And so, before he had more than arrived, as it seemed, Justin’s last day
came.
He was to catch the four-twenty. Mrs. Cloud, refusing to admit fatigue
after her successful evening on the sofa, was planning to be up
again—down, at least, for lunch—ready to see the poor boy off. But
Justin decreed otherwise. Justin, painfully made aware on this last
visit how weak the flesh had grown of that utterly willing spirit, was
firm with his mother. Get up—to see him off? He would like to see her
try! There was Robert to see him off and old Mary, wasn’t there? And
Laura? Pack? Now did his mother think he should let her pack for him?
There were boots, for instance, any one of which weighed more than his
mother. Perhaps his mother would like to clean them for him first? No
doubt!
He outlined his ideas.
They would spend a quiet morning together, and after lunch she was to be
good and settle down to her nap. Of course he would run up before he
left and say good-bye again—what did she think? But then she must
promise him to go to sleep, really to go to sleep—no slippings out of
bed at the sound of carriage wheels—no surreptitious waving from behind
window curtains. What? Did she think he didn’t know her little ways?
He sat with her, as he had promised, till she fell into a light drowse,
and then slipped away cautiously to his own room.
Laura, sitting in the parlour below, her eyes on a book, her ears
a-prick at every sound, gave a sigh of relief as she heard his tread and
the thud of his baggage on the floor. He had gone to his packing ... he
would come soon now ... a matter of moments ... for he always packed as
if he were cocking hay.... Ah—she thought so ... his door was opening
... he was coming downstairs.... She could afford at last to ignore the
clock—that stolid thief who had impoverished her, filching one by one
twenty minutes of the hoarded sixty that were hers.
He paused in the hall long enough to give her a pang. He was not going
out?—to the stables? Yet she was able to look up indifferently when he
opened—at last—the parlour door, and came in.
“Finished?” She smiled at him pleasantly with an air of temporarily
relinquishing her book, of being very ready to return to it though, if
he did not want to talk. She had been well drilled.
However, he was communicative.
“There was hardly anything—I’m not taking much. Oh, by the way—I’ve left
some boots—to be re-soled—in trees—you might tell Mother. At least——”
“Oh, I’ll see to it,” said Laura easily. “Heeled too?”
“I think so. Oh—and there are some things—in the wardrobe—want seeing
to—want cleaning.” He elaborated his directions.
A pause ensued, the inane pause that so often preludes a leave-taking.
He walked about the room. She read her book. The clock ticked between
them, saying ‘your turn—your turn,’ and each waited for the other to
speak.
Justin bethought himself first.
“I say—what about the trap? Has somebody told Robert?”
Laura nodded.
“I told him. Four o’clock. Time enough?”
“Heaps. You’re fast.” He tinkered with the hands: and so—having arrived
at the hearth-rug and the second armchair—sat down.
She gave him a quick little glance of delight. He was making himself
comfortable!... He had crossed his hands under his head: was leaning
back: was looking at her.... That meant that he was ready to talk....
She leant back in her turn, her book closed over her hand.
“When’s the next leave, Justin?”
“Lord knows!” he laughed. “You ought to have more sense, Laura. That’s
the sort of insatiable thing Mother says.”
Laura laughed too, a touch of vexed colour in her cheeks. She did not
often trip.
But he continued, always unconscious—
“Isn’t Mother delicious about this war?—this infamous conspiracy of a
Europe that ought to know better against my peace and person? You know—I
never knew before what claws Mother had. The bloodthirsty things she
says! And means too—bless her! Oh, it’s all very well to laugh, Laura!
That’s just what Mother complains of. People don’t realize how serious
things are. A bullet might hit me!” He chuckled over his joke.
Laura’s laughter was an excellent imitation of the real thing.
He grew sober again.
“I say—I suppose influenza always does pull people down so? She doesn’t
look at all fit.”
“It’s not the influenza. It’s the war. It’s the strain—the sitting
still——” she broke off.
“From her letters you’d say she was flourishing. I didn’t realize——” He
hesitated a moment. Then—“I say—you might send me a line sometimes—on
your own——”
He did not see her nod. Expecting an answer, he glanced up enquiringly
to catch a look on her face that set him thinking. When he spoke again
his tone had altered—Mrs. Cloud had dropped out of sight.
“Will you? Don’t forget. One likes getting letters out there.”
She flushed a sudden scarlet.
“I will. Of course I will. I would have before—if I’d thought—if I’d
dreamed you wanted—if you’d said——” She tangled herself into silence.
But it was a silence that was not pause but preparation, preliminary,
the recession of the sea between wave and wave. Here was her chance....
