Her silence seemed interminable, and then he knew she had already

answered him. It seemed to him that if he sat there and died, he

couldn't speak.

"Winn," she asked in a whisper, "did you go because of me--or because of

you?"

He turned round, facing her.

"Is that worrying you?" he asked fiercely. "Well, you can see for

yourself, can't you? All there is of me--" He could not finish his

sentence.

It was snowing heavily. They seemed intensely, cruelly alone. It was as

if all life crept off and left them by themselves in the drifting gray

snow, in their silent little corner of the unconscious, unalterable

world.

Winn put his arm around her and drew her head down on his shoulder.

"It's all right," he said rather thickly. "I won't hurt you."

But he knew that he had hurt her, and that it was all wrong.

She did not cry, but she trembled against his heart. He felt her

shivering as if she were afraid of all the world but him.

"I must stay with you," she whispered. "I must stay with you, mustn't

I?"

He tried not to say "always," but he thought afterward that he must have

said "always."

Then she lifted her curls and her little fur cap with the snow on it

from his shoulder, and looked deep into his eyes. The worst of it was

that hers were filled with joy.

"Winn," she said, "do you love me enough for anything? Not only for

happiness, but, if we had to have dreadful things, enough for dreadful

things?"

She spoke of dreadful things as if they were outside her, and as if they

were very far away.

"I love you enough for anything," said Winn, gravely.

"Tell me," she whispered, "did you ever even think--you liked her as

much?"

Winn looked puzzled; it took him a few minutes to guess whom she meant,

then he said wonderingly:

"My wife, you mean?"

Claire nodded. It was silly how the little word tore its way into her

very heart; she had to bite her lips to keep herself from crying out.

She did not realize that the word was meaningless to him.

"No," said Winn, gravely; "that's the worst of it. I must have been out

of my head. It was a fancy. Of course I thought it was all right, but I

didn't _care_. It was fun rather than otherwise; you know what I mean?

I'm afraid I gave her rather a rotten time of it; but fortunately she

doesn't like me at all. It's not surprising."

"Yes, it is," said Claire, firmly; "it's very surprising. But if she

doesn't care for you, and you don't care for her, can't anything be

done?"

There is something cruel in the astonishing ease with which youth

believes in remedial measures. It is a cruelty which reacts so terribly

upon its possessors.

Winn hesitated; then he told her that he would take her to the ends of

the world. Claire pushed away the ends of the world; they did not sound

very practical.

"I mean," she said, "have you got to consider anybody else? Of course

there's Maurice and your people, I've thought of them. But I don't think

they'd mind so awfully always, do you? It wouldn't be like robbing or

cheating some one who really needed us. We couldn't do that, of course."

Then Winn remembered Peter. He told her somehow that there was Peter. He

hid his face against her breast while he told her; he could not bear to

see in her eyes this new knowledge of Peter.

But she was very quiet about it; it was almost as if she had always

known that there was Peter.

Winn spoke very wildly after that; he denied Peter; he denied any

obstacles; he spoke as if they were already safely and securely married.

He explained that they had to be together; that was the long and short

of it. Anything else was absurd; she must see that it was absurd.

Claire didn't interrupt him once; but when he had quite finished, she

said consideringly:

"Yes; but, after all, she gave you Peter."

Then Winn laughed, remembering how Estelle had given him Peter. He

couldn't explain to Claire quite how funny it was.

She bore his laughter, though it surprised her a little; there seemed to

be so many new things to be learned about him. Then she said:

"Anyway, we can be quite happy for a fortnight, can't we?"

Winn raised his head and looked at her. It was his turn to be surprised.

"Maurice and I," she explained, "have to go back in two weeks; we've

come over here for the fortnight. So we'll just be happy, won't we? And

we can settle what we'll do afterward, at the end of the time."

She spoke as if a fortnight was a long time. Then Winn kissed her; he

did it with extraordinary gentleness, on the side of her cheek and on

her wet curls covered with snow.

"You're such a baby," he said half to himself; "so it isn't a bit of use

your being as old as the hills the other part of the time. There are

just about a million reasons why you shouldn't stay, you know."

"Oh, reasons!" said Claire, making a face at anything so trivial as a

reason. Then she became very grave, and said, "I _want_ to stay, Winn;

of course I know what you mean. But there's Maurice; it isn't as if I

were alone. And afterwards--oh, Winn, it's because I don't know what is

going to happen afterwards--I _must_ have now!"

Winn thought for a moment, then he said:

"Well, I'll try and work it. You mustn't be in the same hotel, though.

Fortunately, I know a nice woman who'll help us through; only, darling,

I'm awfully afraid it's beastly wrong for you. I mean I can't explain

properly; but if I let you go now, it would be pretty sickening. But

you'd get away; and if you stay, I'll do the best I can but we shall get

mixed up so that you'll find it harder to shake me off. You see, you're

awfully young; there are chances ahead of you, awfully decent other

chaps, marriage--"

"And you," she whispered--"you?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter a damn about me either way," he explained

carefully. "I'm stuck. But it isn't really fair of me to let you stay.

You don't understand, but it simply isn't fair."

Claire looked reproachfully at him.

"If I don't want you to be fair," she said, "you oughtn't to want to

be--not more than I do, I mean. Besides--Oh, Winn, I do know about when

I go! That's why I _can't_ go till we've been happy, awfully happy,

_first_. Don't you see, if I went now, there'd be nothing to look back

on but just your being hurt and my being hurt; and I want happiness! Oh,

Winn, I want happiness!"

That was the end of it. He took her in his arms and promised her

happiness.

PART III

CHAPTER XXIII

It seemed incredible that they should be happy, but from the first of

their fortnight to the last they were increasingly, insanely happy.

Everything ministered to their joy; the unstinted blue and gold of the

skies, the incommunicable glee of mountain heights, their blind and

eager love.

There was no future. They were on an island cut off from all to-morrows;

but they were together, and their island held the fruits of the

Hesperides.

They lived surrounded by light passions, by unfaithfulnesses that had

not the sharp excuses of desire, bonds that held only because they would

require an effort to break and bonds that were forged only because it

was easier to pass into a new relation than to continue in an old one.

Their solid and sober passion passed through these light fleets of

pleasure-boats as a great ship takes its unyielding way toward deep

waters.

Winn was spared the agony of foresight; he could not see beyond her

sparkling eyes; and Claire was happy, exultantly, supremely happy, with

the reckless, incurious happiness of youth.

It was terrible to see them coming in and out with their joy. Their

faces were transfigured, their eyes had the look of sleep-walkers, they

moved as through another world. They had only one observer, and to Miss

Marley the sight of them was like the sight of those unknowingly

condemned to die. St. Moritz in general was not observant. It had

gossips, but it did not know the difference between true and false,

temporary and permanent. It had one mold for all its fancies: given a

man and a woman, it formed at once its general and monotonous

conjecture.

Maurice might have noticed Claire's preoccupation, for Maurice was

sensitive to that which touched himself, but for the moment a group more

expensive and less second rate than he had discovered at Davos took up

his entire attention. He had none to spare for his sister unless she

bothered him, and she didn't bother him.

It was left to Miss Marley to watch from hour to hour the significant

and rising chart of passion. The evening after the Davos match, Winn had

knocked at the door of her private sitting-room. It was his intention

only to ask her if she would dine with some friends of his from Davos;

he would mention indifferently that they were very young, a mere boy and

girl, and he would suggest with equal subtlety that he would be obliged

if Miss Marley would continue to take meals at his table during their

visit. St. Moritz, he saw himself saying, was such a place for talk.

There was no occasion to go into anything, and Miss Marley would, of

course, have no idea how matters really stood. She was a good sort, but

he wasn't going to talk about Claire.

Miss Marley said, "Come in," in that wonderful, low, soft voice of hers

that came so strangely from her blistered lips. She was sitting in a low

chair, smoking, in front of an open wood fire.

Her room was furnished by herself. It was a comfortable, featureless

room, with no ornaments and no flowers; there were plenty of books in

cases or lying about at ease on a big table, a stout desk by the window,

and several leather-covered, deep armchairs. The walls were bare except

for photographs of the Cresta. These had been taken from every possible

angle of the run--its banks, its corners, its flashing pieces of

straight, and its incredible final hill. It was noticeable that though

there was generally a figure on a toboggan in the photograph, it never

happened to be one of Miss Marley herself. She was a creditable rider,

but she did not, to her own mind, show off the Cresta.

Her eyes met Winn's with a shrewdness that she promptly veiled. He

wasn't looking as if he wanted her to be shrewd. It struck her that she

was seeing Winn as he must have looked when he was about twenty. She

wondered if this was only because he had won the match. His eyes were

very open and they were off their guard. It could not be said that Winn

had ever in his life looked appealing, but for a Staines to look so

exposed to friendliness was very nearly an appeal.

"Mavorovitch has just left me," said Miss Marley. "You ought to have

heard what he said about you. It was worth hearing. You played this

afternoon like a successful demon dealing with lost souls. I don't think

I've ever seen bandy played quite in that vein before."

Winn sank into one of the leather armchairs and lighted a cigarette.

"As a matter of fact," he said, "I played like a fluke. I am not up to

Mavorovitch's form at all. I just happened to be on my game; he would

have had me down and out otherwise."

Miss Marley nodded; she was wondering what had put Winn on his game. She

turned her eyes away from him and looked into the fire. Winn was resting

for the first time that day; the sense of physical ease and her even,

tranquil comradeship were singularly soothing to him. Suddenly it

occurred to him that he very much liked Miss Marley, and in a way in

which he had never before liked any woman, with esteem and without

excitement. He gave her a man's first proof of confidence.

"Look here," he said, "I want you to help me."

Miss Marley turned her eyes back to him; she was a plain woman, but she

was able to speak with her eyes, and though what she said was sometimes

hard and always honest, on the present occasion they expressed only an

intense reassurance of good-will.

"When I came in," Winn said rather nervously, "I meant to ask you a

little thing, but I find I am going to ask you a big one."

"Oh, well," said Miss Marley, "ask away. Big or little, friends should

stand by each other."

"Yes," said Winn, relieved, "that's what I thought you'd say. I don't

know that I ever mentioned to you I'm married?"

"No," she answered quietly, "I can't say that you did; however, most men

of your age are married."

"And I've got a son," Winn continued. "His name is Peter--after my

father, you know."

"That's a good thing," she concurred heartily. "I'm glad you've got a

son."

"Unfortunately," said Winn, "my marriage didn't exactly come off. We got

hold of the wrong end of the stick."

"Ah," said Miss Marley, "that's a pity! The right end of the stick is, I

believe, almost essential in marriage."

"Yes," Winn acknowledged; "I see that now, of course. I was keen on

getting her, but I hadn't thought the rest out. Rather odd, isn't it,

that you don't get as much as a tip about how jolly a thing could be

till you've dished yourself from having it?"

Miss Marley agreed that it was rather odd.

Winn came back swiftly to his point.

"What I was going to ask you," he said, holding her with his eyes, "is

to sit at my table for a bit. I happen to have two young friends of mine

over from Davos. He's her brother, of course, but I thought I'd like to

have another woman somewhere about. Look better, wouldn't it? She's only

nineteen."

His voice dropped as he mentioned Claire's age as if he were speaking of

the Madonna.

"Yes," agreed Miss Marley, "it would look better."

"I dare say," said Winn after rather a long pause, "you see what I mean?

The idea is--our idea, you know--to be together as much as we can for a

fortnight. It'll be all right, of course; only I rather wondered if

you'd see us through."

"See you through being all right?" Miss Marley asked with the directness

of a knife-thrust.

