"If we don't move soon, we're luggage for Germany," said Biddings.

"The generals have all gone and they know when it gets chilly as well

as the swallows."

Walking down the Grande Place, John suddenly clutched Phipps' arm.

The next moment he had seized a car standing outside a shop and was

driving madly down a side street. Phipps watched him go in silent

amazement, but John, half-crazed with fear that the car ahead would

give him the slip, drove furiously, without heeding the traffic

through which he miraculously raced. For in the car ahead, he had

caught a glimpse of a face that had made his heart jump. Muriel was

in it, a Muriel he knew despite her nurse's hood and cape! He was

gaining on it now; it paused in front of a building. He alighted on

the pavement simultaneously with the slim nurse.

"Muriel!"

She turned, then rushed into his arms.

"Oh, John!"

Two ragged children lifted their caps and yelled "Vive les Anglais!

Vive l'Angleterre!" but the lovers stood there alone in the world.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

She laughed, her fingers playing with the button of his tunic.

"And you?"

"Our headquarters are here--Hotel de la Poste--until to-night," he

replied.

Her face shadowed.

"I have just been fetched. Tod--he is here--dying."

"Tod!"

"Yes--he came out with the Antwerp expedition--I am just going in to

him--come!"

She clasped his hand and they entered the gloomy porch together. The

place had been a school--desks and chairs were piled up in the lobby.

A Belgian soldier saluted and conducted them to the matron, a pale

little Belgian woman. Lieutenant Vernley? Yes, he was here, but he

could not be seen, M'sieur was ill, very ill, "a la morte," she

added, raising her hands helplessly. John explained.

"Ah!--his sister?--pardon! We expected her. Yes, come! You shall

go in."

They followed down a long ward, with dozens of beds, and groaning

shapes beneath blankets, and entered a small room, very dull. In the

corner was a bed and on it the figure of a boy. His shirt was open

at the neck. His unshaven chin was growing a sandy beard, which

contrasted with the green-grey pallor of his face; the hands which

lay over the brown blanket, were red and soiled. Muriel slipped to

her knees at his side.

"Tod dear!" she whispered, taking his hand in hers. But he lay

without response, his leaden head deep in the pillow. John stood in

the doorway.

"In the stomach, m'sieur--a shell splinter," explained the matron.

"He has been delirious, 'Muriel,' that was all he cried, 'Muriel.'

We found a letter from Mademoiselle in his pocket, and sent for her

yesterday."

"He doesn't know me," said Muriel, turning pathetically, but a

pressure on her hand told her she was wrong.

"Oh Tod, darling, I've come. I'm going to nurse you."

A glimmer of a smile faded across the lad's face.

John left her then, he would be back in an hour.

When he returned, Muriel, very quiet, was sitting in the matron's

room. He knew in a moment it was all over. Very gently he took her

into his arms, and let her cry, with her head on his shoulder.

They buried Tod the next morning. Phipps was there, and an English

Army Chaplain, and two Belgian generals, carrying wreaths from the

town authorities. Thus another Englishman was committed to the soil

for whose defence he had gladly given his young life.

After the funeral, they had to hurry away. Shells were falling into

the town. Melle had been heavily bombarded and the Town Hall was a

heap of ruins. Half the inhabitants of Ghent seemed to be streaming

along the road to Bruges. The inevitable moment of parting came for

John and Muriel. She was rejoining her unit, now at Bruges.

When would they meet again? For a long moment she clung to him in

the desperation of love.

"We will get leave together and be married, Muriel," he urged.

"Yes, John but not now--we must go on, these poor things need us. I

am almost happy here. I could not sleep in England, knowing what

happens day and night!"

"Muriel--promise you will take care, I shall be anxious for you."

"And you--you are running all the risks. Oh, John, we must come

through! Life is going to be so wonderful even yet."

He kissed her hungrily, wrapped the rugs round her in the car, and

saluted as it carried her away. He waited until the traffic blotted

her from view. Then he joined Stevenson who was waiting with his car

at the hotel.

It was burdened with their luggage, the precious typewriters

precariously balanced on the top. They were going south into the

British lines and the welter of blood. Antwerp had fallen; nothing

could now stop the Germans reaching the coast. And England perhaps.

But that was an incredible thought to John. England could not know

ruin like this. He looked up at the moon hanging serenely over the

flat Belgian countryside. The same moon peered down on English homes

and in silent glades where the birds slept.

II

So ran the drama, act by act, in those epic days. While England

waited breathlessly, the terrible tides of war, now sweeping onwards,

now refluent, devastated the countryside of Europe. The little fire,

lighted in Sarajevo, spread outwards until it lapped countries and

capitals and nations in its lurid glow; until the windy plain of

Troy, the desert slopes of the Holy Land, the forests of the

Caucasian mountains, and the shores of the Tigris and Danube shook

with the tramp of men. Month after month, the war spread its leprous

hand across the face of splendid courageous manhood. Sometimes, in

the agony of his soul, when coming from dressing stations where men

held in their entrails, by pools coloured like sunset with the blood

and limbs of men and horses, John cried out against the monstrous

infliction of pain. Was it not better that the world should crash

into another planet, and find the peace of obliteration? And to

heighten the useless agony of this drama, came the reports of

official squabbles, the blunders of statesmen, the rhetorical

recriminations of politicians, hurled from nation to nation with

cheap victories of words, while men struggled with mud under a

murderous hail of iron.

For fifteen months John rushed about the fringe of war in his great

car. They were days of terrible strain, but his efforts seemed as

nothing beside the herculean labour of those wonderful boys who

tramped along the tree splintered roads of Flanders, singing in

defeat as in victory, dropping swiftly by the roadside in a

convulsive cough as death fell upon them from the air. He was up

every morning at five, astir before daylight in the cold wintry air,

with a long motor journey to the lines, there to watch the coloured

panorama of a bombardment, the unearthly silence of "zero" when the

barrage lifted, to wait in those minutes when youth leapt forward

upon death; and then to visit the clearing stations where men who had

been splendid to look upon, so full of the vigour of youth, lay torn

in ribbons, demented, delirious. Month after month he went through

the hideous routine when suddenly, one night, after writing his

despatch, he fell forwards upon his typewriter. They found him in a

dead faint.

"I've seen this coming," said Biddings. "He's worn himself away--and

he'll have company soon," he said, turning to Phipps, "if you don't

write and smoke less."

A week later John was at the Vernleys, lying about in their rooms,

and talking as though all those months had been a nightmare. It was

not the same house; Kitty was nursing in London, Alice was on a farm.

Bobbie was back home with a wound, hoping to be released daily from a

luxurious private hospital in Sussex, "where the chambermaid's a

countess and the matron a snob." Muriel--the saga of Muriel, they

all called it. She had contributed to history. The story of her

stand at Lens had made all England ring with her fame. She had been

mentioned in despatches for her heroism under fire. John had not

seen her since that memorable day in Ghent, but letters came and

went. She wrote vividly of her experiences, and he began to be a

little in awe of her obvious efficiency. News of one, he could not

gain. There was no mention of Marsh among any of his friends.

Bobbie had been curtly silent when asked. "Never heard of him--don't

expect he's wounded." Was that a sneer? thought John. Even Mr.

Fletcher, forwarding parcels from the boys of his House asked, "We

can't trace Marsh--do you know his regiment? He does not reply to

letters."

With quiet, and Mrs. Vernley's assiduous attention, John quickly

recovered. She had aged much since the death of her eldest boy, and

sorrow had rendered her more gentle and self-effacing than ever.

These were lonely days for her, with Mr. Vernley away as a Director

in one of the Ministries, her daughters all on war work. They had

long talks at tea time, when John read the pages he had gathered

together of a book of despatches. He was a famous man now, and he

rather enjoyed the experience. There was nothing elating in being

famous, just because every one was glad to shake you by the hand or

because your name was a password whenever and wherever it was

uttered; it was indeed wearisome to be pestered with petitions for

your support of all kinds of fantastic charities, to be expected to

speak here, there and everywhere, or to be an afternoon's attraction

at an ambitious lady's drawing-room party. What he enjoyed was the

freemasonry in which he could now move among the men and women of the

earth who did things, and were great, simply because their natures

were rich in character and prodigal with varying gifts.

After his sojourn at "The Croft," he spent a fortnight in town

looking up old friends. It was a London strangely, terribly changed.

It was, in one phase, a London more interesting. Down its pavements

in great variety of uniforms, passed the young men of all the earth;

youth from the plains, the jungle, the prairie, the veldt, the

backwoods and the ranch, youth in splendid careless vigour, snatching

hectically at joy, not turning to see the shadowy spectre over their

shoulders. It was strange to stand in Piccadilly Circus, dimly lit,

and watch the theatres pour out their festive crowds, to sit in the

busy restaurants, to see mankind, strained, feverish, but debonair,

trying to laugh in the face of ruin and death. It was a London of

extremes; the wounded silently borne from Charing Cross, the

beautiful living swept out in the deadly maelstrom at Victoria

Station; the painted women gaily surrendering to the rabid hunger of

youth in arms, full-blooded and reckless; the air of intense

expectation of fresh development, the swift rise and fall of national

heroes, the craving for a strong man to lead the nation to victory;

the silent evidence of the wreckage in those endless hospitals, the

fierce old women full of hate, and the beardless boys drilled and

transported like sheep under the charge of hard-voiced blasphemous

sergeants,--all these things revealed a nation at war, a nation

unnatural in its hopes, fears, suspicions, enthusiasms, yet

heroically treading the inevitable path through chaos to some kind of

ending, either of victory or defeat.

It was while watching the crowd surging into the Piccadilly Tube

entrance, that John's heart suddenly leapt up in surprise.

Surely--yes, it was the undisguisable Marsh--and yet! John stared a

moment. A tall, sun-browned youth in kilts, with the black and red

hose of the Black Watch, was laughing down into the face of a girl

whose hand rested persuasively on his arm. She was pursuing her

profession, the oldest under the sun, with all the usual assets, the

flaunting white stole over the shoulders, the large beaded vanity

bag, one hand gloved, the other thin, manicured and nervous,

glittering with rings, too large to be genuine. There was something

pathetically obvious in the loud declaration of her clothes, the

challenge of her carriage, the provoking tilt of her hat over large

observant eyes. She had found her object of a night's passion and

pay--the human agent of bread and rent. Here was another youth,

beautiful in his strength, snatching at a brief expression of manhood

as a pleasurable anodyne for an approaching ordeal.

She turned and the young officer half hesitated. John moved forward.

"Marsh!" he said quietly. A malevolent look glittered beneath the

dark hat, the tall youth peered at the intruder half-resentfully;

even then he seemed confused. With a shock, more of pain than

disgust, John saw that Marsh was not quite sober.

"What are you--" began John, when Marsh's senses cleared.

"Scissors, by God, this is great!" Then, awkwardly, he grew

conscious again of his company, insistently standing by him--

"This lady is--is--"

"That's all right, Marsh--where are you going?" asked John.

"He's coming home with me," said the girl sullenly.

John put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a note.

"This is an old friend I've not seen for a long time--I want to talk

to him," he said quietly, putting the note in her hand. Defiantly

she thrust it back, and her mouth, hard and unpleasant, curled

malevolently; she was baulked of her prey.

