She tried it for a week. After carrying tea-urns from the kitchen to

the counter for eight consecutive hours she decided, without any

hesitation whatever, that her apprehensions were groundless.

Month by month, Marjorie bent her giant's spirit and her straight young

back to her task. The Canteen, near Waterloo Station, was never closed,

and was full at practically every hour of the day and night. But,

day-shift or night-shift, fair weather or foul, good news or bad,

nothing made any difference to Marjorie. She was always on time, always

cheerful, always perfectly ready to perform tasks left undone by the

Undertakers of War Work. She set herself a standard of endurance and

privation approximately as nearly as possible to that which she

understood prevailed on the Western Front. This seemed to her the least

that a stay-at-home person like herself could do, in consideration of

the fact that no bodily risk attached to her duties. (As yet, Zeppelin

frightfulness was merely one of London's gratuitous entertainments.)

Consequently, after six months' unceasing drudgery, Marjorie was

beginning to feel very tired, and just a little despondent.

The spirit of despondency stalked abroad in those days: it was the

natural reaction from the wave of enthusiasm which had carried the

country so highheartedly through the anxieties and uncertainties of the

first twelve months. It was becoming increasingly obvious that "K" was

right; that the war was going to last for a term of years; and that the

country could not reach the goal on its first wind. Pending the arrival

of the second, a slump in martial enthusiasm was inevitable. Tubes and

omnibuses no longer carried men in uniform for nothing. Civilians no

longer offered their seats to soldiers and sailors. Patriotic flappers

no longer presented white feathers to wounded officers in mufti. It was

no longer considered _de rigueur_ for the orchestra in public

restaurants to bring a docile public to its feet by periodical

excursions into patriotic melody. The Battle of Loos had demonstrated

once more that the young British soldier never fights better than in his

first battle; also, alas! that when a nation goes to war free from the

taint of "militarism," soldiers must die that Staffs may learn.

Gallipoli had been evacuated, when with a little luck and good

management the evacuation might have taken place at the other end.

Bulgaria had recently joined our enemies, and it was felt that with more

skilful handling she would have come down upon our side of the hedge.

Early in December figures to date of British casualties in all theatres

of war were officially announced for the first time: they reached a

total more than five times as great as the numbers of the original

Expeditionary Force. A shortage of men was becoming apparent: although

nearly four million had joined the Colours, the cry was still for more.

The Voluntary system was at its last gasp. Despite the honest and

ingenious Derby scheme for a more even distribution of the burden, it

was plain that an intolerable and increasing weight was being borne by

The Willing Horse. Conscription, long overdue, was clearly on the way,

with the result that the voice of the Conscientious Objector was now

heard in the land. On the top of all this the No-Treating Order had come

into force, and another injustice was inflicted upon that section of the

community which preferred that its refreshment should be paid for, as

its battles were being fought, by some one else. Even Marjorie's spirits

sagged a little during that black winter. Her sense of oppression was

increased by two potent factors. In the first place, she was underfed.

It was entirely her own fault, or, rather, that of her first parent,

Eve. In their hearts, all women cherish a profound contempt for what men

call good food. Formal meals, consumed at leisure and with comfortable

ritual, are to them a mere pandering to gross male standards of

self-indulgence. A woman hates sitting at a dinner-table through a meal

of thoughtfully varied courses. To her the perfect repast is, was, and

always will be an egg on a tray, on a chair, in any room but the

dining-room.

Marjorie was not exempt from this failing. Too often her principal meal

of the day was eaten in a tea-shop, and consisted of food that satisfied

quickly and nourished not at all. The meals at Netherby had been

irksome, but they were at least wholesome. Furthermore, in her desire

to emulate the soldier's lot, she imposed upon herself a voluntary

rationing scheme--which if applied in military circles would have

undoubtedly produced a mutiny. She had the zealot spirit, too. After

the twelfth of October, the day upon which Edith Cavell died, Marjorie

ate neither butter nor jam for a fortnight. Less sincere tributes have

been paid to our great dead.

But, above all, she was desperately lonely. If it is not good for man

to be alone, it is far worse for woman. And Marjorie was very much

alone. It is surprising what a small acquaintance most of us really

possess. Such as are occupied every day in earning a living--and who is

not in these times?--are almost entirely dependent for human

companionship upon the people with whom they work and the people with

whom they share a home. Of course, there is a certain type which makes

sociability its life work; which is eternally busy with visiting-cards

and engagement-book; scraping acquaintance here, exchanging addresses

there--the type, in fact, which entertains a not altogether unreasonable

dread of being left alone with itself. But if you possess neither the

inclination nor the leisure for these amenities, and do not live at

home, and do not happen to work in company with a throng of your

fellow-creatures, you can be a very lonely individual indeed, especially

in a great city.

Marjorie, fortunately, had the canteen. She formed acquaintanceships

quickly, as all attractive people do. Some of these, owing to her

natural discrimination, were short-lived, and none made an abiding

impression. Marjorie was more interested in things than people in those

days. But the soldiers appreciated her. Sometimes their appreciation

took the form of tips. One Canadian presented her with half a crown,

and commanded her to buy "candy" with it; but the majority of her

patrons furtively thrust a penny or twopence--and twopence meant a good

deal to Tommy in those shilling-a-day times--under the saucer, adjusted

cap, and said awkwardly, "Well, so-long, miss!" hurrying out before the

delinquency was discovered. Many of them sent her post cards, from

Flanders, or Egypt, or India, addressed as often as not, if they had

lacked the courage to ask her name beforehand, to the "Young Lady with

the Tea Urns."

But Marjorie's leisure hours were not exhilarating. That moment at the

end of the day's work, when every member of the human family ought to be

provided by law with some one or something to go home to, was the worst.

Still, it was all part of the game, and she played up sturdily. She

invented amusements for herself--such as could be indulged in by one

person, gifted with imagination and a sense of humour. London itself was

her playground. Most of the picture galleries and museums were closed

by this time; but London's real attractions are ever in the street.

Walking home on a fine morning from night duty, Marjorie would

frequently look in at St. James's Palace to see that the Guard was

properly changed. Sometimes she trudged as far as Buckingham Palace

with the relief. She bought a little book which dealt with London

landmarks, and sought out for her own amusement the Old Curiosity Shop,

London Wall, the site of Tyburn Tree, and the birthplaces of numerous

historical celebrities. She acquired a store of useless but pleasant

knowledge: for instance, that the wooden slab with iron legs, which

stands by the railings of the Green Park in Piccadilly, was originally

set up to enable ticket-porters to rest their bundles for a moment

before breasting the gradient--more perceptible to a ticket-porter than

a modern taxi--that leads to Hyde Park Corner.

The great railway stations were a perpetual feast to her, especially

Victoria and Waterloo. Many an evening found her at the barrier at

Victoria as the leave train drew up at the platform, to disgorge a wave

of bronzed, boisterous, mud-caked, unshaven children into the arms of

demonstrative relatives. Sometimes, too, in the early morning, she

attended this same train's departure, upon the shortest run in the

world--the run in the opposite direction was the longest--the journey

between London and Folkestone. With swelling heart and tightening lips

she watched the crowd of returners to duty--all curiously silent, and

all smiling in the most unanimous and resolute manner for the benefit of

those who had come to see them off. The silence and the resolution

broke sometimes when the warning whistle sounded--perhaps for ten

seconds. As soon as the train began to move, Marjorie always turned and

walked rapidly away before the women came wandering aimlessly back from

the empty platform. She could bear most things, but not that.

There were few amusements upon which she could afford to spend money.

The theatre generally was beyond her reach, but the cinema was an

abiding boon to herself and countless others--a fact to which the

attention of intellectual despisers of common pleasures is respectfully

directed. The cinema was always open; one could go in when one had

time, and come out when one had had enough. One could go there alone

without looking or feeling conspicuously alone, which is not possible in

the ordinary theatre; there were no waits, and no noise; and the

darkened auditorium, whether one regarded the screen or not, was a

rest-cure in itself.

Then there was the recreation of correspondence. Marjorie wrote to Roy

every day, and Joe once a week. She had received no letter from

Netherby in answer to her own; so she decided to make no present attempt

to repair the rupture of diplomatic relations in that quarter. Joe was

now a private in the Royal Engineers, undergoing intensive training in

the north of England. She had not seen him since his enlistment, nor

expected to, for leave was difficult. Moreover, Joe referred frequently

and appreciatively in his letters to local hospitality. Marjorie

scented a romance, but Joe gave nothing away.

And there were Roy's letters. They arrived with amazing regularity--the

postal service of the British Expeditionary Force was one of the

unadvertised marvels of the war--written in pencil upon the thin

blue-squared sheets of a field dispatch-book, with the censor's

triangular stamp in one corner of the envelope and Roy's own name

scribbled on the other. They contained little military information, and

a surprising amount of irrelevant foolishness. Roy told Marjorie about

life in billets. He reported upon his progress with the French tongue.

He told her of Madame _la fermiere_, in whose loft he slept, and with

whom he practised elegant conversation, but who was unfortunately only

intelligible upon Sunday, that being the one day in the week when her

false teeth were in actual use. For the rest of the week they reposed

thriftily in a drawer. He told her how he visited a French Field

Hospital, and had committed the solecism of addressing the nurse--an

elderly Sister of Charity--as "Mademoiselle Nourrice." He wrote, as a

schoolboy might, of some extra good "blow-out" at an _estaminet_; of his

small amusements; of his small grievances. He wrote, as a lover does, of

his lady, and how much he loved and missed her, and how greatly the

thought of her inspired him. But of tactical operations, or the joy of

battle--and there is such a thing--or the privations and horrors of war,

there was nothing. The whole aim of the man in the trenches at this

time appears to have been to maintain the morale of the people at home.

It was during this very month that Forain, the French cartoonist,

epitomised the psychology of the entire war in a single drawing--two

gaunt, mud-caked _poilus_, crouching waist-deep in the water of a

devastated trench during an intensive bombardment, gasping anxiously to

one another: "_Si les civils tiennent!_"

Of Roy's whereabouts Marjorie knew little. He had come safely through

the Battle of Loos--more fortunate than the majority of his colleagues.