"Well--yes," said Winn. "It would just put people off thinking things.

Everybody seems to know you up here, and I somehow thought I'd rather

you knew."

"Thank you," said Miss Marley, briefly.

She turned back to the fire again. She had seen all she wanted to see in

Winn's eyes. She saw his intention. What she wasn't sure about was the

fortnight. A fortnight can do a good deal with an intention.

Miss Marley knew the world very well. People had often wanted to use her

for a screen before, and generally she had refused, believing that the

chief safeguard of innocence is the absence of screens. But she saw that

Winn did not want her to be that kind of a screen; he wanted her to be

in the center of his situation without touching it. He wanted her for

Claire, but he wanted her also a little for himself, so that he might

feel the presence of her upright friendliness. He intensely trusted her.

There are people who intend to do good in the world and invariably do

harm. They enter eagerly into the lives of others and put their fingers

pressingly upon delicate machinery; very often they destroy it, more

seldom, unfortunately, they cut their own fingers. Miss Marley did not

belong to this type. She did not wish to be involved and she was

scrupulous never to involve others. She hesitated before she gave her

consent, but she couldn't withstand the thought that Claire was only

nineteen. She spoke at last.

"What you suggest," she said quietly, "is going to be rather hard for

you both. I suppose you do realize how hard? You see, you are only at

the beginning of the fortnight now. Unhappy men and very young girls

make difficult situations, Major Staines."

He got up and walked to the window, standing with his back to her. She

wondered if she had said too much; his back looked uncompromising. She

did not realize that she could never say too much in the defense of

Claire. Then he said, without looking round:

"We shall have to manage somehow."

It occurred to Miss Marley, with a wave of reassurance, that this was

probably Winn's usual way of managing.

"In any case," she said firmly, "you can count on me to do anything you

wish."

Winn expressed no gratitude. He merely said:

"I shall introduce her to you this evening."

Before he left Miss Marley he shook hands with her. Her hands were hard

and muscular, but she realized when she felt his grip that he must have

been extremely grateful.

CHAPTER XXIV

They went out early, before the sun was up, when the valley was an

apricot mist and the mountains were as white as snowdrops in the spring.

The head waiter fell easily into their habits, and provided them with an

early breakfast and a parcel for lunch. Then they drove off through the

biting, glittering coldness.

Sometimes they went far down the valley to Sils and on to the verge of

the Maloja. Sometimes they drove through the narrower valleys to

Pontresina and on into the impenetrable winter gloom of the Mortratsch

glacier. The end was the same solitude, sunshine, and their love. The

world was wrapped away in its winter stillness. The small Swiss villages

slept and hardly stirred. In the hot noonday a few drowsy peasants crept

to and from the barns where the cattle passed their winter life.

Sometimes a woman labored at a frozen pump, or a party of skiers

slipped rapidly through the shady streets, rousing echoes with their

laughter; but for the most part they were as much alone as if the world

had ceased to hold any beings but themselves. The pine-trees scented all

the air, the snow dripped reluctantly, and sometimes far off they heard

the distant boom of an avalanche. They sat together for long sunlit

hours on the rickety wooden balcony of a friendly hospice, drinking hot

spiced _gluewein_ and building up their precarious memories.

There were moments when the hollow present snapped under their feet like

a broken twig, and then the light in their eyes darkened and they ran

out upon the safer path of make-believe.

It was Winn who, curiously enough, began it, and returned to it

oftenest. It came to him, this abolishing of Estelle, always more easily

than it came to Claire. It was inconceivable to Claire that Winn didn't,

as a rule, remember his wife. She could have understood the tragedy of

his marriage, but Winn didn't make a tragedy of it, he made nothing of

it at all. It seemed terrible to Claire that any woman, bearing his

name, the mother of his child, should have no life in his heart. She

found herself resenting this for Estelle. She tried to make Winn talk

about her, so that she might justify her ways to him. But Winn went no

further in his expressions than the simple phrases, "She's not my sort,"

"We haven't anything in common," "I expect we didn't hit it off."

Finally he said, terribly, under the persistency of Claire's pressure,

"Well, if you will have it, I don't believe a single word she says."

"Oh, but sometimes, sometimes she must speak the truth!" Claire urged,

breathless with pity.

"I dare say," Winn replied indifferently. "Possibly she does, but what

difference does it make to me when I don't know which times?"

Claire waited a little, then she said:

"I wasn't thinking of the difference to you; I was thinking of the

difference to her."

"I tell you," Winn repeated obstinately, "that I don't care a hang about

the difference to her. People shouldn't tell lies. I don't care that for

her!" He snapped a crumb off the table. He looked triumphantly at

Claire, under the impression that he had convinced her of a pleasing

fact. She burst into tears.

He tried to take her in his arms, but for a moment she resisted him.

"Do you _want_ me to love Estelle?" he asked in desperation.

Claire shook her head.

"I'd like her--to be loved," she said, still sobbing.

Winn looked wonderingly at her.

"Well, as far as that goes, so would I," he observed, with a sardonic

grin. "There'd be some way out for us then."

Claire shook her head vehemently, but she made no attempt to explain her

tears. She felt that she couldn't alter him, and that when he most

surprised her it was wiser to accept these surprises than to probe her

deep astonishment.

He surprised her very often, he was in such a hurry to unburden himself

of all he was. It seemed to him as if he must tell her everything while

he had her. He expressed himself as he had never in his wildest dreams

supposed that any man could express himself to another human being. He

broke down his conventions, he forced aside his restraint, he literally

poured out his heart to her. He gave her his opinions, his religion, his

codes of conduct, until she began a little to understand his attitude

toward Estelle.

It was part of his exterior way of looking at the world at large. Up

till now people, except Lionel, had never really entered into his

imagination. Of course there were his servants and his dogs and, nearer

still, his horses. He spent hours telling her about his horses. They

really had come into his life, but never people; even his own family

were nothing but a background for wrangles.

He had never known tenderness. He had had all kinds of odd feelings

about Peter, but they hadn't got beyond his own mind. His tenderness was

beyond everything now; it over-flowed expression. It was the radical

thing in him. He showed her plainly that it would break his heart if she

were to let her feet get wet. He made plans for her future which would

have suited a chronic invalid. He wanted to give her jewels, expensive

specimens of spaniels, and a banking account.

She would take nothing from him but a notebook and a little opal ring.

Winn restrained his passion, but out of revenge for his restraint his

fancies ran wild.

It was Claire who had to be practical; she who had spent her youth in

dreams now clung desperately to facts. She read nothing, she hardly

talked, but she drew his very soul out to meet her listening soul. There

were wonders within wonders to her in Winn. She had hardly forced

herself to accept his hardness when she discovered in him a tolerance

deeper than anything she had ever seen, and an untiring patience. He had

pulled men out of holes only to see them run back into them with the

swiftness of burrowing rabbits; but nothing made him feel as if he could

possibly give them up.

"You can't tell how many new starts a man wants," he explained to

Claire; "but he ought to have as many as he can take. As long as a man

wants to get on, I think he ought to be helped."

His code about a man's conduct to women was astonishingly drastic.

"If you've let a woman in," he explained, "you've got to strip yourself

to get her out, no matter whether you care for her or not. The moment a

woman gets caught out, you can't do too much for her. It's like seeing a

dog with a tin can tied to its tail; you've got to get it off. A man

ought to pay for his fun; even if it isn't his fault, he ought to pay

just the same. It's not so much that he's the responsible person, but

he's the least _had_. That ought to settle the question."

He was more diffident, but not less decided, on the subject of religion.

"If there's a God at all," he stated, "He must be good; otherwise you

can't explain goodness, which doesn't pay and yet always seems worth

having. You know what I mean. Not that I am a religious man myself, but

I like the idea. Women certainly ought to be religious."

He hoped that Claire would go regularly to church unless it was

draughty.

It was on the Bernina, when they were nine thousand feet up in a blue

sky, beyond all sight or sound of life, in their silent, private world,

that they talked about death.

"Curious," Winn said, "how little you think about it when you're up

against it. I shouldn't like to die of an illness. That's all I've ever

felt about it; that would be like letting go. I don't think I could let

go easily; but just a proper, decent knock-out--why, I don't believe

you'd know anything about it. I never felt afraid of chucking it, till I

knew you, now I'm afraid."

Claire looked at his strong hands in the sunshine and at her own which

lay on his; they looked so much alive! She tried hard to think about

death, because she knew that some day everybody must die; but she felt

as if she was alive forever.

"Yes," she said; "of course I suppose we _shall_. But, Winn, don't you

think that we could send for each other then? Wouldn't that be

splendid?"

The idea of death became suddenly a shortening of the future; it was

like something to look forward to. Winn nodded gravely, but he didn't

seem to take the same comfort in it that Claire did. He only said:

"I dare say we could manage something. But you feel all right, don't

you?"

Claire laughed until something in his grave eyes hurt her behind her

laughter.

The sky changed from saffron to dead blue and then to startling rose

color. Flame after flame licked the Bernina heights. Their sleigh-bells

rang persistently beneath them. They drank their coffee hurriedly while

the sun sank out of the valley, and the whole world changed into an icy

light.

They drove off rapidly down the pass, wrapped in furs and clinging to

each other. They did not know what anything would mean when they were

apart. The thought of separation was like bending from a sunny world

over a well of darkness. Claire cried a little, but not very much. She

never dared let herself really cry because of what might happen to Winn.

It surprised him sometimes how little she tried to influence his future

life. She did not make him promise anything except to go to see Dr.

Gurnet. He wondered afterward why she had left so much to his discretion

when he had made so many plans, and urgent precautions for her future;

and yet he knew that when she left him he would be desperate enough to

break any promises and never desperate enough to break her trust in him.

Suddenly he said to her as the darkness of the pass swallowed them:

"Look here, I won't take to drink. I'd like to, but I won't." And Claire

leaned toward him and kissed him, and he said a moment later, with a

little half laugh:

"D'you know, I rather wish you hadn't done that. You never have before,

and I sha'n't be able to forget it. You put the stopper on to that

intention."

And Claire said nothing, smiling into the darkness.

CHAPTER XXV

Claire had never been alone with Miss Marley before; she had known her

only as an accompaniment to Winn; but she had been aware, even in these

partial encounters, that she was being benevolently judged. It must be

owned that earlier in the day she had learned, with a sinking of the

heart, that she must give up the evening to Miss Marley. When every hour

counted as a victory over time, she could not understand how Winn could

let her go; and yet he had said quite definitely: "I want you to go to

Miss Marley this evening. She'd like to talk to you, and I think you'd

better."

But something happened which changed her feelings. Miss Marley was a

woman despite the Cresta and there are times when only a woman's

judgment can satisfy the heart of a girl. Claire was startled and

perturbed by Maurice's sudden intervention. Maurice said:

"That chap Staines is getting you talked about. Pretty low down of him,

as I believe he's married." She was pulled up short in the golden stream

of her love. She saw for the first time the face of opinion--that

hostile, stupid, interfering face. Claire had never thought that by any

malign possibility they could be supposed to be doing wrong. She could

not connect wrong with either her love or Winn's. If there was one

quality more than another which had distinguished it, it had been its

simple sense of rightness. She had seen Winn soften and change under it

as the hard earth changes at the touch of spring. She had felt herself

enriched and enlarged, moving more unswervingly than ever toward her

oldest prayer--that she might, on the whole, be good. She hardly prayed

at all about Winn; loving him was her prayer.