"Keep yer bl---- money, I'm not depending on missionaries," she

snarled.

John looked at her calmly.

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to offend you. Then you will join me at

supper with my friend?"

There was something so kind and disarming in his voice, that she

suddenly melted. Her eyes assumed a tenderness surprising and almost

pathetic.

"I'll go--he's your pal I see, and you poor boys may not meet again."

.She turned away, but John put a detaining hand on her arm.

"I really meant my invitation," he said quietly.

Then (God! the horror of it!), she momentarily misinterpreted his

insistence, and involuntarily her professional air returned, only to

be dispelled again by the kind cleanliness of the young man's eyes.

"No--kid, thanks, I guess I'll pick up a boy."

John put his hand in hers.

"No--in memory of our meeting, have a--holiday," he added lamely.

This time she let the note rest in her hand. He thought she was

going to cry, but suddenly she turned and was lost in the passing

crowd. Marsh stood there, silent, bemused. John said not a word,

but called a taxi, and pushed his friend into it. In the darkness

Marsh sat huddled up. They were speeding down Piccadilly and turning

by Hyde Park Gate when he seemed conscious that he was being carried

away.

"Where are you taking me, Scissors," he asked in a dull voice.

(Could this be Marsh, the debonair, the irrepressible?)

"Home," John replied laconically.

"I'm leaving Victoria at four a.m.--for France."

John started.

"But you--you were--" he began.

"Going to spend the night with a gay woman, like the filthy cad I am.

Oh, I know what you're thinking! Well, I was--I'd have been one of

those deserters you see under escort."

"You're drunk, Teddie," said John.

"That's no excuse--in a court martial."

There was silence again. It was now half-past eleven. He would get

him home and make him rest for the few intervening hours.

Mrs. Perdie was up when they arrived. Fortunately Marsh pulled

himself together, and was his graceful self, but when he gained

John's room, he collapsed on the bed. John went below to ask for

coffee, a little apologetically. But Mrs. Perdie was in a delightful

fluster.

"The bonnie laddie--oh, I want to cry when I see a kiltie. His

mother must be proud of him. An' the Black Watch! Many's the time

in Edinburgh I've seen--"

John left her in ecstasies. He wanted to pull the bonnie laddie

round, for the credit of his dear mother and himself. But Marsh had

recovered and was sitting upright in a chair. He had been brushing

his hair and straightening the thin khaki tie.

"I suppose you're thinking--" started Marsh, bitterly.

"What a stroke of luck it was--Jove, Teddie, it does me good to see

you! But where have you been?" cried John. And the other, seeing he

had no intention of alluding to the circumstances of their meeting,

took the hint.

"This is the end of two years' resistance to the folly of mankind,"

said Marsh in a laugh that had no mirth, as he stroked the sporran

over his knees. "It's been a long disagreeable story! Let's see, we

parted at Boston in August 1914--Lord, it seems ages ago. I went

home, and then the battle began. I didn't believe in war--I don't

believe in the war," he added with emphasis, "and I've gone through

hell for my belief. I'm not going to give you a recital of it all.

The badgering of one's relatives, the sneers, the fierce old ladies

who asked if I didn't think I ought to go. And the mater's had it

too. They made it so unpleasant for her that she never goes out now.

Well, I've stuck it out for two years, and hell every minute of it.

Scissors, I'm just nowhere at all. I went to some of the meetings

held by the conscientious objectors, but they made me ill. Most of

'em are long-haired fanatics, living on vegetables and cram full of

isms. They've got courage, there's no denying that; it takes more

courage to stay out of this war in face of public opinion and

calumny, than to go into it--but they seem to enjoy their persecution

and welcome it. I can't--it's misery not to be along with all the

boys, but I've stuck to my belief until--until--oh, Scissors!"

He bent his head forward, burying his face in his hands, and cried

like a child. John moved, and sat beside him on the arm of the

lounge chair, placing an arm across his shoulders.

"Teddie, old man--I know it must have been awful--you needn't tell

me."

Marsh lifted his head again, and blew his nose very hard.

"Until, Scissors--" he continued determinedly, "one day, a year ago,

I was at Paddington Station, and saw Bobbie coming down the platform.

He was in khaki, looking very fit. I hadn't seen him since our

holiday. You can guess what a joy it was. I just rushed up to

him--and--"

Marsh's knuckles whitened as he gripped his handkerchief.

"Scissors, he cut me dead--he didn't even acknowledge that he heard

me--but he _saw_ me--he looked right through me, and went on, leaving

me like Lot's wife. I'd had a hellish time--that just finished me.

A fellow can't go on fighting the world when his best friends quit

him. I just went home and buried myself. I didn't write to you--or

to any one; I wasn't going to risk a second incident like that. I

kept in,--but--I've been in the war every minute. I've gone up and

down those casualty lists, Scissors. They're all going; there's

hardly any of the old set left. Fletcher's House has been wiped

out--a whole bunch at Neuve Chapelle, and I'm going now. I don't

believe in the damn war. It's mad, it can't bring anything but

indemnities, starvation, hatred. Every day I am more convinced of

the insanity--the beastly, selfish filthiness of it, with all these

horrible old politicians making speeches out of it, the business man

'doing his bit,' as he calls his plundering, the fierce old women

lapping up German blood like vampires. I've deserted, Scissors, I've

funked the battle against it--I can't carry on this lone fight any

longer. I enlisted a few months ago--been training at Salisbury and

here I am, a tailored product of Scott Adie, Highland outfitters, and

one of our 'darling brave lads' ready to die for his country."

He laughed bitterly at the wry humour of his position.

"I'm going to disembowel some mother's son I've never seen. They

have been working us up to blood fury on stuffed sacks. I've learned

how to draw out my bayonet with a twist, and when I've blotted out

the light of life in half-a-dozen mother's hearts, a more expert

pig-sticker than I am will blot out my mother's happiness. And it'll

go on and on for years, till there's hardly a sane, able-bodied

fellow left, and then one side will crack, and the political and

financial ghouls will gather over Europe's corpse and exact terms and

wave flags of victory."

Marsh stood up and paced the room.

"Where's the sense of it?" he cried, stretching out his hands. "What

has victory to do with justice--the strongest wins!--but it doesn't

follow the strongest is right!"

His eyes softened.

"And, Scissors, those kids in my platoon--there's not one of them

eighteen yet; they're just babies and I mother 'em night and day.

You know how puppies are, with clumsy paws and trusting eyes?---well,

they're just like that, Scissors--and when they're--they're sent into

the line--"

Here his words choked him. Mrs. Perdie entered with the coffee, and

with further exclamations of delight offered all kinds of service.

With many thanks and refusals, John got her out of the room again,

but not before she had asked to give the young gentleman a kiss, "as

if I was your ain mother, bless her--and God keep you safe," she

said, retreating to the door with tearful eyes. Marsh seemed better

for having unburdened himself. John wanted him to have a nap, but he

would not.

"Let's talk, Scissors, till it's time. We've such a lot to say and

you never know, we may--"

"Oh, rubbish, Teddie."

So they talked, and the old days with their golden careless hours all

came back again. Remorselessly the clock crept on. At three, Marsh

said he would have to go. He had his kit to get at the luggage

office. John went with him. They walked along the silent unlit

streets. At Victoria there were signs of life. Figures in khaki

loomed out of the darkness; for a moment they halted, the sound of

marching feet came down the Buckingham Palace Road. Ghostly they

sounded in the night hush; a little group under the flare of the

coffee stall watched them pass a thousand strong, burdened with kit,

obscurely leaving the homeland many would never see again. Marsh and

John watched them pass, grim faces, pallid in the dim light, a few

whistling out of bravado, but apathetically silent, most of them.

They followed the detachment into the lighted station, passed the

barrier at the departure bay. Marsh found a carriage full of other

officers, some half-sleepy after long night journeys, two saying

farewells to their lovers, one very drunk, alternately blasphemous

and maudlin, kept in control by a friend. The doors slammed, a

shrill whistle cut off the useless scrappy conversation.

Their hands met in a firm farewell clasp. They could not trust

themselves to speak. The train moved. Marsh with a final forced

smile looked at Scissors, equally mechanical in response. A yard now

apart--two yards--the train diminished, the carriage faded--then two

red lights receded in the girdered darkness; after that a mist and

the heart's desolation.

III

The next morning, the _Daily Post_ rang up, asking him to call at

once, and the same voice told him that news had just come of the

death of Ronald Stream. It was difficult for John to realise that

the death of one so exuberantly young was possible. He had a vision

of a night in a room at Cambridge when he had talked there, so

radiant and intensely interested in anything, and so much the young

god in his beauty and zest, that John had felt shy of approaching

him. And now he was dead, in the far away Dardanelles. Fame too had

touched him by his legacy of a few immortal sonnets, in which beat

the heart of young England. Death seemed impossible to that

pard-like spirit, swift and beautiful. For a space, John thought of

his friend Freddie Pond. He had encountered him only two nights ago

as he leaned against the box office in the vestibule of the Court

Theatre, during an interval. John thought he had aged and looked sad

and tired, perhaps the act of watching the swift passing of so many

of the brilliant spirits he had herded, was wearing him. In some

respects, waiting at home was worse than the struggle at the front.

He saw Merritt at the _Daily Post_, busy and tireless as ever.

"Don't know what the Chief wants--are you better? You're looking

fit. Just heard young Bewley's won the Distinguished Service Cross

for bombing Bruges docks--a bright kid always."

Walsh rang for John and he went in.

"You're fit, I see," said Walsh. "Would you care to tackle a naval

job?"

"Anything," said John, "rather than be out of it."

"I'm sending you to the Dover Patrol. I know little more, how you'll

live, on board or ashore. I'll give you a note to Blackrigg at the

Admiralty, he'll tell you. Good luck to you, Dean."

He was outside again. This time the sea!

John called, in the afternoon, on Blackrigg and got his orders, then

he made his way to Gieve's in Bond Street for a ready-made uniform;

he was leaving for Dover the next day. Outside the Admiralty Arch he

heard his name and turned.

A girlish figure in grey was calling him.

"Tilly!" he exclaimed in glad surprise, "wherever have you sprung

from?"

"I think I must ask that!" she laughed softly.

She was looking very beautiful and he wished he was not in such a

hurry; he had much to ask her and she came out of a happy past.

"Are you in the same studio?" he asked, in a string of questions.

She was thinking how big and strong he had grown, the boy had

disappeared in this rather stern looking young man. But he had seen

things and was a name in the world.

"Oh--no--I'm at our flat," she replied. Then, seeing the enquiry in

his face--"Oh, of course, you don't know--we were married a month

ago--I'm Mrs. Lindon now."

She saw his face brighten with sudden pleasure, and as he expressed

his wishes, she could not restrain the tears that gathered in her

eyes.

"You are--are not unhappy?" he asked, suddenly. "Lindon's all

right?--where is he?" he added anxiously, as the tears trickled down

her face. She choked, and he took hold of her arm to draw her aside

from the inquisitive glances directed to them.