He had served in Belgium for a space; after that the Division had been

transferred to France again. He was fond of indicating his position on

the map by cryptograms insoluble by friend or foe, or codes which not

even their author could decipher the day after their invention. But

occasionally he succeeded:

_Of course we are not permitted to say where we are, but it would be

harmful to blub about it._

The latter half of this sentence sounded so more than usually idiotic

that Marjorie felt sure it conveyed some subtle message. But though she

applied every solution known to the amateur detective, she could make

nothing of it. It was not for many weeks that it occurred to her,

during the night watches, to cease probing for key-words or transposing

vowels, and to try paraphrasing the sense of the text. By this means

she reached the conclusion that there was "harm in tears"--and a "buried

town" immediately sprang to view. But more often she was trapped in the

pitfalls of ambiguity.

"_This is a pleasant old-world spot_," Roy had remarked in a recent

letter. "_You would love the Vicar._"

"The Vicar! The Vicar? The Vicar of what?" Marjorie spent half an

hour poring over the _Daily Mail_ map of the Western Front which

decorated the greater part of her bedroom wall, in a vain search for a

place called Wakefield, or anything like it. She wrote back:

_By the way, the Vicar you are so enthusiastic about is an entire

stranger to me._

To-night another letter had come, conveying enlightenment:

_Sorry you don't like the Vicar. He used to be a good chap. An

up-river man, and some singer in his day._

Two minutes later, Marjorie's pencil was on the map, underlining

Bray-sur-Somme. Dear Roy! She leaned back in her cheap little stall in

the darkness, and chuckled softly to herself. How wonderfully these

foolish trifles lubricated the grinding wheels. But oh--!

Spots and splashes appeared upon the film, and it began to rain ink--an

infallible sign in the world of moving-picture romance of the less

expensive kind that the end of the tale is approaching. Marjorie rose to

her feet, pulled on her hat, and felt her way out into the Earl's Court

Road. She was sufficiently well known to the asthmatic Admiral of the

Fleet--at least he looked like that--who guarded the portals of the

Electric Palace to receive from him a gracious good night.

"O reevoyer, miss! I 'ope to see you on Thursday. We shall 'ave a

fresh picture then--Charlie Chaplin, the new screen comedian.

Everybody's talking about 'im. Very comical, 'e is!"

Not far from Earl's Court Station, in the obscurity of the discreetly

darkened street, Marjorie came upon a motor-car. A girl chauffeur was

endeavouring to jack up the off-hind wheel. Marjorie ranged up alongside

at once.

"Let me help you," she said.

"Thanks," gasped the girl. Together they wrestled with the stiff jack.

"A puncture?" inquired Marjorie.

"Yes. Rotten luck! I am only a mile from home, and this old tyre has

gone on the blink. I must put on the spare rim."

"I know this kind," said Marjorie, fired with characteristic enthusiasm

at the prospect of a thoroughly irksome job. "Let me do it!"

"You're welcome!" said the girl, who was white with fatigue. "I don't

mind the driving and the long hours," she continued sociably, settling

down on the running board while Marjorie deftly removed the

unserviceable rim; "but changing tyres, and oiling the engine, and

filling up grease-cups, and all those messy things--that's what I can't

stick!"

"Is this your--your work during the war?" asked Marjorie, suddenly

interested.

"Yes--The Women's Legion. We haven't been started long. It's hard work

in all weathers; but it's helping--a bit. I'm trying to keep my

husband's job open for him."

Ten minutes later, utterly exhausted, Marjorie let herself into her tiny

flat in a by-street off the Brompton Road. It was half-past nine. She

set the alarm clock for half-past five, and went to bed with Roy's

letter under her pillow. She dreamed that Roy had been

promoted--suddenly, but not unexpectedly--to the rank of

Commander-in-Chief, and that it was her privilege to drive him to battle

every morning at five-thirty, in a motor-car with the off-hind tyre

punctured.

*CHAPTER VII*

*DUET*

*I*

In one respect her dream came true.

Shortly after nine o'clock next morning, as the breakfast rush eased

off, Marjorie was aware of the flushed features of the lady

superintendent of the canteen, Miss Penny--"The Mouldy Old Copper," in

the unregenerate language of the junior staff--angrily visible through a

mephitic fog to which steaming tea, frying bacon, and moist humanity had

all contributed. (Even in the crispest weather Tommy Atkins is a most

hygroscopic individual.)

"We are for it, my dear!" announced The Mouldy Old Copper.

"What--Zeppelins?" inquired Marjorie, setting her tenth urn in position.

"Worse! Inspection! They are coming at twelve. The Government have

suddenly decided to inquire into the feasibility of making the Canteen

Service an official affair--a branch of the A.S.C., or the R.A.M.C., or

the Q.M.G., or some other futility. So they are coming to inspect us,

as 'a typical example of a canteen maintained by voluntary effort and

service.' I got it over the telephone just now."

"It was decent of them to warn you," said Marjorie.

"That's just what they haven't done! I got the news by a side wind.

It's to be a surprise inspection. They want to see what a show run by

women is like when it's off its guard. I like their impudence! What do

they expect to catch us doing, I wonder--arranging the tea-cups in the

wrong formation; or not keeping accounts in triplicate; or flirting with

the men; or what!" The Mouldy Old Copper turned a bright bronze colour.

"I'll jolly well talk to them, if they start any of their old--!"

"Don't you think," suggested Marjorie, "that it would be a good plan to

telephone round at once to make sure that there are enough waitresses?

You know what a bear-garden this place is when the men can't get

served."

Miss Penny considered.

"Yes, you are right," she said. "At least, we will warn some of them.

Not all--oh dear no, not all! There are women connected with this place

who haven't allowed their so-called work here to interfere with a single

tea-fight or subaltern-hunt since they joined. Of course they would

sell their souls to crush in to-day. Well, they shan't! They shall

hear all about it to-morrow, instead! I shall love telling

them--especially the Toplis girl, and Lady Adeline, and Mrs. Napoleon

Jones--or whatever the name of that horror with the pekineses is! You

run along, dear, and telephone to about a dozen of the decent ones, and

tell them to be sure and turn up by ten-thirty."

The result was that at high noon, when the Olympians descended upon

Waterloo Road, they found the canteen crowded with happy warriors

partaking of nourishment from the hands of a bevy of attractive and

competent Hebes. The Committee of Inspection consisted of a

much-beribboned Major-General, two or three lesser luminaries

proportionately decorated, and an elderly civilian in a shocking hat.

The Mouldy Old Copper conducted the procession round the canteen. Here

and there a halt was called at a table, where the Major-General, having

made the diners thoroughly comfortable by commanding them straitly to

"sit at ease," inquired, in the voice of a Bengal tiger endeavouring to

coo like a dove, whether there were "any complaints." There were none,

which was most gratifying, but not altogether surprising.

Marjorie, greatly diverted by the _sotto voce_ remarks which reached her

from tables in her neighbourhood, rested her tired arms upon the

speckless counter and looked demurely down her nose. Upon her ear fell

a raven's croak:

"Very good--with such a short time for rehearsal! But these damsels

must come here _every_ day, you know! By the way, does he write to you

regularly? I told him to."

Marjorie turned, and gaped in the most unladylike manner. The elderly

civilian in the bad hat had strayed away from his escort, and now stood

at her elbow--revealed as Lord Eskerley, to whom she had once been

presented at a regimental gymkhana at Craigfoot. Apparently he was

aware that the Olympian deputation were being treated to a display of

"eyewash." Apparently, also; he knew Marjorie. Not only Marjorie, but

Marjorie's most private affairs. Altogether, he seemed to know too much.

"By the way," continued his lordship characteristically, "how do you do?

I forgot." They shook hands. "Lovely day, isn't it? You look

overworked. What are your hours here?"

Marjorie told him.

"What is your particular _metier_?"

Marjorie introduced the tea-urns.

"No woman, however young or muscular, should carry heavy things about,"

said Lord Eskerley. "Razors to cut grindstones; as usual! Would you

like a change of occupation?"

"Indeed I should," replied Marjorie--"so long as it was helping things

along, you know."

"What can you do?"

Marjorie fingered the dimple on her chin dolefully.

"Not much, I'm afraid. I don't know anything about nursing, or

shorthand, or anything useful."

"You can drive a car, though."

"How do you know that?"

"How does the trembling fawn know that the wolf is not a vegetarian?"

The old gentleman glared at Marjorie over his spectacles.

"I expect its mother warns it," hazarded Marjorie, a little guiltily.

"Ah! Possibly. My mother, unfortunately, never saw you, though I am

sure that if she had she would have warned me. But there are other

ways--instinct, to a certain extent; also experience. You and your

two-seater once missed me by inches in the Craigfoot road. You were on

your way to keep an appointment, I thought: I forbore to speculate with

whom. But never mind that. Now--my chauffeur very properly joined the

army to-day. Would you care to step into his shoes? He wears large

fourteens, and your appointment would probably wreck my prospects as an

eligible widower; but I think those are the only two objections. Will

you give me a trial? Thank you very much! Report this evening."

*II*

Marjorie's labours henceforth were as arduous as ever, but were mainly

performed in the open air--which to her meant all the difference between

work and play. Each morning she drew up before Lord Eskerley's gloomy

mansion in that aristocratic slum, Curzon Street, at nine o'clock sharp,

and conveyed her employer upon his daily round. First to the Ministry

of Intelligence, an unobtrusive mansion in the purlieus of Whitehall

Gardens. Then, about eleven, to Downing Street. Then back to the

Ministry. About one, to Curzon Street, for a brief luncheon. In the

afternoon Marjorie ran errands: that is to say, she conveyed visitors to

the Ministry from all quarters of London--from other Ministries, from

the House of Commons, or from remote private addresses. At seven she

conveyed his lordship home to Curzon Street, where, day in, day out, in

victory or defeat, he dined at seven forty-five precisely.

"Give your digestion fair play," he once suddenly advised his

chauffeuse, as she tucked him into the car on a bitter January

afternoon, "and the world is yours!"

Marjorie promised to do so.

"Have a clear understanding with your stomach in early life," his

lordship resumed, the moment Marjorie reopened the door of the car

twenty minutes later. "Remember he _rules_ the rest of your internal

economy. Socially, we never meet him, or speak of him; but he is the

whole show! And--he is as sensitive as an upper servant! Give him the

consideration due to his position; don't ask him to work at unusual

times, or do things that are not part of his duty; and he will not only

serve you for a lifetime, but will keep your heart up to its work,

restrain your brain from more than usual foolishness, and put the fear

of death into the organs below stairs! But treat him casually, or give

him odd jobs to do--and he will let you down, as sure as fate! Call for

me at the usual time, please."

