Book IV

WAR

chapter 1

It was six months later that Sebastian Levinne had a note from Joe.

_St. George's Hotel, Soho._

Dear Sebastian: I'm over in England for a few days. I should love

to see you. Yours, Joe.

Sebastian read and reread the brief note. He was at his mother's house

on a few days' leave, so it had reached him with no delay. Across the

breakfast table he was conscious of his mother's eyes watching him,

and he marvelled as he had often done before, at the quickness of her

maternal apprehension. She read his face, which most people found so

inscrutable, as easily as he read the note in his hand.

When she spoke it was in ordinary commonplace tones.

"Some more marmalade, dear?" she said.

"No, thanks, Mother." He answered the spoken question first, then went

on to the unspoken one of which he was so keenly conscious. "It's from

Joe."

"Joe," said Mrs. Levinne. Her voice expressed nothing.

"She's in London."

There was a pause.

"I see," said Mrs. Levinne.

Still her voice expressed nothing. But Sebastian was aware of a whole

tumult of feeling. It was the same to him as though his mother had

burst out: "My son, my son! And you were just beginning to forget her!

Why does she come back like this? Why can't she leave you alone? This

girl who has nothing to do with us or our race? This girl who was never

the right wife for you and never will be."

Sebastian rose.

"I think I must go round and see her."

His mother answered in the same voice: "I suppose so."

They said no more. They understood each other. Each respected the

other's point of view.

As he swung along the street it suddenly occurred to Sebastian that

Joe had given him no clues as to what name she was staying under at

the hotel. Did she call herself Miss Waite or Madame de la Marre?

Unimportant, of course, but one of those silly conventional absurdities

that made one feel awkward. He must ask for her under one or the other.

How like Joe it was to have completely overlooked the point!

But as it happened there was no awkwardness, for the first person he

saw as he passed through the swing doors was Joe herself. She greeted

him with a glad cry of surprise.

"Sebastian! I'd no idea you could possibly have got my letter so soon!"

She led the way to a retired corner of the lounge and he followed her.

His first feeling was that she had changed--she had gone so far away

that she was almost a stranger. It was partly, he thought, her clothes.

They were ultra-French clothes. Very quiet and dark and discreet, but

utterly un-English. Her face, too, was very much made up. Its creamy

pallor was enhanced by art, her lips were impossibly red, and she had

done something to the corners of her eyes.

He thought: "She's a stranger--and yet she's Joe! She's the same Joe

but she's gone a long way away--so far away that one can only just get

in touch with her."

But they talked together easily enough, each, as it were, putting out

little feelers, as though sounding the distance that separated them.

And suddenly the distance itself lessened and the elegant Parisian

stranger melted into Joe.

They talked of Vernon. Where was he? He never wrote or told one

anything.

"He's on Salisbury Plain, near Wiltsbury. He may be going out to France

any minute."

"And Nell married him after all! Sebastian, I feel I was rather a

beast about Nell. I didn't think she had it in her. I don't think

she _would_ have had it in her if it hadn't been for the war.

Sebastian, isn't the war wonderful? What it's doing for people, I mean."

Sebastian said dryly that he supposed it was very much like any other

war. Joe flew out at him vehemently.

"It isn't! It isn't! That's just where you're wrong. There's going to

be a new world after it. People are beginning to see things--things

they never saw before. All the cruelty and the wickedness and the waste

of war. And they'll stand together so that such a thing shall never

happen again."

Her face was flushed and exalted. Sebastian perceived that the war had,

as he phrased it, "got" Joe. The war did get people. He had discussed

it and deplored it with Jane. It made him sick to read the things that

were printed and said about the war: "A world fit for heroes." "The war

to end war." "The fight for democracy." And really, all the time it was

the same old bloody business it always had been. Why couldn't people

speak the truth about it?

Jane had disagreed with him. She maintained that the claptrap (for

she agreed it _was_ claptrap) which was written about war was

inevitable, a kind of accompanying phenomenon inseparable from it. It

was Nature's way of providing a way of escape--you had to have that

wall of illusion and lies to help you to endure the solid facts. It

was, to her, pitiable and almost beautiful--these things that we wanted

to believe and told ourselves so speciously.

Sebastian had said: "I dare say, but it's going to play hell with the

nation afterward."

He was saddened and a little depressed by Joe's fiery enthusiasm.

And yet, after all, it was typical of Joe. Her enthusiasm always was

red-hot. It was a toss-up which camp he found her in, that was all.

She might just as easily have been a white-hot pacifist, embracing

martyrdom with fervour.

She said now accusingly to Sebastian: "You don't agree! You think

everything's going to be just the same."

"There have always been wars, and they have never made any great

difference."

"Yes, but this is a different kind of war altogether."

He smiled. He could not help it.

"My dear Joe, the things that happen to us personally are always

different."

"Oh! I've no patience with you. It's people like you----"

She stopped.

"Yes," said Sebastian encouragingly. "People like me----"

"You usen't to be like that. You used to have ideas. Now----"

"Now," said Sebastian gravely, "I am sunk in money. I'm a capitalist.

Everyone knows what a hoggish creature the capitalist is."

"Don't be absurd. But I do think that money is rather--well, stifling."

"Yes," said Sebastian. "That's true enough. But that's a question of

effect on an individual. I will quite agree with you that poverty is

a blessed state. Talking in terms of art, it's probably as valuable

as manure in a garden. But it's nonsense to say that because I've

got money I'm unfit to make prognostications as to the future, and

especially as to the state obtaining after the war. Just because I've

got money I'm all the more likely to be a good judge. Money has got a

lot to do with war."

"Yes, but because you think of everything in terms of money, you say

that there always will be wars."

"I didn't say anything of the kind. I think war will eventually be

abolished. I'd give it roughly another two hundred years."

"Ah! you do admit that by then we may have purer ideals."

"I don't think it's got anything to do with ideals. It's probably a

question of transport. Once get flying going on a commercial scale and

you fuse countries together. Air charabancs to the Sahara Wednesdays

and Saturdays--that kind of thing. Countries getting mixed up and

matey. Trade revolutionized. For all practical purposes, you make

the world smaller. You reduce it in time to the level of a nation

with counties in it. I don't think what's always alluded to as the

Brotherhood of Man will ever develop from fine ideas--it will be a

simple matter of common sense."

"Oh, Sebastian!"

"I'm annoying you. I'm sorry, Joe dear."

"You don't believe in anything."

"Well, it's you who are the atheist, you know. Though, as a matter

of fact, that word has gone out of fashion. We say nowadays that we

believe in _Something_! Personally, I'm quite satisfied with

Jehovah. But I know what you meant when you said that, and you're

wrong. I believe in beauty, in creation, in things like Vernon's

music. I can't see any real defence for them economically, and yet I'm

perfectly sure that they matter more than anything else in the world.

I'm even prepared (sometimes) to drop money over them. That's a lot for

a Jew!"

Joe laughed in spite of herself. Then she asked: "What was _The

Princess in the Tower_ really like? Honestly, Sebastian."

"Oh! rather like a giant toddling--an unconvincing performance, and yet

a performance on a different scale from anything else."

"You think that some day----"

"I'm sure of it. There's nothing I'm so sure of as that. If only he

isn't killed in this bloody war."

Joe shivered.

"It's so awful," she murmured. "I've been working in the hospitals in

Paris. Some of the things one sees!"

"I know. If he's only maimed it doesn't matter--not like a violinist

who is finished if he loses his right hand. No, they can mess up his

body any way they like, so long as his brain is left untouched. That

sounds brutal, but you know what I mean."

"I know. But sometimes--even then----" She broke off and then went on,

speaking in a new tone of voice: "Sebastian, I'm married."

If something in him winced he didn't show it.

"Are you, my dear? Did La Marre get a divorce?"

"No. I left him. He was a beast--a beast, Sebastian."

"I can imagine he might be."

"Not that I regret anything. One has to live one's life--to gain

experience. Anything is better than shrinking from life. That's just

what people like Aunt Myra can't understand. I'm not going near them

at Birmingham. I'm not ashamed or repentant of anything I've done."

She gazed at him defiantly and his mind went back to Joe in the woods

at Abbots Puissants. He thought: "She's just the same. Wrong-headed,

rebellious, adorable. One might have known then that she'd do this sort

of thing."

He said gently: "I'm only sorry that you've been unhappy. Because

you've been unhappy, haven't you?"

"Horribly. But I've found my real life now. There was a boy in

hospital--terribly badly wounded. They gave him morphia.--He's been

discharged now--cured, though of course he isn't fit for service.

But the morphia--it's got hold of him. That's why we were married. A

fortnight ago. We're going to fight it together."

Sebastian did not trust himself to speak. Joe all over. But why, in

the name of fortune, couldn't she have been content with physical

disabilities? Morphia. A ghastly business.

And suddenly a pang shot through him. It was as though he resigned his

last hope of her. Their ways led in opposite directions--Joe amongst

her lost causes and her lame dogs, and he on an upward route. He

might, of course, be killed in the war, but somehow he didn't think he

would be. He was almost certain that he wouldn't even be picturesquely

wounded. He felt a kind of certitude that he would come through

safely, probably with moderate distinction; that he would come back

to his enterprises, reorganizing and revitalizing them; that he would

be successful, notably successful, in a world that did not tolerate

failures. And the higher he climbed the farther he would be separated

from Joe.

He thought bitterly: "There's always some woman to pull you out of a

pit, but nobody will come and keep you company on a mountain peak, and

yet you may be damned lonely there."

He didn't quite know what to say to Joe. No good depressing her, poor

child. He said rather weakly:

"What's your name now?"

"Valnière. You must meet François some time, I've just come over to

settle up some legal bothers. Father died about a month ago, you know."

Sebastian nodded. He remembered hearing of Major Waite's death.

Joe went on.

"I want to see Jane. And I want to see Vernon and Nell."

It was settled that he should motor her down to Wiltsbury on the

following day.