"He's--he's not killed?" whispered John hoarsely, apprehensive of the

common answer of these days.

"No--no," she replied, in a quiet nerveless voice--

"worse."

"Worse?" he queried.

"He was wounded four months ago--his right hand shot away."

They stood still, while the traffic roared about them. Strangely

detached from the scene, John watched the confluence of the traffic

around King Charles' statue, as it poured out of the Strand,

Northumberland Avenue and Whitehall. He saw the pigeons fluttering

down upon the placarded base of the Nelson plinth in Trafalgar

Square, and over it all, his brain was repeating an awful echo, "His

right hand shot away," the hand that had threaded those swift

passages of Beethoven, Chopin and Debussy on many memorable nights,

one of the hands on which rested his future fame.

"Tilly, my poor girl!" he said quietly, as she stood there, frail and

tearful. "Let's walk down the Mall--I want to hear all." He took

her arm, and led her away from the traffic's vortex. For a space she

did not speak, then she smiled wanly.

"Oh, I have him with me--he is so brave, and pretends he never misses

it--ties his own tie and is so proud when he gets it straight--but I

know all he's suffering. Sometimes I have seen him looking at the

closed piano as if his heart would break." She said no more, and

they walked on. Then abruptly John stopped and looked down into her

face.

"Tilly--you have been married a month--then his--"

Her eyes met his and answered him simply.

"Oh, you poor brave child!" he cried, his own voice trembling this

time.

"He needed me so, Scissors--and it makes no difference to me; at

least I have him safe now. But for him--"

They walked on in silence. At the Marlborough Gate he left her, with

a promise to call on his next leave.

CHAPTER II

I

The months slipped, months of peril, of thrills, of human drama and

comradeship. On Christmas Day, as they entered Dover Harbour, John

looked forward to the leave he had obtained. It had been a dreary,

nerve-wracking experience, a life in which monotony gave place to

unexpected activity. But the moment they reached the harbour, he was

told to report at the Admiral's office, and half an hour later was

under orders to proceed to Scapa Flow, the other extremity of Great

Britain, there to join H.M.S. Fanfare, of the Grand Fleet. Hastily

collecting his things, including a bundle of letters awaiting him, he

bade hurried and warm farewells to his shipmates, good fellows all of

them, despite the fact that they growled night and day about the

Service, knowing well they would be broken-hearted if they had to

leave it.

On the evening of the same day, he was in the night express to

Edinburgh. He had had a few hours in London and had made three

calls--first at Mariton Street to deposit clothes and get fresh ones.

Here he found Capt. Fisher in a state of high prosperity, as

something in the Ordnance Survey Department. He was enjoying the war

tremendously and prophesied that it would last another five years.

"It has revived British character, sir--the tonic we needed!" he

said, blithely indifferent to the holocaust of youth. Miss Simpson,

too, at the tea-table showed an indomitable spirit. She had been

visiting the dear brave boys in a local hospital, and related with

gusto a story told her of a Ghurka soldier who carried eight Germans'

heads in a sack, which he had refused to give up. "That's what

should happen to all the Germans," she added.

"It's very horrible!" said John.

Miss Simpson opened wide eyes in surprise.

Then he called on Mrs. Graham, for he remembered that her boy was a

midshipman stationed with the Grand Fleet; perhaps they could meet.

Her flat, with its exquisite taste, cast the old spell upon him, even

before she came into the room. There was something so intimate in

the books, cushions, curtains, rugs and china, something that

revealed the hand of Mrs. Graham. She greeted him with great

pleasure, made him talk, and as he did so, he sat wondering at her

beauty, the lovely order of her hair, the music of her voice. She

had just had a letter from Muriel. That opened the flood-gates and

for an hour a wonderful little nurse near Amiens was the sole topic

of conversation.

"It's more than a year since I saw her," he said, "and I am getting

more desperate every day."

"You poor thing!" smiled Mrs. Graham. "This war is very hard for

young lovers; I pity them most of all. But she writes?"

"Now and then--and wonderful letters too. I'm going to make extracts

and publish them."

"You mercenary man!" she laughed.

The hour fled. He had to go. She pressed a little autographed copy

of Flecker's Poems into his hand. He could smell the particular

perfume she used, for an hour afterwards.

It was not until John was seated in the train, speeding northwards

through the night, that he had time to open his letters. There was

one from Marsh, in a base hospital, wounded but cheerful and

recommended for the M.C. "for conspicuous bravery in attack."

"_Just fancy how all the 'brave lad' stick-at-homes will be writing

to congratulate me on coming to my senses and showing my courage!

Ough! Scissors, it makes me sick. One hundred glad-eyed youngsters

were minced by steel in that attack--we gained eighty yards and lost

it all an hour afterwards. What idiots we humans are!_"

A very short letter from Muriel. She was resting after a nervous

breakdown. How long was the war going to last? It was very

wonderful being in the midst of things, but sometimes she wanted to

cry out; was Europe quite indifferent to all the suffering?

"_Oh, John, if only we could just romp into tea at 'The Croft' as in

those old days, with Dad and Mr. Ribble discussing the Insurance

Bill, and poor Tod banging in, covered with motor grease, and you and

Bobbie eating up all the bread and butter. It is awful to think it

will never be like that again... I feel ages old... If this--_"

Here came a break in the letter.

"_I've been called away for half an hour--a poor fellow in my ward

who kept asking for me. He's only twenty-five, and so young and

strong, with the dearest funny little smile. He's so helpless. I

feel just like a mother, with all these big babies around me--and

they're quite as troublesome, but very dear. I begin to realise,

John, that I had never really lived. I see things quite differently,

and you'll probably find me another kind of Muriel altogether. I

expect you've changed also--haven't all values changed these days?

We lived in a very little world once, and thought too much of

ourselves._"

He dropped the letter, a chill had come over him. Was it envy of

those big babies, and particularly the one "with the dearest funny

little smile?" Changed!--what did she mean by that? He hadn't

changed, why should she? True, they hadn't met for a year--and she

had not written lately. Why had he not insisted on their marriage?

He laughed then, a little uneasily at a thought that said, "You're

jealous!" and read on--

"_It was very wonderful when you wrote about our settling down when

it is over--if ever. Somehow it seems too much to hope from life.

Things were getting very crazy in 1914 and I feel this war is putting

our relations on a more sensible basis._"

A more sensible basis!--what on earth did the girl mean. Was she

getting unnerved? He read the sentence over again. Yes, he must

insist on their marriage. She wanted a controlling hand; this war

was too much for her. With this resolve, he read on again, and

became easier in mind.

"_John, I couldn't leave this now, like this, with all this life

going on. It must be terrible for women to sit and wait at home.

Poor things. I read some of their letters to the men here and I

nearly break down. I am feeling a little shy of you, John, you are

so famous now. The nurses here bring me cuttings about you, and in

the mess room, there's a Sphere photograph of you coming down a

gangway. I love the naval uniform, and to think that I've never seen

you in it! Be kind to all those dear little middies, they must feel

so lonely on that big dreary sea._"

John smiled as he put the letter away. At that very moment, one of

those "dear little middies" lay with his head fast asleep on John's

shoulder, where he had slipped over. He would have to tell Muriel

that they detested being called "dear," "little," or "middies," and

that the average "snotty" could be entrusted to look well after

himself. There was another letter from Bobbie. He was not fit for

foreign service and he had been given a post at the War Office. Miss

Piggin sent a pair of woollen gloves she had knitted in "desperate

moments," for Chawley School was now a hospital for the wounded, with

Mrs. Tobin as commandant, "very successful, her firmness keeping the

men in order." Mr. Tobin was a chaplain at the front. She had had a

piece of Egyptian pottery sent by Mr. Woodman, who was a lieutenant

in the Yeomanry stationed near the Suez Canal.

Having read his letters John surveyed his carriage, thinking of

sleep. He had been unable to get a sleeping berth, but there was

only the "snotty" and himself in the compartment. That young

gentleman had been solacing himself for his departure from

home-worship and civilisation, with a copy of _La Parisienne_ and the

semi-nude mademoiselles therein, all of whom appeared to spend their

time dressed only in chemises, sitting on the knees of officers.

John reflected on the necessity of a press censor for the

safeguarding of "snotties'" morals. The immediate problem was how to

dispose of this lad without waking him, if possible. John looked at

the face on his shoulder; it might have been a baby's, so fresh and

unwrinkled, with a little red mouth through which a row of white

teeth just showed.

Very quietly he lowered the lad until he was reclining on the full

length of the seat; pulling his legs up entailed risk, but it was

done, and the Navy slept soundly. John made himself comfortable and

dozed off.

II

He was awakened by a ray of sunlight striking his eyes. The train

was standing in a small station. Looking out of the window, he saw a

group of houses, all brightly yellow in the morning sun. A slight

mist and a chill air told him it was early morning and there was the

smell of the sea in the air. A great range of blue mountains loomed

in the distance, with a flat estuary between, and the tide out. He

was alone in the compartment, but in a minute or so his companion

returned along the platform, fresh-coloured and bright-eyed in the

nipping air, bearing two cups of steaming coffee.

"Will you have one, sir?" he asked. "I'm awfully sorry I went to

sleep on you last night--did I push you off the seat, sir?"

John laughed and explained.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Bonar Bridge--we're on the Highland Railway now, sir. We've passed

Cromarty Firth--we've got a dummy fleet in there to diddle

Fritz--then through Sutherlandshire--jolly wild and desolate over

those moors all the way to Thurso. We'll be there by tea-time, sir."

The boy chatted away brightly. This was his second journey, he was

proud of being a veteran. He had been in the Jutland Battle, blown

into the sea and picked up from a grating by a submarine, along with

five survivors of a crew of eight hundred.

The day drew on; noon passed; still they climbed northwards. They

were in desolate regions now, with tiny hamlets set in the wild

moors. There was a feeling of great space and the silence was broken

only by the cry of a bird. They passed Dunrobbin Castle, standing

high and lonely on its promontory overlooking the desolate sea. As

prophesied, they reached Thurso at tea-time.

A motor omnibus took them along the coast from Thurso to Scrabster,

the point of embarkation. Here John parted from his young companion,

who gave him the smartest little salute, bestowed on admirals and

admiring young ladies only. John boarded a destroyer. Half an hour

later, entering a gate made by two drifters which lowered a boom, he

saw the Fleet. There it lay, enormous, like floating animals asleep

on the water, glittering with the afternoon sun. Here was the

strength of England. It was a sight to quicken the heart. From his

place on the bridge, to which the skipper invited him, John surveyed

this grey steel city of the brotherhood of the brave. The sea mist

seemed to cloud his eyes.

That night he met his fellow officers, walked over the ship, a new

model of the Dreadnought class, installed himself in his cabin, saw

his office with typewriter, clerk's desk, and telephone to the

wireless room. He interviewed his marine orderly, a stocky little

Cockney youth, shining all over like the breach of a gun. He slept

soundly that night, awakened early by his orderly with a hip-bath,

hot water can and carefully brushed clothes. At ten a cutter came to

take him to the flag ship to present his much-examined credentials.

