"Mind, Augustine--no one is to tell my children--I can't hav_Tatterdemalion

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TATTERDEMALION

JOHN GALSWORTHY

"Gentillesse cometh fro' God allone."

--_Chaucer_

New York

Charles Scribner's Sons

1920

Charles Scribner's Sons

[Illustration]

* * * * *

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

VILLA RUBEIN, and Other Stories

THE ISLAND PHARISEES

THE MAN OF PROPERTY

THE COUNTRY HOUSE

FRATERNITY

THE PATRICIAN

THE DARK FLOWER

THE FREELANDS

BEYOND

FIVE TALES

SAINT'S PROGRESS

TATTERDEMALION

A COMMENTARY

A MOTLEY

THE INN OF TRANQUILLITY

THE LITTLE MAN, and Other Satires

A SHEAF

ANOTHER SHEAF

ADDRESSES IN AMERICA: 1919

PLAYS: FIRST SERIES

_and Separately_

THE SILVER BOX

JOY

STRIFE

PLAYS: SECOND SERIES

_and Separately_

THE ELDEST SON

THE LITTLE DREAM

JUSTICE

PLAYS: THIRD SERIES

_and Separately_

THE FUGITIVE

THE PIGEON

THE MOB

A BIT O' LOVE

MOODS, SONGS, AND DOGGERELS

MEMORIES. Illustrated

* * * * *

ELIZABETH LUCAS

CONTENTS

PART I.--OF WAR-TIME

PAGE

I. THE GREY ANGEL 3

II. DEFEAT 27

III. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM 51

IV. THE BRIGHT SIDE 75

V. "CAFARD" 105

VI. RECORDED 117

VII. THE RECRUIT 125

VIII. THE PEACE MEETING 137

IX. "THE DOG IT WAS THAT DIED" 147

X. IN HEAVEN AND EARTH 169

XI. THE MOTHER STONE 173

XII. POIROT AND BIDAN 179

XIII. THE MUFFLED SHIP 187

XIV. HERITAGE 191

XV. 'A GREEN HILL FAR AWAY' 199

PART II.--OF PEACE-TIME

I. SPINDLEBERRIES 209

II. EXPECTATIONS 227

III. MANNA 239

IV. A STRANGE THING 255

V. TWO LOOKS 271

VI. FAIRYLAND 279

VII. THE NIGHTMARE CHILD 283

VIII. BUTTERCUP-NIGHT 295

TATTERDEMALION

_PART I_

OF WAR-TIME

THE GREY ANGEL

Her predilection for things French came from childish recollections of

school-days in Paris, and a hasty removal thence by her father during

the revolution of '48, of later travels as a little maiden, by

diligence, to Pau and the then undiscovered Pyrenees, to a Montpellier

and a Nice as yet unspoiled. Unto her seventy-eighth year, her French

accent had remained unruffled, her soul in love with French gloves and

dresses; and her face had the pale, unwrinkled, slightly aquiline

perfection of the 'French marquise' type--it may, perhaps, be doubted

whether any French marquise ever looked the part so perfectly.

How it came about that she had settled down in a southern French town,

in the summer of 1914, only her roving spirit knew. She had been a widow

ten years, which she had passed in the quest of perfection; all her life

she had been haunted by that instinct, half-smothered in ministering to

her husband, children, and establishments in London and the country.

Now, in loneliness, the intrinsic independence of her soul was able to

assert itself, and from hotel to hotel she had wandered in England,

Wales, Switzerland, France, till now she had found what seemingly

arrested her. Was it the age of that oldest of Western cities, that

little mother of Western civilisation, which captured her fancy? Or did

a curious perversity turn her from more obvious abodes, or was she kept

there by the charm of a certain church which she would enter every day

to steep herself in mellow darkness, the scent of incense, the drone of

incantations, and quiet communion with a God higher indeed than she had

been brought up to, high-church though she had always been? She had a

pretty little apartment, where for very little--the bulk of her small

wealth was habitually at the service of others--she could manage with

one maid and no "fuss." She had some "nice" French friends there, too.

But more probably it was simply the war which kept her there, waiting,

like so many other people, for it to be over before it seemed worth

while to move and re-establish herself. The immensity and wickedness of

this strange event held her, as it were, suspended, body and spirit,

high up on the hill which had seen the ancient peoples, the Romans,

Gauls, Saracens, and all, and still looked out towards the flat

Camargue. Here in her three rooms, with a little kitchen, the maid

Augustine, a parrot, and the Paris _Daily Mail_, she dwelt as it were

marooned by a world event which seemed to stun her. Not that she

worried, exactly. The notion of defeat or of real danger to her country

and to France never entered her head. She only grieved quietly over the

dreadful things that were being done, and every now and then would glow

with admiration at the beautiful way the King and Queen were behaving.

It was no good to "fuss," and one must make the best of things, just as

the "dear little Queen" was doing; for each Queen in turn, and she had

seen three reign in her time, was always that to her. Her ancestors had

been uprooted from their lands, their house burned, and her pedigree

diverted, in the Stuart wars--a reverence for royalty was fastened in

her blood.