If she had meant to take him away from Estelle or to rob him of Peter,

then she knew she would have been wrong. But in this fortnight she was

taking nothing from Estelle that Estelle had ever had, and she was doing

no harm to Peter. It would not be likely to do him any harm to soften

his father's heart.

Claire's morality consisted solely in the consideration of other people;

her instincts revolted against unkindness. It was an early Christian

theory much lost sight of, "Love, and do as you please," the safety of

the concession resting upon the quality of the love.

But to-night another idea had occurred to her, and she was very uneasy.

Was it really possible that any one could blame Winn? Her first instinct

had been sheer anger, and her anger had carried her past fear into the

pride of love. She had felt as if she wanted to confront the world and

defy it. If the world dared judge them, what did it matter? Their hearts

were clean. She was too young to know that under the world's judgments

clean hearts break even more easily than soiled ones.

But her mind had not rested there. She had begun to be afraid for Winn,

and with all her heart she longed to see him justified. What had he ever

done that he could be judged? He had loved her, spared her, guarded her.

He had made, he was making, inconceivable sacrifices for her. He was

killing not only his own joy, but hers rather than do her what he

thought a wrong.

She sat on a footstool in front of Miss Marley's wood fire, frowning at

the flames. Miss Marley watched her cautiously; there was a good deal

she wanted to say, but she hoped that most of it might be said by

Claire. A very careful talker can get a good deal expressed in this way;

impressions, to be permanent, must always come from the person you wish

to impress.

"Miss Marley," Claire began, "do you think it matters what people

_think_?"

Miss Marley, who invariably rolled her own cigarettes, took up a small

silver box, flattened the cigarette-paper out carefully, and prepared to

fill it before answering. Then she said:

"Very few people do think; that is generally what matters--absence of

thought. Speech without thought is responsible for most people's

disasters."

"But it can't matter what people say if it isn't true, can it?" Claire

persisted. "I mean--_nonsense_ can't _count_ against any one?"

"I'm rather afraid it does matter," said Miss Marley, lighting her

cigarette. "Nonsense is very infectious, and it often carries a good

deal of weight. I have known nonsense break people's hearts."

"Oh!" said Claire in a rising breath. She was wondering what it was like

to have a broken heart. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that

she was going to have one, half of one; but what really frightened her

was that the other half was going to belong to Winn.

"Could any one," she said under her breath, "think any harm of him? He

told me you knew all about us, and that I might talk to you if I wanted

to; but I didn't then. There didn't seem anything to say. But now I do

want to know; I want to know awfully what you think. If I asked him,

he'd only laugh or else he'd be angry. He's very young in some ways, you

know, Miss Marley--younger than I am."

"Yes," agreed Miss Marley; "men are always, to the end of their lives,

very young in some ways."

"I never thought," Claire went on breathlessly, "that people would dream

of blaming him because we were together. Why, it's so stupid! If they

only knew! He's so good!"

"If he's that," said Miss Marley, smiling into the fire, "you've

succeeded in making a saint of a Staines, a very difficult experiment! I

shouldn't advise you to run away too much with that idea, however."

"It isn't me; it's him," exclaimed Claire, regardless of grammar. "I

mean, after what Maurice said this afternoon--I don't know how to put it

quite--I almost wish we'd both been bad!"

Miss Marley nodded. She knew the danger of blame when a tug of war is in

progress, and how it weakens the side attacked.

"How can I explain to people," Claire went on, "what he's been like? I

don't know whether I've told you, but he went away almost directly he

found out he cared, before--long before he knew I cared, though he might

have known; and he left a message to tell me about his wife, which I

never got. But, oh, Miss Marley, I've never told him, I should have come

if I'd got it or not! I should really, because I _had_ to know if he

cared! So you see, don't you, that if either of us was wicked it was

me? Only I didn't _feel_ wicked; I really felt awfully good. I don't see

how you're to tell what's right if God doesn't let you know and people

talk nonsense."

"It's not," agreed Miss Marley, dryly, "particularly easy to know."

"And his wife doesn't care for him," Claire went on. "Fancy Winn's wife

not caring for him! Poor woman!"

"Why do you pity her?" Miss Marley inquired with interest.

"Well," said Claire, with a sudden dimple, "I was only thinking I

shouldn't like to be Winn's wife if he didn't care for me; and then I

was thinking that if he didn't, I'd make him!"

"Well, that effort doesn't seem required of you," said Miss Marley.

"No, but it only shows you that I'm much the most wicked, doesn't it?"

asked Claire, with some pride.

"The points against Winn," Miss Marley said gravely, "are his age, his

experience, and his wife. I feel bound to tell you that there are points

against him."

Claire frowned.

"Winn isn't really old," she explained, "because he's only done things

all his life--games or his work; it hasn't been people. People make you

old, especially when you are looking after them. He's never really grown

up; and as for experience, I don't think you experience anything unless

you care about it. It hurts me sometimes to hear him talk about his

wife. He's never _had_ her; he's only had me. I don't explain very well,

but I know it's true, because he told me things about loving which

showed me he'd never had anything before except dogs--and Peter; and

Peter's awfully young, and dogs can't answer back. You can't grow up on

dogs."

Miss Marley tacitly admitted the limitations of canine influence; but

she said:

"Still, you know, he's not kept to his own code; that's what one must

judge people by. I'm sure he'd tell you himself that a married man

should leave girls alone."

Claire thought for a moment, then she said:

"Yes, but he's gone deeper than his code now. Don't you think that

perhaps a smash, even of something you value, makes you grow? I don't

know how to put it quite, but if you never did what you thought wrong,

would you ever know how big right is? Besides, he hasn't gone on doing

it. Perhaps he _did_ start wrong in getting to care, but that only makes

it harder and finer, his stopping himself. Very few people, I think, but

Winn could stop themselves, and nobody but Winn could ever care--so

much." Her voice broke, and she turned away her head.

"What," said Miss Marley, rolling another cigarette, "are your plans?"

Miss Marley felt that she must give up first principles but she hoped

that she might still be able to do something about plans.

"We are going to drive over the Maloja to Chiavenna," said Claire;

"Maurice has a party to go with. We shall start by the earlier post, and

have lunch together at Vico-Soprano before he comes. And then when

Maurice comes we shall say good-by; and then--and then, Miss Marley,

I've been thinking--we mustn't meet again! I haven't told Winn yet,

because he likes to talk as if we could, in places awfully far away and

odd, with you to chaperon us. I think it helps him to talk like that

but I don't think now that we must ever meet again. You won't blame him

if I tell you something, will you?"

"No," said Miss Marley; "after what you've said to me to-night I am not

inclined to blame him."

"Well," said Claire, "I don't think, if we were to meet again, he would

let me go. We may manage this time, but not twice."

"Are you sure," asked Miss Marley, gently, "that you will manage this

time?"

Claire raised her head and looked at Miss Marley.

"Aren't you?" she said gravely. "I _did_ feel very sure."

"I'd feel a great deal surer," said Miss Marley, "if you didn't drive

down the pass. If you once set off with Winn, do you suppose he'll stop?

I am sure he means to now; in fact, his sending you up here to talk to

me proves it. He knows I sha'n't be much of a help to him in carrying

you off. But, my dear, I never knew any Staines stop, once he'd started.

As long as he is looking at the consequences for you, he'll steer clear

of them, he's looking at them now, but a moment will come when he'll

cease to look, and then everything will depend on you. I think your one

chance is to say good-by here, and to drive down the pass with Maurice.

He can dispose of his party for once."

The color left Claire's face, but her eyes never flinched from Miss

Marley's. After a time Miss Marley turned her head away; she could no

longer bear the look in Claire's eyes. It was like watching the face of

some one drowning.

"I don't want a chance!" whispered Claire.

[Illustration: "I don't want a chance," whispered Claire]

Miss Marley found her voice difficult to control, but she did control

it; she said:

"I was thinking of his chance. If he does you any harm, he won't forgive

himself. You can stop it; he can't possibly stop himself."

"No," said Claire. She didn't cry; she sat very straight and still on

her footstool in front of the fire. After a while she said in a curious

dragging voice: "Very well, then; I must tell him about the pass. Oh,

what shall I do if he minds! It's his minding--" She stopped, as if the

words broke something in her.

"Yes," said Miss Marley; "but he'll mind more if he ruins your life.

You see, you won't think you're ruined, but Winn will think so. He'll

believe he's ruined the woman he loves, and after a little time, when

his passion has ceased to ride him blind, he'll never hold up his head

again. You'll be responsible for that." It sounded cruel, but it was not

cruel. Miss Marley knew that as long as she laid the responsibility at

Claire's door, Claire would not think her cruel.

Claire repeated slowly after her:

"I should be responsible for that!" Then she said: "Oh, how silly laws

are! How silly! As if any one could be ruined who simply loved!"

"We should probably be sillier without laws," Miss Marley observed. "And

you must remember they have their recommendations: they keep silly

people comparatively safe."

"Safe!" said Claire. "I think that's the emptiest, poorest word there

is! Who wants to be safe?"

"You wouldn't think so if you had a child," said Miss Marley, quietly.

"You would need safety then, and you would learn to prize it."

Claire bowed her head into her hands.

"Oh, why can't I have one now! Why can't I?" she whispered brokenly.

Miss Marley bit her lips; she had hoped Claire was too young for this

particular stab.

"Because he'd think it wrong," said Miss Marley after a pause, "and

because of Peter. He's got that obligation. The two would clash."

Claire rose slowly to her feet.

"I'll just go and tell him about the pass," she said quietly. "When it's

over I'll begin to think; but I needn't really think till then, need I?

Because I feel as if I couldn't just now; it would stop my going on."

Miss Marley said that she was quite sure that Claire need not begin to

think at present and privately she hoped that, when that hour came,

something might happen which would deaden thought. She was thankful to

remember that the worst of feeling is always over before the worst of

thinking can begin. But Claire was too young to comfort herself with the

limitations of pain. She only knew that she must tell Winn about the

pass and seem for a moment at least, in his eyes, not to trust him.

Nevertheless, she smiled at Miss Marley before she left her, because she

didn't want Miss Marley to feel upset; and Miss Marley accepted this

reassurance with an answering smile until the door was shut.

CHAPTER XXVI

When Claire found Winn at the bridge-table she saw at a glance that he

was not in the mood for renunciations. His eyes had the hard, shining

stare that was the danger-signal of the Staines family. He shot a glance

at Claire as if she were a hostile force and he was taking her measure.

He was putting her outside himself in order to fight her. It was as if

he knew instinctively that their wills were about to clash. When the

rubber was over, he got up and walked straight to her.

"You put me off my game," he said grimly. "I can see you're up to

something; but we can't talk here."

"Let's talk to-morrow," she urged, "not now. I thought perhaps you'd

like to come and listen to the music with me; there is music in the

hall."

"You did, did you?" he replied in the same hard voice. "Well, you were

mistaken. Go up-stairs to my room and wait for me. It's number 28, two

or three doors beyond Miss Marley's sitting-room. I'll follow you."

An older woman would have hesitated, and if Claire had hesitated, Winn

would never have forgiven her. But her youth was at once her danger and

her protection.

She would rather have waited till to-morrow, because she saw that Winn

was in a difficult mood; but she had no idea what was behind his mood.

She went at once.

She had never been in Winn's room before, and as she sat down to wait

for him her eyes took in its neat impressive bareness. It was a narrow

hotel room, a bed in one corner, a chest of drawers, washstand, and

wardrobe opposite. By the balcony window were a small table and an

armchair. A cane chair stood at the foot of the bed.

Nothing was lying about. There were few traces of occupation visible;

only a pair of felt slippers under the bed, a large bath sponge on the

washstand, and a dressing-gown hanging on the nail behind the door. In

his tooth-glass by the bedside was a rose Claire had worn and given him.