A smart flag officer met him at the top of the companion way and

conducted him below. The Commander-in-Chief would see him in a few

minutes. John waited on the deck flat. Rear-admirals entered and

emerged from the white-enamelled, brass-handled door on his right.

There seemed to be a staff of flag officers in attendance, all young

and alert, with their gold lace and showy aiglettes drooping from

their shoulders. Half an hour passed, John growing more nervous

every minute. Then the young flag officer called his name and

ushered him into the presence.

It was a large room, with a fireplace and the far end completely

windowed, bow-shaped, under which ran a verandah round the stern of

the ship, where grew potted geraniums. In the sunlit air above the

wind-flecked water, small seagulls cried and hovered. The water

threw a shimmering reflection on to the white ceiling. By a table,

on which stood a silver portrait frame, a small bookrest holding

novels, a "Who's Who" and an "Army Guide," was a baby grand piano. A

red carpet covered the large floor up to the pilastered fireplace.

All this John saw in a glance before looking into the face of the

man, who stood, his back to a large flag-dotted map of the North Sea,

holding out his hand, his face puckered in a pleasant smile.

He was a small man, with dark penetrating eyes, a thin-lipped wide

mouth, with corners that suggested a vivid sense of humour. The nose

was slightly hooked, and John immediately recognised the striking

resemblance to his brother, a Hampshire vicar who had stayed with the

Marshs. But if the great position and fame of the man before him

made him nervous, it was immediately dispelled by the kindness of the

voice, and the charm of his personality. For twenty minutes they

talked, their conversation touching many points of common interest,

and on this occasion only briefly upon the work of the new

correspondent. Every minute an anxious officer looked into the room,

but the Chief ignored his hint of fretful persons without. At the

end, another warm handshake and John passed out. Back on his own

ship again, he was assailed and made to satisfy the general curiosity

concerning "the Old Man."

Thus he entered upon a new era of experience, and watched Spring give

place to Summer in the chilly northern waters; and upon the

precipitous cliffs of the lonely islands saw the bird life,

indifferent to mankind invading its hitherto unmolested domain.

III

The tranquillity of his new life, despite the atmosphere of constant

vigilance, brought a great calm to John. He had been a silent

sufferer in the appalling devastation, human and material, he had

witnessed in Flanders, and under the fearful strain of the Dover

vigil. Life on board was industrious but regular, and with the

cheerful companionship of these well-balanced philosophers around

him, he began to feel less acutely sensitive to the tragic action of

the world drama. In a way he felt uneasy. He was not quite taking

his share of the burden laid on the shoulders of youth. He would

have liked to stand by the side of Vernley and Marsh and a dozen

others. Here he was a spectator, waiting for something that might

never happen, something which he hoped never would happen, for the

event was fraught with immense and appalling possibilities. Often

John stared, hypnotised by the sleek quiet power of the long guns,

that moved so slowly in the morning air, like cautious antennæ. Yet

swift destruction could pour out of those harmless nozzles under the

obedience of hidden forces within the turrets. It seemed incredible

that floating mammoths such as these ships might dissolve in air

under the battery of similar guns.

But as the weeks wore on, eventless save for rumours and the

variations of discipline, the idea of war receded, though

occasionally incoming destroyers or drifters brought grim little

stories of short encounters outside their tranquil anchorage. They

read the newspapers and closely followed the vicissitudes of the war,

now spread to many fronts, in many climes, and affecting almost all

races on the earth, either directly or indirectly. And the

incredible was happening, the successive war prophets, the weekly

commentators, fell into oblivion, for this war went on despite all

the carefully enunciated reasons why it could not go on. According

to statistics, the German legions had been wiped out many times over,

but still they pressed hard the defending line, changed from the

defensive to the offensive with astounding virility for an army

pronounced exhausted and emaciated.

Letters from the front brought John into close touch with realities.

Muriel now wrote less frequently. Her hospital work grew heavier; he

could discern the heartache underlying some of her words, sometimes

an impatient note of protest against the politicians gaining wordy

victories, while wrecked humanity poured into the hospitals to be

botched up and start out again, until the human shuttlecocks fell,

never to rise. Then one day, a rare event, a letter from Vernley, a

poor writer, yet one whose disjointed chronicles were eagerly read.

John opened the letter in the messroom where he had been talking with

the ship's doctor, and read through it slowly; then on the fourth

page his heart seemed to stop.

"_Poor old Marsh! I suppose we'll all go West sooner or later, but

somehow Scissors, I can't think of him as dead. He was so full of

life, such a tireless beggar and such a fund of fun in him. I'm

tormenting myself with the thought that I once behaved rather

silly--I cut him on a platform one day, before he joined up. I know

it hurt--I wanted it to--he told me so later when I ran across him

here. Thank God we put it right. Still, I hurt him, Scissors, and

he was too dear a chap for me to behave like that, and I'm coming to

think he was right,--the more I see of this bloody mess, with no end

to it, and all of us wondering why we stand it._"

John put the letter down, numbed. He watched a destroyer through the

porthole, passing on, saw a gull wheel and turn, with a silver glint

as the sun caught its wings, heard the siren of H.M.S. Oak, speeding

on its message-delivering mission; all these things went on about

him, yet they were in a picture; only he was the unreal thing. Marsh

gone! How could that be with the morning so fresh and active, with

so much life about? Surely he would walk in here, and with a laugh,

clap him on the shoulder, with something thoroughly absurd to say.

Dead? Why--fellows like Marsh could not die!

His thoughts flew away to the rambling vicarage. He saw Mrs. Marsh

sitting at the piano, under the lamplight; saw Mr. Marsh in his

study, pipe going, the "_Nation_" in his hands. Could life go on and

Marsh not be part of it?

Hours passed before the significance of it became clear to him, but a

week passed before he was able to take up a pen and write to Mrs.

Marsh. That terrible task performed, he felt now prepared for

anything. The world was falling to bits; nothing could be saved.

The bad news from the front affected him little. He wondered at the

gloomy faces of the men around him. Why be affected by the

inevitable? It would all be enacted as relentlessly as in a Greek

play. Another blow would come yet, of that he was sure; life was to

be wholly disintegrated.

But the weeks went on and nothing happened. Letters came, curious

restrained letters, at longer intervals from Muriel. Vernley, as if

conscious of the lessening circle, wrote more frequently. Lindon, in

a big boyish left hand sent the town gossip; he had found a

consolation, he was composing, and Tilly was wonderful. June came,

with warmer and longer days in those northern waters, and with it a

hurried note from Muriel saying she would be in London in a week;

could he meet her, as she wished to see him? Her wish was a command

that found him eager to obey. A few wires, an interview, and he was

released; his leave was overdue and the _Daily Post_ offered to send

a temporary substitute at once. John waited impatiently four days

and almost embraced his successor when H.M.S. Oak brought him

alongside. He wired to Muriel asking when and where they could meet.

On Friday night he was back in London, more wonderful, more beloved

than ever to the exile, and found a reply at Mrs. Perdie's bidding

him meet her in the lounge at Claridge's on Saturday evening at

seven. He pictured her, waiting for him there, in a chic nurse's

uniform, and to be worthy of her and in celebration of the great

occasion, he put on his best service jacket.

He was there at five minutes before the hour, and to his surprise she

was already waiting for him. He rushed towards her with impetuous

boyish joy, that raised smiles on many observant faces around. Her

greeting was more restrained, and her calmness steadied him. How

splendid she was and how lovely, he thought. She had changed, of

course, but she was the more Muriel for all that.

"We've a private sitting room--let us go upstairs," she said, when he

had let her withdraw her hand.

"You're staying here?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," she answered. There was nothing said in the lift. He could

only look at her, but once the door had closed upon them in the small

hall opening on the tiny sitting room, he put his arms out to take

her into them.

"Darling," he whispered, but she seemed too agitated with nervous joy

to respond, and led the way into the room, where she immediately sat

down. Even then he did not see that she was slightly unnatural, as

under a strain. The first indication was her voice as she pronounced

his name. He looked at her more observantly; a dumb pain in her

eyes, which met his with a quiet strength, caused his heart to sink a

little.

"Muriel--there's nothing wrong?"

She looked down at her hands a moment, and then up at him as he stood

over her. Something in her whole attitude struck him as piteous. He

sat down opposite her.

"John--dear--I am going to hurt you terribly. If you cannot forgive

me I shall understand. I am no longer Muriel Vernley--I am Muriel

Harvey."

He looked at her. What was she saying? She was unnerved, he could

see that; this strain had been too much for her. But in that brief

silence she saw by the kindness in his eyes that he had not

understood.

"I am Mrs. Frank Harvey, John--I'm married." And to make her words

clear, she held out her hand, with its ringed finger.

Even then he just looked at her, and she saw that his eyes were those

of a troubled child.

"Muriel--you can't mean it!--how can you be married!" he cried, in a

low voice.

This time she could not look at him, she did not want to see the

agony that was coming.

"I cannot ask you to forgive me, John--I know that, and if you think

hardly, perhaps I deserve it--but oh, I don't want to hurt you--I

don't, John, I--"

He had risen now and had gone over to the window, his face turned

from her, looking down into the well of the building. What was he

thinking?

"It's incredible!" he said huskily, after a pause. "You cannot make

a fool of me like this, Muriel, you can't--why, it's impossible!" he

burst out, turning and spreading his hands wide; and then seeing her

face clearly for the first time, he knew it was true.

She was talking now--words, words, words. What could a woman say

worth listening to by a man thrown on one side like a discarded doll;

and he knew it all. Of course she had met him in hospital, there was

no need to narrate all that. He had appealed to her sympathies. But

he blamed her, not the man, who only pressed his opportunity. He

assumed a calm attitude until she had finished, as though he had not

really heard, for he was busy putting on a mask, determined she

should not see how cruelly hurt he was. Once out of the room, he

could face the thing squarely, but here, she must not see.

"Of course it has all been very silly--our boy and girl romance," he

said, as lightly as he could, and he found a slight pleasure in

noticing he had hurt her, for she paled as she stood up.

"Silly?--you cannot think it was that, John--" she pleaded, and his

heart smote him, but pride insisted on the mask. He held out his

hand formally.

"Good-bye, Muriel."

Would he go like this, she thought, so blind to her terrible trial?

A noise behind made him turn. A key was being fitted in the lock.

She saw his face set, and its sudden tension told her more than his

voice or words had betrayed. There was the sound of voices. One he

knew well, would have rejoiced at on any other occasion but this,--it

was Vernley's. And the other? John's eyes met Muriel's and they

felt their hearts throbbing in that long moment. The door swung open

and Vernley entered, following a young man, an officer,

fresh-complexioned and of medium height and build.

"John!" cried Vernley, holding out an eager hand, but John was

looking at him.

"Frank," said Muriel quietly, "this--"

The man interrupted her eagerly.

"Muriel--I'm getting on fine. I've put the key in myself. Don't

move, I know where you are, watch me! There's a window on the right,

the lounge on the left wall, you're standing by it--and a chair

here!" he cried, touching it lightly with his fingers as he walked

forward.

"Frank--this is my friend--Mr. Dean," she said.

The young officer halted, his hand raised for a moment.

"Oh, sorry," he cried, cheerfully. "How d'you do?"