Quite early in the business she had begun to knit, moving her slim

fingers not too fast, gazing at the grey wool through glasses, specially

rimless and invisible, perched on the bridge of her firm, well-shaped

nose, and now and then speaking to her parrot. The bird could say,

"Scratch a poll, Poll," already, and "Hullo!" those keys to the English

language. The maid Augustine, having completed some small duty, would

often come and stand, her head on one side, gazing down with a sort of

inquiring compassion in her wise, young, clear-brown eyes. It seemed to

her who was straight and sturdy as a young tree both wonderful and sad

that _Madame_ should be seventy-seven, and so frail--_Madame_ who had no

lines in her face and such beautiful grey hair; who had so strong a

will-power, too, and knitted such soft comforters "_pour nos braves

chers poilus_." And suddenly she would say: "_Madame n'est pas

fatiguee?_" And _Madame_ would answer: "No. Speak English,

Augustine--Polly will pick up your French! Come here!" And, reaching up

a pale hand, she would set straight a stray fluff of the girl's

dark-brown hair or improve the set of her fichu.

Those two got on extremely well, for though madame was--oh! but very

particular, she was always "_tres gentille et toujours grande dame_."

And that love of form so deep in the French soul promoted the girl's

admiration for one whom she could see would in no circumstances lose her

dignity. Besides, _Madame_ was full of dainty household devices, and

could not bear waste; and these, though exacting, were qualities which

appealed to Augustine. With her French passion for "the family" she used

to wonder how in days like these _Madame_ could endure to be far away

from her son and daughter and the grandchildren, whose photographs hung

on the walls; and the long letters her mistress was always writing in a

beautiful, fine hand, beginning, "My darling Sybil," "My darling

Reggie," and ending always "Your devoted mother," seemed to a warm and

simple heart but meagre substitutes for flesh-and-blood realities. But

as _Madame_ would inform her--they were too busy doing things for the

dear soldiers, and working for the war; they could not come to her--that

would never do. And to go to them would give so much trouble, when the

railways were so wanted for the troops; and she had their lovely

letters, which she kept--as Augustine observed--every one in a

lavender-scented sachet, and frequently took out to read. Another point

of sympathy between those two was their passion for military music and

seeing soldiers pass. Augustine's brother and father were at the front,

and _Madame's_ dead brother had been a soldier in the Crimean war--"long

before you were born, Augustine, when the French and English fought the

Russians; I was in France then, too, a little girl, and we lived at

Nice; it was so lovely, you can't think--the flowers! And my poor

brother was so cold in the siege of Sebastopol." Somehow, that time and

that war were more real to her than this.

In December, when the hospitals were already full, her French friends

first took her to the one which they attended. She went in, her face

very calm, with that curious inward composure which never deserted it,

carrying in front of her with both hands a black silk bag, wherein she

had concealed an astonishing collection of treasures for the poor men! A

bottle of acidulated drops, packets of cigarettes, two of her own

mufflers, a pocket set of drafts, some English riddles translated by

herself into French (very curious), some ancient copies of an

illustrated paper, boxes of chocolate, a ball of string to make "cat's

cradles" (such an amusing game), her own packs of Patience cards, some

photograph frames, post-cards of Arles, and--most singular--a

kettle-holder. At the head of each bed she would sit down and rummage in

the bag, speaking in her slow but quite good French, to explain the use

of the acidulated drops, or to give a lesson in cat's cradles. And the

_poilus_ would listen with their polite, ironic patience, and be left

smiling, and curiously fascinated, as if they had been visited by a

creature from another world. She would move on to other beds, quite

unconscious of the effect she had produced on them and of their remarks:

"_Cette vieille dame, comme elle est bonne!_" or "_Espece d'ange aux

cheveux gris._" "_L'ange anglaise aux cheveux gris_" became in fact her

name within those walls. And the habit of filling that black silk bag

and going there to distribute its contents soon grew to be with her a

ruling passion which neither weather nor her own aches and pains, not

inconsiderable, must interfere with. The things she brought became more

marvellous every week. But, however much she carried coals to Newcastle,

or tobacco pouches to those who did not smoke, or homoeopathic

globules to such as crunched up the whole bottleful for the sake of the

sugar, as soon as her back was turned, no one ever smiled now with

anything but real pleasure at sight of her calm and truly sweet smile,

and the scent of soap on her pale hands. "_Cher fils, je croyais que

ceci vous donnerait un peu de plaisir. Voyez-vous comme c'est commode,

n'est ce pas?_" Each newcomer to the wards was warned by his comrades

that the English angel with the grey hair was to be taken without a

smile, exactly as if she were his grandmother.

In the walk to the hospital Augustine would accompany her, carrying the

bag and perhaps a large peasant's umbrella to cover them both, for the

winter was hard and snowy, and carriages cost money, which must now be

kept entirely for the almost daily replenishment of the bag and other

calls of war. The girl, to her chagrin, was always left in a safe place,

for it would never do to take her in and put fancies into her head, and

perhaps excite the dear soldiers with a view of anything so taking. And

when the visit was over they would set forth home, walking very slowly

in the high, narrow streets, Augustine pouting a little and shooting

swift glances at anything in uniform, and _Madame_ making firm her lips

against a fatigue which sometimes almost overcame her before she could

get home and up the stairs. And the parrot would greet them indiscreetly

with new phrases--"Keep smiling!" and "Kiss Augustine!" which he

sometimes varied with "Kiss a poll, Poll!" or "Scratch Augustine!" to

_Madame's_ regret. Tea would revive her somewhat, and then she would

knit, for as time went on and the war seemed to get farther and farther

from that end which, in common with so many, she had expected before

now, it seemed dreadful not to be always doing something to help the

poor dear soldiers; and for dinner, to Augustine's horror, she now had

nothing but a little soup, or an egg beaten up with milk and brandy. It

saved such a lot of time and expense--she was sure people ate too much;