For this she had prayed.... He was giving her her chance!... She would
take it.... She would not be cowardly, nor falsely ashamed.... She would
take her chance....
“Justin—I did write. I tried to write to you. I tore it up. I thought
you’d never listen. I wanted to explain—about that wicked thing I did.
Justin—I wanted to say—I want to say——” She paused. Her face was
burning. Her lips were dry. The shaping of words was difficult. She
found herself looking to him for help.
He, too, had coloured; but his eyes were kind. He uttered incredible
words—
“It’s all right, Laura. Don’t worry.”
She could not comprehend. She stumbled on again.
“—to say I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am. I’d no shadow of
right to do it. I see that now.”
She stopped abruptly, believing she saw in his quick movement—he had
risen from his chair and was fidgeting with the toys on the mantel—his
man’s apprehension of a scene. She watched him, absurdly occupied in
piling matches, spilliken fashion: watched and waited till she could
wait no longer.
“Justin——” she petitioned.
He turned. He was smiling at her—shyly, significantly, half-laughing.
“Don’t worry, Laura,” he said again.
His meaning was obvious enough, yet she stared at him, too incredulous
to feel relief or contentment or triumph—any of the emotions she had a
right to feel.
“Do you mean—is it possible—you don’t mind any more?”
“Not much,” he confessed.
“You’ve got over it—that I smashed it—your eggs—the collection—the only
thing you ever cared about?”
“Oh, look here—I’m not a fool,” he protested. “I never made such a God
Almighty out of them as that!”
“Oh, Justin, you did!” cried Laura.
It was tactless; but she was too relieved to be careful. And yet a
little blank—a little sore. It was strange to feel the nightmare of two
years proved dream-stuff, swept aside, nullified in a moment, with a
laugh.... It had been real enough to her.... She had paid, she was still
paying, it seemed, for what he had long ago forgotten.... Somehow—it
didn’t seem fair....
Justin’s voice recalled her thoughts, shifted them from herself to him.
Her soreness passed as she listened to him, grown serious again. He was
explaining himself to her, slowly, with naïve interest.
“I suppose I did go off the tracks a bit. A thing takes hold of you,
somehow. Not the eggs—the collecting. Anything would have done as well
as eggs. It just happened to be eggs. Of course—now—I admit it was
absurd. But the whole business—it made one’s days so full. It was
ripping to feel so keen. And when you smashed them—there was a hole in
the world. Nothing to fill it. I felt lost—soured—I hated you. But when
the war began all that dwindled. The war—but we talked about it the
other day. It’s gone. Blown away. And now—I don’t care any more. Not a
ha’penny cuss. Queer, isn’t it? So you needn’t worry. I never think of
it. But what I do think sometimes—what I’ve never understood——” He
stopped in front of her, staring down at her with puzzled eyes—“Laura,
what on earth made you do it?”
She flushed.
“It wasn’t temper. It wasn’t cattishness.”
“No. I knew that, you know, all the time—really.”
She hesitated painfully—groping for the convincing word.
“It was——Because——Oh, Justin, you know what you said yourself, the other
day—about the war altering people—altering you, even. Oh, can’t you see?
I wanted to do—for you—what the war has done. I wasn’t big enough, I
made an insane mess of it. But that’s what I tried to do.”
She stopped, her eyes on her hands that trembled in her lap.
“But why?” he said, “but why?”
She raised her eyes to his patiently, letting him see all he chose,
before she dropped them again.
The silence that lengthened between them was heavy, but not hostile. It
brooded, continued, till she imagined, she dared to believe, that he was
remembering, understanding, filling in gaps.
He gave a great restless sigh at last, and moved away.
“We made a fine old muddle of it all,” he said.
Laura had no words.
“Didn’t we?” he appealed to her.
She gave him a rueful little smile.
“I suppose——” His thoughts sent him with long strides up and down and up
and down the room—brought him to a standstill at last before Laura in
her chair, thought-bound too, yet more at peace than he.
“I suppose——” he began again: and then, “Laura, what do you think?”
She laughed at him then, openly—a little fearless laugh of pure
amusement. Here was a novel gambit! “I _think_,” he would begin,
deceptively deprecatory; but he had never before said, “What do _you_
think?”
He ignored her laughter, absently, as a nothing, a drift of down, a puff
of smoke from the wind-teased fire. He was more deeply engaged. She had
set him pondering—wondering—and now, with an amazing, wise simplicity
that honoured him and her, he showed her where she had led him, stated
his difficulty.
“Do you think it’s right to marry as people do abroad—arranged—you know,
without falling in love?”