He turned and held out his hand, but in front of John, a little to

the left, as though he might be there, and the face turned that way,

smiling at him.

A glance, and John took the misdirected hand and looked into

sightless blue eyes.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Dean?--Glad to meet any of Muriel's friends. I'm

rather sudden on the scene, eh!"

He laughed boyishly.

"And they'll wonder why she's got this blind old war horse--won't

they, Muriel?"

His laughter would have been infectious at any other time, but now it

echoed as in an empty room and was engulfed in silence. Vernley

watching it all, stood by the door. Muriel was crying now; the blind

man stood gripping the chair, sensing something unusual.

"I must hurry away now," said John. "Good-bye."

He shook the soldier's hand again, then moved towards Muriel, and

without speaking raised her hand to his lips. For a long moment he

held it so, while she looked down on his bowed head mistily. A

moment later he had closed the door behind him and was in the

corridor.

But he was not to go alone. Vernley hurried after him.

"Scissors, my dear old Scissors!" he cried, taking John's arm as they

walked towards the lift. "It's a mystery, I don't understand it, I'm

sure she--she--oh damn! you know what I mean! Let's go somewhere,

I'm all upside down!"

The lift took them out to the world again.

CHAPTER III

I

They were very patient with him at the office of the _Daily Post_.

He delayed his return to the Grand Fleet again and again. Merritt,

with an observant eye saw that the young man was on the verge of a

nervous breakdown, but he could not disguise his surprise, when,

after fourteen days' absence, during which they had no word from him,

Dean entered his room and said he could not go back to Scapa Flow

again, and wished to resign.

Merritt stared for a moment and poured out a flood of reasons against

such preposterous folly. There was his duty to the paper, which had

given him his chance and helped him to fame. Would he let Walsh down

in this manner? What of the public that read his despatches so

avidly? It was base ingratitude, sheer folly. The gods had poured

all the good gifts into his lap.

John laughed bitterly at this.

"What's come over you, Dean? I've never seen you like this before;

you've been going about with a green hue on your face for the last

two weeks. Are you crossed in love?"

"That's no business of yours!" flared John.

The suddenness and intensity of the reply startled him.

Merritt veiled his surprise: he had touched a secret spring somewhere.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Dean--but you're getting a little difficult to deal

with."

"I'm sick of life!" said John, dropping into a chair and beating a

tattoo upon the table with his hands. Merritt let him brood awhile.

"What's the matter?" he asked, "are you tired of the Navy?"

"No--but I want to go away, right away!"

"Well--go back to France. I'll speak to Walsh."

"No--that's too near--right away, if I go anywhere."

Merritt looked at him, but said nothing. John rose.

"Come in to-morrow--Walsh may want to see you."

"Right--and I want to see him. Merritt, I've decided to throw it all

up--this correspondent work--I'm going to join up."

If Merritt felt like falling, he did not show it. He was sure now

that the strain had affected the boy's reason.

"Oh--well, you'll be a quitter if you do."

"How?"

"With a pen like yours, you've a duty to perform. Haven't you

thought of all the people who read newspapers for a gleam of comfort?

You've a sympathetic note in your work--and many a worried mother's

had a little more hope to hold out with, after she's finished your

column."

It was the first time Merritt had praised him.

"If you want to go--you'll go, of course, and we can't stop you--but

you fall in my estimation. If it's England you want to got out

of--well, we want a man in Mesopotamia."

Mesopotamia, the East! Again and again John's thoughts had travelled

eastwards. In the last few weeks a deep longing for the skies of his

boyhood had possessed him; he wanted to throw off all the Western

civilisation now curbing and fretting him.

"If you'll send me there," he replied quietly, "I'll carry on--but I

want to get right away."

Merritt had won his point. John promised to return and see Walsh in

the afternoon.

The subsequent interview was short and satisfactory. He was to sail

from Plymouth in a fortnight, his ultimate destination being Basra.

"It's strange, Dean, but I didn't care to propose this when I first

thought of it some time ago," said Walsh, as he bade him good-bye.

"I thought you'd dislike being so far from your home-base."

Downstairs again, John, with the words "home-base" echoing in his

ears, laughed to himself. What home-base had he here in England,

with friends dying in every trench and the world tumbling in ruin

about his ears? The East--that was, after all, his true home-base.

He should never have left it. To this hour it called him; its

witchery was in his blood; almost he could smell the distinctive

odour, hear the jingle of camel bells as the caravans wound out along

the old highways.

And then a pang of regret smote him. He had friends here, good

friends. Ever since that terrible night when his whole future had

collapsed like a pack of cards, Vernley had been assiduous in his

attention. They had passed the ensuing days together, doing nothing

in particular, strolling here, eating there, talking of everything

but the one thing that obsessed them both. Once only had they faced

reality.

"I can't think why she did it, Scissors, I can't really. She must

have been deranged with all she'd seen, and her pity overcame

her--women are at the mercy of moods. I've not spoken to her yet

about it--I daren't trust myself at present, but when I do, I--"

John put a detaining hand on his arm.

"Bobbie--please don't. It can make no difference now. Perhaps we

are all wrong--the whole world's upside down somehow. I don't want

to feel bitter--I'm not going to feel anything again, I think, and if

she's happy--"

"She can't be, Scissors!" interrupted Vernley vehemently.

"Then she is suffering too--don't make it harder."

"It's her fault--no, it's his, I think--he's played upon her

sympathy--he caught her with a--"

"Bobbie--don't!--We--we can't hit him--now, as he is."

Vernley whisked his stick through the air, as though beating his way

through a tangle. They walked on in silence. Suddenly he stopped,

and confronted his friend, his face quivering, his voice ringing with

suppressed emotion.

"Scissors--you're a wonderful chap to take it like this! God! if it

had been me--I'd have--I'd have--"

"Faced it, Bobbie," said John simply, "but why talk about it any

more?"

But his calm belied him. To the wondering Vernley, it was marvellous

self-control and astounding resignation. Even Vernley did not

realise that his friend had sunk so low in the waters of despair,

that a numbness was upon him; that light and air were no longer the

craving of life. He was drowning, and the first fearful struggle had

given place to a benumbed acquiescence in Fate. Yes, light and air

had gone, that was certain.

They never mentioned the subject again, not even when they shook

hands for the last time, before John travelled down to the Marshs',

prior to sailing. Vernley wanted to take him to "The Croft," but

that would have been too much for him, and Vernley realised the

artificial naturalness they would all assume, and dropped the project.

The sun had set, and the livid upper sky tinged the sullen waters of

the Thames, as in the final minutes, they paused at the bottom of

Mariton Street. Vernley was walking back along the Embankment to the

hospital where he was still a patient, with a shell-splintered leg

now healing, two inches permanently short.

He grew philosophical in those speeding minutes, as the light died,

and the lamps began to glow dimly along the curve of the embankment,

running from the darkened East into the fiery West.

"What a mess it all is, Scissors--and some old blighters are making

speeches about the England that is to be after the war, the era of

reconstruction, of glory and peace; and here we are blasting each

other off the earth, many of us dead, half of us limping, and none of

us quite knowing ourselves as we were. Jove! Sedley seems like a

dream--poor old Marsh and Tod, and--my God, what a mess, what a mess,

I'm not sure that I care about seeing the end of it! Scissors, it

has been wonderful though--we can't be robbed of that by all the

damned politicians and the butchering generals. And to have had you

for a friend--why it's--"

He could not finish--with a silent handshake he suddenly turned, and

limped away in the gathering darkness.

When he had gained his room John sat down and thought. He sat

silently there until the last gleam faded in the sky, until the room

grew totally dark, and outside a large moon climbed up from the

chimney stacks. Mrs. Perdie found him there when she came in to

light the gas, preparatory to retiring for the night. She thought

how worn he looked, and suggested a cup of cocoa, but he declined it

with a faint smile of thanks. On her way to the top attic, she

reflected that only youth could plumb the full misery of these tragic

days.

II

In the train to Renstone, John wondered how he would find Mr. and

Mrs. Marsh. He had had two letters from them since their son's

death, letters written by Mrs. Marsh, full of quiet grief and

patiently uncomplaining. Somehow this journey to Renstone brought

Marsh's vivacious personality more vividly before him. Their days

together had been without an open confession of friendship, but their

attachment was deep, and Vernley's part in it equal, so that the old

adage, "two's company, three's none," was proved utterly foolish.

At the station a trap met him, driven by the old gardener at the

Vicarage. The sun beat down fiercely upon them on the slow drive

along the country road. The regal splendour of June blazed on each

side, in the woodlands and on the hills. Then the trap turned in at

the familiar gates, past the central holly bush in the drive, and

halted at the door. It opened as he alighted, and Mrs. Marsh stood

there, hatless and smiling.

"You are just in time for tea," she said, as he moved towards her.

So she had remembered his love of the tea hour and their talks! She

had not altered in any way, as he had feared. Perhaps her hair was a

little greyer, but of that he could not be sure; as for signs of the

grief she had suffered, there was none upon that face of almost

childlike grace. Far different with Mr. Marsh, however. John met

him in the hall, and was shocked at the change in him. His hair was

now wholly white, and the characteristic rectitude of his bearing had

gone. He stooped slightly, and John felt, as he took the welcoming

hand, it was a little feeble; but the irradiating kindness of his

smile was there as ever, and the gentle humorous way of talking.

They had tea on the lawn, under the copper beech, with an arrogant

peacock attempting to disguise its interest in their proceedings.

The old cat came out from under the rose bush where it had slept in

the shadow; a few birds lazily twittered in the screen of elms at the

far end of the garden, audibly tremulous in their tops as the wind

passed through them. The loudest noise was made by the wasps

crowding about the jam-dish. They talked of a dozen things, with

never a mention of Teddie's name, until after half an hour, just

before Mr. Marsh went in to his study, he said--

"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet here, my boy. You see, we've

not marked the tennis lawn this summer--Teddie always did that, and

there's no young people call now, they're all away. So you'll have

to amuse yourself."

He went indoors, sadly, thought John. Mrs. Marsh watched him go.

"Poor father," she said at last. "It has hurt him terribly."

John turned to her.

"And you?" he asked quietly.

She smiled at him.

"Perhaps I am less rebellious, John--I don't know. But I feel,

always I have felt, he has not gone, Teddie's here all the time."

"Here?"

"Yes--in this garden. Sometimes I sit here in the afternoon with my

sewing and listen to the wind in these trees. Sometimes there's not

a murmur of sound, and yet I feel that Teddie's here, just behind my

chair, or pulling the lawn roller down there, or lying in the sun

with a cushion under his head, 'basking' as he called it. I'm not

what you call psychic, John,--I've never given any thought to these

things, but I know he is not dead, that he moves with us here,

perhaps hears all we say. You know how he loved to talk. This is

foolish, perhaps,--but oh John, I am so sure I am right!"

He said nothing, but sat beside her. It was beautiful in this old

vicarage garden. Generations of vicars had tended it, and June came

year by year, with its profusion of roses, its climbing honeysuckle

and night-scented verbena. Was it too much to believe that any one

who had loved this spot, whose boyhood had passed in its peace, whose

love still lingered here, should come back, unseen? This was a

thought of faith, of love that would not countenance surrender; was

it a thought any the less reasonable because it sprang from abiding

love? He was a child in such experience, it was not for him to

judge; happy for her if Faith's bright star shone in the darkness of

these days.