It was put there with meticulous care; its stalk had been re-cut and its

leaves freshened. Beside it lay a small New Testament and a book on

saddles.

Winn joined her in exactly five minutes. He shut the door carefully

after him, and sat down on the cane chair opposite her.

"I thought you might like to know," he said politely, "that I have made

up my mind not to let you go."

Then he waited for Claire to contradict him. But Claire waited, too;

Claire waited longest. She was not sure what to say, and, unlike most

women, when she was not sure what to say, she said nothing. Winn spoke

again, but a little less quietly.

"It's no use your making a fuss," he stated, "or cutting up rough about

it and throwing morals at my head. I've got past that." He got up,

locked the door, and then came back. "I'm going to keep that door locked

until I make sure what you're up to."

"You needn't have done that," Claire said quietly. "Do you think I want

to leave you? If I did, I shouldn't be here. You can't make me do

anything I don't want to do, because I want exactly what you do."

Winn shot an appreciative glance at her; that was a good stroke, but he

wasn't going to be taken in by it. In some ways he would have preferred

to see her angry. Hostility is generally the sign of weakness; but

Claire looked at him with an unyielding tenderness.

"The question is," he said firmly, "can I make you do what we both want

and what you are holding back from? I dare say you've got good reasons

for holding back and all that, and I know I'm an out-and-out blackguard

to press you, but I've reached a place where I won't stand any more.

D'you see my point?"

Claire nodded. She was not angry, because she saw that Winn was fighting

her not because he wanted to be victorious over her, but because he was

being conquered by pain.

She was not going to let him be conquered by it--that, as Miss Marley

had said, was her responsibility--but it wasn't going to be easy to

prevent it. She was close against the danger-line, and every nerve in

her being had long ago become part of Winn. He was fighting against the

best of himself, but all that was not the best of Claire fought on his

side. Perhaps there was not very much that was not the best in Claire.

She hesitated, then she said:

"I thought you wanted me--to go. I think you really do want it; that's

why I'm going."

Winn leaned forward and took hold of both her wrists. "So I did," he

agreed; "but it isn't any good. I can't do it. I've thought it all

out--just what to do, you know--for both of us. I'll have to leave my

regiment, of course, but I can get back into something else all right

later on. Estelle will give me a divorce. She'll want to keep the child

away from me; besides, she'll like to be a public martyr. As for you and

me, you'll have to face rough music for a year or two; that's the worst

part of it. I'm sorry. We'll stay abroad till it's over. My mother will

help us. I can count on her."

"Winn, come here," said Claire. He came and knelt down beside her. She

put her hands on his shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. He tried

to keep them hard, but he failed.

"Don't try and get round me!" he said threateningly. "You'll make me

dangerous if you do. It isn't the least good!"

"Can you listen to what I say?" Claire asked quietly.

"I suppose so," said Winn, guardedly. "I love every bit of you--I love

the ground your chair's on--but I'm not going to give in."

"And that's the way I love you," she said. "I'd go with you to the

world's end, Winn, if I didn't love you so much and you'd take me there;

but you won't, for just the same reason. We can't do what would be

unfair; we shouldn't like it. It's no use, darling; we shouldn't like

it."

"That's all you know about it," said Winn, unappeasably. "Anyhow, we're

going to do it, whether you like it or not."

Then she took her hands away from his shoulders and leaned back in her

chair. He had never seen her look so frail and small, and he knew that

she had never been so formidably strong.

"Oh, no, Winn," she whispered; "I'm not. I'm not going to do it. If you

wanted it, if you really wanted it with all of you, you wouldn't be

rough with me; you'd be gentle. You're not being gentle because you

don't think it right, and I'm never going to do what you don't think

right."

Winn drew a deep, hard breath. He threw his arms round her and pressed

her against his heart.

"I'm _not_ rough," he muttered, "and you've got to do it! You've got to

give in!"

Claire made no answer. She only clung to him, and every now and then she

said his name under her breath as if she were calling to something in

him to save her.

Whatever it was that she was calling to answered her. He suddenly bowed

his head and buried it in her lap. She felt his body shake, and he began

to sob, hard, dry sobs that broke him as they came. He held her close,

with his face hidden. Claire pressed her hands on each side of his

temples, feeling the throbbing of his heart. She felt as if something

inside her were being torn to pieces, something that knocked its way

against her side in a vain endeavor to escape. She very nearly gave in.

Then Winn stopped as suddenly as he had begun.

"Sorry," he said, "but this kind of thing is a bit wearing. I'm not

going to unlock that door. Do you intend to stay all night here, or give

me your promise?" He spoke steadily now; his moment of weakness was

past. She could have gone then, but nothing would have induced her to

leave him while he cried.

"I don't intend to do either," Claire said with equal steadiness. "When

you think I ought to go, you'll let me out."

It struck Winn that her knowledge of him was positively uncanny.

"I don't believe," he said sharply, "you're only nineteen. I believe

you've been in love before!"

Claire didn't say anything, but she looked past him at the door.

Her look maddened him.

"You're playing with me!" he cried. "By Jove! you're playing with me!"

He caught her by the shoulders, and for a moment he believed that he was

going to kill her; but her eyes never wavered. He was not hurting her,

and she knew that he never would. She said:

"O my darling boy!"

Winn got up and walked to the window. When he came back, his expression

had completely changed.

"Now cut along to bed," he said quietly. "You're tired. Go--at once,

Claire."

This time she knew she ought to go, but something held her back. She

was not satisfied with the look in his eyes. He was controlled again,

but it was a controlled desperation. She could not leave him with that.

Her mind was intensely alert with pain; she followed his eyes. They

rested for a moment on the stand by his bed. He pushed the key across

the table toward her, but she did not look at the key; she crossed the

room and opened the drawer under the Bible.

She saw what she had expected to see. It was Winn's revolver; upon it

lay a snap-shot of Peter. He always kept them together.

Claire took out the revolver. Winn watched her, with his hands in his

pockets.

"Be careful," he said; "it's loaded."

She brought it to him and said:

"Now take all the things out of it." Winn laughed, and unloaded it

without a word. "Now open the window," she ordered, "and throw them into

the snow." Winn obeyed. When he came back she put her arms around his

neck and kissed him. "Now I'll go," she said.

"All right," agreed Winn, gently. "Wait for me in the cloak-room, and

I'll take you across. But, I say, look here--will you ever forgive me?

I'm afraid I've been a most fearful brute."

Then Claire knew she couldn't stand any more. She turned and ran into

the passage. Fortunately, the cloak-room was empty. She pressed herself

against a fur coat and sobbed as Winn had sobbed up-stairs; but she had

not his arms to comfort her. She had not dared to cry in his arms.

They walked hand in hand across the snow from his hotel to the door of

hers.

Claire knew that she could say anything she liked to Winn now, so she

said what she had made up her mind to say.

"Winn dearest, do you know what I came down for this evening?"

He held her hand tighter and nodded.

"I guessed," he said. "That was, you know, what rather did for me. You

mean you aren't going to let me come with you down the pass?"

"We mustn't," Claire whispered; and then she felt she couldn't be good

any more. It cost too much. So she added, "But you can if you like." But

there wasn't any real need for Claire to be good now; Winn was good

instead.

"No," he said; "it's much wiser not. You look thoroughly done up. I'm

not going to have any more of this. Let's breakfast together. You come

over at eight sharp and arrange with Maurice to take you down at ten.

That's quite enough for you."

Claire laughed. Winn stared at her, then in a moment he laughed, too.

"We'd better not take any more chances," he explained. "Next time it

might happen to us both together. Then you'd really be had! Thanks

awfully for seeing me through. Good night."

She went into the hotel without a word, and all her heart rebelled

against her for having seen him through.

CHAPTER XXVII

The hour of parting crept upon them singularly quietly and slowly. They

both pretended to eat breakfast, and then they walked out into Badrutt's

Park. They sat in the nearest shelter, hand in hand, looking over the

gray, empty expanse of the rink. It was too early for any one to be

about. Only a few Swiss peasants were sweeping the ice and Winn hardly

looked upon Swiss peasants as human.

He asked Claire exactly how much money she had a year, and told her when

she came of age what he should advise her to suggest to her trustees to

put it in.

Then he went through all the things he thought she ought to have for

driving down the pass. Claire interrupted him once to remind him about

going to see Dr. Gurnet. Winn said he remembered quite well and would

go. They both assured each other that they had had good nights. Winn

said he thought Maurice would be all right in a few years, and that he

didn't think he was shaping for trouble. He privately thought that

Maurice was not going to have any shape at all, but he omitted this

further reflection.

He told her how much he enjoyed his regiment and explained laboriously

how Claire was to think of his future, which was to be, apparently, a

whirl of pleasure from morning till night.

They talked very disconnectedly; in the middle of recounting his future

joys, Winn said:

"And then if anything was to happen to me, you know, I hope you'd think

better of it and marry Lionel."

Claire did not promise to marry Lionel, but she implied that even

without marriage she, like Winn, was about to pass into an existence

studded with resources and amusements; and then she added:

"And if you were to die, or I was, Miss Marley could help us to see each

other just at the last. I asked her about it." Despite their future

happiness, they seemed to draw more solid satisfaction out of this final

privilege.

The last ten minutes they hardly talked at all. Every now and then Winn

wanted to know if Claire's feet were warm, and Claire asked him to let

her have a photograph of Peter.

Then Maurice came out of the hotel, and a tailing party stood in the

open doorway and wondered if it was going to snow. The sleigh drove up

to the hotel, jingling in the gayest manner, with pawing horses. Winn

walked across the courtyard with her and nodded to Maurice; and Maurice

allowed Winn to tuck Claire up, because, after he'd looked at Winn's

eyes, it occurred to him that he couldn't do anything else.

Winn reduced the hall porter, a magnificent person in gold lace, with an

immense sense of dignity, to gibbering terror before the lift-boy and

the boots because he had failed to supply the sleigh with a sufficiently

hot foot-warmer.

Finally even Winn was satisfied that there was nothing more to eat or to

wear which the sleigh could be induced to hold or Claire agree to want.

He stood aside then, and told the man briefly to be off. The driver, who

did not understand English, understood perfectly what Winn meant, and

hastened to crack his whip.

Claire looked back and saw Winn, bare-headed, looking after her. His

eyes were like a mother's eyes when she fights in naked absorption

against the pain of her child.

He went on looking like that for a long while after the sleigh had

disappeared. Then he put on his cap and started off up the valley toward

Pontresina.

It had already begun to snow. The walk to Pontresina is the coldest and

darkest of winter walks, and the snow made it heavy going. Winn got very

much out of breath, and his chest hurt him. Every now and then he

stopped and said to himself, "By Jove! I wonder if I'm going to be ill?"

But as he always pushed on afterward with renewed vigor, as if a good

idea had just occurred to him, it hardly seemed as if he cared very much

whether he was going to be ill or not. He got as far as the Mortratsch

Glacier before he stopped.

He couldn't get any farther because when he got into the inn for lunch,

something or other happened to him. A fool of a porter had the

impertinence to tell him afterward that he had fainted. Winn knocked the

porter down for daring to make such a suggestion; but feeling remarkably

queer despite this relaxation, he decided to drive back to the Kulm.

He wound up the day with bridge and a prolonged wrangle with Miss Marley

on the subject of the Liberal Government.

Miss Marley lent herself to the fray and became extremely heated. Winn

had her rather badly once or twice, and as he never subsequently heard

her argue on the same subject with others, he was spared the knowledge

that she shared his political views precisely, and had tenderly provided

him with the flaws in her opponent's case.