Marjorie's duties did not end at dinner-time; for war knows nothing of

the eight-hour day, or early closing, or Sabbath observance. Lord

Eskerley frequently went out about nine in the evening--sometimes to

Downing Street, occasionally to Buckingham Palace, not infrequently to

an unpretentious house in Dulwich, where he found it convenient to

interview persons whom it would have been undesirable to receive

officially at the Ministry or Curzon Street. The house stood in the

same road as Uncle Fred's. The fact gave Marjorie, gliding past in the

wintry darkness, a pleasant sensation of escape from futility.

One bleak and muddy day in February she drove Lord Eskerley down to

Bramshott Camp, to assist at a review of two new divisions. Somewhere

outside Godalming the gears began to burr and slip. Finally, Marjorie

pulled in at the side of the road and descended.

The window of the car was let down and Lord Eskerley's head appeared.

"How long will it take?" he inquired, avoiding superfluous questions, as

usual.

"About ten minutes. The lever has worked loose; I can't get my gears in

properly," replied Marjorie.

"Do you want any help? I have with me"--his lordship leaned back and

exhibited his fellow-passengers--"General Brough-Brough; his A.D.C.,

Captain Sparkes; and Mr. Meadows. The General and Captain Sparkes, as

you will observe, are all dressed up in review order, and I cannot have

them tarnished or made muddy, or I should be bringing contempt and

ridicule on the King's uniform; also rendering aid and comfort to the

enemy, which is not allowed in war time. So that disposes of them. I

shall not insult a lady of your capabilities by offering my assistance.

That leaves Meadows. Do you want him?"

"No, thank you," said Marjorie, swiftly removing the floor boards above

the gear box. The window was drawn up again, and Mr. Meadows, Lord

Eskerley's private secretary, a young man debarred from warlike

exercises by acute astigmatism and valvular murmurs, looked very much

relieved.

Ten minutes later, Marjorie, somewhat flushed and not a little oily,

resumed her place at the wheel, and deposited her passengers at the

stroke of the appointed hour at Divisional Headquarters at Bramshott.

Her employer, stepping out of the car, surveyed her grimy features

quizzically.

"Habakkuk!" he chuckled.

Six hours later, at the end of the return journey, he inquired:

"Do you read your Voltaire at all? Probably not: I'll send you his

'Life.'"

The volume reached her next morning. Therein Marjorie discovered a

marked passage, in which it was recorded that Voltaire found Habakkuk

"_capable de tout_." Thereafter, Lord Eskerley habitually addressed her

as Habakkuk.

*III*

Still, Marjorie was not entirely happy. As already stated, any form of

outdoor occupation was, in her view, play; and the present was

essentially a time for work. She belonged to that zealous breed which

is never really contented unless it is uncomfortable--to whom congenial

occupation is merely idleness under another name. She enjoyed her

present employment so much that she felt ashamed: she felt that she was

not pulling her weight in the war. Probably a short conversation with a

sensible person would have cured her of these illusions; but Marjorie

had no one with whom to converse. She might have confided in her

employer; but she argued, with some reason, that he would merely make an

apposite and caustic reference to the gentleman who is reputed to have

painted himself black all over in order to play Othello. It did not

occur to her to mention the matter to Roy in a letter. Roy, for the

present, belonged to his country, and was not to be diverted from his

duty by domestic or personal trifles. What Marjorie needed and longed

for at this time was a confidant.

If we desire a thing urgently enough we usually get it. Sometimes we

get more than we bargain for.

One day Lord Eskerley came down his front-door steps arm-in-arm with an

officer in uniform. His lordship's _chauffeuse_, who prided herself upon

her soldierly restraint, did not look round from her wheel as the pair

entered the car, but she heard her employer say:

"You can drop me at the office, Eric, and the car will take you on to

the club."

Eric Bethune's voice replied that this arrangement would suit its owner

top-hole.

When Lord Eskerley alighted at Whitehall Gardens he turned and addressed

Marjorie.

"Habakkuk," he announced, "inside the car I have left a D.S.O. on a

fortnight's leave. Please deposit him at the Army and Navy Club in Pall

Mall. He is a Scotsman, so there will be no gratuities."

"Very good, my lord," replied Marjorie, looking rigidly to her front.

She and the old gentleman made quite a speciality of these solemn little

pleasantries.

The portals of the Ministry had hardly closed upon the Minister when his

guest emerged from within the interior of the car and climbed into the

front seat beside Marjorie.

"May I come and sit here?" asked Eric, shaking hands. "I recognised

your back view through the front window-glass."

"It's against regulations," replied Marjorie, smiling, "but I can't

disobey a colonel. Besides, I want to hear all about the Western Front.

How are the Royal Covenanters?"

"I am commanding the Second Battalion now," replied Eric. "I have been

with them since October."

"Yes, I know," said Marjorie thoughtlessly.

"How did you know?" asked Eric, not altogether displeased.

Marjorie, carefully negotiating the cross-currents of Trafalgar Square,

bit her lip. She was beginning to give herself away already. But she

replied, looking steadily before her:

"I get letters sometimes."

"I hope your correspondents report favourably on me," said Eric lightly.

"Do you know many of my officers?"

"Not many--now. Let me see." Marjorie decided swiftly not to be

evasive, but to reply to Eric's naive inquisitiveness as naturally as

possible. "Major Laing--I have met him once or twice. Is he still with

you?"

"'Old Leathery'? Yes. He goes on for ever. Who else?"

"One hardly likes to ask these days, for fear--you know?"

"Yes, I know. But we've been lucky lately. We are in a quiet sector of

the line. We have had no officer casualties for two months. Wait while

I touch wood!" He tapped the mahogany dashboard. "Do you know

Kilbride, my adjutant?"

"I don't think so."

"He's a stout fellow. Let me see. Do you know young Birnie? He comes

from your part of the world, and mine."

"Yes, I know him," said Marjorie. "Is he quite well?" For the life of

her she could not help asking.

"Yes, he's all right." Eric gave Marjorie a sudden sidelong glance. He

possessed the curiosity of a child, and not a little of a child's

jealousy. He had certain things in mind--rumours, nods, innuendoes,

elephantine jests in the mess. Marjorie's eyes were fixed steadily upon

the road ahead of her, and her face expressed nothing more than polite

interest. But if Eric had been a really observant person--a woman, for

instance--he would have noticed that her hands were gripping the

steering-wheel until the nails were white.

"Whom else do you know?" he continued.

"Garry--Balfour--Carruthers--little Cowie?"

"No." Marjorie knew none of these. They were a later vintage.

"Laing and Birnie seem to be all of your friends that are left," said

Eric. "Which of them is your correspondent? Not old Leathery, surely?"

"No; Mr. Birnie. We are quite old acquaintances," said Marjorie,

thoroughly annoyed at the unfair tactics which had isolated Roy.

"Well, all that I can say is that I am thoroughly jealous of Master

Birnie!" announced Eric, smiling. "Now tell me all about yourself. What

are you doing here in London, driving a car?"

"Here is your club," said Marjorie, putting on her brake.

"Confound it!" Eric's annoyance was quite genuine. "We had so much to

discuss. Can't you lunch with me somewhere?"

"I never know when I shall lunch. It depends on Lord Eskerley."

"Well, can you dine? Surely you don't work all night as well!"

Marjorie hesitated. As it happened, she was free that evening, for she

knew that two cabinet ministers were dining and conferring with her

employer. There was no reason whatever why she should not accept Eric's

invitation. But for a moment some instinct held her back. Then she

thought of the eternal solitude of the flat.

"Thank you very much," she said. "I will."

They dined together and went to a play. Eric made a charming host and a

decorative escort. For the rest of the week--he was spending six days of

his leave with Lord Eskerley--Marjorie saw him constantly. She drove

him about London, and they went upon more than one exhilarating

excursion together. By the time that Eric departed to Scotland to visit

Buckholm she knew all about the regiment--its exploits, its smartness,

even its private jokes. Her general impression was that the regiment

had improved greatly since Colonel Bethune had taken command.

On the subject of Roy, both exhibited considerable reticence. When Eric

mentioned his name, he did so in a manner which jarred--"Your little

friend Birnie"; "Cowie, Douglas, Birnie, and other riff-raff of the

mess." Colonel Bethune might almost have been trying to belittle Roy

intentionally. So Marjorie, afraid of losing her temper and giving away

the position, carefully avoided Roy as a topic--an omission which Eric

may or may not have noted, but made no attempt to correct.

But the week was soon over, and Colonel Bethune and cheery nights out

were no more. Marjorie fell back into the old routine with an inevitable

sense of reaction. She realised next afternoon, as she sat waiting in

the rain at her wheel in Curzon Street, how improvident it is to accept

happiness or distraction from sources outside one's normal environment.

She knew now that the only permanent happiness is the happiness that

comes from common things. More than ever she yearned in her heart for a

regular companion--a crony, a confidant, a pal--as lively and as "safe"

as the companion she had just lost.

As noted above, it was raining--raining on a dismal afternoon in March.

It had been an anxious and busy week, for the Boche had fallen like an

avalanche upon Verdun, and the French resistance was in the preliminary

and uncertain stages of what was to prove one of the most heroic

defensive actions in history. Allied Councils of War had been frequent,

and Lord Eskerley's department had been heavily engaged.

Word had just been sent out to Marjorie that his lordship would be

detained another hour at least, and that Miss Clegg, if she pleased, was

at liberty to take the car back to the garage. But Miss Clegg was

pleased to remain where she was. She sat on, with the rain dripping off

her peaked cap and down the bridge of her nose, sedulously nursing a

theory that in so doing she was getting a little nearer to the Western

Front.

It never rains but it pours. Suddenly, from round the corner of Queen

Street, there came to Marjorie a new factor in her life--a humid but

quite alluring vision of attenuated skirt, black silk stockings, and

inadequate fur stole. The rain was working its will upon the vision:

she had not even an umbrella. But she pattered bravely along upon her

absurd heels, taking what shelter the lee of the houses afforded, and

keeping her head well down--presumably for reasons connected with her

dazzling complexion.