He did not speak, he could not; any words of his would have seemed

desecration. He just sat there by her side, in the flower-scented

glow of the garden, while the sun dropped to the horizon and the

shadow of the elms lengthened along the lawn. The birds were now

twittering before sleep overtook them; the rookery over by the hall

grew noisy as the sky changed from rose-red to translucent green,

with an adventurous star here and there in the silver grey of the

east. The dinner bell tolled at the Hall. Mrs. Marsh broke the

silence.

"There, it is time we dressed. I have given you Teddie's room, I

thought you would like it," she said.

Under the pergola they paused and looked back over the gardens

towards the yew hedge, behind which the fading light of the horizon

flamed in the heart of the sunset. Softly she repeated,

"_Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns

And the round ocean and the living air._"

"Oh, John, I know I am right--the living air! I can't think of

Teddie as dead, he loved life too much for that; he was too joyous to

end in mere nothingness."

Her eyes shone with love as she spoke, and, that moment, her faith

became his.

CHAPTER IV

In those last few days he deliberately kept his thoughts away from

Muriel. Not that he was distressed by any bitterness; perhaps a

little bitterness, a resentment of her injustice, would have

comforted him. The inexplicable reasons of her action he ceased to

ponder, and the consequences, he felt, were not his. Vernley had

wanted to talk. Curiously, he now saw, Vernley revolted far more

than he against the accomplished fact of her marriage. Why did she

marry him? Was she in her right senses? Was she a nervous wreck?

Could she possibly love this man? How could she treat her lover so

callously?--all these aspects of the enigma worried Vernley in

succession, and ceaselessly he battered himself, mothwise, against

the undiminished, glaring fact of Muriel's marriage to a stranger.

All this had not helped John, and he had tried to make Vernley see

it, but the latter fretted ceaselessly against the finality of her

folly.

"I don't understand women--I don't really. If ever a girl was madly

in love, she was with you. She grew up with the idea of marrying

you--and suddenly she turns round and bolts without reason."

And John felt also that Vernley could not understand his attitude.

Vernley did not realise that henceforth he had ceased to feel

anything, that he was just numb to life. Muriel had written after

that dreadful interview. She made no excuses, gave no explanations,

only she wanted him to know that always he had been first in her

thoughts. He laughed when he read the letter, and in a vindictive

moment felt he would like to ask her one question. "Who is first

now?" For he knew that would distress her intensely. She could not

possibly love this man, he was sure of that. She had mistaken

motherliness and the protective instinct for the deeper emotions of

love, and in a temporary aberration had seen in self-sacrifice

something greater than a love which had encountered no real obstacles.

Had he but known, as he thought this, she was sitting in Mrs.

Graham's flat seeking confirmation of her act. Mrs. Graham listened

to her sympathetically, but gave her no comfort, for she affected no

compromise with the hard fact that Muriel had not married the man she

loved.

"Am I to blame, Mrs. Graham?--oh yes, I am, I am, but he must know I

am not callous--that I still--"

Mrs. Graham smiled gently, and took the nervously clasped hands in

hers.

"Muriel--in all you've said when you have said 'him', you have meant

John. Need we disguise that? You can no more explain than I can.

We women will never know why we throw away our lives."

At that the young wife broke down and wept in the other woman's arms.

"What can I do, what can I do?" she implored.

"Nothing," said Mrs. Graham. "My dear child you are not the first or

the last sacrifice to impulse. You are not going to suffer long;

your husband needs you so greatly and I think we women, if we realize

it early enough, are only lastingly in love when we are happy in

self-sacrifice."

She felt Muriel quiver in her arms and held her a while. Half an

hour later, composed again, she went, but not before she had talked

of her husband, of his cheerfulness, his eagerness to follow all she

did. He had planned their whole life together, and she was not to

realise she had a blind husband.

It was well she had not stayed to tea, for scarcely an hour had

elapsed when the bell rang. Instinctively Mrs. Graham knew it was

John. That he would come, she had never doubted. His confidence in

her had touched her from that moment of boyish ardour in which he had

acted as self-appointed cavalier on their first meeting at "The

Croft."

When he entered she saw that he had changed. He had put on a mask,

of that she was sure.

"Muriel has just gone," she said straightly, looking at him.

"Oh!" he replied, but with no surprise or embarrassment.

They sat down to tea. He talked of the Marshs, of their garden, of

how Mrs. Marsh bore her loss. Mrs. Graham watched and let him talk

of anything but the subject on which he really wished to talk. Then

quickly, as he leaned over to take a piece of bread. "How is

Muriel?" he asked, without a tremour in his voice.

"She has been here and talked to me, John. It's no use our putting

masks on. You know she loves you still."

He sat silent for a few moments, then twisted his handkerchief in his

hands, and looked down into his teacup.

"I never thought otherwise," he said at last. And then,

dispassionately, he told her his plans. He was going away, he was

going to keep away. He would never forget, of course, but she might,

and that would be half the battle. If they met later and she showed

that he had ceased to be first in her love, then he would not find it

so hard. To go away, to stay away, only that offered hope for them

both.

Mrs. Graham smiled in his face as she said--

"That is a desperate remedy," and although nothing had betrayed him

in his voice, his eyes were full of dumb pain. "But John dear,

perhaps you will be unable to stay away--had you thought of that?"

He laughed now, bitterly, she thought.

"Then I must make it impossible for me to return--but no woman can

mean all that to a man," he added fiercely. "After all, love is the

whole of a woman's life, it's only part of a man's--he has other

interests."

"You don't mean that John, dear," said Mrs. Graham quietly.

"I do."

"You don't!" she reiterated, looking at him steadily. For a moment

he returned her look boldly, while her hands closed over his on the

table; suddenly his eyes filled with tears and he bowed his head over

her hands. Neither of them spoke for what seemed a long time. She

saw he could not endure this strain, and came abruptly to earth.

"More tea, John?" she asked, withdrawing her hands, and smiling at

him, as though they had been foolish.

For the next hour they were very practical. He explained his plans.

The prospect of his work filled him with lively anticipation.

"You know, I feel as if I were going home--as if I had a home," he

said, "and if I hear Turkish spoken, although I have forgotten it

all, I'm sure I shall lapse into those Amasia days again. I had a

great friend there, a fellow called Ali--a Turk. I often wonder

what's happened to him--whether he's been smashed up in it all. It's

a silly world. Here I am, his official enemy--and we were sworn

brothers. Look, I've still got his talisman here."

He opened his shirt and pulled out the moonstone with the word

"Kismet" inscribed upon it.

"What a beautiful thing!" cried Mrs. Graham.

"Would you like it?" he asked, impulsively.

"No, John--you must not part with it, after all these years--and he

gave it to you to keep."

"But it's only silly sentiment, Mrs. Graham."

"Sentiment is not always silly, John--'Kismet' who knows?"

He laughed out gaily, and she was glad to hear him laugh so. There

was the ring of youth in it still.

"Very well then--I'll wear it because of you," he said.

"And Ali?" she added.

"And Ali," he echoed lightly. "But you shall have one gift for

remembrance."

"I would like something, certainly."

"I shall not give it you except in an eventuality."

She laughed at him.

"Dear me, how formal and serious we are!"

"It's a statue--my nickname too--'Narcissus listening to Echo.' You

know it? Dear old Marsh gave it to me in one of his whimsical moods.

It's damaged, but it's very lovely and I have a sentimental

attachment to it for his sake. I want you to keep it safely for

me--and if I never come to reclaim it," he said quietly, "I want it

to become yours."

She regarded him a moment, and saw that he was very serious, full of

the drama of youth.

"John dear, you're talking like a novelette; 'if you never come

back'--that's always what the rejected hero says in the last chapter

but one. You're not made of that kind of stuff. But I'll keep it

gladly--and perhaps, when you come to claim it, I shall not be

willing to part with it."

He rose to go, but she saw that he had still something more to say.

"Well?" she asked him, as he stood, hat in hand, after making

arrangements for her to receive the statue.

"You are wonderful, Mrs. Graham," he said, frankly. "You seem to

read my thoughts."

"Oh, no, but I see you have some. Tell me, John."

He hesitated briefly, but her eyes helped him.

"There are some letters--Muriel's. I have them all--she wrote great

letters from the Front. They're all numbered in a despatch box.

Will you keep the box for me--and--" he hesitated again, but she

waited, uttering no word, "if I don't reclaim the statue--send them

to her?"

He saw that she assented, and after that he dare not trust himself

longer. Almost abruptly he said good-bye and went.

BOOK VI

EAST AGAIN

CHAPTER I

I

John and young Sanderson were half asleep in the orange grove that

sheltered the row of tents from the merciless midday sun. All the

afternoon they had dozed, just under the oranges that ripened within

their reach; but about four o'clock, the noise of a Ford car coming

up the boarded track to the aerodrome, from its journey to Jaffa,

woke them from their siesta. A party had been down into the port on

a day's excursion. It was their last probably, for early at dawn, on

the morrow, the great attack was to be made and every one of the

aeroplanes now receiving final touches from the mechanics would be

soaring in that blue and cloudless heaven whence death would rain

upon the trenches below.

"I haven't written those blessed letters after all," said Sanderson

yawning. "I must do it to-night."

He stood up, a slim graceful youth in his shorts and khaki shirt.

The fierce Eastern sun had browned his legs and arms, though it had

not caught him so fiercely as John. He rubbed his fingers through

his wavy hair and looked down at his companion.

"Do you know, Dean, I think you must be the re-incarnation of an arab

sheik--I never knew a fellow who loved the desert heat like

you--you're looking splendidly fit." He laughed and threw an orange

at his companion as he lay in the shade. "There's something feline

about the way you purr in this devilish climate."

John smiled, stood up and collected the letters he had written.

"Let's hear the news from Jaffa," he said to Sanderson--and strolled

across the clearing towards the fringe of tents. They had been

together since John's arrival two months back, and this

happy-go-lucky lad of twenty reminded him at moments of poor Marsh.

He had the same volatile spirits, now very elated or full of

apprehension, tireless and restless, and very human and often

childlike in certain moods. It was to John that he raved about Mary,

the little English girl in faraway Sussex, and so deep became their

intimacy that he entrusted her letters to John, for him to co-operate

in his intense admiration of her wonderful epistolary style, her

unbounded lovableness. John soon knew much about his mother and

father, the latter a retired naval officer living in a little house

on the Devon Coast; through Sanderson, he could see the gentle little

lady who wrote in such a perfect hand with unbroken regularity,

chronicling the small events of the domestic round. That Sanderson

loved her devotedly, John knew from the light that came into his eyes

when he talked of her.

"You must write those letters, Sandy," said John, as they entered the

mess-tent. It was a task Sanderson hated, being always unable to

find anything to write about. A letter meant much at home, and after

to-night they--

"I'll do 'em after dinner," promised Sanderson.

Dinner that evening was a merry affair. The excitement of the morrow

was in their blood. John looked round at his comrades, all very

young, not one giving any sign of the apprehension he might feel.