and afterwards she would read the _Daily Mail_, often putting it down to

sigh, and press her lips together, and think, "One must look on the

bright side of things," and wonder a little where it was. And

Augustine, finishing her work in the tiny kitchen, would sigh too, and

think of red trousers and peaked caps, not yet out of date in that

Southern region, and of her own heart saying "Kiss Augustine!" and she

would peer out between the shutters at the stars sparkling over the

Camargue, or look down where the ground fell away beyond an old, old

wall, and nobody walked in the winter night, and muse on her nineteenth

birthday coming, and sigh with the thought that she would be old before

any one had loved her; and of how _Madame_ was looking "_tres

fatiguee_."

Indeed, Madame was not merely _looking "tres fatiguee"_ in these days.

The world's vitality and her own were at sad January ebb. But to think

of oneself was quite impossible, of course; it would be all right

presently, and one must not fuss, or mention in one's letters to the

dear children that one felt at all poorly. As for a doctor--that would

be sinful waste, and besides, what use were they except to tell you what

you knew? So she was terribly vexed when Augustine found her in a faint

one morning, and she found Augustine in tears, with her hair all over

her face. She rated the girl soundly, but feebly, for making such a fuss

over "a little thing like that," and with extremely trembling fingers

pushed the brown hair back and told her to wash her face, while the

parrot said reflectively: "Scratch a poll--Hullo!" The girl who had seen

her own grandmother die not long before, and remembered how "_fatiguee_"

she had been during her last days, was really frightened. Coming back

after she had washed her face, she found her mistress writing on a

number of little envelopes the same words: "_En bonne Amitie._" She

looked up at the girl standing so ominously idle, and said:

"Take this hundred-franc note, Augustine, and go and get it changed into

single francs--the ironmonger will do it if you say it's for me. I am

going to take a rest. I sha'n't buy anything for the bag for a whole

week. I shall just take francs instead."

"Oh, _Madame!_ You must not go out: _vous etes trop fatiguee_."

"Nonsense! How do you suppose our dear little Queen in England would get

on with all she has to do, if she were to give in like that? We must

none of us give up in these days. Help me to put on my things; I am

going to church, and then I shall take a long rest before we go to the

hospital."

"Oh, _Madame!_ Must you go to church? It is not your kind of church. You

do not pray there, do you?"

"Of course I pray there. I am very fond of the dear old church. God is

in every church, Augustine; you ought to know that at your age."

"But _Madame_ has her own religion?"

"Now, don't be silly. What does that matter? Help me into my cloth

coat--not the fur--it's too heavy--and then go and get that money

changed."

"But _Madame_ should see a doctor. If _Madame_ faints again I shall die

with fright. _Madame_ has no colour--but no colour at all; it must be

that there is something wrong."

_Madame_ rose, and taking the girl's ear between thumb and finger

pinched it gently.

"You are a very silly girl. What would our poor soldiers do if all the

nurses were like you?"

Reaching the church she sat down gladly, turning her face up towards her

favourite picture, a Virgin standing with her Baby in her arms. It was

only faintly coloured now; but there were those who said that an

Arlesienne must have sat for it. Why it pleased her so she never quite

knew, unless it were by its cool, unrestored devotion, by the faint

smiling in the eyes. Religion with her was a strange yet very real

thing. Conscious that she was not clever, she never even began to try

and understand what she believed. Probably she believed nothing more

than that if she tried to be good she would go to God--whatever and

wherever God might be--some day when she was too tired to live any more;

and rarely indeed did she forget to try to be good. As she sat there she

thought, or perhaps prayed, whichever it should be called: "Let me

forget that I have a body, and remember all the poor soldiers who have

them."

It struck cold that morning in the church--the wind was bitter from the

northeast; some poor women in black were kneeling, and four candles

burned in the gloom of a side aisle--thin, steady little spires of gold.

There was no sound at all. A smile came on her lips. She was forgetting

that she had a body, and remembering all those young faces in the wards,

the faces too of her own children far away, the faces of all she loved.

They were real and she was not--she was nothing but the devotion she

felt for them; yes, for all the poor souls on land and sea, fighting and

working and dying. Her lips moved; she was saying below her breath, "I

love them all"; then, feeling a shiver run down her spine, she

compressed those lips and closed her eyes, letting her mind alone murmur

her chosen prayer: "O God, who makes the birds sing and the stars shine,

and gives us little children, strengthen my heart so that I may forget

my own aches and wants and think of those of other people."

On reaching home again she took gelseminum, her favourite remedy against

that shivering, which, however hard she tried to forget her own body,

would keep coming; then, covering herself with her fur coat, she lay

down, closing her eyes. She was seemingly asleep, so that Augustine,

returning with the hundred single francs, placed them noiselessly beside

the little pile of envelopes, and after looking at the white, motionless

face of her mistress and shaking her own bonny head, withdrew. When she

had gone, two tears came out of those closed eyes and clung on the pale

cheeks below. The seeming sleeper was thinking of her children, away

over there in England, her children and their children. Almost

unbearably she was longing for a sight of them, not seen for so long

now, recalling each face, each voice, each different way they had of

saying, "Mother darling," or "Granny, look what I've got!" and thinking

that if only the war would end how she would pack at once and go to

them, that is, if they would not come to her for a nice long holiday in

this beautiful place. She thought of spring, too, and how lovely it

would be to see the trees come out again, and almond blossom against a

blue sky. The war seemed so long, and winter too. But she must not

complain; others had much greater sorrows than she--the poor widowed

women kneeling in the church; the poor boys freezing in the trenches.

