Chapter XI: Book IV: WAR (2)

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

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

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

"Cared about--cared about--that doesn't express it in the least. It isn't the things you care about that matter. It's the things you can't get rid of--the things that won't let you go--that haunt you--like a face that you can't help seeing even when you don't want to...."

"Darling Vernon--don't."

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

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

But he reverted presently to the topic. He said irrelevantly: "Guns make a pattern, you know. A musical pattern, I mean. Not the sound one hears. I mean the pattern the sound makes in space. I suppose that's nonsense--but I know what I mean."

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

Ever so slightly, she moved her body away from him. It was as though she challenged her rival. She never admitted it openly, but secretly she feared Vernon's music. If only he didn't care so much.

And to-night, at any rate, she was triumphant. He drew her back, holding her close, showering kisses on her.

But long after Nell was asleep, Vernon lay staring into the darkness, seeing against his will Jane's face and the outline of her body in its dull green satin sheath as he had seen it against the crimson curtain at the restaurant.

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

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

He wished he hadn't seen her.

There was something so damnably disturbing about Jane.

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

All too soon, it was over.

_3_

It had been like a dream. Now the dream was over. Nell was back at the hospital. It seemed to her she had never been away. She waited desperately for the post--for Vernon's first letter. It came--more ardent and unrestrained than usual, as though even censorship had been forgotten. Nell wore it against her heart and the indelible pencil came off on her skin. She wrote and told him so.

Life went on as usual. Dr. Lang went out to the front and was replaced by an elderly doctor with a beard who said, "Thank ye, thank ye, Sister," every time he was offered a towel or was helped on with his white linen coat. They had a slack time with most of the beds empty and Nell found the enforced idleness trying.

One day, to her surprise and delight, Sebastian walked in. He was home on leave and had come down to look her up. Vernon had asked him to.

"You've seen him then?"

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

"And he's all right?"

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

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

"It's difficult to explain, Nell. You see, Vernon's an odd beggar--always has been. He doesn't like looking things in the face."

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

"I don't mean in the least what you think I mean. He isn't _afraid_. Lucky devil, I don't think he knows what fear is. I wish I didn't. No, it's different from that. It's the whole life--it's pretty ghastly, you know. Dirt and blood and filth, and noise--above all, noise! Recurrent noise at fixed times. It gets on my nerves, so what must it do to Vernon's?"

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

"Simply that he won't admit that there's anything to face. He's afraid of minding, so he says there's nothing _to_ mind. If he'd only admit that it's a bloody filthy business like I do he'd be all right. But it's like that old piano business--he won't look at the thing fair and square. And it's no good saying 'there ain't no such thing' when there _is_. But that's always been Vernon's way. He's in good spirits--enjoying everything--and it isn't natural. I'm afraid of his----Oh! I don't know what I'm afraid of. But I know that telling yourself fairy stories is about the worst thing you can do. Vernon's a musician, and he's got the nerves of a musician. The worst of him is that he doesn't know anything about himself. He never has."

Nell looked troubled.

"Sebastian, what do you think will happen?"

"Oh! nothing, probably. What I should like to happen would be for Vernon to stop one, in as conveniently painless a place as possible, and come back to be nursed for a bit."

"How I wish that would happen!"

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

"If you had----" Nell paused, then went on. "Would you want her to work in a hospital or would you rather she did nothing?"

"Everybody will be working sooner or later. It's as well to get down to it as soon as possible, I should say."

"Vernon doesn't like my doing this."

"That's his ostrich act again, plus the reactionary spirit that he's inherited and will never quite outgrow. Sooner or later he'll face the fact that women are working--but he won't admit it till the last minute."

Nell sighed.

"How worrying everything is."

"I know. And I've made things worse for you. But I'm awfully fond of Vernon. He's the one friend I care about. And I hoped if I told you what I thought you'd encourage him to--well, give way a little--at any rate to you. But perhaps to you he does let himself go?"

Nell shook her head.

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

Sebastian whistled.