As she passed Marjorie she looked up, and Marjorie saw that she was

little more than a child, and a not very robust child at that. With

Marjorie, to think was to act.

"I say! Wait a minute!" she cried, and began to rummage under the

cushion of her seat, extracting ultimately a spare raincoat of her own.

"You must put this on," she announced to the girl: "you are soaking."

She bustled her new protegee into the garment without waiting for

permission. Then another thought occurred to her.

"I have half an hour to spare," she said. "May I take you anywhere?

Nobody"--indicating her employer's mausoleum-like residence--"will

mind."

Appealing blue eyes looked up at her. An enormous but attractive mouth

broke into a grateful smile.

"It's jolly decent of you," said a voice of incredible childishness.

"Are you sure?"

"Rather!" said Marjorie. "Will you get inside, or sit by me?"

"By you, please."

"All right! Come along!"

Marjorie cranked her engine, and took her place at the wheel. Her new

little friend snuggled down beside her.

"You _are_ strong!" she said admiringly. "And yet you don't look very

hefty. Your hands are lovely. How do you keep them so nice, doing this

kind of work?"

"They are my vanity!" laughed Marjorie. "I sit up half the night trying

to keep my nails in order. I wonder if it's worth while: I sometimes

feel inclined to let them rip--for the duration! Where can I take you?"

"The Imperial Theatre, if you don't mind. I have a rehearsal at three,

and it's after that now. I shall get a telling-off, as usual, I suppose.

Well, I'm not worrying: such is life!"

"Are you on the stage?" asked Marjorie, genuinely thrilled.

"Yes. We open in about a month, with a new musical show."

"What's it called?"

"I never can remember: they change the title about once a day. Not that

it really matters. 'Too Many Girls' is the latest; and pretty suitable,

too! My dear, you simply can't get men for the theatre nowadays! The

good ones have all joined up, and the rotters daren't walk on. You

ought to see our chorus men! They are all about seventy, or else they

have one lung, or one rib, or one ear, or something. Still, we carry on

somehow. Are you driving a car for war work?"

"Yes. I don't really feel that I ought to be doing it; it's too much

like fun. I was in a canteen at first, but I got rather run down and

hard up, and I was offered this job as a chauffeur, so I took it. I

think I should go back to the canteen if I could afford it. I never see

any soldiers now. At the canteen one could do something for them, poor

things."

"They're lambs!" agreed the passenger--"especially the young officers.

Are you engaged?"

Marjorie, very much occupied in negotiating Piccadilly Circus, nodded.

"An officer?"

Marjorie nodded again.

"My boy's an officer, too. What's your name, by the way?"

"Marjorie Clegg."

"Mine's Liss Lyle. (It's Elizabeth Leek really, but in the profession

one has to think of something better than that.) There's the Imperial

there. Just shake me off at the front entrance, and I'll slip round to

the stage door."

"Oh, but I want to drive you right up to the stage door!" said Marjorie

frankly. "It will be wonderful!"

The little woman of the world at her side smiled indulgently.

"Very well then, dear, you shall! Round that corner, and then round

again."

Marjorie set down her passenger with a genuine pang. She was certain

now what was wrong in her life. She had no one to gossip with.

The two girls shook hands.

"Thanks awfully!" said Liss. "Also for Little Willie Waterproof." She

took off the raincoat.

"Stick to it just now," said Marjorie: "it may be raining when you come

out."

"Can I? I love you for that. I'll come round and leave it for you

somewhere, shall I?"

Marjorie dived impulsively into the opening offered.

"Come to-night!" she said. "We might go and have some dinner somewhere.

I can always get off for an hour--sometimes for the whole evening. I

have a lot of evenings to myself," she added.

Ultimately the pair dined together, _chez_ Lyons, and Marjorie spent her

happiest hour since her invasion of London. She found her little friend

a characteristic medley of childishness and maturity--featherheaded,

affectionate, naive, with far more worldly wisdom than herself, yet with

all a child's dread of being laughed at for ignorance.

She came from Finchley--and apologised for doing so. She had no mother,

and her father, overburdened, it seemed, with daughters, had raised no

particular objection to Miss Elizabeth's theatrical predilections. She

was at present living at a boarding-house near Paddington. Did not like

it much. Said so--apparently to every one, including the other

boarders. But nothing troubled her long. Her thoughts, birdlike,

hopped to another twig, and her cheery little song of life was resumed.

She was not deeply concerned with how and why. She pecked carelessly

here and there at what fortune offered, without pausing to reason why or

count the cost; but so far appeared instinctively to have avoided what

was unwholesome. Her chief passions were dress, gossip, and expensive

confectionery. Her conversation was a blend of theatrical shop and

military slang--including many parrot-phrases which could have conveyed

no meaning to her whatever--and was chiefly remarkable for a certain

confiding frankness and a glorious contempt for what Mr. Mantalini would

have called "demnition details."

"You must meet my boy," she said to Marjorie, as they walked homeward.

"You'd love him. He's a _pukka sahib_!"

"What is his name?" asked Marjorie.

"I am not quite sure of his name," replied Miss Lyle, with

characteristic candour; "but I think he's in the Yeomanry. His

Christian name's Leonard. I met him with two other fellows at a party,

and I got all their surnames mixed up--I always do--and I can never

remember which of the three is his."

"You will find out before you marry him?" suggested Marjorie

respectfully.

"Oh, rather! But there's plenty of time for that. Besides, he's going

out soon, and then it won't matter."

"It won't _matter_?"

"No. We are not so potty about one another as all that. I could see

the lad wanted to be engaged--after all, poor things, they can't afford

to wait, these days--so I let him. He's nice, and clean, and it looks

well to be called for after rehearsal. I shall miss him awfully when he

goes. It's rotten to be by yourself in this world--isn't it?" A pair of

pathetic eyes were upturned to Marjorie's.

Next moment Marjorie's arm was round the waif's shoulders.

"Liss, you shall come and live with me!" she said impulsively.

"Righto!" replied Liss. "I was dying to be asked, but it seemed too

wonderful to be possible. I shall have to sponge on you for a bit,

though. I haven't a bean until the show opens."

"That's all right," said Marjorie.

"Now, where shall we have our dug-out?" asked Liss, becoming terribly

busy.

The pair spent a rapturous evening building castles in Kensington.

*CHAPTER VIII*

*CHORUS*

*I*

Finally they found an eyrie--a flat, somewhere in the sky at the back of

Victoria Street, consisting of a big bedroom, a tiny sitting-room, a gas

stove, and a surprisingly modern bath. They bought furniture at

unpretentious establishments in Tottenham Court Road, laying their own

carpets and hanging their own curtains. (The latter were the only

really essential articles of domestic furniture in those days of aerial

visitation.) Marjorie hung up a few reprints and photographs; Liss

contributed a portrait of her nebulous and anonymous fiance, together

with seventeen picture post cards of stage celebrities; and the ideal

home was opened.

Still, Marjorie's hunt for happiness was not yet complete. There were

two crumpled rose-leaves. Firstly, her implacable conscience continued

to inform her that her war work was too easy. Secondly, her evenings

were as lonely as ever. As soon as rehearsals finished, and "Too Many

Girls" started upon its nightly and tumultuous presentation, Liss

disappeared regularly every evening about half-past six; to return,

sometimes exhilarated, sometimes gloomy, sometimes affectionate,

sometimes quarrelsome, but invariably hungry and inexorably talkative,

about midnight. Supper was then served. The two ladies rarely ate at a

table: as already noted, the keynote of a feminine meal is its

passionate avoidance of anything in the shape of ceremonial routine. As

often as not Marjorie would take her supper to bed with her, while Liss,

munching and babbling, plied back and forth between the sitting-room and

bedroom, in progressive stages of disrobement, bearing fresh supplies

and relating the experiences of the day--continuing long after she had

shed her flimsy garments over two rooms and a vestibule, arrayed herself

in night attire, and crawled into bed.

"My dear, we had the most wonderful house to-night. Seven _legitimate_

calls after the first act! What an audience these boys on leave make!

(Here are a couple of sardines: the bloater paste is nah-poo.) They

gave Phyllis Lane such a reception! She had to do the dance after 'Pull

Up your Socks!' three times; (and if you want any more cocoa tell me,

because I am going to turn out the gas-ring.) Her husband has been

mentioned in dispatches. Leonard wasn't in front to-night--selfish pig!

I'll tell him off for that, to-morrow. (Oh, you darling, did you put

this hot-water-bottle in my bed? I must give you a kiss for that.

There! No, it won't hurt you, it's only lip salve.) Mr. Lee came

behind to-night, and spoke to us all. Said the show was a credit to

everybody, and he was very pleased to hear how brave we all were during

the raid the other night. Yes, he's the managing director. (Have you

finished? Very well, then! Give me the tray. Here's a cigarette for

you.) By the way, I was talking to Uncle Ga-Ga to-night. Oh, didn't I

tell you about him? He's one of the chorus gentlemen--about a hundred

years old, and simply mad to get into the war. But they won't take him.

He keeps changing his name, and dyeing his hair a fresh colour, and

trying again; but they turn him down every time. Seems queer, doesn't

it, that when a man wants to go he can't, while there are so many who

should and won't? (Can I use your cold cream, dear? I can't find mine.)

Lee said they would probably put on a second edition about August: we

start rehearsing the new numbers next week. Why don't you come and get

a job in the chorus? It wouldn't interfere with your other work.

There's two or three other girls doing the same as you, and Lee lets

them off with one _matinee_ a week. He's very patriotic. A-a-a-h!

Oo-oo-oo! Ee-ee-ee! What a _lovely_ warm bed! Well, as I was

saying--Marjorie Clegg, what is the use of my wearing myself to a shadow

waiting on you at supper and then the moment I get into bed and begin to

chat for a couple of minutes before lights out you start snoring like a

grampus? Very well, have it your own way. Live and let live, _I_

say.... That's all.... As for that little toad Leonard--!..."

Miss Lyle's baby eyes closed, her small nose buried itself in the

pillow, and her little tongue was still for several hours.

But Marjorie was not asleep. She lay awake thinking, while outside

London, shrouded in the blackest obscurity, snatched such slumber as

that endless, flaring, muttering line of outposts in Flanders could

guarantee. For all her splendid vitality, Marjorie was a highly-strung

girl--with a conscience. That morning Colonel Bethune, passing through

London from Scotland on his way back to the Western Front, had invited

her to a "farewell luncheon." She had accepted, gladly--and had

repented ever since. For behold, over the coffee, Colonel Bethune had

asked her to marry him!