God in his great mercy could not allow it to last much longer. It would

not be like Him! Though she felt that it would be impossible to eat, she

meant to force herself to make a good lunch so as to be able to go down

as usual, and give her little presents. They would miss them so if she

didn't. Her eyes, opening, rested almost gloatingly on the piles of

francs and envelopes. And she began to think how she could reduce still

further her personal expenditure. It was so dreadful to spend anything

on oneself--an old woman like her. Doctor, indeed! If Augustine fussed

any more she would send her away and do for herself! And the parrot,

leaving his cage, which he could always do, perched just behind her and

said: "Hullo! Kiss me, too!"

That afternoon in the wards every one noticed what a beautiful colour

she had. "_L'ange anglaise aux cheveux gris_" had never been more

popular. One _poilu_, holding up his envelope, remarked to his

neighbour: "_Elle verse des gouttes d'ciel, notr' 'tite gran'me_." To

them, grateful even for those mysterious joys "cat's cradles," francs

were the true drops from heaven.

She had not meant to give them all to-day, but it seemed dreadful, when

she saw how pleased they were, to leave any out, and so the whole

ninety-seven had their franc each. The three over would buy Augustine a

little brooch to make up to the silly child for her fright in the

morning. The buying of this brooch took a long time at the jeweller's in

the _rue des Romains_, and she had only just fixed on an amethyst before

feeling deadly ill with a dreadful pain through her lungs. She went out

with her tiny package quickly, not wanting any fuss, and began to mount

towards home. There were only three hundred yards to go, and with each

step she said to herself: "Nonsense! What would the Queen think of you!

Remember the poor soldiers with only one leg! You have got both your

legs! And the poor men who walk from the battlefield with bullets

through the lungs. What is your pain to theirs! Nonsense!" But the pain,

like none she had ever felt--a pain which seemed to have sharp double

edges like a knife--kept passing through and through her, till her legs

had no strength at all, and seemed to move simply because her will said:

"If you don't, I'll leave you behind. So there!" She felt as if

perspiration were flowing down, yet her face was as dry as a dead leaf

when she put up her hand to it. Her brain stammered; seemed to fly

loose; came to sudden standstills. Her eyes searched painfully each

grey-shuttered window for her own house, though she knew quite well

that she had not reached it yet. From sheer pain she stood still, a wry

little smile on her lips, thinking how poor Polly would say: "Keep

smiling!" Then she moved on, holding out her hand, whether because she

thought God would put his into it or only to pull on some imaginary rope

to help her. So, foot by foot, she crept till she reached her door. A

most peculiar floating sensation had come over her. The pain ceased, and

as if she had passed through no doors, mounted no stairs--she was up in

her room, lying on her sofa, with strange images about her, painfully

conscious that she was not in proper control of her thoughts, and that

Augustine must be thinking her ridiculous. Making a great effort, she

said:

"I forbid you to send for a doctor, Augustine. I shall be all right in a

day or two, if I eat plenty of francs. And you must put on this little

brooch--I bought it for you from an angel in the street. Put my fur coat

on Polly--he's shivering; dry your mouth, there's a good girl. Tell my

son he mustn't think of leaving the poor War Office; I shall come and

see him after the war. It will be over to-morrow, and then we will all

go and have tea together in a wood. Granny will come to you, my

darlings."

And when the terrified girl had rushed out she thought: "There, now

she's gone to get God; and I mustn't disturb Him with all He has to see

to. I shall get up and do for myself." When they came back with the

doctor they found her half-dressed, trying to feed a perch in the empty

cage with a spoon, and saying: "Kiss Granny, Polly. God is coming; kiss

Granny!" while the parrot sat away over on the mantelpiece, with his

head on one side, deeply interested.

When she had been properly undressed and made to lie down on the sofa,

for she insisted so that she would not go to bed that they dared not

oppose her, the doctor made his diagnosis. It was double pneumonia, of

that sudden sort which declares for life or death in forty-eight hours.

At her age a desperate case. Her children must be wired to at once. She

had sunk back, seemingly unconscious; and Augustine, approaching the

drawer where she knew the letters were kept, slipped out the lavender

sachet and gave it to the doctor. When he had left the room to extract

the addresses and send those telegrams, the girl sat down by the foot of

the couch, leaning her elbows on her knees and her face on her hands,

staring at that motionless form, while the tears streamed down her broad

cheeks. For many minutes neither of them stirred, and the only sound

was the restless stropping of the parrot's beak against a wire of his

cage. Then her mistress's lips moved, and the girl bent forward. A

whispering came forth, caught and suspended by breathless pausing:

"Mind, Augustine--no one is to tell my children--I can't have them

disturbed--over a little thing--like this--and in my purse you'll find

another--hundred-franc note. I shall want some more francs for the day

after to-morrow. Be a good girl and don't fuss, and kiss poor Polly, and

mind--I won't have a doctor--taking him away from his work. Give me my

gelseminum and my prayer-book. And go to bed just as usual--we must

all--keep smiling--like the dear soldiers--" The whispering ceased, then

began again at once in rapid delirious incoherence. And the girl sat

trembling, covering now her ears from those uncanny sounds, now her eyes

from the flush and the twitching of that face, usually so pale and

still. She could not follow--with her little English--the swerving,

intricate flights of that old spirit mazed by fever--the memories

released, the longings disclosed, the half-uttered prayers, the curious

little half-conscious efforts to regain form and dignity. She could only

pray to the Virgin. When relieved by the daughter of _Madame's_ French

friend, who spoke good English, she murmured desperately: "_Oh!

mademoiselle, madame est tres fatiguee--la pauvre tete--faut-il enlever

les cheveux? Elle fait ca toujours pour elle-meme._" For, to the girl,

with her reverence for the fastidious dignity which never left her

mistress, it seemed sacrilege to divest her of her crown of fine grey

hair. Yet, when it was done and the old face crowned only by the thin

white hair of nature, that dignity was still there surmounting the

wandering talk and the moaning from her parched lips, which every now

and then smiled and pouted in a kiss, as if remembering the maxims of

the parrot. So the night passed, with all that could be done for her,

whose most collected phrase, frequently uttered in the doctor's face,

was: "Mind, Augustine, I won't have a doctor--I can manage for myself

quite well." Once for a few minutes her spirit seemed to recover its

coherence, and she was heard to whisper: "God has given me this so that

I may know what the poor soldiers suffer. Oh! they've forgotten to cover

Polly's cage." But high fever soon passes from the very old; and early

morning brought a deathlike exhaustion, with utter silence, save for the

licking of the flames at the olive-wood logs, and the sound as they

slipped or settled down, calcined. The firelight crept fantastically

about the walls covered with tapestry of French-grey silk, crept round

the screen-head of the couch, and betrayed the ivory pallor of that

mask-like face, which covered now such tenuous threads of life.

Augustine, who had come on guard when the fever died away, sat in the

armchair before those flames, trying hard to watch, but dropping off

into the healthy sleep of youth. And out in the clear, hard shivering

Southern cold, the old clocks chimed the hours into the winter dark,

where, remote from man's restless spirit, the old town brooded above

plain and river under the morning stars. And the girl dreamed--dreamed

of a sweetheart under the acacias by her home, of his pinning their

white flowers into her hair, till she woke with a little laugh. Light

was already coming through the shutter chinks, the fire was but red

embers and white ash. She gathered it stealthily together, put on fresh

logs, and stole over to the couch. Oh! how white! how still! Was her

mistress dead? The icy clutch of that thought jerked her hands up to her

full breast, and a cry mounted in her throat. The eyes opened. The white

lips parted, as if to smile; a voice whispered: "Now, don't be silly!"

The girl's cry changed into a little sob, and bending down she put her

lips to the ringed hand that lay outside the quilt. The hand moved

faintly as if responding, the voice whispered: "The emerald ring is for

you, Augustine. Is it morning? Uncover Polly's cage, and open his door."

_Madame_ spoke no more that morning. A telegram had come. Her son and

daughter would arrive next morning early. They waited for a moment of

consciousness to tell her; but the day went by, and in spite of oxygen

and brandy it did not come. She was sinking fast; her only movements

were a tiny compression now and then of the lips, a half-opening of the

eyes, and once a smile when the parrot spoke. The rally came at eight

o'clock. _Mademoiselle_ was sitting by the couch when the voice came

fairly strong: "Give my love to my dear soldiers, and take them their

francs out of my purse, please. Augustine, take care of Polly. I want to

see if the emerald ring fits you. Take it off, please"; and, when it had

been put on the little finger of the sobbing girl: "There, you see, it

does. That's very nice. Your sweetheart will like that when you have

one. What do you say, _Mademoiselle_? My son and daughter coming? All

that way?" The lips smiled a moment, and then tears forced their way

into her eyes. "My darlings! How good of them! Oh! what a cold journey

they'll have! Get my room ready, Augustine, with a good fire! What are

you crying for? Remember what Polly says: 'Keep smiling!' Think how bad

it is for the poor soldiers if we women go crying! The Queen never

cries, and she has ever so much to make her!"

No one could tell whether she knew that she was dying, except perhaps

for those words, "Take care of Polly," and the gift of the ring.

She did not even seem anxious as to whether she would live to see her

children. Her smile moved _Mademoiselle_ to whisper to Augustine: "_Elle

a la sourire divine_."

"_Ah! mademoiselle, comme elle est brave, la pauvre dame! C'est qu'elle

pense toujours aux autres._" And the girl's tears dropped on the emerald

ring.

Night fell--the long night; would she wake again? Both watched with her,

ready at the faintest movement to administer oxygen and brandy. She was

still breathing, but very faintly, when at six o'clock they heard the

express come in, and presently the carriage stop before the house.

_Mademoiselle_ stole down to let them in.

Still in their travelling coats her son and daughter knelt down beside

the couch, watching in the dim candle-light for a sign and cherishing

her cold hands. Daylight came; they put the shutters back and blew out

the candles. Augustine, huddled in the far corner, cried gently to

herself. _Mademoiselle_ had withdrawn. But the two still knelt, tears

running down their cheeks. The face of their mother was so transparent,

so exhausted; the least little twitching of just-opened lips showed that

she breathed. A tiny sigh escaped; her eyelids fluttered. The son,

leaning forward, said:

"Sweetheart, we're here."

