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Title: The Hour Before the Dawn
Author: Maugham, W. Somerset [William Somerset] (1874-1965)
Date of first publication: 1942
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Triangle Books, June 1944
   [apparently printed from the plates of
   the 1942 Doubleday, Doran edition]
Date first posted: 12 May 2020
Date last updated: 12 May 2020
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1651

This ebook was produced by
Al Haines, Cindy Beyer, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.






THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN

by W. Somerset Maugham




    _In every work regard the writer's end,_
    _Since none can compass more than they intend._

    POPE.




[I]

She walked across the wide stretch of lawn, with its fine cedars,
through a wrought-iron gate in a brick wall mellow with age, and out
into the formal garden. There was a raised terrace that ran along the
whole rear of the stately house and it was reached by a flight of steps
at the top of which, on each side, was a weather-beaten Italian statue
on a pedestal. The garden, rich with the gay flowers of late August,
extended from the terrace to a low iron fence that separated it from the
great park and prevented the cattle that grazed there from wandering in.
She was a young woman with pale brown hair and dark brown eyes, slim and
tall, and with that virginal look that many English women strangely
retain after years of marriage. She had a straight nose, with delicate
nostrils, a candid brow and a well-shaped mouth; the red of her painted
lips made her clear white skin look even whiter. In her quiet, almost
demure way, she was a very pretty woman, but since there was nothing
striking in her appearance, since she dressed very simply, it was not
till you talked to her that you were aware of it. Because she was shy
she gave many people the impression that she was cold or casual, but the
most censorious dowagers in the county admitted in their ponderous,
old-fashioned way that though she might be a trifle offhand she was a
gentlewoman. It offended them a little that she was obviously quite
indifferent to their opinion of her. Without rank, a naval officer's
daughter, and without a penny of her own, she had the unassuming
distinction of a well-bred woman who is aware without arrogance of her
place in society and makes no claim to be other than what she is.

Her thoughts troubled her and her face had been grave as she walked
across the lawn, but a faint smile softened her brown eyes as she saw
her mother-in-law, Mrs. Henderson, sitting on the terrace. The table was
laid out for tea. A butler and a couple of footmen were in the act of
bringing out from the house the urn and the tea-pot, plates of bread and
butter, scones and cake. Mrs. Henderson was reading a novel, but she put
it down as her daughter-in-law joined her.

"Haven't you been playing, May?" she asked.

"No. I felt lazy. They're just finishing a sett and then they're coming
along."

From the terrace you could hear the voices of the players as they called
the score and the ping of the ball against the taut gut of the racket.

"You're looking rather washed out, dear. D'you think the heat's too much
for you?" asked Mrs. Henderson.

May faintly coloured under Mrs. Henderson's kindly but shrewd eye.

"Oh, no, I'll play after tea."

"I dare say that Roger'll be glad to have a game."

Roger was her eldest son and May's husband. He had arrived from abroad
the night before and had telephoned that morning to say that he would
drive down in the course of the day. It was Mrs. Henderson's birthday,
her fifty-third, and according to their habit all the family were
assembled. There were her two younger sons, Jim who was still at Oxford,
and Tommy who was only thirteen and home from school; and there were her
daughter Jane and her daughter's husband Ian Foster. And of course there
was her own husband the General. Mrs. Henderson had a suspicion that
sometimes they didn't find it altogether convenient to come from
wherever they might be to spend her birthday with her, especially as it
was on the last day of August and there was grouse to be shot on the
Yorkshire moors, but she liked to have them there, round her, on that
one day of the year and though they might come when they would have
preferred to be elsewhere only to please her she knew that they made the
sacrifice willingly. She accepted it as a proof of their love for her.
It was her only selfishness. Roger was a soldier, in the Military
Intelligence, and for the last three or four years had been much out of
England. He had been in Japan and in the United States, and during the
last twelve months, since Munich, he had been in Spain and the Balkans,
several times to France and now was just back from Poland. Mrs.
Henderson had given up hope that he would be able to spend this birthday
with her and it was with joyful surprise that she had heard his voice on
the telephone that morning. His arrival would make her happiness
complete. She was glad for May's sake too. May hadn't seen much of him
of late. It was a pity she had no children.

"Here's Jane," said Mrs. Henderson, with her ready smile.

