out to France on militaryduty. I got my leave a year later, and went home. It was late September, very lovely weather, and I took a real holiday walking or lying about upon the Downs, and only coming down at sunset. On one of those days whenyou really enter heaven, so pure are the lines of the hills, so cool theblue, the green, the chalk-white colouring under the smile of theafternoon sun--I was returning down that same lane, when I came onEm'leen sitting in a gap of the bank, with her dishevelled hat besideher, and her chin sunk on her hands. My appearance seemed to drag herout of a heavy dream--her eyes awoke, became startled, rolled furtively;she scrambled up, dropped her little, old school curtsey, then allconfused, faced the bank as if she were going to climb it. She wastaller, her dress longer, her hair gathered up, and it was very clearwhat was soon going to happen to her. I walked on in a rage. At herage--barely sixteen even yet! I am a doctor, and accustomed to mostthings, but this particular crime against children of that helpless sortdoes make my blood boil. Nothing, not even passion to excuse it--whocould feel passion for that poor child?--nothing but the cold, clumsylust of some young ruffian. Yes, I walked on in a rage, and wentstraight to her mother's cottage. That wretched woman was incapable ofmoral indignation, or else the adventures of her elder daughter hadexhausted her powers of expression. 'Yes, ' she admitted, 'Em'leen hadgot herself into trouble too, but she would not tell, she wouldn't saynothin' against nobody. It was a bad business, surely, an' now therewould be three o' them, an' Alliner was properly upset, that he was!'That was all there was to be had out of _her_. One felt that she knew orsuspected more, but her fingers had been so burned over the elder girlthat anything to her was better than a fuss. 

"I saw Alliner; he was a decent fellow, though dirty, distressed in hissimple, shallow-pated way, and more obviously ignorant than his wife. Ispoke to the schoolmistress, a shrewd and kindly married woman. 

"Poor Emmeline! Yes, she had noticed. It was very sad and wicked! Shehinted, but would not do more than hint, at the son of the miller, buthe was back again, fighting in France now, and, after all, her evidenceamounted to no more than his reputation with girls. Besides, one is verycareful what one says in a country village. I, however, was so angrythat I should not have been careful if I could have got hold ofanything at all definite. 

"I did not see the child again before my leave was up. The very nextthing I heard of her, was in a newspaper--Emmeline Alliner, sixteen, hadbeen committed for trial for causing the death of her illegitimate childby exposure. I was on the sick list in January, and went home to rest. Ihad not been there two days before I received a visit from a solicitorof our assize town, who came to ask me if I would give evidence at thegirl's trial as to the nature of her home surroundings. I learned fromhim the details of the lugubrious business. It seems that she hadslipped out one bitter afternoon in December, barely a fortnight afterher confinement, carrying her baby. There was snow on the ground, and itwas freezing hard, but the sun was bright, and it was that perhaps whichtempted her. She must have gone up towards the Downs by the lane where Ihad twice met her; gone up, and stopped at the very gap in the bankwhere she had been sitting lost in that heavy dream when I saw her last. She appears to have subsided there in the snow, for there she was foundby the postman just as it was getting dark, leaning over her knees as ifstupefied, with her chin buried in her hands--and the baby stiff anddead in the snow beside her. When I told the lawyer how I had seen herthere ten weeks before, and of the curious dazed state she had been in, he said at once: 'Ah! the exact spot. That's very important; it looksuncommonly as if it were there that she came by her misfortune. What doyou think? It's almost evident that she'd lost sense of hersurroundings, baby and all. I shall ask you to tell us about that at thetrial. She's a most peculiar child; I can't get anything out of her. Ikeep asking her for the name of the man, or some indication of how itcame about, but all she says is: "Nobody--nobody!" Another case ofimmaculate conception! Poor little creature, she's very pathetic, andthat's her best chance. Who could condemn a child like that?'