The eyes opened then; something more than a simple human spirit seemed

to look through--it gazed for a long, long minute; then the lips parted.

They bent to catch the sound.

"My darlings--don't cry; smile!" And the eyes closed again. On her face

a smile so touching that it rent the heart flickered and went out.

Breath had ceased to pass the faded lips.

In the long silence the French girl's helpless sobbing rose; the parrot

stirred uneasily in his still-covered cage. And the son and daughter

knelt, pressing their faces hard against the couch.

DEFEAT

She had been standing there on the pavement a quarter of an hour or so

after her shilling's worth of concert. Women of her profession are not

supposed to have redeeming points, especially when--like May Belinski,

as she now preferred to dub herself--they are German; but this woman

certainly had music in her soul. She often gave herself these "music

baths" when the Promenade Concerts were on, and had just spent half her

total wealth in listening to some Mozart and a Beethoven symphony.

She was feeling almost elated, full of divine sound, and of the

wonderful summer moonlight which was filling the whole dark town. Women

"of a certain type" have, at all events, emotions--and what a comfort

that is, even to themselves! To stand just there had become rather a

habit of hers. One could seem to be waiting for somebody coming out of

the concert, not yet over--which, of course, was precisely what she

_was_ doing. One need not forever be stealthily glancing and perpetually

moving on in that peculiar way, which, while it satisfied the police

and Mrs. Grundy, must not quite deceive others as to her business in

life. She had only "been at it" long enough to have acquired a nervous

dread of almost everything--not long enough to have passed through that

dread to callousness. Some women take so much longer than others. And

even for a woman "of a certain type" her position was exceptionally

nerve-racking in war-time, going as she did by a false name. Indeed, in

all England there could hardly be a greater pariah than was this German

woman of the night.

She idled outside a book-shop humming a little, pretending to read the

titles of the books by moonlight, taking off and putting on one of her

stained yellow gloves. Now and again she would move up as far as the

posters outside the Hall, scrutinising them as if interested in the

future, then stroll back again. In her worn and discreet dark dress, and

her small hat, she had nothing about her to rouse suspicion, unless it

were the trail of violet powder she left on the moonlight.

For the moonlight this evening was almost solid, seeming with its cool

still vibration to replace the very air; in it the war-time precautions

against light seemed fantastic, like shading candles in a room still

full of daylight. What lights there were had the effect of strokes and

stipples of dim colour laid by a painter's brush on a background of

ghostly whitish blue. The dreamlike quality of the town was perhaps

enhanced for her eyes by the veil she was wearing--in daytime no longer

white. As the music died out of her, elation also ebbed. Somebody had

passed her, speaking German, and she was overwhelmed by a rush of

nostalgia. On this moonlight night by the banks of the Rhine--whence she

came--the orchards would be heavy with apples; there would be murmurs,

and sweet scents; the old castle would stand out clear, high over the

woods and the chalky-white river. There would be singing far away, and

the churning of a distant steamer's screw; and perhaps on the water a

log raft still drifting down in the blue light. There would be German

voices talking. And suddenly tears oozed up in her eyes, and crept down

through the powder on her cheeks. She raised her veil and dabbed at her

face with a little, not-too-clean handkerchief, screwed up in her

yellow-gloved hand. But the more she dabbed, the more those treacherous

tears ran. Then she became aware that a tall young man in khaki was also

standing before the shop-window, not looking at the titles of the books,

but eyeing her askance. His face was fresh and open, with a sort of

kindly eagerness in his blue eyes. Mechanically she drooped her wet

lashes, raised them obliquely, drooped them again, and uttered a little

sob....

This young man, Captain in a certain regiment, and discharged from

hospital at six o'clock that evening, had entered Queen's Hall at

half-past seven. Still rather brittle and sore from his wound, he had

treated himself to a seat in the Grand Circle, and there had sat, very

still and dreamy, the whole concert through. It had been like eating

after a long fast--something of the sensation Polar explorers must

experience when they return to their first full meal. For he was of the

New Army, and before the war had actually believed in music, art, and

all that sort of thing. With a month's leave before him, he could afford

to feel that life was extraordinarily joyful, his own experiences

particularly wonderful; and, coming out into the moonlight, he had taken

what can only be described as a great gulp of it, for he was a young man

with a sense of beauty. When one has been long in the trenches, lain out

wounded in a shell-hole twenty-four hours, and spent three months in

hospital, beauty has such an edge of novelty, such a sharp sweetness,

that it almost gives pain. And London at night is very beautiful. He

strolled slowly towards the Circus, still drawing the moonlight deep

into his lungs, his cap tilted up a little on his forehead in that

moment of unmilitary abandonment; and whether he stopped before the

book-shop window because the girl's figure was in some sort a part of

beauty, or because he saw that she was crying, he could not have made

clear to any one.

Then something--perhaps the scent of powder, perhaps the yellow glove,

or the oblique flutter of the eyelids--told him that he was making what

he would have called "a blooming error," unless he wished for company,

which had not been in his thoughts. But her sob affected him, and he

said:

"What's the matter?"

Again her eyelids fluttered sideways, and she stammered:

"Not'ing. The beautiful evening--that's why!"