Jane Foster came through the gateway, up the steps on to the terrace,
and sank into a chair. It was odd that Mrs. Henderson should have such a
daughter. Mrs. Henderson was a tall, handsome, grey-haired woman, with
fine features that gave her a somewhat severe look, but with mild,
friendly eyes. She was dressed in black. But Jane wore bright green
slacks and a green and yellow tunic with a bold geometrical pattern. On
her feet were yellow sandals with enormously thick cork soles. From each
sandal protruded a scarlet toenail. She was thirty-four, Mrs.
Henderson's eldest child, a tall, rather gaunt, rather masculine, rather
horsey woman. Her naturally dark hair was hennaed and she was as heavily
made-up as an actress about to face the footlights. The obvious desire
of that big-featured woman to look alluring would have been pathetic if
its grotesqueness hadn't been disarming. She was a joke and you couldn't
but believe that she knew it and saw the fun of it. And to add to the
fantastic quality of her appearance she wore in her left eye a rimless
monocle without a cord. The dowagers who have just been mentioned were
agreed that if you didn't know all about her you would have said she was
dreadfully common. Little escaped the sharp eye behind the monocle, and
being perfectly aware of this she took care to give these ladies ample
cause for their remarks.

"It's funny," they said plaintively, "that men seem to like her."

It was mortifying that at a dinner party when the men, having finished
their port, came into the drawing-room they should gather round Jane and
shout with coarse laughter while she aired her views on things in
general with a freedom of speech unusual in county society. And her
father and mother were such nice people.

Mrs. Henderson, when she took in the details of Jane's turn-out, raised
her eyebrows.

"My poor Jane, are you obliged to make up quite so much on a summer
afternoon in the depths of the country?"

"I feel so funny if I haven't got my face on," answered Jane, taking out
her lipstick and painting lips that were already heavily painted.

"You wouldn't look so funny if you hadn't."

Jane gave a deep throaty laugh.

"Darling, how sweet you are to me, but I love you just the same."

Mrs. Henderson wasn't devoid of a sense of humour.

"You're so vulgar, the neighbours can't help thinking there must have
been a little nonsense between me and one of the gamekeepers and that
isn't very nice for me as I was only nineteen when you were born."

"And was there, Mother?"

Mrs. Henderson and May burst out laughing.

"You fool, Jane." Mrs. Henderson ladled spoonfuls of tea into the
tea-pot and poured hot water in. "They won't be long, will they? Who's
playing?"

"Father and Tommy are playing against Dick Murray and Dora."

"Why doesn't Jim come along then and have his tea?"

"Why indeed? You don't suppose he could tear himself away when Dora's on
the court."

"Don't be so silly, Jane," said Mrs. Henderson a trifle tartly.

Jane secured her glass more firmly in her eye.

"Darling, you don't miss much. I know _I_ can never get away with
anything with you. I don't know if Dora's in love with Jim, but I know
Jim's so much in love with her he can't see straight. And you know it
too."

Mrs. Henderson stirred the tea leaves while her daughter and her
daughter-in-law looked at her curiously. She gave her shoulders a faint
shrug.

"He's only twenty-one, poor lamb. He'll forget her when he goes back to
Oxford."

"You wouldn't like it very much if he went off and married a foreigner,
would you?"

"Even foreigners are human, darling," said Mrs. Henderson, with what for
her was considerable acidity. "I've noticed that's something we English
are apt to forget."

Jane sat up in her chair.

"D'you mean to say you wouldn't mind?"

For a moment Mrs. Henderson was silent and when she spoke it was more as
if she were speaking to herself than answering Jane.

"She's pretty and she's intelligent. I'm terribly sorry for her. She's
alone in the world. She hasn't a home and she hasn't a country. And that
nightmare of her father having been done to death in a concentration
camp!"

"Still she is a German. If war breaks out you won't be able to keep her
here."

"Your father says there won't be a war. He says he knows it for a fact
that when it comes to the point Hitler will climb down."

"Father would hate Jim to marry Dora."

Mrs. Henderson looked with her mild eyes from Jane to May and then from
May to Jane.

"I wonder. May has been married for eight years and she hasn't any
children. You haven't either, Jane."

"What do you suggest I should do about it? Get a new chauffeur?" Jane
asked.

Mrs. Henderson, going on with her thoughts, took no notice of the
flippant remark.

"We've had this place for two hundred years. It's the pride of your
father's heart. I don't think he'd mind much whom Jim married if only
there were children to carry on."

She gave a glance at the noble faade of the great house and then her
eyes travelled over the formal garden with its Italian fountain, its
statues, its grass paths and many-coloured flowers, till they rested on
the park beyond. There were trees there as old as the house. Under the
shade of a huge oak cows were lying. As far as the eye could reach it
was Henderson land. It kept them poor to maintain that vast house and
that great estate. But they loved their home, she and her husband, and
there was hardly a tenant who didn't farm the land that his father and
grandfather and great-grandfather hadn't farmed before him. They were
prepared to sacrifice themselves to hand down to their successors intact
the house and land that they held in trust.

Jane was about to speak when she saw the General stroll through the
wrought-iron gate.

"Here they are," she said.