She was slow in answering. She had her hope to strangle—her hope, the
child of her love. She had to bury it deep, to disown it utterly, as a
crazed and shameful bastard. But she did answer at last, faithfully, as
she would have had him answer her.
“It’s the unforgivable sin,” said Laura.
And he was not content. It was what he expected, what he wanted. It
confirmed him, justified him, was his own definite belief. But it
disappointed him. He had wanted opposition, that he might overcome it.
Her certainty disconcerted him, caused him to feel curiously aggrieved.
How could she be so sure?... One laid down hard and fast rules; but
there would always be exceptional cases.... Was there, after all, no
middle way?...
As if she had known his thoughts she began to speak her own, freely and
easily, as they came to her. For she had gained something in the last
minute, and she knew it. Beggared she might be—but she was free—free at
last to be herself with Justin—hoping nothing—fearing nothing.
“After all,” she meditated, “you say ‘falling in love.’ But what do you
mean? Where will you draw the line? What is love? Are there two people
alive who mean precisely the same thing? And yet it is the same thing.
Just as all the gods—are God. Manifested,” she smiled over her long
words—“in endless diversity. Lancelot and Guinevere—Darby and Joan. But
it’s all love.”
He half listened, her words interlacing his thought like woof threading
a web. What, after all, did he mean—did he want?... Yesterday’s half
forgotten verses flickered upon his mind—
_Flower o’ the broom?_ Maybe....
_Flower o’ the pine?_ Not that, at least!... But what _did_ he want?...
Romance, he supposed.... Yes, he asked of Life romance.... And she
tossed him—Laura!... With such an air, too, of knowing what was good for
him!... Other men adventured as they chose ... over hell—under heaven
... but Life had always grandmothered him, he thought, with a new
resentful flash of insight.
Romance ... the ideal woman ... with mystery in her eyes.... Yet would
he after all find a position of perpetual adoration comfortable?...
Would Romance darn his trousers when they rubbed through at the
knees?... He smiled. Laura would.... Yes—one came back to Laura.... And
if there were no mystery in Laura’s eyes, whose was the fault?...
Laura—Laura—a singing name.... He wished he could make up his mind....
He wished she would say something to him....
But Laura sat silent. Knowing him as she knew her Bible, she was
generally aware of the trend of his thoughts, for his simplicity was
always naïvely defeating his reserve. She felt, she knew, how easily
because unconsciously, a word from her, a glance, a gesture even, might
weigh down, at that moment, the balanced scales. And two years ago she
would have had no scruples: would have snatched at happiness as a child
snatches at a robin, curious, friendly, hopping closer and closer. But
now she could sit quiet, light-breathing, letting it query and advance,
and retreat and advance again, letting it flit from knee to hand, from
hand to shoulder, to perch there singing its song to her, to stay with
her or fly away again at its own will.
No—she would not appeal.... He must be free, as she had learned to be
free.... In her garden she had flowers for him—thornless roses, fruits
to satisfy a man’s hunger and thirst.... But he must pluck them for
himself.... She would proffer nothing....
Yet she felt his intensity of unrest as if it were her own. In that hour
a sixth sense was love-lent to her, so that she saw his mind, with its
crowded, conflicting thoughts that ran hither and thither like ants,
with stumblings and bewilderments, with futile crossings and
re-crossings, yet always with a definite surge forward in one direction,
in her direction. His turmoil affected her strangely: she found herself
watching him placidly, with a sort of amused sympathy. She knew how
indignantly he disliked not being sure about everything in the world.
Poor Justin! It must be maddening to him not to be sure about
himself....
All this on the surface of her mind: underneath, her whole soul was
crying out to him, “Justin!—Justin!” calling his name, passionately,
with insistent iteration, as a bird calls to its delaying mate.
And he, as if he heard, turned to her—
“Laura——”
“Yes, Justin?”
After all, he _was_ very fond of her.... She belonged in....
The war had swept away so much ... only the bare verities
survived—duty—sleep—home—and Laura.... Surely he meant Laura too, when
he thought, out there, of coming home? Suppose he came home one day and
found her gone?...
His keen annoyance at the notion was queerly familiar. He had utterly
forgotten the incidents of their engagement-day, and that she had ever
told him that she might leave Brackenhurst; but he was certainly aware
of an old annoyance, and of something newer, stronger than annoyance—a
chill, snaky pang that was very like fear.
Laura gone?
_Flower o’ the quince_.... How the catches rang in his head!
_Flower o’ the quince,
I let Lisa go, and what good in life since?_
Oh, if it came to that!
He must have spoken aloud, for she lifted her eyes. She was startled to
see him coming to her across the room, hard-pressed, in desperate
fashion, like a man who would shake off his own shadow. She half rose.