"And so indeed it turned out. I spared no feelings in my evidence. Themother and father were in court, and I hope Mrs. Alliner liked mydiagnosis of her maternal qualities. My description of how Em'leen wassitting when I met her in September tallied so exactly with thepostman's account of how he met her, that I could see the jury wereimpressed. And then there was the figure of the child herself, lonelythere in the dock. The French have a word, _Hébétée_. Surely there neverwas a human object to which it applied better. She stood like a littletired pony, whose head hangs down, half-sleeping after exertion; andthose hare eyes of hers were glued to the judge's face, for all theworld as if she were worshipping him. It must have made himextraordinarily uncomfortable. He summed up very humanely, dwelling onthe necessity of finding intention in her conduct towards the baby; andhe used some good strong language against the unknown man. The juryfound her not guilty, and she was discharged. The schoolmistress and I, anticipating this, had found her a refuge with some Sisters of Mercy, who ran a sort of home not far away, and to that we took her, without a'by your leave' to the mother. 

"When I came home the following summer, I found an opportunity of goingto look her up. She was amazingly improved in face and dress, but shehad attached herself to one of the Sisters--a broad, fine-lookingwoman--to such a pitch that she seemed hardly alive when out of hersight. The Sister spoke of it to me with real concern. 

"'I really don't know what to do with her, ' she said; 'she seemsincapable of anything unless I tell her; she only feels things throughme. It's really quite trying, and sometimes very funny, poor littlesoul! but it's tragic for her. If I told her to jump out of her bedroomwindow, or lie down in that pond and drown, she'd do it without amoment's hesitation. She can't go through life like this; she must learnto stand on her own feet. We must try and get her a good place, whereshe can learn what responsibility means, and get a will of her own. '

"I looked at the Sister, so broad, so capable, so handsome, and sopuzzled, and I thought, 'Yes, I know exactly. She's on your nerves; andwhere in the world will you find a place for her where she won't becomea sort of nightmare to some one, with her devotion, or else get it takenadvantage of again?' And I urged them to keep her a little longer. Theydid; for when I went home for good, six months later, I found that shehad only just gone into a place with an old lady-patient of mine, in asmall villa on the outskirts of our village. She used to open the doorto me when I called there on my rounds once a week. She retainedvestiges of the neatness which had been grafted on her by the Sister, but her frock was already beginning to sag down on one side, and herhair to look ill-treated. The old lady spoke to her with a sort ofindulgent impatience, and it was clear that the girl's devotion was notconcentrated upon her. I caught myself wondering what would be its nextobject, never able to help the feeling that if I gave a sign it would bemyself. You may be sure I gave no sign. What's the good? I hold thebelief that people should not force themselves to human contacts orrelationships which they cannot naturally and without irritationpreserve. I've seen these heroic attempts come to grief so often; infact, I don't think I've ever seen one succeed, not even between bloodrelations. In the long run they merely pervert and spoil the fibre ofthe attempter, without really benefiting the attemptee. Behind healthyrelationships between human beings, or even between human beings andanimals, there must be at least some rudimentary affinity. That's thetragedy of poor little souls like Em'leen. Where on earth can they findthe affinity which makes life good? The very fact that they must worshipis their destruction. It was a soldier--or so they said--who had broughther to her first grief; I had seen her adoring the judge at the trial, then the handsome uniformed Sister. And I, as the village doctor, was asort of tin-pot deity in those parts, so I was very careful to keep mymanner to her robust and almost brusque. 

"And then one day I passed her coming from the post office; she waslooking back, her cheeks were flushed, and she was almost pretty. Thereby the inn a butcher's cart was drawn up. The young butcher, new to ourvillage (he had a stiff knee, and had been discharged from the Army), was taking out a leg of mutton. He had a daredevil face; and eyes thathad seen much death. He had evidently been chatting with her, for he wasstill smiling, and even as I passed him he threw her a jerk of the head. 

"Two Sundays after that I was coming down past Wiley's copse at dusk, and heard a man's coarse laugh. There, through a tiny gap in thenut-bushes, I saw a couple seated. He had his leg stiffly stretched out, and his arm round the girl, who was leaning towards him; her lips wereparted, and those hare's eyes of hers were looking up into his face. Adoration!

"I don't know what it was my duty to have done, I only know that I didnothing, but slunk on with a lump in my throat. 