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

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

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

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

"Oh! Lord, no. Jane's not exactly sympathetic. Provocative is more the word. You get annoyed with her--and out pops the truth. She makes you aware of yourself in ways you don't want to be. There's nobody like Jane for pulling you off your high horse."

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

"Oh! I wouldn't say that. And anyway, it wouldn't matter if she had. She's doing relief work in Serbia. Sailed a fortnight ago."

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

Somehow, she felt happier.

_4_

Darling Nell:

Do you know I dream of you every night? Usually you're nice to me,
but sometimes you're a little beast. Cold and hard and far away.
You couldn't be that really, could you? Not now. Darling, will the
indelible pencil ever come off?

Nell sweetest, I never believe I'm going to be killed, but if I
were, what would it matter? We've had so much. You'd think of me
always as happy and loving you, wouldn't you, sweetheart? I know
I'd go on loving you after I was dead. That's the only bit of me
that couldn't die. I love you--love you--love you....

He had never written to her quite like that before. She put the letter in its usual place.

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

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

It was so wonderful, so very wonderful, to be loved. Sister Westhaven was in a temper. Nurse Potts slacked more than usual. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

Even the monumental Sister Jenkins, who came on night duty and was always full of pessimism, failed to impress her with any kind of gloom.

"Ah!" Sister Jenkins would say, settling her cuffs and moving three double chins round inside her collar in an effort to alleviate their mass. "No. 3 still alive? You surprise me. I didn't think he'd last through the day. Well, he'll be gone to-morrow, poor young chap. [Sister Jenkins was always prophesying that patients would be gone to-morrow, and the failure of her prognostications to come true never seemed to induce in her a more hopeful attitude.] I don't like the look of No. 18--that last operation was worse than useless. No. 8 is going to take a turn for the worse, unless I'm much mistaken. I said so to Doctor, but he didn't listen to me. Now then, Nurse [with sudden acerbity], no good for you to hang about. Off duty is off duty."

Nell accepted this gracious permission to depart, well aware that if she had not lingered Sister Jenkins would have asked her "what she meant by hurrying away like that?--not even willing to wait a minute overtime."

It took twenty minutes to walk home. The night was a clear starry one and Nell enjoyed the walk. If only Vernon could have been walking beside her!

She let herself into the house very quietly with her latch-key. Her landlady always went to bed early. On the tray in the hall was an orange-coloured envelope.

She knew then.

Telling herself that it wasn't--that it couldn't be--that he was only wounded--surely he was only wounded ... yet she knew.

A sentence from the letter she had received that morning leaped out at her: _Nell sweetest, I never believe I am going to be killed, but if I were, what would it matter? We've had so much...._

He had never written like that before. He must have felt--have known. Sensitive people did know sometimes beforehand.

She stood there, holding the telegram. Vernon--her lover, her husband.... She stood there a long time.

Then at last she opened the telegram, which informed her with deep regret that Lieutenant Vernon Deyre had been Killed in Action.

chapter 3

A memorial service was held for Vernon in the little old church at Abbotsford under the shadow of Abbots Puissants, as it had been held for his father. The two last of the Deyres were not to lie in the family vault. One in South Africa, one in France.

In Nell's memory afterward the proceedings seemed shadowed by the monumental bulk of Mrs. Levinne--a vast matriarchal figure dwarfing everything else. She herself had to bite her lips not to laugh hysterically. The whole thing was so funny somehow--so unlike Vernon.

Her mother was there, elegant and aloof. Uncle Sydney was there, in black broadcloth, restraining himself from jingling his money with great difficulty, and with a suitable "mourner's" face. Myra Deyre was there in heavy crape, weeping copiously and unrestrainedly. But it was Mrs. Levinne who dominated the proceedings. She came back with them afterward to the sitting room at the inn, identifying herself with the family.

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

She was genuinely distressed. Tears splashed down on her black bodice. She patted Myra on the shoulder.

"Now, now, my dear, you mustn't take on so. You mustn't indeed. It's our duty, all of us, to bear up. You gave him to his country. You couldn't do more. Here's Nell--as brave as can be."

"Everything I had in the world," sobbed Myra. "First husband, then son. Nothing left."