She was suddenly frightened. She put out her hands, fending him off.
“Justin—Justin—be sure——”
She fell back in her chair because he was so near.
“Justin—wait. Be sure. Be very, very sure.” Her lips trembled
childishly. “You must be sure. If you found out, afterwards——I couldn’t
stand it—twice.”
It was so unlike her that he was shocked. He thought she must have
suffered beyond belief to say such a thing to him. Sure? He would show
her!... For an instant he was a man enlightened—forgetting all himself
in an impulse of pure tenderness. He would show her!...
“Laura——”
‘One! two! three! four!’ The clock chimed in—sweet, icy, maliciously
sedate. ‘And your train, Justin? And your train?’ Its echoes were lost
in the crunch of the punctual wheels on the drive.
His hands dropped again, between impatience and relief.
Laura rose hastily. It was pitiful to watch Martha ousting Mary in her
face. She was the old Laura, the wistful, anxious Laura again, full of
words and plannings and solicitudes.
“You must go. I had forgotten. I had forgotten the war. It isn’t the
time. You mustn’t lose your train, Justin. Will you go quickly to your
mother? Your bag—your mackintosh—I’ll see to your things. I’m coming
with you. I want to come with you. Your umbrella——Of course! Soldiers
don’t have umbrellas.”
She followed him into the hall, and while he ran upstairs, went out on
to the steps where old Robert and the dog-cart awaited him. She spoke
quickly.
“You can get down, Robert. I am driving Mr. Justin.”
Robert, with a tall fighting son of his own, was tenacious of his crack
with the young master. He expostulated respectfully. There had never
been so fresh a mare as the mare between the shafts of the dog-cart.
But Miss Laura—courteous, thoughtful Miss Laura—cut inexorably through
his suggestions.
“I’m driving Mr. Justin, Robert. He won’t be a moment.”
She took the reins from his unwilling hand and springing up, settled
herself quickly in his rightful place. He might have been a chauffeur, a
hired chauffeur, from her tone. He retired to the back seat, outraged.
They said nothing at all during their short drive. Laura’s eyes, and for
all Justin knew her thoughts, were on the mare’s ears, a-prick for an
excuse to shy. And his thoughts had travelled ahead of him. He was
wondering where he should find his men, and how.... In a way he
shouldn’t be sorry to get back.... One never knew what might happen when
one left the show to other people.... Yet how he hated leaving it all
... his mother ... and the quiet ... and his own den ... and Laura....
As for Laura—he was glad—he was sorry—that their talk had broken where
it had.... But Laura was right.... It wasn’t the time.... He had seen,
as in a crystal, a blurred glimpse of what the future might hold for
him—Fair Haven or Fata Morgana—but which he could not tell ... he had
not time to tell....
Fair Haven ... his home—his wife—his children, his own children—a slip
of a daughter, maybe—a fierce, rain-drenched imp with eyes like
diamonds—with eyes like Laura’s....
Fair Haven? Fata Morgana? How was he to know? Good Lord, how was he to
know?...
And then, resentfully——Why couldn’t Laura—no, that wasn’t fair—she
wasn’t that sort—but why couldn’t Life leave him alone? He was doing his
job—he was fighting. Why couldn’t Life leave it at that?... Life,
oblivious of wars and peaces, sitting like a spider in her great web,
spinning entanglements.... But he would not be involved in her
cobwebbery of commingling lives.... Why shouldn’t he be on his own?...
_Flower o’ the peach,
Death for us all, and his own life for each!_
_His own life for each!_... There—there was common sense at last, behind
the fever and the glamour!... _His own life for each_....
And yet—one was lonely sometimes....
Oh, well—he must think things out.... But not now.... Laura was right—it
wasn’t the time. He clung to the comfortable phrase. That was the best
of Laura.... She was a reasonable woman ... never worried you.... It was
worth while to be at peace with Laura....
How the week had flown! He wished he had had time to go to London
again.... There was that play he had wanted to see.... It must wait for
his next leave.... His next leave! He was as bad as Laura! And he had
forgotten to order—but he had given Laura the list.... Laura would see
to all that.... It would be a great relief to be able to write to Laura
again ... he hated worrying his mother.... And Laura didn’t mind the
bother.... It was comical—he really believed she enjoyed it.... Women
were amazing creatures....
They were none too soon at the station. Laura had barely time to settle
him in a carriage with his ticket and his paper and his pipe, when a
black and burly voice interposed between her and the carriage door—
“Stand back, please—stand back now, please!”
The train began to move.
Justin thrust out a friendly hand.
“Well—good-bye, Laura.”
“Good-bye, Justin.”