When he went to bed he began a letter to Claire. He told her that he had

had a jolly walk, a good game of bridge, and that he thought he'd

succeeded in knocking some radical nonsense out of Miss Marley's head.

Then he inclosed his favorite snap-shot of Peter, the one that he kept

with his revolver, and said he would get taken properly with him when he

went back to England.

Winn stopped for a long time after that, staring straight in front of

him; then he wrote:

"I hope you'll never be sorry for having come across me, because you've

given me everything I ever wanted. I hope you'll not mind my having been

rather rough the other night. I didn't mean anything by it. I wouldn't

hurt a hair of your head; but I think you know that I wouldn't, only I

thought I'd just mention it. Please be careful about the damp when you

get back to England."

He stopped for half an hour when he had got as far as "England," and as

the heating was off, the room grew very cold; then he wrote, "I didn't

know men loved women like this."

After that he decided to finish the letter in the morning; but when the

morning came he crossed the last sentence out because he thought it

might upset her.

CHAPTER XXVIII

He had been afraid that Davos would be beautiful, but the thaw had

successfully dissipated its immaculate loveliness. Half of the snow

slopes were already bare, the roads were a sea of mud, and the valley

was as dingy as if a careless washerwoman had upset a basket of dirty

linen on her way to the laundry. All the sport people had gone, the

streets were half empty, and most of the tourist shops were shut. Only

the very ill had reappeared; they crept aimlessly about in the sunshine

with wonder in their eyes that they were still alive.

Winn had put up at the nearest hotel and made the earliest possible

appointment with Dr. Gurnet. Dr. Gurnet was obviously pleased to see

him, but the pleasure faded rapidly from his face after a glance or two

at Winn. The twinkle remained in his eyes, but it had become perceptibly

grimmer.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to take off your things," he suggested.

"After I have examined you we can talk more at our ease."

It seemed to Winn as if he had never been so knocked about before. Dr.

Gurnet pounced upon him and went over him inch by inch; he reminded Winn

of nothing so much as of an excited terrier hunting up and down a bank

for a rat-hole. Eventually Dr. Gurnet found his rat. He went back to his

chair, sat down heavily, and looked at Winn. For rather an ominous

moment he was silent; then he said politely:

"Of course I suppose you are aware, Major Staines, of what you have done

with your very excellent chances?"

Winn shook his head doubtfully. He hadn't, as a matter of fact, thought

much lately about these particular chances.

"Ah," said Dr. Gurnet, "then I regret to inform you that you have simply

walked through them--or, in your case, I should be inclined to imagine,

tobogganed--and you have come out the other side. You haven't got any

chances now."

Winn did not say anything for a moment or two; then he observed:

"I'm afraid I've rather wasted your time."

"Pray don't mention it," said Dr. Gurnet. "It is so small a thing

compared with what you have done with your own."

Winn laughed.

"You rather have me there," he admitted; "I suppose I have been rather

an ass."

"My dear fellow," said Dr. Gurnet, more kindly, "I'm really annoyed

about this, extremely annoyed. I had booked you to get well. I expected

it. What have you been doing with yourself? You've broken down that

right lung badly; the infection has spread to the left. It was not the

natural progress of the disease, which was in process of being checked;

it is owing to a very great and undue physical strain, and absolutely no

attempt to take precautions after it. Also you have, I should say,

complicated this by a great nervous shock."

"Nonsense!" said Winn, briefly. "I don't go in for nerves."

"You must allow me to correct you," said Dr. Gurnet, gently. "You are a

human being, and all human beings are open to the effects of shock."

"I'm afraid I haven't quite played the game," Winn confessed, after a

short pause. "I hadn't meant to let you down like this, Doctor Gurnet. I

think it is due to me to tell you that I shouldn't have come to you for

orders if I had intended at the time to shirk them. You're quite right

about the tobogganing: I had a go at the Cresta. I know it shook me up a

bit, but I didn't spill. Perhaps something went wrong then."

"And why, may I ask, did you do it?" Dr. Gurnet asked ironically. "You

did not act solely, I presume, from an idea of thwarting my

suggestions?"

Winn's eyes moved away from the gimlets opposite them.

"I found time dragging on my hands, rather," he explained a trifle

lamely.

"Ah," said Dr. Gurnet, "you should have done what I told you--you should

have flirted; then you wouldn't have found time hanging on your hands."

Winn held his peace. He thought Dr. Gurnet had a right to be annoyed, so

he gave him his head; but he had an uncomfortable feeling that Dr.

Gurnet would make a very thorough use of this concession.

Dr. Gurnet watched Winn silently for a few moments, then he said:

"People who don't wish to get well don't get well; but, on the other

hand, it is very rare that people who wish to die die. They merely get

very ill and give everybody a great deal of highly unnecessary trouble."

"I'm not really seedy yet," Winn said apologetically. "I suppose you

couldn't give me any idea of how things are going to go--I mean how long

I've--" he hesitated for a few seconds; he felt as if he'd been brought

up curiously short--"I've got to live," he finished firmly.

"I can give you some idea, of course," said Dr. Gurnet; "but if you take

any more violent or irregular plunges, you may very greatly shorten your

time. Should you insist on remaining in your regiment and doing your

work, you have, I fancy, about two years more before a complete

breakdown. You are a very strong man, and your lung-tissue is tough.

Should you remain here under my care, you will live indefinitely, but I

can hold out no hope of an ultimate recovery. If you return to England

as an invalid, you will most undoubtedly kill yourself from boredom,

though I have a suggestion to make to you which I hope may prevent this

termination to your career. On the whole, though I fear advice is wasted

upon you, I should recommend you to remain in the army. It is what I

should do myself if I were unfortunate enough to have your temperament

while retaining my own brains."

"Oh, yes," said Winn, rising to go; "of course I sha'n't chuck the army.

I quite see that's the only sensible thing to do."

"Pray sit down again," said Dr. Gurnet, blandly, "and do not run away

with the idea that I think any course you are likely to pursue sensible

in itself. If you were a sensible man, you would not take personal

disappointment as if it were prussic acid."

Winn started.

"It isn't disappointment," he said quickly; "it was the only thing to

do."

"Ah, well," said Dr. Gurnet, "Heaven forbid that I should enter into a

controversy with any one who believes in moral finality! Sensible people

compromise, Major Staines; but do not be offended, for I have every

reason to believe that sensible people do not make the best soldiers. I

am asking you to remain for a few minutes further because there is one

other point to which I wish to draw your attention should you be able to

spare me the time?"

"All right," said Winn, with a short laugh; "I've got time enough,

according to you; I've got two years."

"Well, yes," said Dr. Gurnet, drawing the tips of his fingers carefully

together. "And, Major Staines, according to me you will--er--need them."

Winn sat up.

"What d' you mean?" he asked quickly.

"Men in my position," replied Dr. Gurnet, guardedly, "have very

interesting little side-lights into the mentality of other nations. I

don't know whether you remember my asking you if you knew German?"

"Yes," said Winn. "It went out of head; but now you speak of it, I do

remember."

"I am delighted," said Dr. Gurnet, blandly, "to have reconstructed your

brain-tissue up to that point. I had a certain reason for asking you

this question. I have a good many German patients, some French ones, and

a most excellent Belgian professor has placed himself under my care."

"Well, what about it?" asked Winn with some sharpness. He had an idea

that this queer fellow before him meant something.

"The Germans are an interesting nation," Dr. Gurnet proceeded without

hurrying, "and they have a universal hobby. I don't know whether you

have noticed, Major Staines, but a universal hobby is a very powerful

thing. I am sometimes rather sorry that with us it has wholly taken the

form of athletic sports. I dare say you are going to tell me that with

you it is not golf, but polo; even this enlarged idea does not wholly

alter my depression.

"With the Germans, you see, the hobby happens to be

man[oe]uvers--military man[oe]uvers. I understand that this spring

Alsace and Lorraine have taken on the aspect of one gigantic camp. Now,

Belgium," Dr. Gurnet proceeded, tapping Winn's knee with his

fore-finger, "is a small, flat, undefended country, and one of my French

patients informs me that the French Government have culpably neglected

their northern line of forts.

"I hear from my other friend, the Belgian professor, that three years

ago the Belgian Government ordered big fortress guns from Krupp. They

have not got them yet; but I do not believe Krupp is incapable of

turning out guns. On the contrary, I hear that Krupp has, in a still

shorter time, entirely renovated the artillery of the Austrian army."

Winn leaned forward excitedly.

"I say, sir," he exclaimed, "you ought to be in the intelligence

office."

"God forbid!" said Dr. Gurnet, piously. "Not that I believe in God," he

added; "but I cling to the formulated expletives.

"I should be extremely uncomfortable in any office. Besides, I have my

doubts as to the value of intelligence in England. It is so very rare

and so un-English. One suspects occasional un-English qualities drawn

together for government purposes.

"I merely mentioned these interesting national traits because I had an

idea, partly that you would respond to them, and partly that they are

going in an exceedingly short time to become manifest to the world at

large."

"You think we are going to have war?" asked Winn, his eyes sparkling.

"War!" He said the word as if he loved it.

Dr. Gurnet shrugged his shoulders and sighed, and spread out his rather

fat little hands.

"Yes, Major Staines," he said dryly, "I quite think we are going to have

war."

"Then I must get back to my regiment as quickly as possible," said Winn,

getting up.

"I shouldn't do that if I were you," said Dr. Gurnet. "I should advise

your remaining in England for three months, I think you will be used

quicker if you do that. War is unlikely to begin in India, and the

climate is deleterious in the summer months. And might I suggest the

carrying out of a few minor precautions? If you are to live efficiently

for two years, it will be highly necessary for you to carry them out."

Winn turned toward him eagerly.

"I'll do any bally thing you tell me to now," he said quickly.

Dr. Gurnet laughed, then he said:

"Go back to England, study German, and await your chance. Don't play any

more heavy games, don't lose your temper or try your heart, don't drink

or smoke or play billiards or sit in a room with a shut window. Take

plenty of good plain food and a certain amount of exercise. You are

going to be needed."

Winn drew a deep breath.

"It's a funny thing," he said, turning toward the door, "but somehow I

believe in you."

Dr. Gurnet shook hands with him cordially.

"In a sense, I may say," he observed, "in spite of your extremely

disappointing behavior, that I return the compliment. I believe in you,

Major Staines, only--" Dr. Gurnet finished the rest of the sentence

after the door had shut behind his patient. "Unfortunately, I am not

sure if there are quite enough of you."

CHAPTER XXIX

When the Staineses gave an entertainment it was to mark their contempt

for what more sensitive people might have considered a family

catastrophe.

They had given a ball a week from the day on which Dolores ran away with

the groom. A boat-race had been inaugurated upon the occasion on which

Winn lost his lawsuit; and some difficulty (ultimately overcome) between

James and the Admiralty had resulted in a dinner followed by fireworks

on the lawn.

When Winn returned from Davos, Lady Staines decided upon a garden party.

"Good God!" cried Sir Peter. "Do you mean to tell me I've wasted that

three hundred pounds, Sarah?" Sir Peter preferred this form of the

question to "Is my boy going to die?" He meant precisely the same thing.

"As far as I know," Lady Staines replied, "nobody ever dies _before_

causing trouble; they die after it, and add their funeral expenses to

the other inconveniences they have previously arranged for. Can't you

see the boy's marriage has gone to pot?"