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

"The very best son--we were everything to each other." She caught Mrs. Levinne's hand. "You'll know what it feels like if Sebastian...."

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

"I see they've sent up some sandwiches and some port," said Uncle Sydney, creating a diversion. "Very thoughtful. Very thoughtful. A little drop of port, Myra dear. You've been through a great strain, you know."

Myra waved away port with a horror-stricken hand. Uncle Sydney was made to feel that he had displayed callousness.

"We've all got to keep up," he said. "It's our duty."

His hand stole to his pocket and he began to jingle.

"Syd!"

"Sorry, Myra."

Again Nell felt that wild desire to giggle. She didn't want to cry. She wanted to laugh and laugh and laugh.... Awful--to feel like that.

"I thought everything went off very nicely," said Uncle Sydney. "Very nicely indeed. A most impressive lot of the villagers attended. You wouldn't like to stroll round Abbots Puissants? That was a very nice letter putting it at our disposal to-day."

"I hate the place," said Myra vehemently. "I always have."

"I suppose, Nell, you've seen the lawyers? I understand Vernon made a perfectly simple will before going out to France, leaving everything to you. In that case, Abbots Puissants is now yours. It was not entailed, and in any case there are no Deyres now in existence."

Nell said: "Thank you, Uncle Sydney, I've seen the lawyer. He was very kind and explained everything to me."

"That's more than any lawyer can do as a rule," said Uncle Sydney. "They make the simplest thing sound difficult. It's not my business to advise you, but I know there's no man in your family who can do so. Much the best thing you can do is to sell it. There's no money to keep it up, you know. You understand that?"

Nell did understand. She saw that Uncle Sydney was making it clear to her that no Bent money was coming her way. Myra would leave her money back to her own family. That, of course, was only natural. Nell would never have dreamed of anything else.

As a matter of fact, Uncle Sydney had at once tackled Myra as to whether there was a child coming. Myra said she didn't think so. Uncle Sydney said she had better make sure. "I don't know exactly how the law stands, but as it is, if you were to pop off to-morrow, having left your money to Vernon, it might go to her. No good taking any chances."

Myra said tearfully that it was very unkind of him to suggest that she was going to die.

"Nothing of the sort. You women are all alike. Carrie sulked for a week when I insisted on her making a proper will. We don't want good money to go out of the family."

Above all, he did not want good money to go to Nell. He disliked Nell, whom he regarded as Enid's supplanter. And he loathed Mrs. Vereker, who always managed to make him feel hot and clumsy and uncertain about his hands.

"Nell, of course, will take legal advice," said Mrs. Vereker sweetly.

"Don't think _I_ want to butt in," said Uncle Sydney.

Nell felt a passionate pang of regret. If only she were going to have a child! Vernon had been so afraid for her. "It would be so dreadful for you, darling, if I were to be killed and you were left with all the trouble and worry of a child and very little money--Besides--you never know--you might die. I couldn't bear to risk it."

And really, it _had_ seemed better and more prudent to wait.

But now she was sorry. Her mother's consolations had seemed coldly brutal to her.

"You're not going to have a baby, are you, Nell? Well, I must say I'm thankful. Naturally, you'll marry again, and it's so much better when there are no encumbrances."

In answer to a passionate protest, Mrs. Vereker had smiled. "I oughtn't to have said that just now. But you are only a girl still. Vernon himself would have wanted you to be happy."

Nell thought: "Never! She doesn't understand!"

"Well, well, it's a sad world," said Mr. Bent, surreptitiously helping himself to a sandwich. "The flower of our manhood being mown down. But all the same, I'm proud of England. I'm proud of being an Englishman. I like to feel that I'm doing my bit in England just as much as these boys are doing it out here. We're doubling our output of explosives next month. Night and day shifts. I'm proud of Bent's, I can tell you."

"It must be wonderfully profitable," said Mrs. Vereker.

"That's not the way I like to look at it," said Mr. Bent. "I like to look at it that I'm serving my country."

"Well, I hope we all try to do our bit," said Mrs. Levinne. "I have been a working party twice a week, and I'm interethting myself in all these poor girls who are having war babieths."