General Henderson was a tall man, slim and erect, with a lined, bronzed
face and white hair, whom you could never have taken for anything but a
soldier. Even in tennis things he managed to look well groomed and you
might have guessed that he was fussy about his clothes. His manner was
brisk and authoritative, but you couldn't know him long without
discovering that this was, as it were, a professional veneer and that at
heart he was a kindly, easy-going man; he was brave and honest, but he
had the narrowness of his caste and calling, and he had common sense
rather than intelligence. He could more easily forgive an injury than a
social solecism. You could rely on him to the death, but you couldn't
always rely on him to do the wise thing. He walked up to the terrace
accompanied by his two sons, and a moment later Ian Foster, Jane's
husband, appeared with Dick Murray, the General's agent. Between them
was the girl of whom Mrs. Henderson and her daughter had been speaking.
Dora Friedberg was twenty. She had very fair hair and large blue
intelligent eyes and a honey-coloured skin. She was slender, but with
full breasts, and her elegant little head was set proudly on a lovely
neck. Notwithstanding the blond and healthy radiance of her youth, there
was in the firmness of her chin, in the decision of her mouth and the
singular repose in her eyes when she was not speaking, something that
suggested a strong will. Jane, who had taken an instinctive dislike to
her, had told her husband:

"I wouldn't trust her a yard. She'd be a demon, that girl, if she was
roused."

But Jane was wrong in saying that Dora was German; she was Austrian. The
Hendersons had met her at Kitzbhl in the Austrian Tyrol during the
winter that preceded the Anschluss. She was staying with her mother at
the same hotel as they were. Frau Friedberg was a woman of distinguished
appearance and Mrs. Henderson, who was not indifferent to such things,
was not surprised to learn that she was of good family. She spoke little
of her husband, a lawyer, and Mrs. Henderson guessed that he was of a
class inferior to her own. It was likely enough that after the ruin of
Austria she had been glad to marry any man who offered her security. The
two boys, Jim and Tommy, took a fancy to the pretty, lively girl and Jim
went on long excursions with her. She was a beautiful skier. A year
later she wrote to Mrs. Henderson to say that her father had died in a
concentration camp and she wanted to come to England to get work. She
didn't mind what it was and she asked Mrs. Henderson to help her to find
something. Mrs. Henderson, full of pity, after consulting the General
wrote back asking Dora to stay with them while they looked about. But it
wasn't easy to get a job for an Austrian refugee just then. Dora could
cook and was quite willing to go into domestic service, but the
Hendersons didn't like the idea of it, and they thought, moreover, that
in such a situation her beauty must inevitably expose her to
unpleasantness. They begged her to wait till something turned up that
was suitable to her education and culture. While she waited she made
herself useful. The General was a justice of the peace and chairman of
the local county council; and Mrs. Henderson, much occupied with good
works, was on a number of committees; they found it very convenient to
have at hand a willing and intelligent secretary. With Jim at Oxford and
Tommy at school, they were alone for months at a time and the presence
of that charming girl brought life to the great, stately house. It was
the General's suggestion that she should stay with them indefinitely.
She accepted it with a gratitude that touched them. The Hendersons had
taken her out of the kindness that was natural to them, but before long
they looked upon her with real affection. She became one of the family.
In Mrs. Henderson's heart she took the place of the two daughters who
had come between Roger and Jim and whose death in childhood she still
mourned.

Mrs. Henderson began to pour out tea.

"How did you play, Tommy?" she smilingly asked the untidy, tousle-haired
little boy who was her youngest son, when he sat down at the tea table.

"Like a foot," he answered in his treble voice. "We only just beat
them."

"If you'd been on your game we shouldn't have had a look in, I suppose,"
said Dick Murray with a grin.

"All right. Pull my leg."

He stretched out a thin arm and took a big piece of cake.

"Bread and butter first, darling," said his mother.

"What a life!" he piped. "I thought in the holidays I was supposed to
have a little happiness."

He carefully examined the plate and chose the smallest piece he could
find.

"You have a rotten life, old boy, don't you?" the General smiled.

Mrs. Henderson gave her son a glance of tender amusement. He was by
years the youngest of her children and she doted on him. There was in
his skinny legs and arms, in that slender body and in that smooth funny
little face of his something that wrung her heart-strings. She felt she
must be constantly on her guard not to spoil him. But he was growing so
fast, he seemed so frail, and he was never still, busy from morning till
night with one thing and another, that sometimes she was afraid; she
didn't know what she would do if anything happened to him.