_2_

Nell and Vernon had rooms in a small prim house about a mile out of

Wiltsbury. Vernon, looking well and brown, fell upon Joe and hugged her

with enthusiasm.

They all went into a room full of antimacassars and lunched off boiled

mutton and caper sauce.

"Vernon, you look splendid--and almost good-looking, doesn't he, Nell?"

"That's the uniform," said Nell demurely.

She had changed, Sebastian thought, looking at her. He had not

seen her since her marriage. To him she had always fallen into a

class--a certain type of charming young girl. Now he saw her as an

individual--the real Nell bursting out of her chrysalis.

There was a subdued radiance about her. She was quieter than she used

to be, and yet she was more alive. They were happy together--no one who

looked at them could doubt it. They seldom looked at each other, but

when they did you felt it. Something passed between them--delicate,

evanescent, but unmistakable.

It was a happy meal. They talked of old days--of Abbots Puissants.

"And here we are, all four of us together again," said Joe.

A warm feeling fastened round Nell's heart. Joe had included her. All

_four_ of us, she had said. Nell remembered how once Vernon had

said, "We three," and the words had hurt her. But that was over now.

She was one of them. That was her reward--one of her rewards. Life

seemed full of rewards at the moment.

She was happy--so terribly happy. And she might so easily not have

been happy. She might have been actually married to George when the

war broke out. How could she ever have been so incredibly foolish

as to think that anything mattered except marrying Vernon? How

extraordinarily happy they were and how right he had been to say

poverty didn't matter.

It wasn't as though she were the only one. Lots of girls were doing

it--flinging up everything, marrying the man they cared for no matter

how poor he was. After the war something would turn up. That was the

attitude. And behind it lay that awful secret fear that you never

took out and looked at properly. The nearest you ever got to it was

saying defiantly: "And no matter _what_ happens, we'll have had

_something_."

She thought: "The world's changing. Everything's different now. It

always will be. We'll never go back...."

She looked across the table at Joe. Joe looked different somehow--very

_queer_. What you would have called before the war--well, "_not

quite_." What had Joe been doing with herself? That nasty man,

La Marre.... Oh! well, better not think about it. Nothing mattered

nowadays.

Joe was very nice to her--so different from what she used to be in the

old days when Nell had always felt uncomfortable that Joe despised her.

Perhaps she had cause. She _had_ been a little coward.

The war was awful, of course, but it had simplified things. Her mother,

for instance, had come round almost at once. She was disappointed,

naturally, about George Chetwynd (poor George, he really _was_ a

dear and she'd been a beast to him), but Mrs. Vereker proceeded to make

the best of things with admirable common sense.

"These war marriages!" she used that phrase with a tiny shrug of the

shoulders. "Poor children--you can't blame them. Not wise, perhaps--but

what is wisdom at a time like this?" Mrs. Vereker needed all her skill

and all her wit to deal with her creditors and she had come off pretty

well. Some of them even felt sympathy for her.

If she and Vernon didn't really like each other, they concealed the

fact quite creditably, and as a matter of fact had met only once since

the marriage. It had all been very easy.

Perhaps, if you had courage, things were always easy. Perhaps that was

the great secret of life.

Nell pondered, then waking from her reverie plunged once more into the

conversation.

Sebastian was speaking.

"We're going to look Jane up when we get back to town. I've not so much

as heard of her for ages. Have you, Vernon?"

Vernon shook his head.

"No," he said, "I haven't."

He tried to speak naturally but didn't quite succeed.

"She's very nice," said Nell. "But--well, rather difficult, isn't she?

I mean, you never quite know what she's thinking about."

"She might be occasionally disconcerting," Sebastian allowed.

"She's an angel," said Joe with vehemence.

Nell was watching Vernon. She thought: "I wish he'd say something ...

anything. I'm afraid of Jane. I always have been. She's a devil...."

"Probably," said Sebastian, "she's gone to Russia or Timbuctoo or

Mozambique. One would never be surprised with Jane."

"How long is it since you've seen her?" asked Joe.

"Exactly? Oh, about three weeks."

"Is that all? I thought you meant really ages."

"It seems like it," said Sebastian.

They began to talk of Joe's hospital in Paris. Then they talked of Myra

and Uncle Sydney. Myra was very well and making an incredible quantity

of swabs and also did duty twice a week at a canteen. Uncle Sydney

was well on the way to making a second fortune, having started the

manufacture of explosives.

"He's got off the mark early," said Sebastian appreciatively. "This

war's not going to be over for three years at least."

They argued the point. The days of an "optimistic six months" were

over, but three years were regarded as too gloomy a view. Sebastian

talked about explosives, the state of Russia, the food question, and

submarines. He was a little dictatorial, since he was perfectly sure

that he was right.

At five o'clock Sebastian and Joe got into the car and drove back to

London. Vernon and Nell stood in the road waving.

"Well," said Nell, "that's that." She slipped her arm through Vernon's.

"I'm glad you were able to get off to-day. Joe would have been awfully

disappointed not to see you."

"Do you think she's changed?"

"A little. Don't you?"

They were strolling along the road and they turned off where a track

led over the downs.

"Yes," said Vernon, with a sigh. "I suppose it was inevitable."

"I'm glad she's married. I think it's very fine of her. Don't you?"

"Oh, yes. Joe was always warm-hearted, bless her!"

He spoke abstractedly. Nell glanced up at him. She realized now that he

had been rather silent all day. The others had done most of the talking.

"I'm glad they came," she said again.

Vernon didn't answer. She pressed her arm against his and felt him

press it against his side. But his silence persisted.

It was getting dark and the air came sharp and cold, but they did not

turn back, walked on and on without speaking. So they had often walked

before--silent and happy. But this silence was different. There was

weight in it and menace.

Suddenly Nell knew.

"Vernon! It's come! You've got to go...."

He pressed her hand closer still but did not speak.

"Vernon ... when?"

"Next Thursday."

"Oh!" she stood still. Agony shot through her. It had come. She had

known it was bound to come, but she hadn't known--quite--what it was

going to feel like.

"Nell, Nell.... Don't mind so much. Please don't mind so much." The

words came tumbling out now. "It'll be all right. I _know_ it'll

be all right. I'm not going to get killed. I couldn't now that you love

me--now that we're so happy. Some fellows feel their number's up when

they go out--but I don't. I've a kind of certainty that I'm going to

come through. I want you to feel that too."

She stood there frozen. This was what war was really. It took the heart

out of your body, the blood out of your veins. She clung to him with a

sob. He held her to him.

"It's all right, Nell. We knew it was coming soon. And I'm really

frightfully keen to go--at least I would be if it wasn't for leaving

you. You wouldn't like me to have spent the whole war guarding a bridge

in England, would you? And there will be the leaves to look forward

to--we'll have the most frightfully jolly leaves. There will be lots

of money, and we'll simply blow it. Oh! Nell darling, I just know that

nothing can happen to me now that you care for me."

She agreed with him.

"It can't--it can't. God couldn't be so cruel."

But the thought came to her that God was letting a lot of cruel things

happen.

She said valiantly, forcing back her tears: "It'll be all right,

darling. I know it too."

"And even--even if it isn't, you must remember--how perfect this has

been.... Darling, you have been happy, haven't you?"

She lifted her lips to his. They clung together, dumb, agonizing, the

shadow of their first parting hanging over them.

How long they stood there they hardly knew.

_3_

When they went back to the antimacassars they talked cheerfully of

ordinary things. Vernon touched only once on the future.

"Nell, when I'm gone will you go to your mother, or what?"

"No. I'd rather stay down here. There are lots of things to do in

Wiltsbury--hospital, canteen."

"Yes, but I don't want you to do anything. I think you'd be better

distracted in London. There will still be theatres and things like

that."

"No, Vernon, I must do something--work, I mean."

"Well, if you want to work you can knit me socks. I hate all this

nursing business. I suppose it's necessary, but I don't like it. You

wouldn't care to go to Birmingham?"

Nell said very decidedly that she would _not_ like to go to

Birmingham.

The actual parting when it came was less strenuous. Vernon kissed her

almost off-handedly.

"Well, so long. Cheer up. Everything's going to be all right. I'll

write as much as I can, though I expect we're not allowed to say much

that's interesting. Take care of yourself, Nell darling."

One almost involuntary tightening of his arms round her, and then he

almost pushed her from him.

He was gone.

She thought: "I shall never sleep to-night ... never...."

But she did. A deep heavy sleep. She went down into it as into an

abyss. A haunted sleep--full of terror and apprehension that gradually

faded into the unconsciousness of exhaustion.

She woke with a keen sword of pain piercing her heart.

She thought: "Vernon's gone to the war. I must get something to do."

chapter 2

Nell went to see Mrs. Curtis, the Red Cross commandant. Mrs. Curtis was

benign and affable. She was enjoying her importance and was convinced

that she was a born organizer. Actually, she was a very bad one. But

everyone said she had a wonderful manner. She condescended graciously

to Nell.

"Let me see, Mrs.--ah! Deyre. You've got your V.A.D. and nursing

certificates?"

"Yes."

"But you don't belong to any of the local detachments?"

Nell's exact standing was discussed at some length.

"Well, we must see what we can do for you," said Mrs. Curtis. "The

hospital is fully staffed at present, but of course they are always

falling out. Two days after the first convoy came in, we had seventeen

resignations. All women of a certain age. They didn't like the way the

Sisters spoke to them. I myself think the Sisters were perhaps a little

unnecessarily brutal, but of course there's a great deal of jealousy of

the Red Cross. And these were well-to-do women who didn't like being

'spoken to.' You are not sensitive in that way, Mrs. Deyre?"

Nell said that she didn't mind anything.

"That is the spirit," said Mrs. Curtis approvingly. "I myself," she

continued, "consider it in the light of good discipline. And where

should we all be without discipline?"

It shot through Nell's mind that Mrs. Curtis had not had to endure

any discipline, which robbed her pronouncement of some of its

impressiveness. But she continued to stand there looking attentive and

impressed.