That a woman of what he now clearly saw to be "a certain type" should

perceive what he himself had just been perceiving, struck him forcibly,

and he said:

"Cheer up."

She looked up again swiftly: "Cheer up! You are not lonelee like me."

For one of that sort, she looked somehow honest; her tear-streaked face

was rather pretty, and he murmured:

"Well, let's walk a bit, and talk it over."

They turned the corner, and walked east, along streets empty, and

beautiful, with their dulled orange-glowing lamps, and here and there

the glint of some blue or violet light. He found it queer and rather

exciting--for an adventure of just this kind he had never had. And he

said doubtfully:

"How did you get into this? Isn't it an awfully hopeless sort of life?"

"Ye-es, it ees--" her voice had a queer soft emphasis. "You are

limping--haf you been wounded?"

"Just out of hospital to-day."

"The horrible war--all the misery is because of the war. When will it

end?"

He looked at her attentively, and said:

"I say--what nationality are you?"

"Rooshian."

"Really! I never met a Russian girl."

He was conscious that she looked at him, then very quickly down. And he

said suddenly:

"Is it as bad as they make out?"

She slipped her yellow-gloved hand through his arm.

"Not when I haf any one as nice as you; I never haf yet, though"; she

smiled--and her smile was like her speech, slow, confiding--"you stopped

because I was sad, others stop because I am gay. I am not fond of men

at all. When you know, you are not fond of them."

"Well! You hardly know them at their best, do you? You should see them

at the front. By George! they're simply splendid--officers and men,

every blessed soul. There's never been anything like it--just one long

bit of jolly fine self-sacrifice; it's perfectly amazing."

Turning her blue-grey eyes on him, she answered:

"I expect you are not the last at that. You see in them what you haf in

yourself, I think."

"Oh! not a bit--you're quite out. I assure you when we made the attack

where I got wounded, there wasn't a single man in my regiment who wasn't

an absolute hero. The way they went in--never thinking of themselves--it

was simply superb!"

Her teeth came down on her lower lip, and she answered in a queer voice:

"It is the same too perhaps with--the enemy."

"Oh yes, I know that."

"Ah! You are not a mean man. How I hate mean men!"

"Oh! they're not mean really--they simply don't understand."

"Oh! you are a baby--a good baby, aren't you?"

He did not quite like being called a baby, and frowned; but was at once

touched by the disconcertion in her powdered face. How quickly she was

scared!

She said clingingly:

"But I li-ike you for it. It is so good to find a ni-ice man."

This was worse, and he said abruptly:

"About being lonely? Haven't you any Russian friends?"

"Rooshian! No!" Then quickly added: "The town is so beeg! Haf you been

in the concert?"

"Yes."

"I, too--I love music."

"I suppose all Russians do."

She looked up at his face again, and seemed to struggle to keep silent;

then she said quietly:

"I go there always when I haf the money."

"What! Are you so on the rocks?"

"Well, I haf just one shilling now." And she laughed.

The sound of that little laugh upset him--she had a way of making him

feel sorry for her every time she spoke.

They had come by now to a narrow square, east of Gower Street.

"This is where I lif," she said. "Come in!"

He had one long moment of violent hesitation, then yielded to the soft

tugging of her hand, and followed. The passage-hall was dimly lighted,

and they went upstairs into a front room, where the curtains were drawn,

and the gas turned very low. Opposite the window were other curtains

dividing off the rest of the apartment. As soon as the door was shut she

put up her face and kissed him--evidently formula. What a room! Its

green and beetroot colouring and the prevalence of cheap plush

disagreeably affected him. Everything in it had that callous look of

rooms which seem to be saying to their occupants: "You're here to-day

and you'll be gone to-morrow." Everything except one little plant, in a

common pot, of maidenhair fern, fresh and green, looking as if it had

been watered within the hour; in this room it had just the same

unexpected touchingness that peeped out of the girl's matter-of-fact

cynicism.

Taking off her hat, she went towards the gas, but he said quickly:

"No, don't turn it up; let's have the window open, and the moonlight

in." He had a sudden dread of seeing anything plainly--it was stuffy,

too, and pulling the curtains apart, he threw up the window. The girl

had come obediently from the hearth, and sat down opposite him, leaning

her arm on the window-sill and her chin on her hand. The moonlight

caught her cheek where she had just renewed the powder, caught her fair

crinkly hair; it caught the plush of the furniture, and his own khaki,

giving them all a touch of unreality.

"What's your name?" he said.

"May. Well, I call myself that. It's no good askin' yours."

"You're a distrustful little party, aren't you?"

"I haf reason to be, don't you think?"

"Yes, I suppose you're bound to think us all brutes?"

"Well, I haf a lot of reasons to be afraid all my time. I am dreadfully

nervous now; I am not trusting anybody. I suppose you haf been killing

lots of Germans?"

He laughed.

"We never know, unless it happens to be hand to hand; I haven't come in

for that yet."

"But you would be very glad if you had killed some?"

"Glad? I don't think so. We're all in the same boat, so far as that's

concerned. We're not glad to kill each other. We do our job--that's

all."

"Oh! it is frightful. I expect I haf my broders killed."

"Don't you get any news ever?"