"Adoration! There it was again! Hopeless! Incurable devotions to thosewho cared no more for her than for a slice of suet-pudding to be eatenhot, gulped down, forgotten, or loathed in the recollection. And therethey are, these girls, one to almost every village of this country--anightmare to us all. The look on her face was with me all that eveningand in my dreams. 

"I know no more, for two days later I was summoned North to take up workin a military hospital. "

1917. 

VIII

BUTTERCUP-NIGHT

Why is it that in some places one has such a feeling of life being, notmerely a long picture-show for human eyes, but a single breathing, glowing, growing thing, of which we are no more important a part thanthe swallows and magpies, the foals and sheep in the meadows, thesycamores and ash-trees and flowers in the fields, the rocks and littlebright streams, or even than the long fleecy clouds and theirsoft-shouting drivers, the winds?

True, we register these parts of being, and they--so far as we know--donot register us; yet it is impossible to feel, in such places as I speakof, the busy, dry, complacent sense of being all that matters, which ingeneral we humans have so strongly. 

In these rare spots, which are always in the remote country, untouchedby the advantages of civilisation, one is conscious of an enwrapping webor mist of spirit--is it, perhaps the glamourous and wistful wraith ofall the vanished shapes once dwelling there in such close comradeship?

It was Sunday of an early June when I first came on one such, far downin the West country. I had walked with my knapsack twenty miles; and, there being no room at the tiny inn of the very little village, theydirected me to a wicket gate, through which, by a path leading down afield, I would come to a farm-house, where I might find lodging. Themoment I got into that field I felt within me a peculiar contentment, and sat down on a rock to let the feeling grow. In an old holly-treerooted to the bank about fifty yards away, two magpies evidently had anest, for they were coming and going, avoiding my view as much aspossible, yet with a certain stealthy confidence which made one feelthat they had long prescriptive right to that dwelling-place. Around, far as one could see, was hardly a yard of level ground; all hill andhollow, long ago reclaimed from the moor; and against the distant foldsof the hills the farm-house and its thatched barns were just visible, embowered amongst beeches and some dark trees, with a soft bright crownof sunlight over the whole. A gentle wind brought a faint rustling upfrom those beeches, and from a large lime-tree which stood by itself; onthis wind some little snowy clouds, very high and fugitive in that blueheaven, were always moving over. But I was most struck by thebuttercups. Never was field so lighted up by those tiny lamps, thoselittle bright pieces of flower china out of the Great Pottery. Theycovered the whole ground, as if the sunlight had fallen bodily from thesky, in millions of gold patines; and the fields below as well, down towhat was evidently a stream, were just as thick with the extraordinarywarmth and glory of them. 