"I have a list of girls on the reserve," continued Mrs. Curtis. "I

will add your name. Two days a week you will attend at the Out Patient

Ward at the Town Hospital, and thereby gain a little experience. They

are short-handed there and are willing to accept our help. Then you

and Miss--" she consulted a list--"I think Miss Cardner--yes, Miss

Cardner--will go with the district nurse on her rounds on Tuesdays and

Fridays. You've got your uniform, of course? Then that is all right."

Mary Cardner was a pleasant plump girl whose father was a retired

butcher. She was very friendly to Nell, explained that the days were

Wednesday and Saturday and not Tuesday and Friday, "but old Curtis

always gets something wrong," that the district nurse was a dear and

never jumped on you, and that Sister Margaret at the hospital was a

holy terror.

On the following Wednesday Nell did her first round with the district

nurse, a little bustling woman very much overworked. At the end of the

day she patted Nell kindly on the shoulder.

"I'm glad to see you have a head on your shoulders, my dear. Really

some of the girls who come seem to be half-witted--they do indeed. And

such fine ladies, you wouldn't believe--Not by birth--I don't mean

that. But half-educated girls who think nursing is all smoothing a

pillow and feeding the patient with grapes. You'll know your way about

in no time."

Heartened by this, Nell presented herself at the Out Patient Department

at the given time without too much trepidation. She was received by a

tall gaunt Sister with a malevolent eye.

"Another raw beginner," she grumbled. "Mrs. Curtis sent you, I suppose?

I'm sick of that woman. Takes me more time and trouble teaching silly

girls who think they know everything than it would to do everything

myself."

"I'm sorry," said Nell meekly.

"Get a couple of certificates, attend a dozen lectures, and think you

know everything," said Sister Margaret bitterly. "Here they come. Don't

get in my way more than you can help."

A typical batch of patients was assembled: a young boy with legs

riddled with ulcers, a child with scalded legs from an overturned

kettle, a girl with a needle in her finger, various sufferers with "bad

ears," "bad legs," "bad arms."

Sister Margaret said sharply to Nell: "Know how to syringe an ear? I

thought not. Watch me."

Nell watched.

"You can do it next time," said Sister Margaret. "Get the bandage off

that boy's finger, and let him soak it in hot boracic water till I'm

ready for him."

Nell felt nervous and clumsy. Sister Margaret was paralyzing her.

Almost immediately, it seemed, Sister was by her side.

"We haven't got all day here to do things in," she remarked. "Here,

leave it to me. You seem to be all thumbs. Soak the bandages off that

kid's legs. Tepid water."

Nell got a basin of tepid water and knelt down before the child, a mere

mite of three. She was badly burnt and the bandages had stuck to the

tiny legs. Nell sponged and soaked very gently, but the baby screamed.

It was a loud long-drawn yell of terror and agony, and it defeated

Nell utterly.

She felt suddenly sick and faint. She couldn't do this work--she simply

couldn't do it. She drew back, and as she did so she glanced up to find

Sister Margaret watching her, a gleam of malicious pleasure showing in

her eye.

"I thought you couldn't stick it," that eye said.

It rallied Nell as nothing else would have done. She bent her head, and

setting her teeth, went on with her job, trying to avert her mind from

the child's shrieks. It was done at last, and Nell stood up, white and

trembling and feeling deathly sick.

Sister Margaret came along. She seemed disappointed.

"Oh! you've done it," she said. She spoke to the child's mother. "I'd

be a bit more careful how you let the child get at the kettle in

future, Mrs. Somers," she said.

Mrs. Somers complained that you couldn't be everywhere at once.

Nell was ordered off to foment a poisoned finger. Next, she assisted

Sister to syringe the ulcerated leg, and after that stood by while a

young doctor extracted the needle from the girl's finger. As he probed

and cut, the girl winced and shrank and he spoke to her sharply.

"Keep quiet, can't you?"

Nell thought: "One never sees this side of things. One is only used to

a doctor with a bedside manner. _I'm afraid this will hurt a little.

Be as still as you can._"

The young doctor proceeded to extract a couple of teeth, flinging them

carelessly on the floor, then he treated a smashed hand that had just

come in from an accident.

It was not, Nell reflected, that he was unskillful. It was the absence

of manner that was so disturbing to one's preconceived ideas. Whatever

he did, Sister Margaret accompanied him, tittering in a sycophantic

manner at any joke he was pleased to make. Of Nell he took no notice.

At last the hour was over. Nell was thankful. She said good-bye timidly

to Sister Margaret.

"Like it?" asked Sister with a demoniac grin.

"I'm afraid I'm very stupid," said Nell.

"How can you be anything else?" said Sister Margaret. "A lot of

amateurs like you Red Cross people. And thinking you know everything on

earth. Well, perhaps, you'll be a little less clumsy next time!"

Such was Nell's encouraging début at the hospital.

It grew less terrible as time went on, however. Sister Margaret

softened and relaxed her attitude of fierce defensiveness. She even

permitted herself to answer questions.

"You're not so stuck-up as most," she allowed graciously.

Nell, in her turn, was impressed by the enormous amount of competent

work Sister Margaret managed to put in in a very short time. And she

understood a little her soreness on the subject of amateurs.

What struck Nell most was the enormous number of "bad legs" and their

prototypes, most of them evidently old friends. She asked Sister

Margaret timidly about them.

"Nothing much to be done about it," Sister Margaret replied.

"Hereditary, most of them. Bad blood. You can't cure it."

Another thing that impressed Nell was the uncomplaining heroism of the

poor. They came and were treated, suffered great pain, and went off to

walk several miles home without a thought.

She saw it too in their homes. She and Mary Cardner had taken over a

certain amount of the district nurse's round. They washed bedridden

old women, tended "bad legs," occasionally washed and tended babies

whose mothers were too ill to do anything. The cottages were small,

the windows usually hermetically sealed, and the places littered with

treasures dear to the hearts of the owners. The stuffiness was often

unbearable.

The worst shock was about two weeks after beginning work, when they

found a bedridden old man dead in his bed and had to lay him out. But

for Mary Cardner's matter-of-fact cheerfulness Nell felt she could not

have done it.

The district nurse praised them.

"You're good girls. And you're being a real help."

They went home glowing with satisfaction. Never in her life had Nell so

appreciated a hot bath and a lavish allowance of bath salts.

She had had two postcards from Vernon. Mere scrawls saying he was

all right and everything was splendid. She wrote to him every day,

describing her adventures, trying to make them sound as amusing as

possible. He wrote back:

_Somewhere in France_

Darling Nell:

I'm all right. Feeling splendidly fit. It's all a great adventure,

but I do long to see you. I do wish you wouldn't go into these

beastly cottages and places and mess about with diseased people.

I'm sure you'll catch something. Why you want to, I can't think.

I'm sure it isn't necessary. Do give up.

We think mostly about our food out here, and the Tommies think of

nothing but their tea. They'll risk being blown to bits any time

for a cup of 'ot tea. I have to censor their letters. One man

always ends "Yours till hell freezes," so I'll say the same.

Yours, Vernon.

One morning Nell received a telephone call from Mrs. Curtis.

"There is a vacancy for a ward maid, Mrs. Deyre. Afternoon duty. Be at

the hospital at two-thirty."

The Town Hall of Wiltsbury had been turned into a hospital. It was a

big new building standing in the cathedral square and overshadowed by

the tall spire of the cathedral. A handsome being in uniform with a

game leg and medals received her kindly at the front entrance.

"You've come to the wrong door, missie. Staff through the

quartermaster's stores. Here, the scout will show you the way."

A diminutive scout conducted her down steps, through a kind of gloomy

crypt where an elderly lady in Red Cross uniform sat surrounded with

bales of hospital shirts--wearing several shawls and shivering a good

deal--then along stone-flagged passages, and finally into a gloomy

underground chamber where she was received by Miss Curtain, the chief

of the ward maids, a tall thin lady with a face like a dreaming duchess

and charming gentle manners.

Nell was instructed in her duties, which were simple enough to

understand. They entailed hard work, but no difficulty. A certain area

of stone passages and steps to scrub. Then the nurses' tea to lay, wait

on, and finally clear away. Then the ward maids had their own tea. Then

the same routine for supper.

Nell soon got the hang of things. The salient points of the new life

were: one, war with the kitchen; two, the difficulty of providing the

Sisters with the right kind of tea.

There was a long table where the V.A.D. nurses sat, pouring down in a

stream, frantically hungry, and always the food seemed to fail before

the last three were seated. You then applied to the kitchen through a

tube and got a biting rejoinder. The right amount of bread and butter

had been sent up, three pieces for each. Somebody must have eaten more

than her share. Loud disclaimers from the V.A.D.'s. They chatted to

each other amiably and freely, addressing each other by their surnames.

"I didn't eat your slice of bread, Jones. I wouldn't do such a mean

thing!" "They always send it up wrong." "Look here, Catford's got

to have something to eat. She's got an op. in half an hour." "Hurry

up, Bulgy [an affectionate nickname, this]. We've got all those

mackintoshes to scrub."

Very different the behaviour at the Sisters' table at the other side

of the room. Conversation there went on genteelly in frosty whispers.

Before each Sister was a small brown pot of tea. It was Nell's business

to know exactly how strong each Sister liked it. It was never a

question of how weak! To bring "washy" tea to a Sister was to fall from

grace for ever.

The whispers went on incessantly.

"I said to her: 'Naturally the surgical cases receive the first

attention.'" "I only passed the remark, so to speak." "Pushing herself

forward. Always the same thing." "Would you believe it, she forgot

to hold the towel for the doctor's hands." "I said to doctor this

morning...." "I passed the remark to Nurse...."

Again and again that one phrase recurred: "I passed the remark." Nell

grew to listen for it. When she approached the table the whispers

became lower and the Sisters looked at her suspiciously. Their

conversation was secretive and shrouded in dignity. With enormous

formality, they offered each other tea.