He had asked her very charmingly, and with obvious confidence--a

combination which made it an ungrateful and difficult business to say no

without offence. At first Marjorie had been too taken back to say

anything at all. When her answer came its sincerity was unmistakable;

and poor, vain Eric was obviously and deeply mortified. With a vague

idea of consoling him, she had mentioned that her affections were

already engaged. He had asked her for no name, but she knew that it had

been written in her face, and that Eric had read it there. Then a new

and disappointing characteristic of the man had cropped out. He had

turned and reproached her--had told her that she had flirted with him,

and led him on--which was a base lie. But for all that, she was filled

with remorse. In her selfish desire for a good time she had been

thoughtlessly inconsiderate of Colonel Bethune, and almost disloyal to

Roy.

She and her host had parted miserably ten minutes later, each having

learned a bitter lesson--Eric, that in the field of love, especially

under stress of war, callow youth can be more than a match for dazzling

maturity; Marjorie, that where a pretty girl is concerned no man can be

regarded as 'safe' until he is dead.

Well, she would expiate her fault in the only way she knew. This

decided, she fell asleep.

*II*

Next morning Marjorie, depositing her noble employer upon the steps of

the Ministry of Intelligence, inquired:

"May I speak to you for a moment, sometime, Lord Eskerley?"

"Twelve-twenty-five," was the prompt reply--"after Downing Street and

before signatures. But I will not exert my influence to have him made

Commander-in-Chief!"

At twelve-twenty Marjorie presented herself to Mr. Meadows, in the

secretary's room, and was passed through double doors into the presence

of the minister. His lordship looked up over his spectacles and

indicated a chair.

"Habakkuk! Good! Sit down. Four-and-a-half minutes! Well?"

"I want to say," announced Marjorie, plunging head foremost into her

confession, "that I can't stay here any longer."

"Why?"

"I am not happy in my mind. I must go away."

"Good gracious! Don't say Meadows has fallen in love with you! I will

not permit my subordinates to encroach upon my prerogatives! No--not

that? Proceed, then!"

"I think I ought to leave you," Marjorie continued, quite unmoved by her

employer's senile quips, "because I am having too good a time. I have

been feeling all along that I ought to be doing something else."

"So I have observed. Well?"

"The only trouble is that if I go back to the canteen work (where they

want my help very badly), I shan't get paid for it; and I can't afford

to work without pay of some kind. I have a small allowance from home,

but it doesn't go far, and the girl I share a flat with was pretty hard

up when I first picked--became acquainted with her."

"Oh! Ah! So you keep a foundling hospital, too?"

"Only one!" explained Marjorie. "She's a dear," she added warmly.

"She's on the stage. She was badly in debt before the new piece

started--they don't get paid during rehearsals, you see--and she is only

just beginning to get on her feet again; so I can't afford to work for

nothing during the day just now, unless--"

"Unless you go on the stage yourself at night? Is that it, O _Capable de

tout_?"

"I was thinking of it," confessed Marjorie; "but I don't know how you

guessed."

"It's the first thing every pretty girl thinks of when confronted with

the necessity of earning a living. Go on."

"And I want to ask you: Is it playing the game to be on the stage _at

all_ in war time? I mean, ought the men to be encouraged to go to

revues, and things like that, when they are on leave? Is it all wrong,

and demoralising, and unpatriotic, as some people say?"

Lord Eskerley sat up, and took off his spectacles.

"Unpatriotic fiddlesticks!" he remarked with great vigour. "In war time

there are just three things that matter. The first is morale. I have

forgotten the other two. The maintenance of purely military morale can

safely be left in military hands; but civilian morale--and that includes

the morale of the men on leave of course, rests mainly on the triple

foundation of the Church, the Press, and the Stage; and, as things are

to-day, I am not sure that the Stage doesn't have the biggest say in the

whole business. (Don't tell Doctor Chirnside I said that, will you?) So

you are thinking of joining your foundling behind the footlights.

Chorus, I presume?"

"Yes. They would give me three pounds a week."

"They would get you cheap! And you want me to satisfy your conscience

that the life of a galley-slave in a vitiated atmosphere all day,

followed by vocal and calisthenic exercises in an even more vitiated

atmosphere for three hours every night, is a sufficiently close approach

to hard work to exonerate you from all suspicion of lukewarmness with

regard to the war?" The old man stood up and shook hands. "Donna

Quixota Habakkuk, the certificate is granted! I suppose you will stay

on for a week or two, until I find a successor--I won't say a

substitute? Don't forget me, altogether. Come and see me sometimes. I

am less busy, and more solitary, than you suppose. You know when to

come: you are familiar with my goings out and comings in. And--good

luck, my dear!"

*III*

Life behind the scenes, as usual, falsified expectation. Marjorie's

first visit to the theatre was paid a few weeks after her interview with

Lord Eskerley. They entered by the stage-door, Liss explaining to a

taciturn but benevolently disposed person in a glass box, whose name

appeared to be "Mac," that her companion had an appointment with Mr.

Lee. Thereafter, Marjorie was conducted through an iron door, which

commanded the thoughtless, by stencilled legend, to close it gently;

through a mass of ghostly scenery, past whitewashed walls bearing

notices extolling the virtues of Silence; and out through another iron

door (marked, somewhat paradoxically, "_Not an exit_") into the

auditorium, rendered dimly visible by the overflow of light from an

economically-illuminated stage.

Liss turned back the holland covering from two stalls at the end of a

retired row.

"Sit there, dear," she said. "I will grab hold of old Lee some time,

and tell him you are here. I can sit with you for a bit. This rehearsal

is for principals; the chorus aren't called until twelve."

The rehearsal of the principals consisted, for the moment, of an

altercation between a fat man, standing in the middle of the stage, and

the musical director, sitting at his desk in the orchestra. It was a

most friendly--one might almost call it an affectionate--altercation.

No epithet ever fell to a lower level of mutual esteem than "Old Boy!"

or "Old Man!"--or, under extreme provocation, a "Dear Old Boy!" As is

not unusual in these cases, it was difficult for the casual outsider to

discover:

(_a_) What the argument was about.

(_b_) Which side of the argument was being sustained by whom.

In the front row of the stalls stood an ascetic-looking man in black

tortoise-shell spectacles, apparently acting as umpire. Seated upon a

partially dismantled throne beside a step-ladder, up stage, sat a pretty

girl in a pink tam-o'-shanter, placidly perusing a crumpled

brown-paper-covered manuscript. Other persons were dotted about the

auditorium--fat men, cadaverous men; men with tortoise-shell spectacles,

and men without; an occasional female. All were conferring in monotone.

Round the bare walls of the stage, at present destitute of scenery, sat

the ladies of the chorus, most of them wearing rehearsal dresses of

unpretentious design--knitting socks of khaki, and occasionally

exchanging a guarded confidence. Altogether the atmosphere struck

Marjorie as more domestic than theatrical--almost ecclesiastical in its

dullness and drowsiness.

"Who are these people sitting about in the stalls?" she asked Liss.

"Oh, just odds and ends! The author, and the lyric writers, and extra

lyric writers, and costumiers, and photographers, and people like

that--all waiting to catch Mr. Lee, and start an argument with him about

something. That's Tubby Ames on the stage. He's having a row with Phil

Kay; he has about two a week. I bet you he's trying to get Phyllis

Lane's song cut. (That's her, in the pink tam; she's sweet.) It's been

going too well lately. Tubby was kept waiting for his entrance in the

Second Act last night while she did her third encore dance. Trust Tubby

to step on other people's fat! Yes, I thought so."

The comedian's voice was heard again. The gist of the dispute was

emerging from a cloud of verbiage.

"Phil, dear old man," he exclaimed earnestly, "I should be the last

person in the world to interfere with a brother or sister artist; but

really, I am only saying what every one feels. After all, we must all

pull together in these days, and I feel instinctively that unless the

way is kept _ab-so-lute-ly_ clear for that entrance of mine, the action

will drop--and flop goes your Second Act! And where are you then?" He

leaned right over the footlights.

The conductor, apparently a man of peace, flinched visibly.

"Old boy," he began, "it's this way. I quite see your point--"

The comedian pressed his advantage swiftly.

"I thought you would," he said. "I have had a good many years'

experience in this sort of work--more than you, perhaps. For instance,

when I was with Charles Wyndham--"

"It's the Story of his Life!" whispered Liss despairingly. "We get it

about every second rehearsal. He's out of pantomime, really. It's only

because there's nobody else to be had that he's here at all. He has

varicose veins, and--"

But the ascetic referee in the stalls broke in upon the autobiographist.

"Mr. Ames," he commanded--his voice was strong and harsh, and was

obviously extensively employed in shouting down other discordant

noises--"talk sense!"

"That's Mr. Lancaster," whispered Liss excitedly. "He's the producer.

We are all frightened to death of him. He's a wonder!"

"Miss Lane's song cannot be cut," continued the wonder, "and it cannot

be transferred elsewhere; so you must lump it! Now, Miss St. Leger,

come on, please, and try your 'Plum and Apple' duet with Mr. Ames."

Miss St. Leger, the leading lady, was standing in the wings. Her face

was round and childish; her eyes were brown and pathetic; her whole

appearance suggested timidity and helplessness. Hearing her name called,

she walked obediently down to the footlights, favoured the producer with

a dazzling smile, and began:

"Say, listen, Mr. Lancaster! I got a kick coming too! That duet I am

putting over with Mr. Ames in the Second Act of the present show is

practically a solo! When we started in singing it, way back in last

fall, it was a duet, I'll allow. But somehow I got a kind of crowded

feeling, now. I don't seem to belong in that duet when Mr. Ames is

around. And I want to say right here that I am not going to stand for

that kind of rough stuff any more!"

By this time the languid chorus were sitting straight up on their

chairs. The scattered figures in the auditorium had ceased their

muttered incantations, and were leaning forward, all ears. The pacific

Phil Kay was squirming in his seat. Marjorie and Liss gripped hands

ecstatically; the ecclesiastical atmosphere had evaporated.