"I wish you wouldn't pick up slang expressions from your sons," growled

Sir Peter. "You never hear me speaking in that loose way. Why haven't

they got a home of their own? You would ask them here--nurse, bottles,

and baby like a traveling Barnum's--and Winn glares in one corner--and

that little piece of dandelion fluff lies down and grizzles on the

nearest cushion--and now you want to have a garden party on the top of

'em! Anybody'd suppose this was a Seamen's Home from the use you put it

to! And of all damned silly ways of entertaining people, a garden

party's the worse! Who wants to look at other people's gardens except to

find fault with 'em?

"Besides, unless you want rain (which we don't with the hay half down)

it's tempting Providence. Nothing'll keep rain off a garden party except

prayers in church during a drought.

"What the hell do you expect to gain by it? I know what it all

means--Buns! Bands! high-heeled kick-shaws cutting up my turf! Why the

devil don't you get a Punch and Judy show down and be done with it?"

"Of course you don't like a garden party," said Lady Staines, smoothly,

"nor do I. Do you suppose I care to be strapped tight into smart stays

at my age, and walk about my own gravel paths in purple satin, listening

to drivel about other people's children? We must do something for the

neighborhood sometimes, whether they like it or not. That's what we're

here for--it's the responsibility of our position. Quite absurd, I know,

but then, most people's responsibilities are quite absurd. You have a

son and he behaves like a fool. You can leave him to take the

consequences of course if you like--only as some of them will devolve on

us, it is worth a slight effort to evade them."

"For God's sake, spit it out, and have done with it!" shouted Sir Peter.

"What's the boy done?"

Lady Staines sat down opposite her husband and folded her hands in her

lap. She was a woman who always sat perfectly still on the rare

occasions when she was not too busy to sit down at all.

"What I hoped would happen," she said, "hasn't happened. He's presumably

picked up with some respectable woman."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Sir Peter. "I never knew any one as

cold-bloodedly immoral as you are, Sarah. Did you want the boy to pick

up with a baggage?"

"Certainly," said Lady Staines. "Why not? I have always understood that

the Social Evil was for our protection, but I never believed it. No

woman worth her salt has ever wanted protection. It's men that want it.

They need a class of creature that won't involve them beyond a certain

point, and quite right too. Winn seemed to see this before he went

off--but he didn't keep it in mind--he ran his head into a noose."

"Has he talked to you about it?" asked Sir Peter, incredulously.

"I don't need talk," said Lady Staines. "I judge by facts. Winn goes to

church regularly, his temper is execrable, and he takes long walks by

himself. A satisfied man is neither irate nor religious--and has

nothing to walk off. Consequently it's a virtuous attachment. That's

serious, because it will lead to the divorce court. Virtues generally

lead to somebody trying to get out of something."

"Pooh!" Sir Peter grunted. "You've got that out of some damned French

novel. You must have virtue, the place has got to be kept up somehow,

hasn't it? If what you say is true--and I don't for a moment admit a

word of it--I don't see how you're going to sugar things over with a

couple of hundred people trampling up my lawn?"

"Estelle likes people," Lady Staines replied. "My idea is to make her a

success. I will introduce her to everybody worth knowing. I'll get some

of our people down from town. They'll hate it, of course; but they'll be

curious to see what's up. Of course they won't see anything. At the end

of the day, if it's all gone off well--I'll have a little talk with

Estelle. I shall tell her first what I think of her; and then I shall

offer to back her if she'll turn over a new leaf. Winn'll do his part

for the sake of the boy, if she meets him half way. I give religion its

due--he wants to do his duty, only he doesn't see what it is. He must

live with his wife. His prayers will come in nicely afterwards."

Sir Peter chuckled. "There's something in your idea, Sarah," he

admitted. "But it's a damned expensive process. All my strawberries will

go. And if it rains, everybody'll come into the house and scuttle over

my library like so many rabbits."

"I'll keep them out of the library," said Lady Staines, rising, "and I

shall want a hundred pounds."

She left the library after a short series of explosions, with a check

for seventy-five. She had only expected fifty.

The garden party was, if not a great success, at least a great crowd.

The village was entertained by sports in a field, backed by beer in

tents, and overseen by Winn with the delighted assistance of the younger

Peter.

Lady Staines, in stiff purple satin, strode uncomfortably up and down

herbaceous borders, exposing the ignorance of her fellow gardeners by a

series of ruthless questions.

Charles and James, who had put in an intermittent appearance in the hope

of a loan from Sir Peter, did their best to make things go. Charles had

brought down a bull terrier, and the bull terrier brought down, first

one of the donkeys that was to take part in the sports, but was

permanently incapacitated from any further participation either in sport

or labor, then two pet lap dogs, in a couple of sharp shakes on the

lawn, and crowned his career of murder with the stable cat, in an

outhouse where Charles had at last incontinently and a little

inconsiderately, as far as the cat was concerned, flung him.

Isabel and her husband had driven over from a neighboring parish.

Isabel liked garden parties. She made her way at once to a group of

clergy, her husband dangling meekly in her rear; and then told them in

her quarter deck style exactly what she thought ought to be done with

their parishes. Sir Peter remained in the library with the windows open

and his eye upon passing clouds.

Several of his friends joined him, and they talked about Ulster.

Everybody was at this time talking about Ulster.

Most of them spoke of it as people talk of a tidal wave in China. They

did not exactly wish the wave to destroy the whole of China, but they

would all have felt a little annoyed if it had withdrawn without

drowning anybody.

"The Government has been weak," said Sir Peter sternly; "as weak as a

soft-boiled egg! What Ireland wants is a firm hand, and if that's not

enough, a swift kick after it! Concession! Who wants concessions? A

sensible man doesn't make concessions unless he's trying to bluff you

into thinking he's got what he hasn't got, or is getting out of you what

he hasn't right to get!

"But people oughtn't to import arms. I'll go as far as that! It's

against discipline. Whether it's one side or the other, it ought to be

stopped.

"There'll be a row, of course--a healthy, blood-letting hell of a row,

and we shall all be the better for it! But I don't approve of firearms

being let loose all over the place--it's un-English. It only shows what

the poor devils at Ulster must have suffered, and be afraid of

suffering, to resort to it! That sort of thing is all very well in the

Balkans. My son Winn's been talking about the Balkans lately--kind of

thing the army's always getting gas off about! What I say is--let 'em

fight! They got the Turk down once, all of 'em together, and he was the

only person that could keep 'em in hand. Now I hear Austria wants to

start trouble in Serbia because of that assassination in June. What they

want to make a fuss about assassination in that family for I can't

think! I should look upon it as an hereditary disease and leave it at

that! But don't tell me it's anything to worry about compared to Ulster.

What's the danger of a country that talks thirteen languages, has no

non-commissioned officers, and always gets beat when it fights? Sarah!

Sarah! Get the people in for tea. Can't you see there's a shower coming?

Damn it all! And my second crop of hay's not in yet! That's what comes

of giving garden parties. Of course I'm very glad to see you all, but

you know what I mean. No shilly-shallying with the English climate's my

motto--it's the only dangerous thing we've got!"

Lady Staines disregarded this admonition. The light clouds above the

elms puffed idly in the heavy air. It was a hot bright day, murmurous

with bees and the idle, half notes of midsummer birds.

Estelle, in the most diaphanous of blue muslins, held a little court

under a gigantic mulberry tree. She had always intended marriage with a

Staines to be like this.

Winn was nowhere to be seen, and his mother plodded patiently to and fro

across the lawn, bringing a line of distinguished visitors to be

introduced to her.

They were kind, curt people who looked at Estelle rather hard, and asked

her absurd questions about Winn's regiment, Sir Peter's ships, and her

baby. They had no general ideas, but however difficult they were to talk

to, Estelle knew they were the right people to meet--she had seen their

names in magazines. None of her own family were there; they had all been

invited, but Estelle had preferred their remaining at home. She had once

heard Sir Peter refer to her father as "Old Moneybags." He had

apologized afterwards, but he might do it again.

Lady Staines was the only person who noticed the arrival of two

telegrams--they were taken to Charles and James, who were at that moment

in the refreshment tent opposite the claret cup. The telegrams arrived

simultaneously, and Charles said, "Good Lord!" and James said, "My hat!"

when they read the contents, with every symptom of surprise and

pleasure.

"I shouldn't have supposed," Lady Staines thought to herself, "that two

of my boys would have backed the same horse. It must be a coincidence."

They put the telegrams rather carefully away, and shortly afterwards she

observed that they had set off together in the direction of the village

sports.

The long golden twilight drew to a close, the swallows swooped and

circled above the heavy, darkened elms. The flowers in the long

herbaceous borders had a fragile look in the colorless soft air.

The garden party drifted slowly away.

Lady Staines stopped her daughter-in-law going into the house; but she

was destined never to tell her what she thought of her. Estelle escaped

Nemesis by the turn of a hair.

Sir Peter came out of the library prepared to inspect the lawn. "What's

up with those boys?" he demanded, struck by the unusual sight of his

three sons advancing towards him from the river, their heads bent in

talk, and not apparently quarreling.

Lady Staines followed the direction of his eyes; then she said to

Estelle, "You'd better go in now, my dear; I'll talk to you later."

Sir Peter shouted in his stentorian voice an appeal to his sons to join

him. Lady Staines, while she waited, took off her white kid gloves and

her purple bonnet, and deposited them upon the balustrades.

"What are you up to," demanded Sir Peter when they came within earshot,

"sticking down there by the river with your heads glued together like a

set of damned Guy Fawkeses--instead of saying good-by to your mother's

guests--who haven't had the sense to get under way before seven

o'clock--though I gave 'em a hint to be off an hour ago?"

"Helping villagers to climb greasy poles, and finishing a sack race,"

Charles explained. "Lively time Winn's been having down there--I had no

idea our second housemaid was so pretty."

"None of that! None of that!" said Sir Peter, sharply. "You keep to

bar-maids, young Charles--and manicure girls, though there ought to be

an act of Parliament against 'em! Still, I'll admit you can't do much

harm here--three of you together, and your mother on the front

doorstep!"

"Harm," said James, winking in the direction of his mother; "what can

poor chaps like us do--here to-day and gone to-morrow--Mother'd better

keep her eye on those near home!"

"Off to-night you might as well say!" remarked Charles, glancing at

James with a certain intentness.

"Why off to-night?" asked Lady Staines. "I thought you were staying over

the week-end?"

"Winn's put us on to something," explained Charles. "Awfully good show,

he says--on at the Oxford. Pretty hot stuff and the censor hasn't smelt

it out yet--we rather thought we'd run up to-night and have a look at

it."

Winn stuck his hands in his pockets, set his jaw, and looked at his

mother. Lady Staines was regarding him with steady eyes.

"You didn't get a telegram, too?" she asked.

"No," said Winn. "Why should I?"

"Not likely," said James, genially. "Always behindhand in the--"

"Damn these midges!" said Charles, hurriedly. James stopped with his

mouth open.

"Army, you were going to say, weren't you?" asked his mother, suavely.

"If you are my sons I must say you make uncommonly poor liars."

Sir Peter, whose attention had wandered to tender places in the lawn,

looked up sharply.

"What's that? What's that?" he asked. "Been telling lies, have they? A

nice way you've brought 'em up, Sarah! What have they been lying about?

A woman? Because if they have, I won't hear a word about it! Lies about

a woman are perfectly correct, though I'm hanged if I can see how they

can all three be lying about one woman. That seems a bit thick, I must

say."

To Sir Peter's surprise, nobody made any reply. Charles yawned, James

whistled, and Winn kept his eyes steadily fixed on Lady Staines.