"There's too much loose thinking going about," said Mr. Bent. "We mustn't get lax. England has never been lax."

"Well, we've got to look after the children at any rate," said Mrs. Levinne. She added: "How is Joe? I thought I might see her here to-day."

Both Uncle Sydney and Myra looked embarrassed. It was clear that Joe was what is known as a "delicate subject." They skated lightly over the topic. War work in Paris--very busy--unable to get leave.

Mr. Bent looked at his watch.

"Myra, we've not too much time before the train. Must get back to-night. Carrie, my wife you know, is very far from well. That's why she wasn't able to be here to-day." He sighed. "It's odd how often things turn out for the best. It was a great disappointment to us not having a son. And yet, in a way, we've been spared a good deal. Think of the anxiety we might be in to-day. The ways of Providence are wonderful."

Mrs. Vereker said to Nell when they had taken leave of Mrs. Levinne, who motored them back to London: "One thing I do hope, Nell, is that you won't think it your duty to see a lot of your in-laws. I dislike the way that woman wallowed in her grief more than I can tell you. She was thoroughly enjoying herself, though I dare say she'd have preferred a proper coffin."

"Oh! Mother--she was really unhappy. She was awfully fond of Vernon. As she said, he was all she had in the world."

"That's a phrase women like her are very fond of using. It means nothing at all. And you're not going to pretend to me that Vernon adored his mother. He merely tolerated her. They had nothing in common. He was a Deyre through and through."

Nell couldn't deny that.

She stayed at her mother's flat in town for three weeks. Mrs. Vereker was very kind within her own limits. She was not a sympathetic woman at any time, but she respected Nell's grief and did not intrude upon it. Upon practical matters her judgment was, as it had always been, excellent. There were various interviews with lawyers and Mrs. Vereker was present at all of them.

Abbots Puissants was still let. The tenancy would be up the following year, and the lawyer strongly advised its sale rather than reletting it. Mrs. Vereker, to Nell's surprise, did not seem to concur with this view. She suggested a further let of not too long duration.

"So much may happen in a few years," she said.

Mr. Flemming looked hard at her and seemed to catch her meaning. His glance rested for just a moment on Nell, fair and childish-looking in her mourning.

"As you say," he remarked, "much may happen. At any rate, nothing need be decided for a year."

Business matters settled, Nell returned to the hospital at Wiltsbury. She felt that there, and there only, could life be at all possible. Mrs. Vereker did not oppose her. She was a sensible woman and she had her own plans.

A month after Vernon's death Nell was once more back in the ward. Nobody ever referred to her loss and she was grateful. To carry on as usual was the motto of the moment.

Nell carried on.

_2_

"There's someone asking for you, Nurse Deyre."

"For me?" Nell was surprised.

It must be Sebastian. Only he was likely to come down here and look her up. Did she want to see him or not? She hardly knew.

But to her great surprise, her visitor was George Chetwynd. He explained that he was passing through Wiltsbury, and had stopped to find out if he could see her. He asked whether she couldn't come out to lunch with him.

"I thought you were on afternoon duty," he explained.

"I was changed to the morning shift yesterday. I'll ask Matron. We're not very busy."

Permission was accorded her, and half an hour later she was sitting opposite George Chetwynd at the County Hotel with a plate of roast beef in front of her and a waiter hovering over her with a vast dish of cabbage.

"The only vegetable the County Hotel knows," observed Chetwynd.

He talked interestingly and made no reference to her loss. All he said was that her continuing to work here was the pluckiest thing he had ever heard of.

"I can't tell you how I admire all you women. Carrying on, tackling one job after another. No fuss--no heroics--just sticking to it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. I think Englishwomen are fine."

"One must do something."

"I know. I can understand that feeling. Anything's better than sitting with your hands in your lap, eh?"

"That's it."

She was grateful. George always understood. He told her that he was off to Serbia in a day or two, organizing relief work there.

"Frankly," he said, "I'm ashamed of my country for not coming in. But it will. I'm convinced of that. It's only a matter of time. In the meantime we do what we can to alleviate the horrors of war."