"Some of mine, Sister Westhaven? There's plenty in the pot." "Would you

oblige me with the sugar, Sister Carr?" "Pardon me."

Nell had just begun to realize the hospital atmosphere, the feuds, the

jealousies, the cabals, and the hundred-and-one undercurrents, when she

was promoted to the ward, one of the nurses having gone sick.

She had a row of twelve beds to attend to, mostly surgical cases. Her

companion was Gladys Potts, a small giggling creature, intelligent but

lazy. The ward was under the charge of Sister Westhaven, a tall thin

acid woman with a look of permanent disapproval. Nell's heart sank when

she saw her, but later she congratulated herself. Sister Westhaven was

far the pleasantest nurse in the hospital to work under.

There were five Sisters in all. Sister Carr, round and good-tempered

looking. The men liked her and she giggled and joked with them a good

deal, and was then late over her dressings and hurried over them. She

called the V.A.D.'s "dear," and patted them affectionately, but her

temper was uncertain. She herself was so unpunctual that everything

went wrong and the "dear" was blamed for it. She was maddening to work

under.

Sister Barnes was impossible. Everyone said so. She ranted and scolded

from morning to night. She hated V.A.D.'s and let them know it. "I'll

teach them to come here thinking they know everything," was her

constant declaration. Apart from her biting sarcasm, she was a good

nurse, and some of the girls liked working under her in spite of her

lashing tongue.

Sister Dunlop was a dug-out. She was kindly and placid, but thoroughly

lazy. She drank a great deal of tea and did as little work as possible.

Sister Norris was Theatre Sister. She was competent at her job, rouged

her lips, and was cattish to her underlings.

Sister Westhaven was by far the best nurse in the hospital. She was

enthusiastic over work and was a good judge of those under her. If they

showed promise she was reasonably amiable to them. If she judged them

fools they led a miserable life.

On the fourth day she said to Nell: "I thought you weren't worth much

at first, Nurse. But you've got a good lot of work in you."

So much imbued by now was Nell by the hospital spirit that she went

home in the seventh heaven.

Little by little she sank into the hospital rut. At first she had

suffered a heart-rending pang at the sight of the wounded. The first

dressing of wounds at which she assisted was almost more than she could

bear. Those who "longed to nurse" usually brought a certain amount

of emotionalism to the task. But they were soon purged of it. Blood,

wounds, suffering were everyday matters.

Nell was popular with the men. In the slack hour after tea she wrote

letters for them, fetched books she thought they would like from the

shelves at the end of the ward, heard stories of their families and

sweethearts. She became, in common with the other nurses, zealous to

defend them from the cruelties and stupidities of the would-be kind.

On visitors' days streams of elderly ladies arrived. They sat down by

beds and did their best to "cheer our brave soldier." Certain things

were conventions. "You're longing to get back, I suppose?" And "Yes,

ma'am," was always the answer given. Descriptions were sought of the

Angels at Mons.

There were also concerts. Some were well organized and were thoroughly

enjoyed. Others----! They were summed up by the nurse on the next row

to Nell, Phillis Deacon:

"Anybody who thinks they can sing, but has never been allowed to by

their families, has got their chance now!"

There were also clergymen. Never, Nell thought, had she seen so many

clergymen. One or two were appreciated. They were fine men, with

sympathy and understanding, and they knew the right things to say and

did not stress the religious side of their duties unduly. But there

were many others.

"Nurse."

Nell paused in a hurried progress along the ward, having just been told

sharply by Sister: "Nurse, your beds are crooked, No. 7's sticking

out."

"Yes."

"Couldn't you wash me now, Nurse?"

Nell stared at the unusual request.

"It's not nearly half-past seven."

"It's the parson. He's at me to be confirmed. He's coming in now."

Nell took pity on him. The Reverend Canon Edgerton found his

prospective convert barred from him by screens and basins of water.

"Thank yer, Nurse," said the patient hoarsely. "It seems a bit hard to

go on nagging at a feller when he can't get away from yer, doesn't it?"

Washing--interminable washing. The patients were washed, the ward was

washed, and at every hour of the day there were mackintoshes to scrub.

And eternal tidiness.

"Nurse--your beds. The bedclothes are hanging down on No. 9. No. 2 has

pushed his bed sideways. What will Doctor think?"

Doctor--Doctor--Doctor. Morning, noon, and night, Doctor! Doctor was a

god. For a mere V.A.D. to speak to Doctor was _lèse majesté_ and

brought down the vials of wrath on your head from Sister. Some of the

V.A.D.'s offended innocently. They were Wiltsbury girls and they knew

the doctors--knew them as ordinary human beings. They said good-morning

blithely. Soon they knew better--knew they had been guilty of that

awful sin, "pushing yourself forward." Mary Cardner "pushed herself

forward." Doctor asked for some scissors and, unthinkingly, she handed

him the pair she wore. Sister explained her crime to her at length. She

ended thus:

"I don't say you mightn't have done this. Seeing you had the exact

thing that was wanted, you might have said to me--in a whisper, that

is--'Is this what is needed, Sister?' And I would have taken them from

you and handed them to Doctor. No one could have objected to that."

You got tired of the word "Doctor." Every remark Sister made was

punctuated with it, even when speaking to him.

"Yes, Doctor ... 102 this morning, Doctor.... I don't think so,

Doctor.... Pardon, Doctor? I didn't quite catch.... Nurse, hold the

towel for Doctor's hands."

And you held the towel meekly, standing like a glorified towel horse.

And Doctor, having wiped his sacred hands, flung the towel on the floor

where you meekly picked it up. You poured water for Doctor, you handed

soap to Doctor, and finally you received the command:

"Nurse, open the door for Doctor."

"And what I'm afraid is, we shan't be able to grow out of it

afterward," said Phillis Deacon wrathfully. "I shall never feel the

same about doctors again. Even the scrubbiest little doctors I shall be

subservient to, and when they come to dine I shall find myself rushing

to open the door for them. I know I shall."

There was a great freemasonry in the hospital. Class distinctions were

a thing of the past. The dean's daughter, the butcher's daughter, Mrs.

Manfred who was the wife of a draper's assistant, Phillis Deacon who

was the daughter of a baronet--they all called each other by their

surname and shared the common interest of "what would there be for

supper, and would it go round?" Undoubtedly there was cheating. Gladys

Potts, the giggler, was discovered to go down early and surreptitiously

to filch an extra piece of bread and butter or an unfair helping of

rice.

"You know," said Phillis Deacon, "I do sympathize with servants now.

One always thinks they mind so much about their food--and here are we

getting just the same. It's having nothing else to look forward to. I

could have cried when the scrambled eggs didn't go round last night."

"They oughtn't to have scrambled eggs," said Mary Cardner angrily. "The

eggs ought to be separate, poached or boiled. Scrambled gives too much

opportunity to unscrupulous people."

And she looked with significance at Gladys Potts, who giggled nervously

and moved away.

"That girl's a slacker," said Phillis Deacon. "She's always got

something else to do when it's screens. And she sucks up to Sister.

It doesn't matter with Westhaven. Westhaven's fair. But she flattered

little Carr till she got all the soft jobs."

Little Potts was unpopular. Strenuous efforts were made to force her

to do the more disagreeable work sometimes, but Potts was wily. Only

the resourceful Deacon was a match for her.

There were also the jealousies amongst the doctors themselves.

Naturally they all wanted the more interesting surgical cases. The

allotting of cases to different wards gave rise to feeling.

Nell soon knew all the doctors and their various attributes. There was

Dr. Lang, tall, untidy, slouching, with long nervous fingers. He was

the cleverest surgeon of the lot. He had a sarcastic tongue, and was

ruthless in his treatments but he was clever. All the Sisters adored

him.

Then there was Dr. Wilbraham, who had the fashionable practice of

Wiltsbury. A big florid man, genial in temper when things went well,

and the manners of a spoilt child when he was put out. If he was tired

and cross he was unnecessarily rough and Nell hated him.

There was Dr. Meadows, a quiet efficient G. P. He was content not to do

operations and he gave every case unfailing attention. He always spoke

politely to the V.A.D.'s and omitted to throw towels on the floor.

Then there was Dr. Bury, who was not supposed to be much good and who

was himself convinced that he knew everything. He was always wishing

to try extraordinary new methods and he never continued one treatment

for more than a couple of days. If one of his patients died, it was the

fashion to say: "Do you wonder, with Dr. Bury?"

Then there was young Dr. Keen, who had been invalided home from the

front. He was little more than a medical student but he was full

of importance. He even demeaned himself to chat with the V.A.D.'s,

explaining the importance of an operation that had just taken place.

Nell said to Sister Westhaven: "I didn't know Dr. Keen was operating.

I thought it was Dr. Lang." Sister replied grimly: "Dr. Keen held the

leg. That's all."

Operations had been a nightmare to Nell at first. At the first one she

attended, the floor rose at her and a nurse led her out. She hardly

dared to face Sister, but Sister was unexpectedly kind.

"It's partly the lack of air and the smell of the ether, Nurse," she

said kindly. "Go into a short one next. You'll get used to it."

Next time Nell felt faint but did not have to go out, the time after

she felt sick only, and the time after that she didn't feel sick at all.

Once or twice she was lent to help the theatre nurse clear up the

operating theatre after an unusually big op. The place was like a

shambles, blood everywhere. The theatre nurse was only eighteen, a

determined slip of a thing. She owned to Nell that she had hated it at

first.

"The very first op. was a leg," she said. "Amputation. And Sister went

off afterward and left me to clear up, and I had to take the leg down

to the furnace myself. It was awful."

On her days out Nell went to tea with friends. Some of them were kindly

old ladies and sentimentalized over her and told her she was splendid.

"You don't work on Sundays, do you, dear? Really? Oh! but that isn't

right. Sunday should be a day of rest."