"Those were orders then," Lady Staines observed in a dry quiet voice. "I

thought it very likely. I suppose it's Germany. I felt sure we should

have trouble with that excitable young man sooner or later. He had too

good an opinion of himself to be an emperor."

"Not Ulster!" exclaimed Sir Peter. "God bless my soul--not Ulster!"

"Oh, we can take on Ulster afterwards," said James reassuringly. "Now

we'll see what submarines can do; 'member the Japs?"

"Winn," said Lady Staines, "before you're off, say good-by to your

wife."

Winn frowned, and then he said, "All right, Mother," and left them.

It was a very still evening, the scent of new mown hay and the

mysterious sweetness of the starry white tobacco plant haunted the

delicate air.

Winn found Estelle lying down by the open window. He had not been in her

room for some time. He sat down by the sofa, and fingered the tassels at

her waist.

"Is anything the matter?" she asked coldly.

He had only himself to thank that she was cold--he knew that. He saw so

plainly now, all the mistakes he'd made, that the ones Estelle had made,

receded into the distance. He'd never been gentle to her. Even when he

thought he loved her, he wasn't really gentle.

Gentleness was superlative kindness, and no woman who had not had just

that sort of kindness from the man she married, could help being rather

nasty. He had owed it to Estelle--no matter whether she told him the

truth or not.

"Look here, Estelle," he began. "I want our boy to go to Charterhouse."

It wasn't exactly what he meant to say, but it was something; he had

never called Peter "our boy" before. Estelle did not notice it.

"Of course, I should prefer Eton," she said, "but I suppose you will do

as you like--as usual!"

Winn dropped the piece of tassel, but he persevered.

"I say," he began, "don't you think we've got rather off the track? I

know it's not your fault, but your being ill and my being away and all

that? I don't want you to feel sore about it, you know. I want you to

realize that I know I've been rather a beast to you. I don't think I'm

fitted somehow for domestic life--what?"

"Fitted for it!" said Estelle, tragically. "I have never known one happy

moment with you! You seem incapable of any kind of chivalry! I never

would have believed a man could exist who knew _less_ how to make a

woman happy! It's too late to talk of it all now! I've made my supreme

sacrifice. I've offered up my broken heart! I am living upon a higher

plane! You would never understand anything that wasn't coarse, brutal,

and low! So I shan't explain it to you. I know my duty, but I don't

think after the way you have behaved I really need consider myself under

any obligation to live with you again. Father Anselm agrees with me."

Winn laughed. "Don't you worry about that," he hastened to assure her,

"or Father Anselm either; there isn't the least necessity--and it wasn't

what I meant."

Estelle looked annoyed. It plainly should have been what Winn meant.

"Have as much of the higher plane as you like," he went on, "only look

after the boy. I'm off to London to-night, there's probably going to be

some work of a kind that I can do. I mayn't be back directly. Hope

you'll be all right. We can write about plans."

He stood up, hesitating a little. He had an idea that it would make him

feel less strange if she kissed him. Of course it was absurd, because

just to have a woman's arms round his neck wasn't going to be the least

like Claire. But he had a curious feeling that perhaps he might never be

alone with a woman again, and he wanted to part friends with Estelle.

"I wonder," he said, leaning towards her, "would you mind very much if I

kissed you?"

Estelle turned her head away with a little gesture of aversion.

"I am sorry," she said. "I shall not willingly allow you to kiss me, but

of course you are my husband--I am in your power."

"By Jove," said Winn, unexpectedly, "what a little cat you are!"

They were the last words he ever said to her.

CHAPTER XXX

For a time he could do nothing but think of his luck--it was astounding

how obstacles had been swept aside for him.

The best he had expected was that in the hurry of things he might get

back to India without a medical examination, in the hope that his

regiment would be used later. But his work at the Staff College had

brought him into notice, a man conveniently died, and Winn appeared at

the right moment.

Within twenty-four hours of his visit to the War Office, he was attached

for staff duty to a British division.

Then work closed over his head. He became a railway time-table, a

lost-luggage office, a registrar, and a store commissioner.

He had the duties of a special Providence thrust upon him, with all the

disadvantages of being readily held accountable, so skilfully evaded by

the higher powers.

Junior officers flew to him for orders as belated ladies fly to their

pin cushions for pins.

He ate when it was distinctly necessary, and slept two hours out of the

twenty-four.

He left nothing undone which he could do himself; his mind was

unfavorable to chance. The heads of departments listened when he made

suggestions, and found it convenient to answer with accuracy his sudden

questions.

Subordinates hurried to obey his infrequent but final orders; and when

Winn said, "I think you'd find it better," people found it better.

The division slipped off like cream, without impediment or hitch.

There were no delays, the men acquired their kit, and found their

railway carriages.

The trains swept in velvet softness out of the darkened London station

through the sweet, quiet, summer night into a sleepless Folkestone. The

division went straight onto the right transports; there wasn't a man, a

horse, or a gun out of place.

Winn heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped on board; his troubles as a

staff officer had only just begun, but they had begun as troubles

should always begin, by being adequately met. There were no arrears.

He did not think of Claire until he stood on deck and saw the lights

receding and the shadow that was England passing out of his sight.

He remembered her then with a little pang of joy--for suddenly he knew

that he was free to think of her.

He had thought of her before as a man registers a fact that is always

present to him, but in the interval since he had seen her his

consciousness of her had been increasingly troubled.

Now the trouble was fading, as England faded, as his old life was

fading.

He had a sense that he was finally freed. It was not like seeing Claire

again, but it was like not having to see anything else.

"Until I'm dead I'm hers, and after I'm dead I'm hers, so that's all

right," he said to himself. "I haven't got to muddle things up any

more."

The sea lay around them at dawn like a sheet of pearl--it was very empty

but for the gulls' wings beating to and fro out of the mist.

Winn had lived through many campaigns. He had known rough jungle tussles

in mud swamps, maddened by insects, thirst, and fever; he had fought in

colder, cleaner dangers down the Khyber Pass, and he had gone through

the episodic scientific flurries of South Africa; but France

disconcerted him; he had never started a campaign before in a country

like a garden, met by welcoming populations, with flowers and fruit.

It made him feel sick. The other places were the proper ones for war.

It was not his way to think of what lay before him. It would, like all

great emergencies, like all great calamities, keep to its moment, and

settle itself. Nevertheless he could not free his mind from the presence

of the villages--the pleasant, smiling villages, the little church

towers in the middle, the cobbled streets, the steep-pitched, gray roofs

and the white sunny walls.

Carnations and geraniums filled the windows, and all the inhabitants,

the solid, bright-faced people, had a greeting for their khaki guests.

"Voila quelque choses des solides, ces Anglais!" the women called to

each other.

Winn found himself shrinking from their welcoming eyes. He thought he

hadn't had enough sleep, because as a rule a Staines did not shrink; but

when he slept in the corner of the hot jolting railway train, he dreamed

of the villages.

They were to attack directly they arrived at their destination. By the

time they reached there, Winn knew more. He had gathered up the hastily

flung messages by telegram and telephone, by flying cars and from

breathless despatch riders, and he knew what they meant.

They had no chance, from the first, not a ghost of a chance. They were

to hold on as long as they could, and then retreat. Part of the line had

gone already. The French had gone. No reinforcements were coming up.

There were no reinforcements.

They were to retreat turn and turn about; meantime they must hold.

They could hear the guns now, the bright harvest fields trembled a

little under the impact of these alien presences.

They came nearer and the sky filled with white puffs of smoke that

looked like glittering sunset clouds, and were not clouds. Overhead the

birds sang incessantly, undisturbed even by the occasional drilling of

an aeroplane.

In the plains that lay beneath them, they could see the dim blue lines

of the enemy debouching.

They made Winn think of locusts. He had seen a plague once in Egypt.

They came on like the Germans, a gray mass that never broke--that could

not break, because behind it there were more, and still more locusts,

thick as clouds, impenetrable as clouds.

You killed and killed and killed, and yet there were more clouds.

Every now and then it ran through his mind like a flame, that they would

spread this loathsome, defiling cloud over the smiling little villages

of France.

Fortunately there was no time for pity; there were merely the different

ways of meeting the question of holding on.

It was like an attempt to keep back a tide with a teaspoon.

Their guns did what they could, they did more than it seemed possible

guns could do. The men in control of them worked like maniacs.

It was not a time to think of what people could do. The men were falling

like leaves off a tree.

The skylarks and the swallows vanished before the villainous occupation

of the air. The infantry in the loosely built trenches held on,

breathless, broken, like a battered boat in a hurricane, stout against

the oncoming waves.

The stars came out and night fell--night rent and tortured, darkness

assaulted and broken by a myriad new lights of death, but still

merciful, reassuring darkness. The moment for the retreat had come.

It was a never-ending business, a stumbling, bewildering business. The

guns roared on, holding open indefatigably, without cessation, the way

of their escape.

Much later they got away themselves, dashing blindly in the wake of

their exhausted little army, ready to turn at command and hold again,

and escape again, and once more hold the unending blue lines, with their

unnumbered guns, unwinding like an endless serpent in their rear.

The morning showed them still retreating. Sometimes they were miles

ahead and could see nothing but the strangely different barred and

shivering villages, small settlements of terror, in an untroubled land.

There were no flowers flung upon them now, only hurried gasping

questions, "Are they coming?" "How far are they behind you?"

Sometimes they were halted for half an hour at a time, and sat in hedges

and ate, or meant to eat, and slept between the bites.

Occasionally they surprised small bands of wandering Uhlans, and if

there was time took them prisoners, and if there was no time, shot them

in rows against white walls.

Once they met a troop out of one of their own divisions, led by a

solitary subaltern of nineteen, with queer fixed eyes, who didn't know

who he was. All he could say, "I brought them out."

Despatch riders hurled themselves upon the Staff with orders; very often

they had conflicting orders; and they always had dust, trouble with

horses, trouble with motor ambulances, trouble with transport. Enraged

heroic surgeons achieving hourly physical miracles, implored with tears

to be given impossible things like time. Of course they couldn't have

time.

Then in the midst of chaos, orders would come to hold. The guns

unlimbered, the transports tore madly ahead. Everything that could be

cleared off down the road was cleared off, more rough trenches were dug,

more hot and sullen hours of waiting followed, and then once more the

noise, the helpless slaughter, the steady dogged line gripping the

shallow earth, and the unnumbered horde of locusts came on again, eating

up the fields of France.

Sometimes whole regiments entrained under the care of fatherly French

railway officials, curiously liable to hysteria on ordinary excursion

days, but now as calm as Egyptian Pyramids in the face of national

disaster. They pieced together with marvelous ingenuity the broken

thread of speech presented to them by the occasional French scholars

upon the British Staff; but more often still they shook polite and

emphatic heads, and explained that there quite simply were no trains.

The possible, yes; but the impossible, no. One could not create trains.

So the men went on marching. They did not like retreating, but they

moved as if they were on parade in front of Buckingham Palace, and when

they held, they fought as winners fight.

It was not until they reached the Marne that Winn found time to write to

Claire. "We are getting on very nicely," he wrote. "I hope you are not

worrying about us. We have plenty to eat, though we have to take our

meals a little hurriedly.

"There is a good deal of work to do.

"This war is the best thing that ever happened to me--bar one. Before I

came out I thought I should go to pieces. I feel quite free to write to

you now. I do not think there can be any harm in it, so I hope you won't

mind. If things do not seem to be going very well with us at first,

remember that they never do.