General Allenby was making a great push with his left flank,

stretching from the sandy coast to the Jordan basin and the rising

hills of Judæa. The bombing squadron was engaged in the task of

cutting off the Turkish army on the line of retreat along the

Ferweh-Balata road. The Turk was on the run and this might be a last

great opportunity. They were to start before dawn. Early in the

day, John had sought and obtained permission to accompany the

squadron. Sanderson was to take him in his Bristol fighter. The

spirit of victory was in the air. That evening Sanderson twanged his

banjo with great spirit and sang "Glorious Devon" and his eyes

watered when MacDermott gave "Highland Mary," the heavy sentiment

assisted by many highland toasts. Scottish or English, it was Mary,

and Sanderson almost broke down just before they retired to snatch a

few hours of sleep.

"Have you written those letters?" asked John,--Sanderson stood

stripped in the moonlight, shaking out his shirt.

"No."

"Then you're not coming into this tent until you have," said John

firmly.

"Well, I can't write like this, can I?"

John laughed, holding Sanderson's shorts firmly.

"You promise to write at once?"

"Yes--Lord, I'm cold."

"Here you are then, and here's my fountain pen; you can see in this

moonlight."

Sanderson sat down on a box and put a writing pad on his knees. John

walked across the clearing for a final survey before turning in. He

climbed a ridge behind the grove, and above the tree tops a vast

panorama swept into view. Away to the left in the grey void, the sea

lay, the blue Mediterranean sea that glittered by day under the

changeless canopy of heaven. In the night air he could hear the

far-off roar of the surf, fitfully borne on a wind blowing up the

ravine, laden with aromatic night-scents from the orange groves. A

full moon hung in the sky, banishing many of the stars. John stood

there, with a chill wind intermittently blowing upon him.

There had come to him in these days, here, in the hard adventure with

kindred spirits, in the intoxication of danger and human courage,

amid all that was splendid, perhaps the more splendid for its pitiful

transience, a contentment with life. He was not maimed in the

spirit, though he had been sorely buffeted. His greatest ally was

with him, the Future. So much subservience to the omnipotent hand of

Fate had this East wrought in him, he would not rebel. If Mrs.

Graham could see him now, see the change that had quieted him,

instead of recalling the tumult of those days when he had turned to

her in his blind agony, she might wonder at the quality of his love,

at a love that surrendered and was happy in the act.

"Muriel seems very happy," she wrote; "if I did not know I should

think she loved him deeply; they are never apart and she seems

unwearied in her service to him." But did she know? Who knew the

heart of any woman and who could apportion duty, sympathy and love?

Now he looked back, he saw that, tacitly, he and Muriel had loved,

without obstacles, without trials. From the first dawn of instinct,

from that wintry day by the copse, when unknown temptings of Nature

and boyish impulse had made him gather her into his arms, they had

followed the natural course of their early affection. For himself,

even now, he had never doubted but that the fulfilment of that first

impulse lay in his marriage to Muriel. Painfully, but frankly, he

followed the remorseless logic of the facts. It had comforted his

egotism, the eternal possessive instinct of man, to think that she

had married in a mood of pity; what if she also married for love,

suddenly awakened and all the stronger and more impetuous now it was

really awakened?

He saw now, that throughout he had insisted upon the requital of his

love, and perhaps his dominance had won until this stronger instinct

awakened in her. He had banished all thought of her unfaithfulness,

all reproach for the blow he had suffered. That day, for the first

time, he had written to her. It had been a hard thing to do, because

he realised how kindness, understanding even, would hurt her. But it

was not possible to go through life with a barrier of silence

separating lives that had such great memories in common, when the

morning hours had been so bright for them. He had even referred to

meeting again, feeling in his heart there was nothing to forbid it;

and when he had written to Vernley, he had spoken of a "phase." The

very word hurt him as he wrote, but it was a surgery he had to

perform, and this great distance made it easier.

Rising, he retraced his steps towards the camp. He had just entered

the shade of the grove, when something suddenly tensed his whole

being into an attitude of listening. His heart beat, and the blood

in his veins pulsed through a breathless pause. Yes, he had heard

aright. Once again on the still night air it swelled and died, the

old, never-to-be-forgotten, age-enduring drone of the _saz_, beaten

in the Turkish trenches. Listening there, alert, his face turned to

the moon-bathed valley. He was a boy again, the old impulse upon

him. As a dream, his years fell from him. This was Amasia and the

moon peered into the gorge, silvering the weirs of the old stream.

Louder and louder, changeless and potent as ever, the night air

pulsated with the immortal music of the East. He turned and went

towards it, then halted with a short laugh at the strangeness of it

all, a medley of thoughts dancing through his brain to those exotic

strains, thoughts of deserted khans, crowded bazaars, a cowering

Armenian, the tragic dumb eyes of a Turkish boy, and another boy, in

a book-lined room playing a piano.

Then a voice suddenly cut sharply across the whispered suggestion of

the night.

"Dean!" it rang.

"Here--coming!" answered John, shivering with a nervous chill. He

blundered across the stubble, scratching his bare knees. The figure

of Sanderson loomed out of the darkness.

"Good heavens, Dean, I thought you'd been kidnapped--it's twelve

o'clock and we're off at four."

Sanderson had come up close now, and John's face shone clear and

blanched in the moonlight. Its expression alarmed the younger man.

"I say--what's the matter?--you look hypnotised!"

"Rubbish," John laughed uneasily. "I'm cold, that's all."

They walked back to the tent in silence and turned in.

II

It seemed only a few minutes later that the batman awakened them in

the dark tent. Outside there was a movement of feet and voices

coming from the darkness. Hastily John and Sanderson dressed, in

warm things this time, for the morning air was very cold. All the

machines were out of the canvas hangars, lined up for the flight.

There were muffled figures and voices. The mechanics stood by; there

was an intermittent roar of an engine as it started up and died down

again.

Sanderson climbs into his seat, John following. This first five

minutes is trying to the nerves, his fingers are cold and he shivers

slightly. They have said good-bye to the Wing Commander who has

wished them good luck. Some will not return again, but their

thoughts do not dwell on the fact.

Sanderson turns his head and smiles.

"All right, Dean?" he calls.

"Yes."

The propeller in front moves round slowly and the engine fires and

begins with a roaring noise. Now the propeller has vanished as it

gathers speed and they can see ahead, across the clearing, to the

orange groves and the blue ridge of moonlit mountains. The mechanics

are wheeling the machine round for the run down the field, the engine

is tested with them hanging on to the wings, Sanderson waves his

hands, they let go. They are off. Imperceptibly they lift from the

ground up into the cold air of the moonlit night. The grey-blue

country spreads around them. The stars have vanished with a paling

moon; to the east the silver of the dawn creeps over a black ridge.

The low flat roofs of Jaffa are dimly visible, here and there they

catch a glimpse of moonlight rippling on the sea. They are facing

the wind, but the roar of the engine is no longer audible, lulled by

the perpetuity of the sound. The coast line grows more distant as

their eyes become accustomed to the light. But dawn is breaking

rapidly. They are flying, for the present, until the enemy lines are

reached, in close formation; to the left and right, like grey birds,

soar the other aeroplanes. In a few minutes they will cross the

enemy's lines, over which they will have to deploy and run the

gauntlet of anti-aircraft fire. Their crossing is well-timed, for

dawn is advancing.

"We're over--do you hear?" cried Sanderson.

Far below came on the wind a familiar sound.

_Ratatatattatatatatat!_

It was machine gun fire trying to find them in the darkness above.

They were flying down wind now and had lost their companions. The

altimeter registered 8,000 feet. And then suddenly the world was

transformed. From a cloud-bank the sun emerged with a triumphant

blaze of yellow light. John saw the light, like a live thing, go

streaming over the hills and valleys below, flooding in a thousand

hues the objects of day. Behind them now, to the left, Jaffa, with

its white houses, sparkled on the edge of a blue expanse of sea,

wind-furrowed. Back on the left like a dull mirror, lay the ghostly

outline of the Dead Sea, with the barren hills of Judæa. The

coloured contours leapt up below them, the brown face of the

grain-land, the grey villages, the green patches of woodland. A

silver spear shot athwart a green-gold valley, where the Jordan

twisted southwards to the Dead Sea. From the sand dunes of the coast

to the Jordan basin a series of brown scars cut the earth's face.

"That's the last enemy line!" called Sanderson, pointing down. "They

will be about, somewhere, now," and obedient to his wish, the machine

lifted her nose and climbed to 12,000 feet. Already the change in

temperature was noticeable. John had discarded his hat and tunic and

sat in shirt sleeves, the wind blowing through his hair. They were

traversing the desolate hill-region of Lower Samaria with Nazareth,

highly situated to the West, and were now nearing the wild ravines

where they would find the Ferweh-Balata road. John's heart beat

quicker at the approach of the desperate moment. Far off, to the

north, a bright light flashed. John noticed it twice before he

called Sanderson's attention to it.

"What is it?" asked Sanderson. "A helio?"

"I don't know."

Again it flashed.

"I've got it!" cried John, putting his finger on the map. "It's the

Sea of Galilee."

The next moment there floated up to them the sound of a dull report.

"That's a bomb--we've found 'em! Look out, I'm going to

sweep--they're in one of these ravines. We ought to pick up the road

here."

The wind sang down the planes as they banked and dropped, the

country-side slowly revolved as if on a disc.

"There!" cried John, pointing to a white, ribbon-like road threading

a deep gorge. "Look--it's choked with transport!"

An aeroplane ahead hovered like a hawk, then, as if inert, fell to

within two hundred feet of the road, dropping its bombs.

Boom! Boom!

There were two clouds of dust high over which the swerving aeroplane

swept.

_Ratatatatatatatatat!_--whirred its machine gun, ere the bird of

death leapt skywards again.

Below on the blocked road, pandemonium broke loose. The mules reared

amid a debris of destroyed wagons; some of the drivers deserted their

seats and ran up the steep hillsides looking for shelter. The

transport in front backed, the transport behind pressed forward, the

line swayed, bulged and writhed in confusion and noise. A second

aeroplane swooped and increased the panic. The road was now heaped

with dead and dying men and horses, abandoned lorries, guns, carts

and motor cars. There was no place of refuge in that pitiless gorge.

"Are you ready?" called Sanderson.

John's hand sought the bomb release lever.

"Yes."

The next moment they had nose-dived; at the bottom of the dive,

Sanderson would pull out John waited for the moment, his eye on the

bomb-sight through which the road seemed leaping up to meet them.

Suddenly, the wind caught the rigid planes as the machine pulled out

of the dive. Now!

John saw the two bombs go, turn over, fall in the distance; then a

pause, with the air singing in their ears and--

Boom! Boom!

They were now climbing joyously. Their companion, for some strange

reason, had turned to the west and was circling wide.

"What's he doing?" asked Sanderson, but the question was answered a

moment later when three enemy aircraft, their wings black-crossed,

emerged suddenly from a cloud-bank.

_Ratatatatatatatatat! ratatatat! ratatatatat!_ went several machine

guns.