"I understand team work," continued the ethereal Miss St. Leger, "as

well as any artist; and you won't ever find me stepping on any other

folks' laughs or business. But one thing I will not do, and that is

feed fat to a dub comedian all the time--especially a guy that's too fat

already!"

There was a roar of laughter from stage and stalls. Even the austere

Lancaster grinned sardonically. Mr. Tubby Ames, gaping like a stranded

fish, surrendered abjectly, as was his invariable custom when firmly

handled.

"All right," he said, with a pathetic smile. "Carry on! Nobody loves a

fat man! Chord, please!"

_Said an Apple to a Plum;--_

_"Seeing how this War has come,_

_Join me in the stew-pan, do!"_

Miss St. Leger, flushed with victory, took her demoralised opponent in

an affectionate embrace, and replied:

_Said the Plum, "I guess I will!_

_I am fairly stony; still,_

_I will do my bit, like you!"_

"There's Mr. Lee now," said Liss--"just by the stalls entrance. Let's

catch him!"

Our two conspirators descended upon the great man. He proved to be much

less formidable than Marjorie had feared.

"We can make room for you, girlie," he announced paternally, "and"--with

a glance at Marjorie's face and figure--"a hundred more like you, _if_

they can be found, which I doubt!" He patted her shoulder. "Now--where

will you fit in? Let me think! You are too big to go prancing about

the stage with Baby Lyle, and the other little people. Your life's work

is to stand well down stage in a stunning frock, and fill the eye! Take

her along to Mr. Lancaster, Baby, and say I sent you. I must be off."

"I ought to tell you," said Marjorie, "that I may find matinees a

difficulty. I am working at a canteen. I have only one free afternoon

a week."

"That will do," said Mr. Lee. "I believe in helping girls who are doing

war work. I'm a special constable myself. Not bad for an old man of

fifty-four, eh? But we all try to do something here. Now, run along to

Lancaster, girls! I have to report for duty at Vine Street at three

o'clock."

With a gracious smile, Mr. Lee disappeared through the stalls entrance.

Liss squeezed Marjorie's hand excitedly.

"My dear, you have made a _tremendous_ hit with him! He can be horribly

grumpy when he likes. Come and be introduced to Lancaster."

The producer was found dismissing the rehearsal of principals. The plum

and apple had become jam in the last verse, so both romance and

patriotism were satisfied.

"Very good," he said. "It all goes all right now, except the dance.

Mr. Kosky will take care of that." He raised his voice. "Principals,

same time to-morrow! Good morning, Miss St. Leger! Good morning,

Tubby, old man!" His voice boomed louder. "Now then, chorus ladies and

chorus gentlemen, please!"

The damosels round the stage laid down their khaki socks, hitched up

their own stockings, and gathered in groups in the wings.

Simultaneously a procession of six gentlemen appeared from the direction

of the stage-door, extinguishing cigarettes.

Liss hurriedly introduced Marjorie. Lancaster shook hands.

"I think we can find a place for you in the show," he said, regarding

her with critical approval. "Can you sing?"

Marjorie, with a sudden and incongruous recollection of the harmonium at

Netherby on Sunday afternoons, smiled, and replied that she could sing a

little.

"Mr. Kay will try your voice after rehearsal. No previous experience, I

suppose?"

"No."

"It doesn't matter. You had better sit and watch this rehearsal this

morning, and try to learn our language. Baby, my dear, run along and

get into your place."

Liss, who appeared to be the _enfant gate_ of the establishment,

scampered away, and presently appeared among the chattering throng on

the prompt side. Mr. Lancaster clapped his hands. There was silence.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," he explained, "we are going to try the

first new number in the Second Act--'Honolulu Lulu.' Places, please,

and try to put some ginger in it this time! You come on laughing and

chatting. Now--_commence_!" He clapped his hands again. "For pity's

sake, everybody, _desist_! Gentlemen, gentlemen, remember that you are

happy South Sea Islanders, without a care in the world--not welshers

coming back from a dirty day at Kempton! Again, please! And ladies,

don't come bolting on in that panic-stricken way. You aren't taking

shelter from an air raid; you are young village belles, come to

participate in the Annual Festival of the Sun! You are joyful! You are

glad! You are going to sing about it! For the Lord's sake, _smile_!

Phil, old man, the symphony once more, if you please! All come in at

the end of six bars. La-la! La-la! La-la! _Now_, all together! No!

no! no! _no_!" Mr. Lancaster clapped his hands and beat his breast

alternately. "Ladies, ladies, _ladies_! Let me tell you, for the last

time, that it is a human impossibility to sing with the mouth shut! It

can't be done! For generations and centuries people have been trying to

sing out of their noses, and their ears, and the back of their necks;

but no one has ever succeeded yet. Open your little mouths! Open them

wide! And _keep_ them open, for the love of Mike!"

And so on, until a standard of approximate harmony was attained.

*IV*

Next day Marjorie walked on at her first rehearsal, and practised the

new numbers with the rest. Mr. Lancaster's attitude towards her was the

same as Mr. Lee's. That is to say, he addressed her much as an old

gentleman of seventy might address a little girl of six.

"Now, dear, I know you are feeling nervous, and aren't going to do

yourself justice, just at first--"

"I am not a bit nervous, thank you," said Marjorie.

"Oh, yes, you are," said Mr. Lancaster. "But remember that I understand

about that, and am making allowances all the time. So don't be

frightened; but keep your head up, and sing out, that's a good girl!"

"He's a hard nut," remarked her next-door neighbour into her ear--"but

he never swears at you. At least, if he does, he always apologises

afterwards. He's quite a gentleman."

In a few days Marjorie was admitted an accepted member of the choral

sisterhood. She found her colleagues, for the most part, young,

friendly, talkative, excitable, and as improvident as grasshoppers.

Most of them possessed a "boy" of some kind--usually a callow subaltern

of the one-star brand, with a vocabulary largely composed of the

expressions "priceless" and "pathetic." Some of them were married. A

few had husbands actually out in France, or farther afield. One or two

had babies, and talked about them a good deal.

Of the principals, Miss St. Leger, with her magnetic personality and

tough little Chicago voice, was a prime favourite with everybody. Her

hold over the audience was wonderful: she could galvanise a Wednesday

matinee into enthusiasm. Compared with her, the second girl, Phyllis

Lane, was no more than an attractive amateur. But both were kind to

their humbler sisters. Indeed, nearly everybody was kind to everybody

in those days. The theatrical profession is conspicuous for its big

generosities and petty jealousies. In August, nineteen-sixteen, the

former had almost entirely obliterated the latter. A huge daily

casualty-list is a very levelling--indeed, binding--influence,

especially in such a community; there was not a girl in the chorus at

the Imperial who had not an interest, actual or prospective, in that

casualty-list.

The male members of the company, as was only natural at the time, were

remarkable neither for their youth nor their physical fitness. In

addition to the phlebitic Ames, there were--Jack Hopeleigh, a

well-preserved hero with a light baritone--he was registered under the

Derby Scheme in group forty-three; Hubert Hartshorn, a comic manservant,

who owed his irresistible wheezy laugh to the fact that he had been

badly gassed at Ypres more than twelve months previously, and was now

discharged permanently unfit; and one Valentine Rigg, a stage lawyer,

who for forty years had earned a modest but steady income by arriving in

the Third Act with a black bag, and clearing up all misunderstandings

just before the clock struck eleven.

To the student of humanity the chorus gentlemen were really more

interesting than the principals. There was a dismal individual named

Chivers, who now kept a stationer's shop in Brixton, but had once been

in grand opera--Carl Rosa's chorus. He contributed a reedy tenor to the

ensemble. There was a plump little man with a round face and little

tufts of white whisker, invaluable in scenes of revelry where guests of

the "jolly old uncle" type were required. This was his first theatrical

engagement for fifteen years. In the interim he had supported life with

invincible cheerfulness, as a bookmaker's clerk, a traveller in

hymn-books, and head-waiter in an old-fashioned Brighton hotel. There

was a discharged corporal of the Machine Gun Corps, with lungs of brass,

the D.C.M. ribbon on his waistcoat, and twenty-seven fragments of German

H.E. in his left leg. There was an unpleasant-looking youth named

Mervyn, with bobbed hair and a patronising manner--debarred from

volunteering his services to his country by reason of a susceptibility

to chills upon the liver. Popular rumour located these elsewhere.

And there was Alf Spender--"Uncle Ga-Ga." His age was a mystery. His

own estimate, for war purposes, was forty-one. The ladies of the chorus

put it among themselves at a hundred and fifty. It was possibly

fifty-four, or thereabouts. He was a frail creature, with a simple

soul, and what Americans call a "single-track" mind. He had been a

super or chorus man ever since he could remember; and until the year

nineteen fourteen had never relinquished a humble ambition to achieve a

speaking part. But now all that was cast to the winds. His single

track was carrying other traffic. Somewhere within his ill-nourished

frame burned the pure white flame of genuine patriotism. His one desire

was to be admitted to the privilege of khaki, and to do his humble part

in "teaching those dirty Germans a lesson." He never rested in his

efforts to qualify. He dyed his scanty locks; he endeavoured, by daily

study of a manual of Swedish exercises, to school his feeble limbs and

sickly body to the requisite pitch of efficiency. He offered himself at

every recruiting station in London, giving a different name at each.

But all in vain; no one would accept him. He could pass no physical

test; a big heart was not enough.

"Still, I haven't given up hope," he confided to Marjorie. "I have just

discovered a really admirable hair-tonic; and there's a new

strengthening-food come on the market, which may help. Of course, the

chief difficulty is my teeth; an M.O. turns me down the moment he

examines them! I haven't many, you see, and what I have don't fit

together very well; and good dentistry runs into money--a fiver, at

least. But I don't despair--not by any means. They will want me in

time! It seems inhuman to say so, but I do trust this battle that's

just started on the Somme won't finish the war right off. I couldn't

bear to see the troops coming back victorious, and feel that I did

nothing to help!"

Here was another Willing Horse. Marjorie's heart warmed to him; they

became friends. They shared a newspaper at rehearsals, discussing Sir

Douglas Haig's daily bulletin word by word. They read between the lines,

and decided that, despite newspaper heroics to the contrary, the

gigantic offensive of July the First had only been partially successful.