She kept pace for a moment with the gathering speed of the train.
“Justin—take care! You will take care? Don’t bother about V.C.s. and
things.”
He laughed at that. She could do so little for him, but at least she
could always make him laugh.
The train carried away Justin laughing.
She watched it dwindle to a toy and vanish in the tunnel, and still
stood watching till the track wavered and danced, as she fought her
blinding tears and petitioned the skies for Justin.
“Keep him safe, God. O God, keep him safe. Let him come back to me. O
God, let him come back to me.”
One voice of a thousand thousand, uplifted daily, hourly, in that
cry—how shall it be preferred?
Yet I believe, I cannot help believing, that in the fulness of time he
will come back to her.
* * * * *
Well, Collaborator—do you like it? You are sitting so silently in your
big chair, and your knitting has dropped to the floor——
Collaborator, don’t look so solemn! They’re not real people! They’re not
real troubles! Only marionettes that we have set a-jig-jigging up and
down our mantelpiece to make us laugh o’ nights, and forget the unending
war. And now we will send them jigging up and down printed pages, to do
the same, if they can, for other poor folk.
Do you know how late it is, Collaborator? Rake out the fire, if you
please, and come to bed.
What is the matter? You feel cheated? We have seen the completion of
Laura, you say—but only the beginning of Justin? But that is the story!
It was to be a comedy of growth—not a drama of maturity. First the
blade, then the ear—I never promised you the full corn.
Still you are not satisfied? You protest that you are a practical person
who calls a spade a spade, and you want to know, and you want to know,
and you want to know——?
Why, then you must go on with the book by yourself, Collaborator, and in
your own way. I’m at the end of my inventions. I’m tired. I want to go
to bed. I know no more of Justin Cloud and Laura Valentine.
February 1916-October 1917.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The following pages contain advertisements of books by the same author
or on kindred subjects.
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Regiment of Women
BY CLEMENCE DANE
Cloth, 12^o, $1.50
“A striking novel ... its descriptive and psychological brilliancy
equals that of the best work offered in modern fiction.”—American Review
of Reviews.
“Its types are so individually alive, its psychology is so well
dramatized and so little dissected, and its tragedy dissolves so
naturally into a glad denouement, that its ‘too much’ is distinctly that
of a good thing.”—Life.
“‘Regiment of Women’ is a remarkable novel. It places the author
immediately among the leading fiction writers of England.”—New York
Globe.
“‘Regiment of Women’ introduces a very remarkable character ... one of
the most powerfully drawn figures in contemporary literature. Miss Dane
has made a vivid story, well calculated to hold the reader’s attention
from the very beginning and to command his praise at the end.”—Morning
Telegraph.
“The author has been daring in confining her tale so long to women, but
she has succeeded.... She has a distinct sense of style and much of the
value of the novel, which is interesting because of its perverseness, is
due to the entire adequacy of its diction.”—Boston Transcript.
“Written in an exceedingly graphic and vital way ... done with a fine
restrained, always significant touch that reveals in the author an
artist of power, taste, knowledge and skill.”—New York Times.
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The Tree of Heaven
BY MAY SINCLAIR
Cloth, $1.60
“Thoughtful, dramatic, vivid, always well and at times beautifully
written, full of real people skilfully analyzed and presented, “The Tree
of Heaven” is one of the few great books which have as yet come out of
the war.”—New York Times.
“Miss Sinclair’s genius consists in being able to combine great art with
a popular story-telling gift. All her detail, the many little miracles
of observation and understanding, are not dead nor catalogued, but are
merged into the living body of her continuously interesting
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“Genius illumines every page of one of the most impressive works of
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“Miss Sinclair has written nothing that so perfectly represents the
chaotic spirit of England during the past twenty years. The story
contains much of matters that have nothing to do with the war and in all
of them she has portrayed the English character to the life.”—Boston
Transcript.
“The Book of the day is ‘The Tree of Heaven.’ It is a war novel—a
gripping one. The story does not take us out of England except in a few
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“Stands out at once, and emphatically, from the common run of books
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The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me
BY WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE
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Cloth 12mo.
What happened to these two when the work of the Red Cross took them from
their quiet newspaper offices in Kansas, and suddenly plunged them into
the turmoil of the war makes a fascinating narrative.
There is an irresistible humor in the adventures of the two fat, bald
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watching the romance of the “Eager Soul” and the “Gilded Youth” and the
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Some text was illegible in the scan used to produce this book. It
was replaced by the correct text from another source.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
○ The use of a caret (^) before a letter, or letters, shows that the
following letter or letters were intended to be a superscript, as
in S^t Bartholomew or 10^{th} Century.