Leaving the rock at last, I went towards the house. It was long and low, and rather sad, standing in a garden all mossy grass and buttercups, with a few rhododendrons and flowery shrubs, below a row of fine oldIrish yews. On the stone verandah a grey sheep-dog and a very smallgolden-haired child were sitting close together, absorbed in each other. A woman came in answer to my knock, and told me, in a pleasant soft, slurring voice, that I might stay the night; and dropping my knapsack, Iwent out again. Through an old gate under a stone arch I came on thefarmyard, quite deserted save for a couple of ducks moving slowly down agutter in the sunlight; and noticing the upper half of a stable-dooropen, I went across, in search of something living. There, in a roughloose-box, on thick straw, lay a chestnut, long-tailed mare, with theskin and head of a thoroughbred. She was swathed in blankets, and herface, all cut about the cheeks and over the eyes, rested on an ordinaryhuman's pillow, held by a bearded man in shirt-sleeves; while, leaningagainst the white-washed walls, sat fully a dozen other men, perfectlysilent, very gravely and intently gazing. The mare's eyes werehalf-closed, and what could be seen of them was dull and blueish, asthough she had been through a long time of pain. Save for her rapidbreathing, she lay quite still, but her neck and ears were streaked withsweat, and every now and then her hind-legs quivered. Seeing me at thedoor, she raised her head, uttering a queer, half-human noise; but thebearded man at once put his hand on her forehead, and with a "Woa, mydear, woa, my pretty!" pressed it down again, while with the other handhe plumped up the pillow for her cheek. And, as the mare obediently letfall her head, one of the men said in a low voice: "I never see anythingso like a Christian!" and the others echoed him, in chorus, "Like aChristian--like a Christian!" It went to one's heart to watch her, and Imoved off down the farm lane into an old orchard, where the apple-treeswere still in bloom, with bees--very small ones--busy on the blossoms, whose petals were dropping on to the dock leaves and buttercups in thelong grass. Climbing over the bank at the far end, I found myself in ameadow the like of which--so wild and yet so lush--I think I have neverseen. Along one hedge of its meandering length were masses of pinkmayflower; and between two little running streams quantities of yellowwater iris--"daggers, " as they call them--were growing; the"print-frock" orchis, too, was all over the grass, and everywhere thebuttercups. Great stones coated with yellowish moss were strewn amongthe ash-trees and dark hollies; and through a grove of beeches on thefar side, such as Corot might have painted, a girl was running with ayouth after her, who jumped down over the bank and vanished. Thrushes, blackbirds, yaffles, cuckoos, and one other very monotonous little birdwere in full song; and this, with the sound of the streams, and thewind, and the shapes of the rocks and trees, the colours of the flowers, and the warmth of the sun, gave one a feeling of being lost in a verywilderness of Nature. Some ponies came slowly from the far end, tangled, gipsy-headed little creatures, stared, and went off again at speed. Itwas just one of those places where any day the Spirit of all Naturemight start up in one of those white gaps which separate the trees androcks. But though I sat a long time waiting, hoping--Pan did not come. 

They were all gone from the stable, when I went back to the farm, exceptthe bearded nurse, and one tall fellow, who might have been the "DyingGaul, " as he crouched there in the straw; and the mare was sleeping--herhead between her nurse's knees. 

That night I woke at two o'clock, to find it bright as day, almost, withmoonlight coming in through the flimsy curtains. And, smitten with thefeeling which comes to us creatures of routine so rarely--of what beautyand strangeness we let slip by without ever stretching out hand to graspit--I got up, dressed, stole downstairs, and out. 

Never was such a night of frozen beauty, never such dream-tranquillity. The wind had dropped, and the silence was such that one hardly liked totread even on the grass. From the lawn and fields there seemed to be amist rising--in truth, the moonlight caught on the dewy buttercups; andacross this ghostly radiance the shadows of the yew-trees fell in denseblack bars. Suddenly, I bethought me of the mare. How was she faring, this marvellous night? Very softly opening the door into the yard, Itiptoed across. A light was burning in her box. And I could hear hermaking the same half-human noise she had made in the afternoon, as ifwondering at her feelings; and instantly the voice of the bearded mantalking to her as one might talk to a child: "Oover, me darlin'; yu'vea-been long enough o' that side. Wa-ay, my swate--yu let old Jack turn'u, then!" Then came a scuffling in the straw, a thud, again thathalf-human sigh, and his voice: "Putt your 'ead to piller, that's mydandy gel. Old Jack wouldn' 'urt 'u; no more'n ef 'u was the queen!"Then only her quick breathing could be heard, and his cough and mutter, as he settled down once more to his long vigil. I crept very softly upto the window, but she heard me at once; and at the movement of her headthe old fellow sat up, blinking his eyes out of the bush of his grizzledhair and beard. Opening the door, I said:

"May I come in?"

"Oo, ay! Come in, Zurr, if 'u'm a mind to. "

I sat down beside him on a sack, and for some time we did not speak, taking each other in. One of his legs was lame, so that he had to keepit stretched out all the time; and awfully tired he looked, grey-tired. 

"You're a great nurse!" I said at last. "It must be hard work, watchingout here all night. "

His eyes twinkled; they were of that bright grey kind through which thesoul looks out. 