Nell pointed out gently that the soldiers had to be washed and fed on

Sundays just as any other day, and the old ladies admitted this but

seemed to think that the matter should have been better organized.

They were also very distressed at Nell's having to walk home alone at

midnight.

Others were even more difficult.

"I hear these hospital nurses give themselves great airs, ordering

everyone about. I shouldn't stand that kind of thing myself. I am

willing to do anything I can to help in this dreadful war, but

impertinence I will not stand. I told Mrs. Curtis so, and she agreed it

would be better for me not to do hospital work."

To these ladies Nell made no reply at all.

The rumour of "the Russians" was sweeping through England at this time.

Everyone had seen them--or if not actually seen them, their cook's

second cousin had, which was practically the same thing. The rumour

died hard--it was so pleasing and so exciting.

A very old lady who came to the hospital took Nell aside.

"My dear," she said, "don't believe that story. It's true, but not in

the way we think."

Nell looked inquiringly at her.

"Eggs!" said the old lady in a poignant whisper. "Russian eggs! Several

millions of them--to keep us from starving."

Nell wrote all these things to Vernon. She felt terribly cut off from

him. His letters were naturally terse and constrained and he seemed to

dislike the idea of her working in hospital. He urged her again and

again to go to London--enjoy herself.

How queer men were, Nell thought. They didn't seem to understand. She

would hate to be one of the "keeping themselves bright for the boys"

brigade. How soon you drifted apart when you were doing different

things! She couldn't share Vernon's life and he couldn't share hers.

The first agony of parting, when she had felt sure he would be killed,

was over. She had fallen into the routine of wives. Four months had

passed and he hadn't been even wounded. He wouldn't be. Everything was

all right.

Five months after he had gone out he wired that he had got leave.

Nell's heart almost stopped beating. She was so excited! She went off

to Matron and was granted leave of absence.

She travelled to London feeling strange and unusual in ordinary

clothes. Their first leave!

_2_

It was true--really true! The leave train came in and disgorged its

multitudes. She saw him. He was actually there. They met. Neither could

speak. He squeezed her hand frantically. She knew then how afraid she

had been....

That five days went by in a flash. It was like some queer delirious

dream. She adored Vernon and he adored her, but they were in some ways

like strangers to each other. He was offhand when she spoke about

France. It was all right--everything was all right. One made jokes

about it and refused to treat it seriously. "For goodness' sake, Nell,

don't sentimentalize. It's awful to come home and find everyone with

long faces. And don't talk slush about our brave soldiers laying down

their lives, _etc._ That sort of stuff makes me sick. Let's get

tickets for another show."

Something in his absolute callousness perturbed her--it seemed somehow

rather dreadful to treat everything so lightly. When he asked her what

she had been doing she could only give him hospital news, and that he

didn't like. He begged her again to give it up.

"It's a filthy job, nursing. I hate to think of your doing it."

She felt chilled, rebuffed, then rebuked herself. They were together

again. What did anything else matter?

They had a wild delightful time. They went to a show and danced every

night. In the daytime they went shopping. Vernon bought her everything

that took his fancy. They went to a Paris firm of dressmakers and sat

there whilst airy young duchesses floated past in wisps of chiffon and

Vernon chose the most expensive model. They felt horribly wicked but

dreadfully happy when Nell wore it that night.

Then Nell told him he ought to go and see his mother. Vernon rebelled.

"Oh! darling, I don't want to! Our little short precious time. I can't

miss a minute of it."

Nell pleaded. Myra would be terribly hurt and disappointed.

"Well, then, you've got to come with me."

"No, that wouldn't do at all."

In the end, he went down to Birmingham for a flying visit. His mother

made a tremendous fuss over him--greeted him with floods of what she

called "glad proud tears," and trotted him round to see the Bents.

Vernon came back seething with conscious virtue.

"You are a hard-hearted devil, Nell. We've missed a whole day! God, how

I've been slobbered over."

He felt ashamed as soon as he had said it. Why couldn't he love his

mother better? Why did she always manage to rub him up the wrong way,

no matter how good his resolutions were? He gave Nell a hug.

"I didn't mean it. I'm glad you made me go. You're so sweet, Nell. You

never think of yourself. It's so wonderful being with you again. You

don't know...."

And she put on the French model gown and they went out to dine with

a ridiculous feeling of having been model children and deserving a

reward.

They had nearly finished dinner when Nell saw Vernon's face change. It

stiffened and grew anxious.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he said hastily.

But she turned and looked behind her. At a small table against the wall

was Jane.

Something cold seemed for a moment to rest on Nell's heart. Then she

said easily:

"Why, it's Jane! Let's go and speak to her."

"No, I'd rather not." She was a little surprised by the vehemence of

his tone. He saw that and went on: "I'm stupid, darling. I want to

have you and nothing but you--not other people butting in. Have you

finished? Let's go. I don't want to miss the beginning of the play."

They paid the bill and went. Jane nodded to them carelessly and Nell

waved her hand to her. They arrived at the theatre ten minutes early.

Later, as Nell was slipping the gown from her white shoulders, Vernon

said suddenly: "Nell, do you think I shall ever write music again?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"Oh! I don't know. I don't think I want to."

She looked at him in surprise. He was sitting on a chair, frowning into

space.

"I thought it was the only thing you cared about."

"Cared about--cared about--that doesn't express it in the least. It

isn't the things you care about that matter. It's the things you can't

get rid of--the things that won't let you go--that haunt you--like a

face that you can't help seeing even when you don't want to...."

"Darling Vernon--don't."

She came and knelt down beside him. He clutched her to him convulsively.

"Nell--darling Nell--nothing matters but you. Kiss me...."

But he reverted presently to the topic. He said irrelevantly: "Guns

make a pattern, you know. A musical pattern, I mean. Not the sound one

hears. I mean the pattern the sound makes in space. I suppose that's

nonsense--but I know what I mean."

And again a minute or two later: "If one could only get hold of it

properly."

Ever so slightly, she moved her body away from him. It was as though

she challenged her rival. She never admitted it openly, but secretly

she feared Vernon's music. If only he didn't care so much.

And to-night, at any rate, she was triumphant. He drew her back,

holding her close, showering kisses on her.

But long after Nell was asleep, Vernon lay staring into the darkness,

seeing against his will Jane's face and the outline of her body in its

dull green satin sheath as he had seen it against the crimson curtain

at the restaurant.

He said to himself very softly under his breath: "Damn Jane!"

But he knew that you couldn't get rid of Jane as easily as that.

He wished he hadn't seen her.

There was something so damnably disturbing about Jane.

He forgot her the next day. It was their last, and it went terribly

quickly.

All too soon, it was over.

_3_

It had been like a dream. Now the dream was over. Nell was back at

the hospital. It seemed to her she had never been away. She waited

desperately for the post--for Vernon's first letter. It came--more

ardent and unrestrained than usual, as though even censorship had been

forgotten. Nell wore it against her heart and the indelible pencil came

off on her skin. She wrote and told him so.

Life went on as usual. Dr. Lang went out to the front and was replaced

by an elderly doctor with a beard who said, "Thank ye, thank ye,

Sister," every time he was offered a towel or was helped on with his

white linen coat. They had a slack time with most of the beds empty and

Nell found the enforced idleness trying.

One day, to her surprise and delight, Sebastian walked in. He was home

on leave and had come down to look her up. Vernon had asked him to.

"You've seen him then?"

Sebastian said Yes, his lot had taken over from Vernon.

"And he's all right?"

"Oh! yes, he's all _right_!"

Something in the way he said it caused her alarm. She pressed him.

Sebastian frowned in perplexity.

"It's difficult to explain, Nell. You see, Vernon's an odd

beggar--always has been. He doesn't like looking things in the face."

He quelled the fierce retort that he saw rising to her lips.

"I don't mean in the least what you think I mean. He isn't

_afraid_. Lucky devil, I don't think he knows what fear is. I

wish I didn't. No, it's different from that. It's the whole life--it's

pretty ghastly, you know. Dirt and blood and filth, and noise--above

all, noise! Recurrent noise at fixed times. It gets on my nerves, so

what must it do to Vernon's?"

"Yes, but what did you mean by not facing things."

"Simply that he won't admit that there's anything to face. He's afraid

of minding, so he says there's nothing _to_ mind. If he'd only

admit that it's a bloody filthy business like I do he'd be all right.

But it's like that old piano business--he won't look at the thing fair

and square. And it's no good saying 'there ain't no such thing' when

there _is_. But that's always been Vernon's way. He's in good

spirits--enjoying everything--and it isn't natural. I'm afraid of

his----Oh! I don't know what I'm afraid of. But I know that telling

yourself fairy stories is about the worst thing you can do. Vernon's a

musician, and he's got the nerves of a musician. The worst of him is

that he doesn't know anything about himself. He never has."

Nell looked troubled.

"Sebastian, what do you think will happen?"

"Oh! nothing, probably. What I should like to happen would be for

Vernon to stop one, in as conveniently painless a place as possible,

and come back to be nursed for a bit."

"How I wish that would happen!"

"Poor old Nell! It's rotten for all you people. I'm glad I haven't got

a wife."

"If you had----" Nell paused, then went on. "Would you want her to

work in a hospital or would you rather she did nothing?"

"Everybody will be working sooner or later. It's as well to get down to

it as soon as possible, I should say."

"Vernon doesn't like my doing this."

"That's his ostrich act again, plus the reactionary spirit that he's

inherited and will never quite outgrow. Sooner or later he'll face

the fact that women are working--but he won't admit it till the last

minute."

Nell sighed.

"How worrying everything is."

"I know. And I've made things worse for you. But I'm awfully fond of

Vernon. He's the one friend I care about. And I hoped if I told you

what I thought you'd encourage him to--well, give way a little--at any

rate to you. But perhaps to you he does let himself go?"

Nell shook her head.

"He won't do anything but joke about the war."

Sebastian whistled.

"Well, next time--get it out of him. Stick to it."