"You look very well."

He looked younger than she remembered him--well set up, bronzed, the gray in his hair a mere distinction rather than a sign of age.

"I'm feeling well. Nothing like having plenty to do. Relief work's pretty strenuous."

"When are you off?"

"Day after to-morrow." He paused, then said in a different voice: "Look here--you didn't mind my looking you up like this? You don't feel I'd no business to butt in?"

"No--no. It was very kind of you. Especially after I--I----"

"You know I've never borne any rancour over that. I admire you for following your heart. You loved him, and you didn't love me. But there's no reason we shouldn't be friends, is there?"

He looked so friendly, so very unsentimental, that Nell answered happily that there wasn't.

He said: "That's fine. And you'll let me do anything for you that a friend can? Advise you in any bothers that arise, I mean?"

Nell said she'd be only too grateful.

They left it like that. He departed in his car shortly after lunch, wringing her hand and saying he hoped they'd meet again in about six months' time, and begging her again to consult him if she were in a difficulty any time.

Nell promised that she would.

_3_

The winter was a bad one for Nell. She caught a cold, neglected to take proper care of herself, and was ill for a week or so. She was quite unfit to resume hospital work at the end of it, and Mrs. Vereker carried her off to London to her flat. There she regained strength slowly.

Endless bothers seemed to arise. Abbots Puissants appeared to need an entire new roof. New water pipes had to be installed. The fencing was in a bad state.

Nell appreciated for the first time the awful drain property can be. The rent was eaten up many times over with the necessary repairs, and Mrs. Vereker had to come to the rescue to tide Nell over a difficult corner and not let her get too much in debt. They were living as penuriously as possible. Vanished were the days of outward show and credit. Mrs. Vereker managed to make both ends meet by a very narrow margin, and would hardly have done that but for what she won at the bridge table. She was a first-class player and added materially to her income by play. She was out most of the day at a bridge club that still survived.

It was a dull unhappy life for Nell. Worried over money, not strong enough to undertake fresh work, nothing to do but sit and brood. Poverty combined with love in a cottage was one thing. Poverty without love to soften it was another. Sometimes Nell wondered how she was ever going to get through a life that stretched drear and bleak ahead of her. She couldn't bear things. She simply couldn't.

Then Mr. Flemming urged her to make a decision concerning Abbots Puissants. The tenancy would be up in a month or two. Something must be done. He could not hold out any hopes of letting it for a higher rent. Nobody wanted to rent big places without central heating or modern conveniences. He strongly advised her to sell.

He knew the feeling her husband had had about the place. But since she herself was never likely to be able to afford to live in it....

Nell admitted the wisdom of what he said, but still pleaded for time to decide. She was reluctant to sell it but she could not help feeling that, the worry of Abbots Puissants once off her mind she would be relieved from her heaviest burden. Then one day Mr. Flemming rang up to say that he had had a very good offer for Abbots Puissants. He mentioned a sum far in excess of her--or indeed his--expectations. He very strongly advised her to close with it without delay.

Nell hesitated a minute, then said, "Yes."

_4_

It was extraordinary how much happier she felt at once. Free of that terrible incubus! It wasn't as though Vernon had lived. Houses and estates were simply white elephants when you hadn't the necessary money to keep them up properly.

She was undisturbed even by a letter from Joe in Paris.

How _can_ you sell Abbots Puissants when you know what Vernon
felt about it? I should have thought it would be the last thing you
could have done.

She thought: "Joe doesn't understand."

She wrote back:

What was I to do? I don't know where to turn for money. There's
been the roof and the drains and the water--it's endless. I can't
go on running into debt. Everything's so tiring I wish I were
dead....

Three days later she got a letter from George Chetwynd asking if he might come and see her. He had, he said, something to confess.

Mrs. Vereker was out. She received him alone. He broke it rather apprehensively to her. It was he who had purchased Abbots Puissants.

Just at first she recoiled from the idea. Not George! Not George at Abbots Puissants! Then with admirable common sense he argued the point.

Surely it was better that it should pass into his hands instead of those of a stranger? He hoped that sometimes she and her mother would come and stay there.