"Every campaign I ever went in for, we were short-handed to start with,

and had to fight against odds, which doesn't matter really if you have

the right men, but always takes longer and looks discouraging to

outsiders. The men are very good and I am glad the War Office let me

commandeer the boots I wanted--the kind they offered me at first

wouldn't have done at all for this sort of work. It is rather hard not

being with the men more, but the work is very absorbing, so I do not

mind as much as I did.

"I think the regiment will come out later, and they have promised to let

me go back into it. I am sorry about the villages. It's a pity the

Germans slopped over into France at all. I found two Uhlans yesterday in

a farmyard; they had been behaving badly, so I did them both in.

"One very seldom sees any of them, worse luck.

"I hope you are taking great care of yourself and not worrying. Your

loving Winn."

In the weeks that followed, Claire got many letters. They were short

letters, written in flying motors, in trains, in outhouses, in romantic

chateaux; but they all began in the same reassuring way. "I am very

well, and we are getting on quite nicely."

The Allied line was being flung out in wild curves and swoops like the

flight of a dove before a hawk; from Soissons up toward Calais they

fenced and circled.

They retook Rheims, they seized Amiens. Lille fell from them and Laon.

The battle of the Aisne passed by slow degrees out of their hands, and

the English found themselves fighting their extraordinary first fight

for Ypres. They stood between the Germans and the Channel ports as

thinly as a Japanese screen, between England and the Atlantic. The very

camp cooks were in the trenches.

Time fled like a long thunderous hour. It was a storm that flashed and

fell and returned again.

Winn was beginning to feel tired now. He hardly slept at night, and by

day his brain moved as if it were made of red-hot steel, flying rapidly

from expedient to expedient, facing the hourly problems of that wild and

wet October, how to keep men alive who never rested, who were too few,

who took the place of guns. He wrote more seldom now, and once he said,

"We are having rather a hard time, but we shall get through with it."

Fortunately all Englishmen are born with a curious pioneer instinct,

and being the least adaptable people in the world, they have learned the

more readily to adapt the changes of the hour.

They remade their external world, out of this new warfare.

They remade it at the cost of their lives in Flanders, in the face of

incredulous enemies and criticizing neutrals, painstakingly, without

science, doggedly out of their own wills. They held Ypres by a thread,

and when it seemed that nothing could keep it, one cold and dreadful day

along the Menin road came up their reinforcements.

First one group and then another of tall, dark people, silent footed as

falling leaves, turbaned black faces, eyes of appalling and unearthly

gravity, hearts half like a rock and half like a child, alien captive

people of another blood, took their place silently, regiment by regiment

blocking up the dreadful gaps with their guns, their rifles, and the

free gift of their lives.

"Lionel has come," Winn wrote, "and all my men. I never was so glad of

anything, but you. Send me all the warm things you can. The winter will

be quite jolly now when the men get used to the trenches. It's a funny

thing, but they've given me command of the regiment. I hadn't expected

it, but I've always liked handling Sikhs. Whatever happens, you'll

remember that I've been an awfully lucky chap, won't you?"

CHAPTER XXXI

Lionel and Winn talked of the regiment and the war; these two things

filled the exacting hours. In a world a very long way off and in the

depths of their hearts were England and Claire.

They spent three weeks in the trenches, blackened and water clogged and

weary.

It was the darkest time of a dark December, the water was up to their

waists, there was no draining the treacherous clay surfaces. The men

suffered to the limit of their vitality and sometimes passed it; they

needed constant care and watching. It had to be explained to them that

they were not required to give up their lives to spirits, in a land that

worshiped idols. Behind the strange lights and noises heralding death

there were solid people who ate sausages, and could be killed.

One or two small parties led in night attacks overcame the worst of

their fears.

Later on when the mud dried they could kill more; in the end all would

be killed, and they would return with much honor to their land of

sunshine.

To the officers who moved among them, absorbed in the questions of their

care, there was never any silence or peace, and yet there was a strange

content in the huddled, altered life of their wet ditch.

Every power of the will, every nerve of the body, was being definitely

used. Winn and Lionel felt a strange mood of exultation. They pushed

back difficulties and pierced insoluble problems with prompt escapes.

Only from time to time casualties dropped in upon them grimly,

impervious to human ingenuity.

In the quieter hours of the night, they crouched side by side

formulating fresh schemes and going over one by one the weak points of

their defenses.

They hadn't enough guns, or any reinforcements; they had no dry clothes.

The men were not accustomed to wet climates or invisible enemies.

They wanted more sand-bags and more bombs, and it would be better for

human beings not to be in trenches for three weeks at a time in the

rain.

They sat there pitting their brains against these obstacles, creating

the miraculous ingenuity of war. Personal questions dropped. Lionel saw

that Winn was ill beyond mending, but he saw it without definite

thought--it was one more obstacle in a race of obstacles. It wouldn't do

for Winn to break down. He fitted himself without explanations,

selflessly, with magnificent disinterestedness, into his friend's needs.

He was like a staff in the hand of a blind man.

Winn himself had begun to wonder, moving about in his sea of mud, how

much worse you could be before you were actually done. His cough shook

him incessantly, his brain burned, and his hands were curiously weak. He

was conscious that he had to repeat to himself all day long the things

he had to do; even then he might have forgotten if there had not been

Lionel. He might have forgotten to give orders. In spite of everything a

strange inner bliss possessed him which nourished him like food. He had

Claire's letters, they never failed him, they were as regular as the

beats of a heart. Something in him lived that had never lived before,

something that did not seem likely ever to die.

It was helping him as Lionel was helping him to get through things. What

he had to get through was dying. It was going to be quicker than the way

they had of dying in Davos, but it mightn't be quick enough; it might

drive him out of his last fight, back to an inconceivable stale world.

This must not happen. Lionel must live and he must die, where he was.

You could bully fate, if you were prepared to pay the price for it.

Winn was not sure yet what the price would be, he was only sure that he

was prepared to pay it.

They were to be relieved next day. The men were so worn out that they

could hardly move. Winn and Lionel found their own bodies difficult to

control; they had become heavy and inert from want of sleep, but their

minds were alive and worked with feverish swiftness, like the minds of

people in a long illness, when consciousness creeps above the level of

pain.

Winn had just returned from his evening round of the trenches. Lionel

was resting in his dug-out; he heard Winn's approach. Winn was coughing

again--a little choking, short cough.

He bent double and crouched down beside Lionel without speaking.

"Well," said Lionel, "to-morrow we'll be out of this. About time

too--with that cough of yours."

Winn was silent for a moment, then he said, "I suppose you know I'm

nearly done?"

Lionel bowed his head. "Yes," he muttered, "I suppose I know it."

After a pause Winn began again.

"There isn't much good talking, of course. On the other hand, you may as

well know what I feel. I've had tremendous luck in one way and another.

I never expected to get the regiment, for instance--and your coming out

here and all that. I've seen how jolly things could be."

"You haven't had them," said Lionel in a low voice. "The things you

wanted most, I mean. Your pitch was queered too soon."

"I don't know," said Winn, painstakingly. "In a sense, of course, you

haven't had things if you've only seen 'em. Still when you come to think

of it, you partly have. Look at the Germans; we've worked considerably

into them without seeing 'em, haven't we? What I mean is that I

appreciate goodness now; I see its point. Not that I'd have kept clear a

moment by myself. I hope you quite understand that? I've been a

blackguard and I'd have been a worse one if I'd had the chance. But I'm

glad I hadn't the chance now. I don't know that I'm putting the thing

straight--but you know what she's like? Thank God I couldn't alter her!"

They listened for a moment to the night. Their ears were always awake,

registering sounds from the sodden, death-ridden fields beneath them,

and above, but they heard nothing beyond the drip of the rain, an

occasional groan from a man tortured by rheumatism, and the long-drawn

scream of a distant shell.

"You can call yourself what you like," said Lionel at last. "I know what

you are, that's enough for me, and she knew it; that's one reason I got

to caring for her.

"I dare say that seems a rummy thing to you, to care for a woman

because she cares for another man. But it's a fact."

Winn moved uneasily. Then he said abruptly, "Look here, young 'un, I was

wrong before when I asked you to step in instead of me, but I'm not

wrong now. You can take it from me she'll marry you in the end. She's

young; be patient. I dare say she'll think for a time she's had enough,

but she hasn't. There's no good living a lonely life. We may both get

done in, of course. But I don't fancy we shall. I want you to promise me

not to get killed if you can help it.

"Keep away from me if you think I'm getting into trouble, because I

sha'n't be getting into trouble, I shall be getting out of it, d'you

see?"

The guns sounded nearer, a machine gun rattled sharply in their ears, as

if it had been let off in their dug-out.

"I sha'n't care for anybody else," said Lionel, quietly, "and I shall

wait all my life for her. As for not being killed--you don't want me to

shirk my job, of course; bar that, I sha'n't ask for trouble."

Winn said, "All right--then that's that! I'm going to sleep."

They neither of them slept.

It came very quickly and confusedly toward dawn. The silence was rent

across like a piece of torn silk. The crash of bombs, the peppery, sharp

detonation of rifles broke up the sullen air. Out of the dark, vague

shapes loomed, the trench filled with the sound of deep breathing and

scuffling, and the shriek of sudden pain.

Death and mud and darkness closed together.

It was all over in half an hour, the attack was driven out, and the men

moved uncertainly about, trying to discover their dead, and relieve

their wounded.

The dawn was gray and in the half light, Winn saw Lionel's eyes open and

shut; the blood was pouring from a hideous wound in his side.

"You've got to live," Winn said grimly, bending over him. "No damned

nonsense about it! You've got to live." Lionel's eyes closed again and

he knew nothing more of the rough bandaging, the endless waiting in the

sodden trench while Winn sat motionless beside him, watching his

flickering breath. In the hours of the interminable journey, Lionel

roused himself sometimes and heard again like a perpetual refrain,

"You've got to live." The motor ambulance jarred and bumped it, the

wheels of the train echoed it through the fever in his brain. He woke in

England knowing that he was going to live.

[Illustration: "You've got to live," said Winn, bending grimly over him;

"You've got to live!"]

A few hours later Winn went to see the general of his division. "I want

you to let me have another twenty-four in, sir," he explained. "They

won't expect an attack so soon. I know my men are not very fresh, but

it'll wake them up. They've stood a good lot. I've been talking to 'em.

They want to get a bit of their own back. That trench of theirs is too

near us in any case. They'd be better pushed back."

The general hesitated, but Winn's fiery sunken eyes held and shook him.

"Well, Staines," he said, "you know what you can do with your men, of

course. Have it your own way. When do you want to attack?"

"Soon as they've settled off to sleep," said Winn, "just to give 'em a

night-cap."

"Don't lose too many men," said the general, "and above all come back

yourself."

"That's as may be," said Winn. "If I can get the men over quietly in a

bit of mist, I sha'n't lose too many of 'em. I've told them if they're

too fagged to stand, they'd better fight. They quite agree about it."

Winn led the attack with the last of his strength, and in the fierceness

of his rage with life.

A white fog hung over the fields like the shadow of a valley filled with

snow.

The men fought like demons--strange shapes in the fog, with here and

there as the flames shot up, the flash of their black faces, set to

kill.

Winn's voice rallied and held them above the racket of the spitting

rifles, and the incessant coughing of the guns. It was the Staines voice

let out on a last voyage. To have gone back against it would have been

more dangerous than to go on against the guns.

They seized the trench and held it, there were no prisoners taken in the

dark, and after the first light they ceased to hear Winn's voice.

The sun came out and showed them all they had won, and what they had

lost.

Winn lay peacefully between the old trench and the new, beyond

resentment, beyond confusion, in the direct simplicity of death.

THE END