"We never got through on the left at all," said Alf. "Look at that

place on the map--Thiepval. We were meant to carry that bang off, and we

didn't! They don't say so, but we didn't! We have broken their line

all right, but the trouble is that we have broken it on too narrow a

front--and I think it's all because of that Thiepval place. We must

widen the gap, or the attack fails. Shall I tell you what I would do if

I were head of the Army Council?"

"Yes--do," said Marjorie, eagerly.

"I would secretly construct some sort of contrivance that would protect

our troops as they dashed across No Man's Land. That's the most

dangerous moment. I'm not worrying about artillery fire, mind you! You

may dodge that, or you may not; anyhow, there's a sporting chance about

it. It's those machine guns! The Germans have them fixed in such a way

that when they are all fired at once there is not a yard of ground that

isn't a running river of bullets. Now mark you, once we get across that

bullet zone, we have the Hun at our mercy. We British"--Alf's emaciated

frame stiffened exultantly--"can do _anything_ with the bayonet! But we

must get across first!"

"But how?" Marjorie sighed despairingly.

"I don't know: I haven't enough technical knowledge. But some sort of

armour-plated motor 'bus would be the idea. I'll bet old Kitchener

would have fixed it, if he'd been alive. Oh, dear!" (The _Hampshire_

had gone down some six weeks previously.) "By the way, have you heard

from Mr. Birnie of late?"

Then Marjorie would tell him all Roy's news. Naturally it contained

little of military value, but our two enthusiasts read it--or rather,

approved portions thereof--with all the solemn deference due to the

Authority on the Spot.

"He may get home on leave some time soon," Marjorie said. "He went out

last August, and it's July now. Leave is long over-due, but they

stopped it all for weeks before the battle. His battalion was in the

opening attack, I think, but they are out now, refitting."

"It must have been an anxious time for you while they were in," said

Alf. "Did you know?"

"Yes--at least, I knew a few weeks before that they were at

Bray-sur-Somme; so when the news of the attack came I felt pretty

certain."

Alf's mild blue eyes flashed.

"I wish I had been with him," he said, "instead of"--he glanced

disparagingly downstage, to where Phil Kay, entrenched in the orchestra,

was resisting Tubby Ames's bi-weekly offensive--"_this_! It must be a

grand moment, coming back to rest, right out of a battle--all

mud-splashed, and exhausted, knowing you have made good! Did he give

you any details when he wrote?"

"The only detail that mattered," said Marjorie with an unsteady little

laugh, "was this!"

She produced a field post card--muddy, crumpled, evidently dispatched by

the grimy hand of a stretcher-bearer or a ration orderly. On the back

were printed certain alternative statements, familiar enough by this

time, designed by the authorities to cover all the chances incident to

the life of a soldier in the field. They were all deleted with a blunt

pencil, save the first:

_I am well_.

"That was the nicest letter I ever had from him!" said Marjorie.

"And I bet that's saying a good deal!" replied Alf, with a stately

little bow. "Now, touching this Delville Wood, on the right--"

But here the battle-call of Mr. Lancaster was heard in the stalls; and

our strategists turned reluctantly from the prosecution of the military

campaign to the maintenance of civilian morale.

*V*

The Second Edition was produced in due course, with the success

inevitable in that enthusiastic, unsophisticated, _carpe diem_ period.

Marjorie appeared successively, and with distinction, as a Lady Guest at

the reception of a most unconvincing Duchess, where she flourished an

empty champagne glass painted yellow inside; as a Bird of Paradise in

the chorus of an ornithological ditty entitled, "If my Girl was a Bird,

I would Build Her a Nest," contributed by the well-preserved light

baritone aforementioned; as a damsel of the South Sea Islands,

participating, with somewhat improbable ritual, in the Annual Festival

of the Sun; and in other less exacting roles. Her most distinguished

appearance was in the Finale (in a tableau of the Allied Nations), as

The Spirit of France. In this she was entrusted with a separate

entrance, a solitary walk down stage, and the deliverance of a rhymed

couplet of a patriotic nature, in which General Joffre suffered the

indignity of rhyming with "Our hats we doff," "nasty cough." She was

quite composed, and offered her outrageous contribution with such

_aplomb_ as to arouse frantic applause. Liss was a dancer, and her

activities were mostly linked with those of seven other little creatures

like herself. She was whole-heartedly delighted with her friend's

successful graduation.

Next morning the company were called at eleven, to be photographed. The

morning after, Marjorie reported for duty at the canteen, and was

received with open arms by the Mouldy Old Copper. With renewed

enthusiasm she settled down to the old drudgery. She was supporting

herself; her long and dreary evenings were over; and, best of all, she

was really Doing Something to Help.

*VI*

One morning a few weeks later Mrs. Clegg was deposited by the

Rolls-Royce at the front door of Buckholm, and was ushered by Mr. Bates

into the amber drawing-room. She entered with the uneasy

self-consciousness of the visitor to a great house who has come, not to

pay an intimate call, but to attend a committee meeting.

"The other ladies have not yet arrived, madam," announced Bates; and

added, in stately reproof: "It is not quite eleven o'clock. Her

ladyship will be down presently. Will you please to be seated?" He

deposited the flustered and untimely caller upon a sofa, handed her a

magazine, and left her alone.

Mrs. Clegg mechanically turned over the pages of the magazine. It was

one of those periodicals which was doing its characteristic best at that

time to compensate our warriors in the field for compulsory severance

from domestic felicity by a weekly display, on a generous--nay,

prodigal--scale, of the forms and features of loved ones far

away--particularly of such as happened to be connected with the lighter

walks of the lyric drama. Mrs. Clegg's eye was caught by a photograph

on the middle page--of a tall, slender girl, draped from head to foot in

what looked like a flag, with the Cap of Liberty perched upon her fair

head. The face seemed familiar. Mrs. Clegg adjusted her tortoise-shell

lorgnette--at home, when reading, she wore simple spectacles--and

examined the photograph in greater detail. Then she perused the

journalistic effusion underneath. It began:

One cannot have _Too Many Girls_ of This Kind, Can one?...

Mrs. Clegg was a dutiful wife. On her way home she stopped at the

railway station and bought a copy of the magazine at the book-stall.

After dinner she showed the middle page to her husband. It was a

courageous act, for no such literature had ever been introduced into

Netherby before.

That night, when the household had retired to bed, Albert Clegg reopened

the Family Bible, lying since prayers at the head of the dining-room

table; turned to the Births, Marriages, and Deaths and sent his

fountain-pen scouting down the first column. Presently he came to the

name he wanted. He scored it out--scored it, and scored it, to complete

obliteration. When he had finished, Marjorie had joined Aunt Eliza in

the ranks of the Legion of the Lost.

*CHAPTER IX*

*THE BOOK OF THE WORDS*

We were due back in the line that night, and I was struggling, in

company with one humid orderly-room sergeant and several hundred

houseflies, to clean up the usual orderly-room mess--indents, returns,

and other nuisances which, in the absence of the adjutant, usually fall

upon the patient shoulders of that regimental tweeny, the

second-in-command.

I was seated at the kitchen table of a farm-house in Picardy. The

weather had been wet and misty for weeks--the weather at critical

moments in this war was invariably pro-Boche--but this afternoon the sun

had reappeared and summer had come back with a rush. Still, on the

overworked highway outside mud still lay deep. At the farm-gate two

transport men were admonishing two mules, in the only way they knew, for

indicating reluctance (in the only way _they_ knew) to hauling the

headquarters company's field-kitchen out of the oozy ruts where it had

reposed for ten days. Through the open door, looking east, I could

descry the wrecked spire of Albert Church, with its golden Virgin and

Child projecting horizontally from the summit, like the flame of a

candle in a steady draught.

To my ears all the time, through the heavy summer air, came the

incessant muffled thunder of guns, and guns, and more guns--British

guns, new British guns; hundreds of them--informing Brother Boche that

he, the originator of massed artillery tactics, was "for it" himself at

last. The bombardment had begun systematically about the middle of the

month, all up and down the Western Front. Last Saturday it had

intensified in the neighbourhood of the Somme and Ancre Valleys; I had

lain awake in my billet, listening, and recalling that summer afternoon,

less than two years ago, when Lord Eskerley had gloomily explained to me

that it took at least three years to make a British gunner. This

afternoon the whole earth trembled; the final eruption could not be much

longer delayed.

For Britain was ready to strike at last. True, she had struck before,

both recently and frequently; but that had been mainly in self-defence,

or for experiment, or to create a diversion. Now she was in a position

to strike home. For nearly two years the Willing Horse had stood up

indomitably under the strain, while a nation, mainly willing, but

shamefully unready, was getting into condition. To-day that nation was

ready; every man worth his salt was at last a trained soldier. Never

before in our history had such an army been gathered, and never again

would such an army be seen, as strained at the leash behind that

twenty-five mile front on the thirtieth of June, nineteen sixteen.

True, we launched greater armies, and won greater victories in the two

years that followed; but--the very flower of a race can bloom but once

in a generation. The flower of our generation bloomed and perished

during the four months of the First Battle of the Somme. We shall not

look upon their like again. It is to be doubted if any generation

will--or any race.

Sometimes, in these later days of reaction and uncertainty, we are

inclined to wonder whether that sacrifice was justified; whether it

would not have been better to wait just a little longer. But in truth

we had waited long enough. Strategy might advocate delay, but honour

could not. For four months Verdun had stood up like a rock against the

rolling tide of assault; it was time we took some weight off Verdun's

shoulders. For two years the half-equipped armies of Russia had

maintained a suicidal offensive on our account; even now fresh German

divisions were streaming away from the Western Front to the Eastern. It

was time we called them back. Strategy or no strategy, we meant to

accomplish those two purposes. And we did--with something over. Perhaps

the Flowers who sleep by the Somme to-day feel, on that account, that

what they perished for was worth while. They kept the faith.

I had just dictated provisional Battalion Orders for the morrow; made

the usual mistakes in the weekly Strength Return; and was wrestling with

an incomprehensible document--highly prized by that section of the Round

Games Department which sees to it that wherever the British soldier

goes, whether singly or in battalions, his daily rations and weekly pay

are diverted from their normal course to meet him--when there came a

scuttering of hooves, and Master Roy Birnie, our esteemed sniping and

intelligence officer, came flying round the corner on a borrowed horse

(mine), as if all the Germans in Picardy were after him. However, this

was merely Roy's exuberant way of coming home for his tea. He

descended, hitched his steed to the farm-pump, and came striding into

the kitchen with blood in his young eye. I dismissed the sergeant in

quest of tea. Roy favoured me with a formal salute, then sat down, and

began:

"Uncle Alan, I wonder why every battalion in the British Army (except

ours) is entirely composed of damn fools!"