"I'd like you to feel that your husband's home is open to you at any time. I want to change things there as little as possible. You shall advise me. Surely you prefer my having it to its passing into the hands of some vulgarians who will fill it with gilt and spurious Old Masters?"

In the end she wondered why she had felt any objection. Better George than anyone. And he was so kind and understanding about everything. She was tired and worried. She broke down suddenly, cried on his shoulder whilst he put an arm round her and told her that everything was all right, that it was only because she'd been ill.

Nobody could have been kinder or more brotherly.

When she told her mother Mrs. Vereker said: "I knew George was looking out for a place. It's lucky he's chosen Abbots Puissants. He's probably haggled less about the price simply because he was once in love with you."

The remote way she said "once in love with you" made Nell feel comfortable. She had imagined that her mother might have "ideas" still about George Chetwynd.

_5_

That summer they went down and stayed at Abbots Puissants. They were the only guests. Nell had not been there since she was a child. A deep regret came upon her that she could not have lived there with Vernon. The house was truly beautiful and so were the stately gardens and the ruined Abbey.

George was in the middle of doing up the house and he consulted her taste at every turn. Nell began to feel quite a proprietary interest. She was almost happy again, enjoying the ease and luxury and the freedom from anxiety.

True, once she received the money from Abbots Puissants and had invested it she would have a nice little income, but she dreaded the onus of deciding where to live and what to do. She was not really happy with her mother, and all her own friends seemed to have drifted out of touch. She hardly knew where to go or what to do with her life.

Abbots Puissants gave her just the peace and rest she needed. She felt sheltered there and safe. She dreaded the return to town.

It was the last evening. George had pressed them to remain longer but Mrs. Vereker had declared that they really couldn't trespass further on his hospitality.

Nell and George walked together on the long flagged walk. It was a still balmy evening.

"It has been lovely here," said Nell, with a little sigh. "I hate going back."

"I hate your going back, too." He paused, and then said very quietly: "I suppose there's no chance for me, is there, Nell?"

"I don't know what you mean."

But she did know--she knew at once.

"I bought this house because I hoped someday you'd live here. I wanted you to have the home that was rightfully yours. Are you going to spend your whole life nursing a memory, Nell? Do you think he--Vernon--would wish it? I never think of the dead like that--as grudging happiness to the living. I think he would want you to be looked after and taken care of, now that he isn't here to do it."

She said in a low voice: "I can't ... I can't."

"You mean you can't forget him? I know that. But I'd be very good to you, Nell. You'd be wrapped round with love and care. I think I could make you happy--happier, at any rate, than you'll be facing life by yourself. I do honestly and truly believe that Vernon would wish it."

Would he? She wondered. She thought George was right. People might call it disloyalty, but it wasn't. That life of hers with Vernon was something by itself--nothing could touch it ever.

But oh! to be looked after, cared for, petted, and understood. She always _had_ been fond of George.

She answered very softly: "Yes."

_6_

The person who was angry about it was Myra. She wrote long abusive letters to Nell.

You can forget so soon. Vernon has only one home--in my heart. You
never loved him.

Uncle Sydney twirled his thumbs and said: "That young woman knows which side her bread is buttered on," and wrote her a stereotyped letter of congratulations.

An unexpected ally was Joe, who was paying a flying visit to London and came round to see Nell at her mother's flat.

"I'm very glad," she said, kissing her. "And I'm sure Vernon would be. You're not the kind that can face life on your own. You never were. Don't you mind what Aunt Myra says. _I'll_ talk to her. Life's a rotten business for women. I think you'll be happy with George. Vernon would want you to be happy, I know."

Joe's support heartened Nell more than anything. Joe had always been the nearest person to Vernon. On the night before her wedding she knelt by her bed and looked up to where Vernon's sword hung over the head of it.

She pressed her hands over her closed eyes.

"You do understand, beloved? You do? You do? It's you I love and always shall.... Oh! Vernon, if only I could know that you understood."