Nell said suddenly and sharply: "Do you think he'd talk better--to

Jane?"

"To Jane?" Sebastian looked rather embarrassed. "I don't know. Perhaps.

It all depends."

"You do think so! Why? Tell me why? Is she more sympathetic, or what?"

"Oh! Lord, no. Jane's not exactly sympathetic. Provocative is more the

word. You get annoyed with her--and out pops the truth. She makes you

aware of yourself in ways you don't want to be. There's nobody like

Jane for pulling you off your high horse."

"You think she's a lot of influence over Vernon?"

"Oh! I wouldn't say that. And anyway, it wouldn't matter if she had.

She's doing relief work in Serbia. Sailed a fortnight ago."

"Oh!" said Nell. She drew a deep breath and smiled.

Somehow, she felt happier.

_4_

Darling Nell:

Do you know I dream of you every night? Usually you're nice to me,

but sometimes you're a little beast. Cold and hard and far away.

You couldn't be that really, could you? Not now. Darling, will the

indelible pencil ever come off?

Nell sweetest, I never believe I'm going to be killed, but if I

were, what would it matter? We've had so much. You'd think of me

always as happy and loving you, wouldn't you, sweetheart? I know

I'd go on loving you after I was dead. That's the only bit of me

that couldn't die. I love you--love you--love you....

He had never written to her quite like that before. She put the letter

in its usual place.

That day she was absent-minded at the hospital. She forgot things. The

men noticed it.

"Nurse is daydreaming," they teased her, making little jokes. And she

laughed back.

It was so wonderful, so very wonderful, to be loved. Sister Westhaven

was in a temper. Nurse Potts slacked more than usual. But it didn't

matter. Nothing mattered.

Even the monumental Sister Jenkins, who came on night duty and was

always full of pessimism, failed to impress her with any kind of gloom.

"Ah!" Sister Jenkins would say, settling her cuffs and moving three

double chins round inside her collar in an effort to alleviate their

mass. "No. 3 still alive? You surprise me. I didn't think he'd last

through the day. Well, he'll be gone to-morrow, poor young chap.

[Sister Jenkins was always prophesying that patients would be gone

to-morrow, and the failure of her prognostications to come true never

seemed to induce in her a more hopeful attitude.] I don't like the

look of No. 18--that last operation was worse than useless. No. 8 is

going to take a turn for the worse, unless I'm much mistaken. I said

so to Doctor, but he didn't listen to me. Now then, Nurse [with sudden

acerbity], no good for you to hang about. Off duty is off duty."

Nell accepted this gracious permission to depart, well aware that if

she had not lingered Sister Jenkins would have asked her "what she

meant by hurrying away like that?--not even willing to wait a minute

overtime."

It took twenty minutes to walk home. The night was a clear starry one

and Nell enjoyed the walk. If only Vernon could have been walking

beside her!

She let herself into the house very quietly with her latch-key. Her

landlady always went to bed early. On the tray in the hall was an

orange-coloured envelope.

She knew then.

Telling herself that it wasn't--that it couldn't be--that he was only

wounded--surely he was only wounded ... yet she knew.

A sentence from the letter she had received that morning leaped out at

her: _Nell sweetest, I never believe I am going to be killed, but if

I were, what would it matter? We've had so much...._

He had never written like that before. He must have felt--have known.

Sensitive people did know sometimes beforehand.

She stood there, holding the telegram. Vernon--her lover, her

husband.... She stood there a long time.

Then at last she opened the telegram, which informed her with deep

regret that Lieutenant Vernon Deyre had been Killed in Action.

chapter 3

A memorial service was held for Vernon in the little old church at

Abbotsford under the shadow of Abbots Puissants, as it had been held

for his father. The two last of the Deyres were not to lie in the

family vault. One in South Africa, one in France.

In Nell's memory afterward the proceedings seemed shadowed by the

monumental bulk of Mrs. Levinne--a vast matriarchal figure dwarfing

everything else. She herself had to bite her lips not to laugh

hysterically. The whole thing was so funny somehow--so unlike Vernon.

Her mother was there, elegant and aloof. Uncle Sydney was there, in

black broadcloth, restraining himself from jingling his money with

great difficulty, and with a suitable "mourner's" face. Myra Deyre was

there in heavy crape, weeping copiously and unrestrainedly. But it was

Mrs. Levinne who dominated the proceedings. She came back with them

afterward to the sitting room at the inn, identifying herself with the

family.

"Poor dear boy--poor dear gallant boy! I've always thought of him like

another thon."

She was genuinely distressed. Tears splashed down on her black bodice.

She patted Myra on the shoulder.

"Now, now, my dear, you mustn't take on so. You mustn't indeed. It's

our duty, all of us, to bear up. You gave him to his country. You

couldn't do more. Here's Nell--as brave as can be."

"Everything I had in the world," sobbed Myra. "First husband, then son.

Nothing left."

She stared ahead of her through blood-suffused eyes in a kind of

ecstasy of bereavement.

"The very best son--we were everything to each other." She caught Mrs.

Levinne's hand. "You'll know what it feels like if Sebastian...."

A spasm of fear passed across Mrs. Levinne's face. She clenched her

hands.

"I see they've sent up some sandwiches and some port," said Uncle

Sydney, creating a diversion. "Very thoughtful. Very thoughtful. A

little drop of port, Myra dear. You've been through a great strain, you

know."

Myra waved away port with a horror-stricken hand. Uncle Sydney was made

to feel that he had displayed callousness.

"We've all got to keep up," he said. "It's our duty."

His hand stole to his pocket and he began to jingle.

"Syd!"

"Sorry, Myra."

Again Nell felt that wild desire to giggle. She didn't want to cry. She

wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh.... Awful--to feel like that.

"I thought everything went off very nicely," said Uncle Sydney. "Very

nicely indeed. A most impressive lot of the villagers attended. You

wouldn't like to stroll round Abbots Puissants? That was a very nice

letter putting it at our disposal to-day."

"I hate the place," said Myra vehemently. "I always have."

"I suppose, Nell, you've seen the lawyers? I understand Vernon made a

perfectly simple will before going out to France, leaving everything to

you. In that case, Abbots Puissants is now yours. It was not entailed,

and in any case there are no Deyres now in existence."

Nell said: "Thank you, Uncle Sydney, I've seen the lawyer. He was very

kind and explained everything to me."

"That's more than any lawyer can do as a rule," said Uncle Sydney.

"They make the simplest thing sound difficult. It's not my business to

advise you, but I know there's no man in your family who can do so.

Much the best thing you can do is to sell it. There's no money to keep

it up, you know. You understand that?"

Nell did understand. She saw that Uncle Sydney was making it clear to

her that no Bent money was coming her way. Myra would leave her money

back to her own family. That, of course, was only natural. Nell would

never have dreamed of anything else.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Sydney had at once tackled Myra as to

whether there was a child coming. Myra said she didn't think so. Uncle

Sydney said she had better make sure. "I don't know exactly how the law

stands, but as it is, if you were to pop off to-morrow, having left

your money to Vernon, it might go to her. No good taking any chances."

Myra said tearfully that it was very unkind of him to suggest that she

was going to die.

"Nothing of the sort. You women are all alike. Carrie sulked for a week

when I insisted on her making a proper will. We don't want good money

to go out of the family."

Above all, he did not want good money to go to Nell. He disliked Nell,

whom he regarded as Enid's supplanter. And he loathed Mrs. Vereker, who

always managed to make him feel hot and clumsy and uncertain about his

hands.

"Nell, of course, will take legal advice," said Mrs. Vereker sweetly.

"Don't think _I_ want to butt in," said Uncle Sydney.

Nell felt a passionate pang of regret. If only she were going to have

a child! Vernon had been so afraid for her. "It would be so dreadful

for you, darling, if I were to be killed and you were left with all the

trouble and worry of a child and very little money--Besides--you never

know--you might die. I couldn't bear to risk it."

And really, it _had_ seemed better and more prudent to wait.

But now she was sorry. Her mother's consolations had seemed coldly

brutal to her.

"You're not going to have a baby, are you, Nell? Well, I must say I'm

thankful. Naturally, you'll marry again, and it's so much better when

there are no encumbrances."

In answer to a passionate protest, Mrs. Vereker had smiled. "I oughtn't

to have said that just now. But you are only a girl still. Vernon

himself would have wanted you to be happy."

Nell thought: "Never! She doesn't understand!"

"Well, well, it's a sad world," said Mr. Bent, surreptitiously helping

himself to a sandwich. "The flower of our manhood being mown down. But

all the same, I'm proud of England. I'm proud of being an Englishman.

I like to feel that I'm doing my bit in England just as much as these

boys are doing it out here. We're doubling our output of explosives

next month. Night and day shifts. I'm proud of Bent's, I can tell you."

"It must be wonderfully profitable," said Mrs. Vereker.

"That's not the way I like to look at it," said Mr. Bent. "I like to

look at it that I'm serving my country."

"Well, I hope we all try to do our bit," said Mrs. Levinne. "I have

been a working party twice a week, and I'm interethting myself in all

these poor girls who are having war babieths."

"There's too much loose thinking going about," said Mr. Bent. "We

mustn't get lax. England has never been lax."

"Well, we've got to look after the children at any rate," said Mrs.

Levinne. She added: "How is Joe? I thought I might see her here to-day."

Both Uncle Sydney and Myra looked embarrassed. It was clear that Joe

was what is known as a "delicate subject." They skated lightly over the

topic. War work in Paris--very busy--unable to get leave.

Mr. Bent looked at his watch.

"Myra, we've not too much time before the train. Must get back

to-night. Carrie, my wife you know, is very far from well. That's why

she wasn't able to be here to-day." He sighed. "It's odd how often

things turn out for the best. It was a great disappointment to us

not having a son. And yet, in a way, we've been spared a good deal.

Think of the anxiety we might be in to-day. The ways of Providence are

wonderful."