"I have heard that speculation so often upon the lips of members of

other units of the British Army," I replied, "that I have given up

trying to find the answer. Tell me your trouble."

Roy accepted the invitation at once.

"Well," he said, "I had a peach of an observation post up in the front

line. It was an old derelict mill-wheel affair--one of those

contraptions you see on the end wall of every farm-house in this

country, with a poor brute of a mongrel dog inside, treadmilling away to

work a churn, or play the pianola, or something. It lies out flat in

front of C Company's sector, on top of a little rise, looking like

nothing at all. You know it?"

"Yes," I said. "It has been there for months; it is one of the accepted

features of the landscape by this time."

"That's right; the Boche has never suspected it. Well, I have been

using it as an O. Pip for six weeks. There is a private covered sap

leading out to it, and once you're inside you can stand in a pit, with

your little circular peep-show all round you. Why, through one loophole

I can see right away to Beaumont Hamel! Now, as you know, ten days ago

we handed over to the Late and Dirties. This morning, when I went up

into the line to see about taking over again to-morrow, what do you

think I found--in my own special private O.P.?"

"I don't know," I said. "A hairpin?"

"Uncle Alan, for the Lord's sake don't play the fool! I'll _tell_ you

what I found; the whole floor of the post--_my_ post, mind you--was

covered with empty cartridge cases! Some Late-and-Dirty perisher had

been in there with a rifle, firing volleys--no, _salvoes_--out of it!

With an oily barrel, too, I'll bet! Of course the Boche has the place

registered now; and next time there is any general unpleasantness

brewing, up it will go! And I hope the Late-and-Dirty dog who gave it

away will be inside, that's all!"

"It's rotten luck, I admit, boy. But in this case it doesn't

particularly matter. In a day or two, we hope, your observation post

will be far in rear of us. Perhaps some clerkly gentleman from the base

will be making his nest therein."

Roy's face brightened suddenly.

"When do we push off?" he asked eagerly.

"That is a secret known only to the powers above. But I shouldn't be

surprised if it were to-morrow, or the next day. The Colonel is away at

a Brigade Conference now--the last, I dare say. He will probably call

an officers' meeting when he comes back."

"Is Kilbride with him?" asked Roy quickly.

"Yes. Why?"

Roy smiled awkwardly.

"Well, _you_ know!" he said. "Addressing you as Uncle Alan, and not as

second-in-command, it's a little difficult sometimes for us Hoy Polloy

to gather from the C.O.'s account of the proceedings what really _is_

settled at these Brigade pow-wows. That is why we find it so useful to

pump old Kilbride afterwards. The Colonel is such a fire-eater that he

loathes all this chess-board warfare, as he calls it. His idea of

fighting is to go over the parapet about a hundred yards ahead of his

men, rush straight at the nearest German, and bite him to death. A

pretty sound plan too, in many ways. The men would follow him

anywhere."

"You are right, Roy--they would. And addressing you, not in your

official capacity, but as my nephew, that's just what makes me anxious."

"You mean you are not sure where he _will_ lead them?"

"I am not sure where he _won't_ lead them! However, we must not

criticise our superiors. Go and have your tea, you disrespectful young

hound, and then come and help your uncle to wrestle with B.213. Hallo,

here is the Colonel!"

There came a fresh sound of hooves; a neigh of welcome from the bored

animal already tethered to the pump; and Eric Bethune and his adjutant

rode into the yard.

Eric had been sent to us after Loos--our first commander, Douglas

Ogilvy, having been killed in a bomb-fight near Hulluch. (I remember

the day well. The Germans were furnished with bombs which exploded on

impact; ours were of the Brock's Benefit type, and had to be lit with a

match. Unfortunately, it was raining at the time.)

I need not say how joyfully the coming of Ogilvy's successor was greeted

by the second-in-command. Eric came to us with a reputation. For nearly

twelve months he had ruled an overcrowded and under-staffed depot at

home, containing never less than two thousand turbulent ex-militiamen,

and had licked into shape and self-respecting shape some of the toughest

material that our country produces. After that, he had achieved his

heart's desire and been sent out, to be second-in-command of our First

Battalion. His first proceeding on arrival was to organise a successful

attack upon a valuable sector of the line lost by another unit ten days

previously. He led the attack in person, and was mentioned in

Dispatches.

He came to us, inevitably, with a halo--or should it be nimbus?--and set

to work to make us the smartest battalion on the Western Front. Physical

fear appeared to be quite unknown to him. For my part, I confess quite

frankly that I do not enjoy an intensive bombardment in the least. I

really believe Eric did. So, I think, in soberer fashion, did his

predecessor. But we were soon conscious of the change of regime in

other directions. Where Eric differed from Douglas Ogilvy was in his

passion for the spectacular side of soldiering--the pomp of ceremonial,

the clockwork discipline, the perfectly wheeling line, the immaculate

button in the midst of mud and blood. Eric was at last in a position to

model a battalion on his own beliefs. The result had been an ecstasy of

worship at the shrine of Spit and Polish.

"A dirty soldier," he was fond of telling his followers, "means a dirty

rifle; and a dirty rifle means, in the long run, a dead soldier. Go and

shave, and save your life!"

And there was no doubt that, within limits, he was right. That

mysterious and impalpable entity, which we call morale, is apt to

languish without the aid of soap and water, and a certain percentage of

officially fostered _bravura_. The chief difficulty about this war was

to prevent it from degenerating into a troglodytic game of stalemate.

Everything that maintained morale and stimulated pride of Regiment was

welcome.

But there are other things; and if these be lacking, look out for

danger--especially under modern conditions. And it was this fear which

possessed my slow-moving, uninspired mind as I took tea in that Picardy

farm-house that hot and fateful afternoon with my superior officer and

lifelong friend.

"Well," Eric began, filling his pipe, "we have had our last pow-wow,

thank God! The Brigadier was in his element. He had the whole affair

worked out in a little time-table--like a Jubilee Procession. Salute of

twenty-one guns at dawn--procession to move off in an orderly manner at

six a.m.--buffet luncheon at noon--carriages at five-forty-five, and

everything!"

"Did old Kilbride take down a copy of the time-table?" I asked.

"I don't know. Probably he did: it's the sort of thing he would do. As

for me, the whole business nearly made me weep. Why are we treated like

children, or amateurs in charge of a Territorial Field Day? Don't these

chuckle-headed Mandarins realise that we are fighting under conditions

of actual warfare, when at any moment things may happen which no

time-table can cover? Don't they understand that you _cannot_ control

the course of a battle by drawing up a niggling time-table any more than

you can control the weather by buying a barometer? There are only two

things that count in a soldier. The first is initiative in attack; the

second is a complete understanding with his officers. Thank God, my men

have both. Show them the objective; send them over the parapet; and

they will see to the rest of the business without any time-table or book

of the words whatever, thank you very much! Discipline! Discipline!

Discipline! That's the only thing that matters!"

"Did you communicate your views to the meeting?" I asked.

"I took that liberty. In fact, I have been taking it for the last three

weeks. I fancy I am getting slightly unpopular among the higher forms

of animal life; but some one has to take the lead in these matters.

Most of the men are too newly promoted--too recently gazetted, for that

matter--to intrude their opinions. Good fellows, but amateurs--and

diffident amateurs at that! Of course they regard everything the

Brigadier says as gospel--and he did worry them so! He explained over

and over again to each Battalion Commander the exact route by which he

was to lead his men to their objective, and what he was to do when he

got there. He was to dig in, and consolidate, and mop up, and

re-establish communication--with Brigade Headquarters first and

foremost, of _course_!--make arrangements for a ration dump--fancy

_thinking_ of food at such a moment--!"

"'An army fights on its stomach.' _N. Bonaparte_,' I observed.

"Trust you to remember yours, old man! Then he told us a lot more

things, mainly about keeping touch with the Gunners, the

Machine-Gunners, and the Signallers, and the R.E., and the Ammunition

Column, and the Dry Canteen, and the Old Folks at Home--everybody, in

fact, except the enemy. After that, a Gunner Brass-Hat stood up, and

spoke _his_ little piece. He rubbed in the time-table business; said we

must adhere to its provisions _very_ carefully; otherwise his guns would

invariably be pooped off into the stern of the Brigade instead of the

bows of the Boche. He didn't put it quite so baldly as that, but he

waffled about the urgent necessity of observing the greatest exactitude,

especially when the Gunners proceeded from bombardment to barrage. Then

the Brigadier pronounced a sort of benediction, and asked, as a kind of

after-thought, if there were any further points he could elucidate for

us."

"That, no doubt, was where you put your little oar in!"

"It was. I asked him straight--and I could see half the fellows in the

room agreed with me--if he had considered the effect of such paralysing

exactitude upon _morale_? Our tradition--at least the tradition of my

Regiment--was, and always had been, to seek out the enemy and destroy

him. My men had not had a Staff College education; they did not

understand or cotton on to this business of limited objectives, and

working to a time-table. Their objective was Berlin, and their

time-table was the limit of physical endurance; in other words, they

were sufficiently disciplined to go until they dropped. Wasn't it

rather a pity to cramp their style, and so on? I am afraid I rather

riled the Brigadier; for the moment I forgot he had been through the

Staff College himself."

"What did he say?"

"He mumbled something to the effect that my suggestions, if adopted,

would involve a radical rearrangement of the plan of operations of an

entire Army Corps; and that if my men didn't understand the tactical

requirements of a modern battle it was my job to explain them to them.

He said that--to _me_! Offensive old bounder! But of course,

discipline is discipline, so I said no more. One cannot humiliate these

old boys in the presence of long-eared subalterns; I remembered that."

"It's a pity you didn't remember it a bit sooner, old man!" It was a

rash observation, but I was thoroughly alarmed.

Eric flushed a dusky red.

"Look here, Alan," he said, "I can't take criticism from any officer of

mine, however old--"

"Sorry!" I replied. "But do be careful, Eric! You know what these

people are. For God's sake, don't get sent home!"

Eric wheeled round upon me.

"What do you mean?" he snapped. "What gossip have you been listening

to?"