She tried to send her very soul out questing in search of him. He must--he _must_--know and understand.

chapter 4

In the town of A---- in Holland, not far from the German frontier, is an inconspicuous inn. Here on a certain evening in 1917 a dark young man with a haggard face pushed open the door and in very halting Dutch asked for a lodging for the night. He breathed hard and his eyes were restless. Anna Schlieder, the fat proprietress of the inn, looked at him attentively up and down in her usual deliberate way before she replied. Then she told him that he could have a room. Her daughter Freda took him up to it. When she came back her mother said laconically: "English--escaped prisoner."

Freda nodded but said nothing. Her china-blue eyes were soft and sentimental. She had reasons of her own for taking an interest in the English. Presently she again mounted the stairs and knocked on the door. She went in on top of the knock, which as a matter of fact the young man had not heard. He was so sunk in a stupor of exhaustion that external sounds and happenings had hardly any meaning for him. For days and weeks he had been on the _qui vive_, escaping dangers by a hair's-breadth, never daring to be caught napping either physically or mentally. Now he was suffering the reaction. He lay where he had fallen, half sprawling across the bed. Freda stood and watched him. At last she said:

"I bring you hot water."

"Oh!" He started up. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

She said slowly and carefully in his own language: "You are English--yes?"

"Yes. Yes, that is----"

He stopped suddenly in doubt. One must be careful. The danger was over--he was out of Germany. He felt slightly light-headed. A diet of raw potatoes, dug up from the fields, was not stimulating to the brain. But he still felt he _must_ be careful. It was so difficult. He felt queer--felt that he wanted to talk and talk, pour out everything now that at last that fearful long strain was over.

The Dutch girl was nodding her head at him gravely, wisely.

"I know," she said. "You come from over there." Her hand pointed in the direction of the frontier.

He looked at her, still irresolute.

"You have escaped--yes. We had before one like you."

A wave of reassurance passed over him. She was all right, this girl. His legs suddenly felt weak under him. He dropped down on the bed again.

"You are hungry? Yes. I see. I go and bring you something."

Was he hungry? He supposed he was. How long was it since he had eaten? One day, two days? He couldn't remember. The end had been like a nightmare--just keeping blindly on. He had had a map and a compass. He had known the place where he wanted to cross the frontier, the spot that seemed to him to offer the best chance. A thousand-to-one chance against his being able to pass the frontier--but he had passed it. They had shot at him and missed. Or was that all a dream? He had swum down the river--that was it. No, that was all wrong, too. Well, he wouldn't think about it. He had escaped, that was the great thing.

He leaned forward, supporting his aching head in his hands.

Very soon Freda returned carrying a tray with food on it and a great tankard of beer. He ate and drank whilst she stood watching him. The effect was magical. His head cleared. He _had_ been light-headed, he realized that now. He smiled up at Freda.

"That's splendid," he said. "Thanks awfully."

Encouraged by his smile, she sat down on a chair.

"You know London?"

"Yes, I know it." He smiled a little. She had asked that so quaintly.

Freda did not smile. She was in deadly earnest.

"You know a soldier there? A what is it?--Corporal Green?"

He shook his head, a little touched.

"I'm afraid not," he said gently. "Do you know his regiment?"

"It was a London regiment--the London Fusiliers." She had no further information than that.

He said kindly: "When I get back to London I'll try to find out, if you like to give me a letter."

She looked at him doubtfully, yet with a certain air of trusting appeal. In the end the doubt was vanquished.

"I will write--yes," she said.

She rose to leave the room and said abruptly: "We have an English paper here--two English papers here. My cousin brought them from the hotel. You would like to see them, yes?"

He thanked her and she returned, bringing a tattered _Eve_ and a _Sketch_ which she handed to him with some pride.

When she left the room again he laid down the papers by his side and lighted a cigarette--his last cigarette! What would he have done without those cigarettes--stolen at that! Perhaps Freda would bring him some--he had money to pay for them. A kind girl, Freda, in spite of her thick ankles and an unprepossessing exterior.

He took out a small notebook from his pocket. The pages were blank and he wrote in it: _Corporal Green, London Fusiliers_. He would do what he could for the girl. He wondered idly what story lay behind it. What had Corporal Green been doing in Holland in A----? Poor Freda! It was the usual thing, he supposed.