Mrs. Vereker said to Nell when they had taken leave of Mrs. Levinne,

who motored them back to London: "One thing I do hope, Nell, is that

you won't think it your duty to see a lot of your in-laws. I dislike

the way that woman wallowed in her grief more than I can tell you. She

was thoroughly enjoying herself, though I dare say she'd have preferred

a proper coffin."

"Oh! Mother--she was really unhappy. She was awfully fond of Vernon. As

she said, he was all she had in the world."

"That's a phrase women like her are very fond of using. It means

nothing at all. And you're not going to pretend to me that Vernon

adored his mother. He merely tolerated her. They had nothing in common.

He was a Deyre through and through."

Nell couldn't deny that.

She stayed at her mother's flat in town for three weeks. Mrs. Vereker

was very kind within her own limits. She was not a sympathetic woman

at any time, but she respected Nell's grief and did not intrude upon

it. Upon practical matters her judgment was, as it had always been,

excellent. There were various interviews with lawyers and Mrs. Vereker

was present at all of them.

Abbots Puissants was still let. The tenancy would be up the following

year, and the lawyer strongly advised its sale rather than reletting

it. Mrs. Vereker, to Nell's surprise, did not seem to concur with this

view. She suggested a further let of not too long duration.

"So much may happen in a few years," she said.

Mr. Flemming looked hard at her and seemed to catch her meaning. His

glance rested for just a moment on Nell, fair and childish-looking in

her mourning.

"As you say," he remarked, "much may happen. At any rate, nothing need

be decided for a year."

Business matters settled, Nell returned to the hospital at Wiltsbury.

She felt that there, and there only, could life be at all possible.

Mrs. Vereker did not oppose her. She was a sensible woman and she had

her own plans.

A month after Vernon's death Nell was once more back in the ward.

Nobody ever referred to her loss and she was grateful. To carry on as

usual was the motto of the moment.

Nell carried on.

_2_

"There's someone asking for you, Nurse Deyre."

"For me?" Nell was surprised.

It must be Sebastian. Only he was likely to come down here and look her

up. Did she want to see him or not? She hardly knew.

But to her great surprise, her visitor was George Chetwynd. He

explained that he was passing through Wiltsbury, and had stopped to

find out if he could see her. He asked whether she couldn't come out to

lunch with him.

"I thought you were on afternoon duty," he explained.

"I was changed to the morning shift yesterday. I'll ask Matron. We're

not very busy."

Permission was accorded her, and half an hour later she was sitting

opposite George Chetwynd at the County Hotel with a plate of roast beef

in front of her and a waiter hovering over her with a vast dish of

cabbage.

"The only vegetable the County Hotel knows," observed Chetwynd.

He talked interestingly and made no reference to her loss. All he said

was that her continuing to work here was the pluckiest thing he had

ever heard of.

"I can't tell you how I admire all you women. Carrying on, tackling one

job after another. No fuss--no heroics--just sticking to it as though

it were the most natural thing in the world. I think Englishwomen are

fine."

"One must do something."

"I know. I can understand that feeling. Anything's better than sitting

with your hands in your lap, eh?"

"That's it."

She was grateful. George always understood. He told her that he was off

to Serbia in a day or two, organizing relief work there.

"Frankly," he said, "I'm ashamed of my country for not coming in. But

it will. I'm convinced of that. It's only a matter of time. In the

meantime we do what we can to alleviate the horrors of war."

"You look very well."

He looked younger than she remembered him--well set up, bronzed, the

gray in his hair a mere distinction rather than a sign of age.

"I'm feeling well. Nothing like having plenty to do. Relief work's

pretty strenuous."

"When are you off?"

"Day after to-morrow." He paused, then said in a different voice: "Look

here--you didn't mind my looking you up like this? You don't feel I'd

no business to butt in?"

"No--no. It was very kind of you. Especially after I--I----"

"You know I've never borne any rancour over that. I admire you for

following your heart. You loved him, and you didn't love me. But

there's no reason we shouldn't be friends, is there?"

He looked so friendly, so very unsentimental, that Nell answered

happily that there wasn't.

He said: "That's fine. And you'll let me do anything for you that a

friend can? Advise you in any bothers that arise, I mean?"

Nell said she'd be only too grateful.

They left it like that. He departed in his car shortly after lunch,

wringing her hand and saying he hoped they'd meet again in about six

months' time, and begging her again to consult him if she were in a

difficulty any time.

Nell promised that she would.

_3_

The winter was a bad one for Nell. She caught a cold, neglected to

take proper care of herself, and was ill for a week or so. She was

quite unfit to resume hospital work at the end of it, and Mrs. Vereker

carried her off to London to her flat. There she regained strength

slowly.

Endless bothers seemed to arise. Abbots Puissants appeared to need an

entire new roof. New water pipes had to be installed. The fencing was

in a bad state.

Nell appreciated for the first time the awful drain property can be.

The rent was eaten up many times over with the necessary repairs, and

Mrs. Vereker had to come to the rescue to tide Nell over a difficult

corner and not let her get too much in debt. They were living as

penuriously as possible. Vanished were the days of outward show and

credit. Mrs. Vereker managed to make both ends meet by a very narrow

margin, and would hardly have done that but for what she won at the

bridge table. She was a first-class player and added materially to her

income by play. She was out most of the day at a bridge club that still

survived.

It was a dull unhappy life for Nell. Worried over money, not strong

enough to undertake fresh work, nothing to do but sit and brood.

Poverty combined with love in a cottage was one thing. Poverty without

love to soften it was another. Sometimes Nell wondered how she was ever

going to get through a life that stretched drear and bleak ahead of

her. She couldn't bear things. She simply couldn't.

Then Mr. Flemming urged her to make a decision concerning Abbots

Puissants. The tenancy would be up in a month or two. Something must be

done. He could not hold out any hopes of letting it for a higher rent.

Nobody wanted to rent big places without central heating or modern

conveniences. He strongly advised her to sell.

He knew the feeling her husband had had about the place. But since she

herself was never likely to be able to afford to live in it....

Nell admitted the wisdom of what he said, but still pleaded for time

to decide. She was reluctant to sell it but she could not help feeling

that, the worry of Abbots Puissants once off her mind she would be

relieved from her heaviest burden. Then one day Mr. Flemming rang up

to say that he had had a very good offer for Abbots Puissants. He

mentioned a sum far in excess of her--or indeed his--expectations. He

very strongly advised her to close with it without delay.

Nell hesitated a minute, then said, "Yes."

_4_

It was extraordinary how much happier she felt at once. Free of that

terrible incubus! It wasn't as though Vernon had lived. Houses and

estates were simply white elephants when you hadn't the necessary money

to keep them up properly.

She was undisturbed even by a letter from Joe in Paris.

How _can_ you sell Abbots Puissants when you know what Vernon

felt about it? I should have thought it would be the last thing you

could have done.

She thought: "Joe doesn't understand."

She wrote back:

What was I to do? I don't know where to turn for money. There's

been the roof and the drains and the water--it's endless. I can't

go on running into debt. Everything's so tiring I wish I were

dead....

Three days later she got a letter from George Chetwynd asking if he

might come and see her. He had, he said, something to confess.

Mrs. Vereker was out. She received him alone. He broke it rather

apprehensively to her. It was he who had purchased Abbots Puissants.

Just at first she recoiled from the idea. Not George! Not George at

Abbots Puissants! Then with admirable common sense he argued the point.

Surely it was better that it should pass into his hands instead of

those of a stranger? He hoped that sometimes she and her mother would

come and stay there.

"I'd like you to feel that your husband's home is open to you at any

time. I want to change things there as little as possible. You shall

advise me. Surely you prefer my having it to its passing into the hands

of some vulgarians who will fill it with gilt and spurious Old Masters?"

In the end she wondered why she had felt any objection. Better George

than anyone. And he was so kind and understanding about everything. She

was tired and worried. She broke down suddenly, cried on his shoulder

whilst he put an arm round her and told her that everything was all

right, that it was only because she'd been ill.

Nobody could have been kinder or more brotherly.

When she told her mother Mrs. Vereker said: "I knew George was looking

out for a place. It's lucky he's chosen Abbots Puissants. He's probably

haggled less about the price simply because he was once in love with

you."

The remote way she said "once in love with you" made Nell feel

comfortable. She had imagined that her mother might have "ideas" still

about George Chetwynd.

_5_

That summer they went down and stayed at Abbots Puissants. They were

the only guests. Nell had not been there since she was a child. A deep

regret came upon her that she could not have lived there with Vernon.

The house was truly beautiful and so were the stately gardens and the

ruined Abbey.

George was in the middle of doing up the house and he consulted her

taste at every turn. Nell began to feel quite a proprietary interest.

She was almost happy again, enjoying the ease and luxury and the

freedom from anxiety.

True, once she received the money from Abbots Puissants and had

invested it she would have a nice little income, but she dreaded the

onus of deciding where to live and what to do. She was not really happy

with her mother, and all her own friends seemed to have drifted out of

touch. She hardly knew where to go or what to do with her life.

Abbots Puissants gave her just the peace and rest she needed. She felt

sheltered there and safe. She dreaded the return to town.

It was the last evening. George had pressed them to remain longer but

Mrs. Vereker had declared that they really couldn't trespass further on

his hospitality.

Nell and George walked together on the long flagged walk. It was a

still balmy evening.

"It has been lovely here," said Nell, with a little sigh. "I hate going

back."

"I hate your going back, too." He paused, and then said very quietly:

"I suppose there's no chance for me, is there, Nell?"

"I don't know what you mean."

But she did know--she knew at once.

"I bought this house because I hoped someday you'd live here. I wanted

you to have the home that was rightfully yours. Are you going to spend

your whole life nursing a memory, Nell? Do you think he--Vernon--would

wish it? I never think of the dead like that--as grudging happiness to

the living. I think he would want you to be looked after and taken care

of, now that he isn't here to do it."

She said in a low voice: "I can't ... I can't."