"News! No indeed, no news of anybody in my country. I might not haf a

country; all that I ever knew is gone--fader, moder, sisters, broders,

all--never any more I shall see them, I suppose, now. The war it breaks

and breaks, it breaks hearts." Her little teeth fastened again on her

lower lip in that sort of pretty snarl. "Do you know what I was thinkin'

when you came up? I was thinkin' of my native town, and the river there

in the moonlight. If I could see it again, I would be glad. Were you

ever homeseeck?"

"Yes, I have been--in the trenches; but one's ashamed, with all the

others."

"Ah! ye-es!" It came from her with a hiss. "Ye-es! You are all comrades

there. What is it like for me here, do you think, where everybody hates

and despises me, and would catch me, and put me in prison, perhaps?"

He could see her breast heaving with a quick breathing painful to listen

to. He leaned forward, patting her knee, and murmuring: "Sorry--sorry."

She said in a smothered voice:

"You are the first who has been kind to me for so long! I will tell you

the truth--I am not Rooshian at all--I am German."

Hearing that half-choked confession, his thought was: "Does she really

think we fight against women?" And he said:

"My dear girl, who cares?"

Her eyes seemed to search right into him. She said slowly:

"Another man said that to me. But he was thinkin' of other things. You

are a veree ni-ice boy. I am so glad I met you. You see the good in

people, don't you? That is the first thing in the world--because there

is really not much good in people, you know."

He said, smiling:

"You're a dreadful little cynic!" Then thought: "Of course she is--poor

thing!"

"Cyneec? How long do you think I would live if I was not a cyneec? I

should drown myself to-morrow. Perhaps there are good people, but, you

see, I don't know them."

"I know lots."

She leaned forward eagerly.

"Well now--see, ni-ice boy--you haf never been in a hole, haf you?"

"I suppose not a real hole."

"No, I should think not, with your face. Well, suppose I am still a good

girl, as I was once, you know, and you took me to some of your good

people, and said: 'Here is a little German girl that has no work, and no

money, and no friends.' Your good people they will say: 'Oh! how sad! A

German girl!' and they will go and wash their hands."

Silence fell on him. He saw his mother, his sisters, others--good

people, he would swear! And yet--! He heard their voices, frank and

clear; and they seemed to be talking of the Germans. If only she were

not German!

"You see!" he heard her say, and could only mutter:

"I'm sure there _are_ people."

"No. They would not take a German, even if she was good. Besides, I

don't want to be good any more--I am not a humbug--I have learned to be

bad. Aren't you going to kees me, ni-ice boy?"

She put her face close to his. Her eyes troubled him, but he drew back.

He thought she would be offended or persistent, but she was neither;

just looked at him fixedly with a curious inquiring stare; and he leaned

against the window, deeply disturbed. It was as if all clear and simple

enthusiasm had been suddenly knocked endways; as if a certain splendour

of life that he had felt and seen of late had been dipped in cloud. Out

there at the front, over here in hospital, life had been seeming so--as

it were--heroic; and yet it held such mean and murky depths as well! The

voices of his men, whom he had come to love like brothers, crude burring

voices, cheery in trouble, making nothing of it; the voices of doctors

and nurses, patient, quiet, reassuring voices; even his own voice,

infected by it all, kept sounding in his ears. All wonderful somehow,

and simple; and nothing mean about it anywhere! And now so suddenly to

have lighted upon this, and all that was behind it--this scared girl,

this base, dark, thoughtless use of her! And the thought came to him: "I

suppose my fellows wouldn't think twice about taking her on! Why! I'm

not even certain of myself, if she insists!" And he turned his face, and

stared out at the moonlight. He heard her voice:

"Eesn't it light? No air raid to-night. When the Zepps burned--what a

horrible death! And all the people cheered--it is natural. Do you hate

us veree much?"

He turned round and said sharply:

"Hate? I don't know."

"I don't hate even the English--I despise them. I despise my people

too--perhaps more, because they began this war. Oh, yes! I know that. I

despise all the peoples. Why haf they made the world so miserable--why

haf they killed all our lives--hundreds and thousands and millions of

lives--all for not'ing? They haf made a bad world--everybody hating, and

looking for the worst everywhere. They haf made me bad, I know. I

believe no more in anything. What is there to believe in? Is there a

God? No! Once I was teaching little English children their

prayers--isn't that funnee? I was reading to them about Christ and love.

I believed all those things. Now I believe not'ing at all--no one who is

not a fool or a liar can believe. I would like to work in a hospital; I

would like to go and help poor boys like you. Because I am a German they

would throw me out a hundred times, even if I was good. It is the same

in Germany and France and Russia, everywhere. But do you think I will

believe in love and Christ and a God and all that?--not I! I think we

are animals--that's all! Oh! yes--you fancy it is because my life has

spoiled me. It is not that at all--that's not the worst thing in life.

Those men are not ni-ice, like you, but it's their nature, and," she

laughed, "they help me to live, which is something for me anyway. No, it

is the men who think themselves great and good, and make the war with

their talk and their hate, killing us all--killing all the boys like

you, and keeping poor people in prison, and telling us to go on hating;

and all those dreadful cold-blooded creatures who write in the

papers--the same in my country, just the same; it is because of all them

that I think we are only animals."

He got up, acutely miserable. He could see her following him with her

eyes, and knew she was afraid she had driven him away. She said

coaxingly: "Don't mind me talking, ni-ice boy. I don't know any one to

talk to. If you don't like it, I can be quiet as a mouse."

He muttered:

"Oh! go on, talk away. I'm not obliged to believe you, and I don't."