Green--it reminded him of his childhood. _Mr. Green._ The omnipotent delightful Mr. Green--his playfellow and protector. Funny, the things one thought of when one was a kid!

He'd never told Nell about Mr. Green. Perhaps she'd had a Mr. Green of her own. Perhaps all children did.

He thought: "Nell--oh! Nell ..." and his heart missed a beat. Then he turned his thoughts resolutely away. Very soon now. Poor darling, what she must have suffered knowing him to be a prisoner in Germany! But that was all over now. Very soon now they'd be together. Very soon. Oh! he mustn't think of it. The task in hand--no looking forward.

He picked up the _Sketch_ and idly turned over the pages. A lot of new shows seemed to be on. What fun to go to a show again. Pictures of generals all looking very fierce and warlike. Pictures of people getting married. Not a bad-looking crowd. That one----Why----

_It wasn't true--it couldn't be true. Another dream--a nightmare._

Mrs. Vernon Deyre, who is to marry Mr. George Chetwynd. Mrs.
Deyre's first husband was killed in action over a year ago. Mr.
George Chetwynd is an American who has done very valuable relief
work in Serbia.

Killed in action--yes, he supposed, that might be. In spite of all conceivable precautions, mistakes like that _did_ arise. A man Vernon knew had been reported killed. A thousandth chance, but it happened.

Naturally, Nell would have believed--and naturally, quite naturally, she would marry again.

What nonsense he was talking! Nell--marry again! So soon. Marry George--_George_ with his gray hair.

A sudden sharp pang shot through him. He had visualized George too clearly. Damn George. Blast and curse George!

But it wasn't true. No, it wasn't true!

He stood up, studying himself as he swayed on his feet. To anyone who had seen him, he would have appeared a little drunk.

He was perfectly calm--yes, he was perfectly calm. The thing was not to believe--not to think. Put it away--right away. It wasn't true--it couldn't be true. If you once admitted that it might be true, you were done.

He went out of his room, down the stairs. He passed the girl Freda, who stared at him. He said very quietly and calmly (marvellous that he should be so calm):

"I'm going out for a walk."

He went out, oblivious of old Anna Schlieder's eyes that raked his back as he passed her. The girl Freda said to her:

"He passed me on the stairs like--like--what has happened to him?"

Anna tapped her forehead significantly. Nothing ever surprised her.

Out on the road Vernon was walking--walking very fast. He must get away--get away from the thing that was following him. If he looked round--if he thought about it--but he wouldn't think about it.

Everything was all right--_everything_.

Only he mustn't think. This queer dark thing that was following him--following him.... If he didn't think, he was all right.

Nell--Nell with her golden hair and her sweet smile. His Nell. Nell and George.... No, no, no! It wasn't so. He was in time.

And suddenly, lucidly, there ran through his mind the thought: "That paper was six months old at least. They've been married five months."

He reeled. He thought: "I can't bear it. No, this I can't bear. Something must happen."

He held on blindly to that: _Something must happen_.

Somebody would help him. Mr. Green. What was this awful thing that was dogging him? Of course, the Beast. The Beast.

He could hear it coming. He gave one panic-stricken glance over his shoulder. He was out of the town now, walking on a straight road between dykes. The Beast was coming lumbering along at a great pace, rattling and bumping.

The Beast.... Oh! if only he could go back--to the Beast and Mr. Green, the old terrors, the old comforts. They didn't hurt you like the new things--like Nell and George Chetwynd. George.... Nell belonging to George....

No! no, it wasn't true--it mustn't be true. He couldn't face any more. Not that--not that.

There was only one way to get out of it all, to be at peace--only one way. Vernon Deyre had made a mess of life. Better to get out of it.

One last flaming agony shot through his brain. Nell--George--no! He thrust them out with a last effort. Mr. Green--kind Mr. Green.

He stepped out into the roadway right in the path of the lurching lorry that tried to avoid him too late--and struck him down and backward.

A horrible searing shock. Thank God, this was death.