"You mean you can't forget him? I know that. But I'd be very good to

you, Nell. You'd be wrapped round with love and care. I think I could

make you happy--happier, at any rate, than you'll be facing life by

yourself. I do honestly and truly believe that Vernon would wish it."

Would he? She wondered. She thought George was right. People might

call it disloyalty, but it wasn't. That life of hers with Vernon was

something by itself--nothing could touch it ever.

But oh! to be looked after, cared for, petted, and understood. She

always _had_ been fond of George.

She answered very softly: "Yes."

_6_

The person who was angry about it was Myra. She wrote long abusive

letters to Nell.

You can forget so soon. Vernon has only one home--in my heart. You

never loved him.

Uncle Sydney twirled his thumbs and said: "That young woman knows which

side her bread is buttered on," and wrote her a stereotyped letter of

congratulations.

An unexpected ally was Joe, who was paying a flying visit to London and

came round to see Nell at her mother's flat.

"I'm very glad," she said, kissing her. "And I'm sure Vernon would be.

You're not the kind that can face life on your own. You never were.

Don't you mind what Aunt Myra says. _I'll_ talk to her. Life's a

rotten business for women. I think you'll be happy with George. Vernon

would want you to be happy, I know."

Joe's support heartened Nell more than anything. Joe had always been

the nearest person to Vernon. On the night before her wedding she knelt

by her bed and looked up to where Vernon's sword hung over the head of

it.

She pressed her hands over her closed eyes.

"You do understand, beloved? You do? You do? It's you I love and always

shall.... Oh! Vernon, if only I could know that you understood."

She tried to send her very soul out questing in search of him. He

must--he _must_--know and understand.

chapter 4

In the town of A---- in Holland, not far from the German frontier, is

an inconspicuous inn. Here on a certain evening in 1917 a dark young

man with a haggard face pushed open the door and in very halting

Dutch asked for a lodging for the night. He breathed hard and his

eyes were restless. Anna Schlieder, the fat proprietress of the inn,

looked at him attentively up and down in her usual deliberate way

before she replied. Then she told him that he could have a room. Her

daughter Freda took him up to it. When she came back her mother said

laconically: "English--escaped prisoner."

Freda nodded but said nothing. Her china-blue eyes were soft and

sentimental. She had reasons of her own for taking an interest in the

English. Presently she again mounted the stairs and knocked on the

door. She went in on top of the knock, which as a matter of fact the

young man had not heard. He was so sunk in a stupor of exhaustion that

external sounds and happenings had hardly any meaning for him. For

days and weeks he had been on the _qui vive_, escaping dangers by

a hair's-breadth, never daring to be caught napping either physically

or mentally. Now he was suffering the reaction. He lay where he had

fallen, half sprawling across the bed. Freda stood and watched him. At

last she said:

"I bring you hot water."

"Oh!" He started up. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

She said slowly and carefully in his own language: "You are

English--yes?"

"Yes. Yes, that is----"

He stopped suddenly in doubt. One must be careful. The danger was

over--he was out of Germany. He felt slightly light-headed. A diet

of raw potatoes, dug up from the fields, was not stimulating to

the brain. But he still felt he _must_ be careful. It was so

difficult. He felt queer--felt that he wanted to talk and talk, pour

out everything now that at last that fearful long strain was over.

The Dutch girl was nodding her head at him gravely, wisely.

"I know," she said. "You come from over there." Her hand pointed in the

direction of the frontier.

He looked at her, still irresolute.

"You have escaped--yes. We had before one like you."

A wave of reassurance passed over him. She was all right, this girl.

His legs suddenly felt weak under him. He dropped down on the bed again.

"You are hungry? Yes. I see. I go and bring you something."

Was he hungry? He supposed he was. How long was it since he had eaten?

One day, two days? He couldn't remember. The end had been like a

nightmare--just keeping blindly on. He had had a map and a compass. He

had known the place where he wanted to cross the frontier, the spot

that seemed to him to offer the best chance. A thousand-to-one chance

against his being able to pass the frontier--but he had passed it. They

had shot at him and missed. Or was that all a dream? He had swum down

the river--that was it. No, that was all wrong, too. Well, he wouldn't

think about it. He had escaped, that was the great thing.

He leaned forward, supporting his aching head in his hands.

Very soon Freda returned carrying a tray with food on it and a great

tankard of beer. He ate and drank whilst she stood watching him. The

effect was magical. His head cleared. He _had_ been light-headed,

he realized that now. He smiled up at Freda.

"That's splendid," he said. "Thanks awfully."

Encouraged by his smile, she sat down on a chair.

"You know London?"

"Yes, I know it." He smiled a little. She had asked that so quaintly.

Freda did not smile. She was in deadly earnest.

"You know a soldier there? A what is it?--Corporal Green?"

He shook his head, a little touched.

"I'm afraid not," he said gently. "Do you know his regiment?"

"It was a London regiment--the London Fusiliers." She had no further

information than that.

He said kindly: "When I get back to London I'll try to find out, if you

like to give me a letter."

She looked at him doubtfully, yet with a certain air of trusting

appeal. In the end the doubt was vanquished.

"I will write--yes," she said.

She rose to leave the room and said abruptly: "We have an English paper

here--two English papers here. My cousin brought them from the hotel.

You would like to see them, yes?"

He thanked her and she returned, bringing a tattered _Eve_ and a

_Sketch_ which she handed to him with some pride.

When she left the room again he laid down the papers by his side and

lighted a cigarette--his last cigarette! What would he have done

without those cigarettes--stolen at that! Perhaps Freda would bring him

some--he had money to pay for them. A kind girl, Freda, in spite of her

thick ankles and an unprepossessing exterior.

He took out a small notebook from his pocket. The pages were blank and

he wrote in it: _Corporal Green, London Fusiliers_. He would do

what he could for the girl. He wondered idly what story lay behind it.

What had Corporal Green been doing in Holland in A----? Poor Freda! It

was the usual thing, he supposed.

Green--it reminded him of his childhood. _Mr. Green._ The

omnipotent delightful Mr. Green--his playfellow and protector. Funny,

the things one thought of when one was a kid!

He'd never told Nell about Mr. Green. Perhaps she'd had a Mr. Green of

her own. Perhaps all children did.

He thought: "Nell--oh! Nell ..." and his heart missed a beat. Then he

turned his thoughts resolutely away. Very soon now. Poor darling, what

she must have suffered knowing him to be a prisoner in Germany! But

that was all over now. Very soon now they'd be together. Very soon. Oh!

he mustn't think of it. The task in hand--no looking forward.

He picked up the _Sketch_ and idly turned over the pages. A lot

of new shows seemed to be on. What fun to go to a show again. Pictures

of generals all looking very fierce and warlike. Pictures of people

getting married. Not a bad-looking crowd. That one----Why----

_It wasn't true--it couldn't be true. Another dream--a nightmare._

Mrs. Vernon Deyre, who is to marry Mr. George Chetwynd. Mrs.

Deyre's first husband was killed in action over a year ago. Mr.

George Chetwynd is an American who has done very valuable relief

work in Serbia.

Killed in action--yes, he supposed, that might be. In spite of all

conceivable precautions, mistakes like that _did_ arise. A man

Vernon knew had been reported killed. A thousandth chance, but it

happened.

Naturally, Nell would have believed--and naturally, quite naturally,

she would marry again.

What nonsense he was talking! Nell--marry again! So soon. Marry

George--_George_ with his gray hair.

A sudden sharp pang shot through him. He had visualized George too

clearly. Damn George. Blast and curse George!

But it wasn't true. No, it wasn't true!

He stood up, studying himself as he swayed on his feet. To anyone who

had seen him, he would have appeared a little drunk.

He was perfectly calm--yes, he was perfectly calm. The thing was not

to believe--not to think. Put it away--right away. It wasn't true--it

couldn't be true. If you once admitted that it might be true, you were

done.

He went out of his room, down the stairs. He passed the girl Freda,

who stared at him. He said very quietly and calmly (marvellous that he

should be so calm):

"I'm going out for a walk."

He went out, oblivious of old Anna Schlieder's eyes that raked his back

as he passed her. The girl Freda said to her:

"He passed me on the stairs like--like--what has happened to him?"

Anna tapped her forehead significantly. Nothing ever surprised her.

Out on the road Vernon was walking--walking very fast. He must get

away--get away from the thing that was following him. If he looked

round--if he thought about it--but he wouldn't think about it.

Everything was all right--_everything_.

Only he mustn't think. This queer dark thing that was following

him--following him.... If he didn't think, he was all right.

Nell--Nell with her golden hair and her sweet smile. His Nell. Nell and

George.... No, no, no! It wasn't so. He was in time.

And suddenly, lucidly, there ran through his mind the thought: "That

paper was six months old at least. They've been married five months."

He reeled. He thought: "I can't bear it. No, this I can't bear.

Something must happen."

He held on blindly to that: _Something must happen_.

Somebody would help him. Mr. Green. What was this awful thing that was

dogging him? Of course, the Beast. The Beast.

He could hear it coming. He gave one panic-stricken glance over his

shoulder. He was out of the town now, walking on a straight road

between dykes. The Beast was coming lumbering along at a great pace,

rattling and bumping.

The Beast.... Oh! if only he could go back--to the Beast and Mr. Green,

the old terrors, the old comforts. They didn't hurt you like the new

things--like Nell and George Chetwynd. George.... Nell belonging to

George....

No! no, it wasn't true--it mustn't be true. He couldn't face any more.

Not that--not that.

There was only one way to get out of it all, to be at peace--only one

way. Vernon Deyre had made a mess of life. Better to get out of it.

One last flaming agony shot through his brain. Nell--George--no! He

thrust them out with a last effort. Mr. Green--kind Mr. Green.

He stepped out into the roadway right in the path of the lurching lorry

that tried to avoid him too late--and struck him down and backward.

A horrible searing shock. Thank God, this was death.