"Aw, no!" he said. "Ah don't grudge it vur a dumb animal. Poorthings--they can't 'elp theirzelves. Many's the naight ah've zat up with'orses and beasts tu. 'Tes en me--can't bear to zee dumb creatureszuffer!" And, laying his hand on the mare's ears: "They zay 'orses'aven't no souls. 'Tes my belief they'm gotten souls, zame as us. Many'sthe Christian ah've seen ain't got the soul of an 'orse. Zame with thebeasts--an' the sheep; 'tes only they can't spake their minds. "

"And where, " I said, "do you think they go to when they die?" He lookedat me a little queerly, fancying, perhaps, that I was leading him intosome trap; making sure, too, that I was a real stranger, without powerover him, body or soul--for humble folk in the country must be careful;then, reassured, and nodding in his bushy beard, he answered knowingly:

"Ah don't think they goes zo very far!"

"Why? Do you ever see their spirits?"

"Naw, naw; I never zeen none; but, for all they zay, ah don't think noneof us goes such a brave way off. There's room for all, dead or alive. An' there's Christians ah've zeen--well, ef they'm not dead for gude, then neither aren't dumb animals, for sure. "

"And rabbits, squirrels, birds, even insects? How about them?"

He was silent, as if I had carried him a little beyond the confines ofhis philosophy, then shook his head:

"'Tes all a bit dimsy-like. But yu watch dumb animals, Zurr, even thelaste littlest one, and yu'll zee they knows a lot more'n what usthenks; an' they du's things, tu, that putts shame on a man's often asnot. They've a got that in 'em as passes show. " And not noticing mystare at that unconscious plagiarism, he added: "Ah'd zuuner zet up of anaight with an 'orse than with an 'uman; they've more zense, andpatience. " And, stroking the mare's forehead, he added: "Now, my dear, time for yu t' 'ave yure bottle. "

I waited to see her take her draught, and lay her head down once more onthe pillow. Then, hoping he would get a sleep, I rose to go. 

"Aw, 'tes nothin' much, " he said, "this time o' year; not like inwinter. 'Twill come day before yu know, these buttercup-nights"; andtwinkling up at me out of his kindly bearded face, he settled himselfagain into the straw. I stole a look back at his rough figure proppedagainst the sack, with the mare's head down beside his knee, at herswathed chestnut body, and the gold of the straw, the white walls, anddusky nooks and shadows of that old stable, illumined by the "dimsy"light of the old lantern. And with the sense of having seen somethingholy, I crept away up into the field where I had lingered the daybefore, and sat down on the same half-way rock. Close on dawn it was, the moon still sailing wide over the moor, and the flowers of this"buttercup-night" fast closed, not taken in at all by her cold glory!

Most silent hour of all the twenty-four--when the soul slips half out ofsheath, and hovers in the cool; when the spirit is most in tune withwhat, soon or late, happens to all spirits; hour when a man cares leastwhether or no he be alive, as we understand the word. .. . "None of usgoes such a brave way off--there's room for all, dead or alive. " Thoughit was almost unbearably colourless, and quiet, there was warmth inthinking of those words of his; in the thought, too, of the millions ofliving things snugly asleep all round; warmth in realising thatunanimity of sleep. Insects and flowers, birds, men, beasts, the veryleaves on the trees--away in slumber-land. Waiting for the first bird tochirrup, one had, perhaps, even a stronger feeling than in daytime ofthe unity and communion of all life, of the subtle brotherhood of livingthings that fall all together into oblivion, and, all together, wake. 

When dawn comes, while moonlight is still powdering the world's face, quite a long time passes before one realises how the quality of thelight has changed; and so, it was day before I knew it. Then the suncame up above the hills; dew began to sparkle, and colour to stain thesky. That first praise of the sun from every bird and leaf and blade ofgrass, the tremulous flush and chime of dawn! One has strayed far fromthe heart of things that it should come as something strange andwonderful! Indeed, I noticed that the beasts and birds gazed at me as ifI simply could not be there at this hour which so belonged to them. Andto me, too, they seemed strange and new--with that in them "whichpasseth show, " and as of a world where man did not exist, or existedonly as just another sort of beast or bird. 

But just then began the crowning glory of that dawn--the opening andlighting of the buttercups. Not one did I actually see unclose, yet, ofa sudden, they were awake, and the fields once more a blaze of gold.