Sanderson turned and climbed towards the trio swooping down upon the

lonely prey. But his man[oe]uvre was seen. Two of the enemy planes

detached themselves and turned to meet the aggressor.

"Phillips can look after himself," called Sanderson, but his optimism

changed when a fourth enemy machine came out of the clouds. It was

four to two now. Still Sanderson climbed. His machine was faster

than theirs. John saw his intention--to make an Immelmann turn and

get underneath the enemy and rake him with machine gun fire.

At the top of the climb there was a sudden _ratatata!_ which sounded

in their ears, ominously near. It came from above them, a fifth

machine emerging from a cloud-bank, at a distance of eighty yards.

John felt a sudden buffet, as though the wind had struck him,

Sanderson's hand shot out to his gun, and there was an answering

burst of firing, full into the belly of the machine above. It fell

swiftly out of control with a wounded or dead pilot.

"Oh, good! Good!" yelled John.

Sanderson turned with a swift smile of triumph, ere tackling the

machine below, but his smile changed to a look of concern.

"Dean--you're hit!"

"Hit?" echoed John, and looked down. His shirt was wet with blood.

He plunged his hand into the open neck. A thin stream welled out

from the left breast. Yet he had felt nothing. He was about to

reassure Sanderson, when a sudden burst of firing broke on his ears.

The next moment, with a fearful roar, a machine swept over them, the

sparks from the exhaust trailing behind like a comet's tail. They

swerved, climbed, and then fell. Down they went, leaving the enemy

above; down, with an increasing roar of the wind, as they gathered

momentum. Ten thousand, nine thousand, eight thousand, louder roared

the wind, and John caught a glimpse of the country below as it leapt

to meet them. It seemed incredible that the planes could stand this

strain. Every moment he expected the machine to open up, but

Sanderson knew his work; he was safe in his hands. They were falling

still. Surely only three thousand feet now? Wasn't Sanderson

cutting it rather fine. He could see his head in front, familiar and

reassuring. Two thousand!

"Sanderson!" John called. He had no right to, of course, but

something impelled him. The roar of the wind carried his voice away.

"Sanderson!"

Loud, this time, yet the head of the pilot did not move.

"Sanderson!" screamed John.

A sudden swerve, and the machine shuddered from wing tip to tail. He

Was pulling out at last. No! they falling again. John stretched

forward, dizzy now with loss of blood.

"Sander--"

The cry was unfinished. Sanderson lay with his head inert on the

side of the fuselage. They were out of control! Faint, John fell

back; the wind screamed in his ears as they swept to earth.

CHAPTER II

An hour before sunset, a group of Arab horsemen came over the scrubby

hillocks, following the indistinct route worn by mules, which led,

five miles to the north, to the main route to Damascus. Their horses

were tired, for they had been hard pressed, and on the faces of the

riders something of the panic of the early morning was still visible.

They were alive, indeed, and fortunate in the fact, for hundreds had

fallen in that dreadful massacre in the gorge. Picturesque they

were, in an assorted fashion, but as soldiers they were not

impressive, dressed in ragged gowns and dirty head-dresses, their

beards untrimmed. More like a band of brigands, than a part of the

routed 7th Turkish Army, they rode in disorder. The level sunlight

flashed on the strange weapons stuck in their belts, ivory-handled

knives, murderously long, revolvers of an obsolete fashion and

pistols with heavy ebony handles. The young officer in command of

them could ill-conceal his contempt of this rabble, and watched them

with a cautious eye, knowing that they would as readily plunge their

knives into him as into that of any luckless traveller. Accompanied

by four juniors he rode behind, saddle-sore and depressed.

A cry at his side made him look up. His sergeant was pointing to

something in the ravine below. Half a dozen Arabs had broken away

from the column and were racing down the rocky steep to reach the

plunder. The officer shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun. The

stark outline of a shattered fuselage reared up on end from a twisted

mass of machinery. A broken wing lay twenty yards apart, It was no

unfamiliar sight, this, of a crashed aeroplane. He made no effort to

recall the Arabs, for his command would be ignored. The possibility

of plunder shattered all discipline. Contemptuously he reined up his

horse on the hillock and waited. The transport halted behind them;

even in retreat they disliked hurry.

"There's nothing left, I'm sure--it's a bad crash," said the officer,

surveying the twisted frame-work through his glasses. "The engine's

half buried--poor devil!"

The Arabs had soon finished their inspection, and with disappointment

were riding back, all but two, who suddenly turned aside and

dismounted.

"Why don't they come?" asked the young Turk, turning to his sergeant.

"Go--hurry them up--I will not wait."

The sergeant detached himself, his horse carefully testing its way

down the steep. The officer gave the command to march, the column

jogged forward in disorderly fashion, the transport drivers behind

cracked their whips and swore at the jaded mules, the cloud of dust

rose again on their trail along the barren hills. They had not gone

a mile ahead when the sergeant overtook the commandant again.

"It was a body--they'd stripped him, but I made them give up these

papers in his pocket, and this."

He handed a pocket book, some envelopes and a thin chain to the

officer. On the end of the chain a pendant swung and glinted in the

sunset. The officer examined it before looking at the papers. A

thin strand of hair, brown hair, was tied round the link that held

the frame in which an oval moonstone was set. On one side there was

a minute engraving of an eye, on the other, one word, in Turkish,

"Kismet."

For a long moment, the young officer spoke no word as he held the

stone in his hand. The sergeant waited. As they stood, the

transport column filed past them, lorries and guns, and all the

impedimenta of an army in retreat. The men were badly shod, their

uniforms ragged. They were ill-fed and half rebellious, but the

enemy were sweeping up behind and safety lay ahead; only the impulse

for safety spurred their flagging spirits.

"Where was the body?" asked the Turk, without apparent interest.

"About twenty yards from the aeroplane, sir."

"The other--there were two?"

"Yes, sir, the pilot probably--the machine fired and there's little

left."

The end of the column was in sight now. The sergeant turned his

horse as if to join the line, but his officer did not move. The last

lorry lumbered by in a cloud of dust.

"I will have a look at this machine, it may tell us something," said

the officer, turning his horse. The sergeant followed.

"No," he said, sharply. "You go on--I will overtake you in a few

minutes."

"Yes, sir." The man saluted and rode off after the cloud of dust.

The lonely horseman waited. Quiet was settling down in the hills

again. The next transport column would be an hour's march away yet;

it would be dusk ere they arrived. Spurring his horse, he went back

along the rutted road until the ravine with the crashed aeroplane at

the bottom came into sight. Dismounting, he tethered his horse by

the path and made his way slowly down the slope, still holding in his

right hand the talisman taken from the dead Englishman. If what he

feared was true it was a strange meeting after these many years.

Kismet indeed!

He had reached the bottom of the slope now, dusty and shaken by his

swift descent. It was dusk already in the ravine and the level rays

of the sunset were gilding the ridges of the hills above. He

shivered in the cool shade, and the silence grew oppressive. The

call of a jackal came from a thicket near by, a horrible,

blood-chilling whine. He stumbled. The light would be gone if he

did not hurry.

He could see the object he sought, a small patch on the ground ahead;

breaking into a run, he approached the naked body of the dead man.

Those bandits had stripped him, and he lay stretched out, his set

face turned to the sky. Two birds took sudden flight at the approach

of the man, and rose with a whirr of large black wings, sinister and

sickening to the sight in their repulsive portent.

Flinging himself to his knees, he bent over the slim body lying so

inert. For a few moments he had no courage to look into the face.

Beautiful, he lay in death, like a perfect figure of marble,--the

whiteness only broken on the left breast, bloody and scarred. Had

the miscreants murdered him in their plundering? No, for this thin

stream of blood from the wound had dried long ago.

Bending forward, the living face looked on the dead, and in that

moment of recognition a sharp cry of pain broke on the desert hush.

Gathering him up in his arms, he pressed the lifeless body to his

breast.

"Oh, John effendi! Oh, John effendi!" he sobbed, brushing back the

hair from the brow of the dead man.

"See, I have our token and thou wast faithful, John effendi! Great

brother of my heart, what woe is come upon us! Dost thou not hear

me? 'Tis I, Ali, thy friend of boyhood's days. O thou unfortunate

one! Unhappy the servant of Allah, that these eyes thus behold thee,

most beloved brother of my soul, John effendi! Oh, John effendi!"

He bent over the lifeless form, peering into the unclosed eyes of the

dead man as if he would read therein some words of recognition, of

greeting. He had not changed, this friend of happy days by Yeshil

Irmak's singing waters. The face that had faded in distance from the

fountain at Amasia was this face of death found in the desert, and

the years had scarcely touched it, perhaps only to make it sterner,

more handsome. Great was the will of Allah to bring them together

again across the ways of the world. Thus had he beheld him on the

hill on that last day of parting when the night crept over the gorge

at Amasia; night crept on now, night with its stillness and its

stars, and he could not go hence again. Brothers in life they were,

were they not brothers in death; were not their feet wedded to the

same great adventure?

With his handkerchief he wiped the sand and blood from the face of

the dead man, smoothed the bruised brow. Beautiful he was, in this

hour of meeting.

"O John effendi," he cried, pressing his mouth to the cold brow.

"Our footsteps have gone out upon the dusty way and we are met again.

Allah in his greatness willed it so!"

The darkness of night gathered about the living and the dead. Above,

the brazen dome held the last flush of day. In the cool east a few

stars came on the flood of darkness. From hill-top to hill-top the

greyness crept and the valleys filled with shadow. The moon, low on

the dark horizon, brightened; the timorous stars spangled the

heavenly way with bright battalions. The hill ridges, black in the

sunset, softened and sank in the encroaching tide of night.

Such silence, such peace, such coolness after the noisy, parching

day! Foolish man, fretful with his bewildering schemes, his fears

and frenzy, his comings and goings over the face of the indifferent

earth--all, all engulfed in the enduring silence. And for the end of

all--this beneficent peace.

But no, even now, the hush is broken. Out of the darkness it comes,

mysterious, stirring, portentous,--the sound of a thousand years, the

low insistent droning of a drum. Listening, the living hears its

mournful, suggestive music, even as he heard it in the khans at

Amasia. It rises, it falls, undulating. And if the dead hear, then

is the call familiar,--the call of a far-off night, when, under

almond blossom, a little white figure, dream-impelled, stepped

towards the moonlit stream.

Nearer it comes, nearer, nearer. The night winds bear it afar down

the ravine; it is the music of war, the music of a thousand

conquerors marching in brief glory out to the silence of death.

Gently the living man lowers the dead from his arms. He rises to his

feet, solitary and minute under the inquisition of the stars. The

tethered horse on the highway stirs and whinnies. The transport

column comes winding along the road of retreat. Nearer now, sound

the drums; soon the riderless horse will be found.

Suddenly, shattering the night, a shot rings out, doing violence to

the quiet of the valley. The echo ricochets from hill-top to

hill-top and faintly dies in the distance. The deep hush flows

again, the eddies of sound fade out on the pool of silence. Over the

grey crest of the eastern hills the moon climbs, pouring its light

into the ravine. A jackal cries and slinks away among the scrub; and

again, the insistent calling of a drum.

THE END