When Dick Murray had come on to the terrace with the others he took a
quick look round and then moved as if to sit down in the vacant chair
next to May; but she gave him a glance and it may be that it bore a
message, for he changed his mind and seated himself by Mrs. Henderson.
Jane, puffing a cigarette, noticed it. She looked at him thoughtfully. A
fellow of not unpleasing appearance. He was young, four or five years
younger than herself, but his hair, thick and wavy, was prematurely
grey; and this, with his tanned, unlined skin, was peculiarly
attractive; it made his fine blue eyes look even bluer than they were
and his lashes darker. His features weren't particularly good, rather
blunt, but when he smiled he showed a set of very white, regular teeth.
He was somewhat heavily built, with broad shoulders, and of no more than
average height. There was a charming twinkle in his blue eyes and on his
face a look of great good humour. Everybody liked him; he had so much
vitality, it warmed you to be with him; and if there was something
aggressively animal about him, it was so healthy, it was combined with
so much friendliness and simplicity of nature, that it was not
offensive, but only invigorating.

"A wonderful lover, I should think," reflected Jane.

With a sardonic smile on her painted lips she now turned her gaze on her
husband. Ian Foster sank his huge bulk into a rattan chair and it
creaked under his two hundred pounds. He was a huge, red-faced man, with
a great booming voice, and his obesity was a disgrace. He took his
handkerchief and wiped his brow.

"I don't know why you should be hot," Jane said to him tartly. "You
haven't been playing."

"They all ran about so strenuously it made the sweat drip off me just to
look at them. It's given me such a thirst that unless I have a whisky
and soda I shall pass out."

"You'll drink tea, Ian," his wife said firmly. "And if you'd run about a
bit more yourself you might get a little of that horrible fat off you."

"What was it that Solomon said about a nagging woman?"

"Nothing," Jane retorted. "He said a virtuous wife is above rubies."

"Considering that you've been flagrantly unfaithful to me for years I
fail to see how that applies to you, Jane."

"What did you expect when you married a glamour girl?"

"Idiots," said Mrs. Henderson, enveloping them both with her
affectionate smile.

They were accustomed to hearing Ian and Jane say outrageous things to
one another; they sparred all day long and when one got a rise out of
the other he chortled with glee. No one knew better than Mrs. Henderson
how deeply Jane loved that corpulent, gross, loquacious man and how
devoted he was to the plain, gawky creature who by some strange freak of
nature was her daughter. Though he was constantly flying into a passion
with her, when he would abuse her in language of incredible violence, he
was entirely dependent upon her and without her was lost. To him she was
the grandest woman in the world, the most amusing and the cleverest and
the truest. They were comics, both of them, and theirs was a perfect
marriage.

The General looked at his watch.

"Where the devil's that scoundrel Roger?" he asked. "He ought to be here
by now."

"He won't be long," answered Mrs. Henderson. "His secretary phoned from
the War Office two hours ago to say he was just starting."

"You'll be glad to see him, May, won't you?" said Jane.

May flushed a little.

"Naturally," she smiled. "After five months."

"I suppose he'll bring all the latest news," said Dora.

It was the first time she had spoken. She had a pleasant voice and only
a trace of a German accent. The General turned to her with a kindly
smile on his thin, weather-beaten face.

"Take my word for it, Dora, you've got nothing to be alarmed about.
There's not going to be a war. Chamberlain will keep us out of it as he
kept us out last year."

"It'll be a bit awkward for you if there's a war, won't it, Jim?" asked
Jane.

He looked at her coolly.

"Not at all."

"You're still a pacifist, aren't you?"

The General looked down with a slight frown and Mrs. Henderson gave her
daughter a glance of annoyance. Jim's views were a subject that she
sought to keep out of the conversation. Jim and his father had already
had several arguments upon it and they had said things to one another
that would have been better left unsaid. Why couldn't they understand
that he was a boy, only twenty-one, and it was natural at his age to
have extravagant opinions? He would change them when he grew older and
learnt something about life. His pacifism was like his communism, merely
an expression of the natural idealism of youth. Why, you only had to
look at him. He was as tall as his father, broad-shouldered and well set
up, with a nice-looking sensitive face, more sensitive than Roger's, but
with the same family likeness. There was nothing mawkish or abnormal
about him; indeed he was a high-spirited, manly youth. Though a fine
athlete who rowed for his college and had played golf for his
university, he was a hard worker. He was the only one of her children
who cared for books for their own sake. Roger was a great reader too,
but he only read what immediately concerned his job; he had a one-track
mind: Jim was a boy of wide interests, and, even making allowances for a
mother's partiality, Mrs. Henderson felt herself justified in cherishing
high hopes for his future. He had done well at school, he was doing well
at Oxford; he was a good speaker and was going to be a lawyer; there was
no knowing to what eminence he might not rise. But of course he must be
sensible. Mrs. Henderson wanted to hear what answer Jim would make to
Jane's deliberately provocative question. He turned to her gravely; he
spoke not with truculence, but with a firmness that was impressive. He
looked Jane straight in the eyes.

"Yes, I'm still a pacifist. War settles nothing. It's not only an
iniquitous business, but a stupid business. There are a lot of us at
Oxford and if there's a war we shall refuse to fight."

"You say that now, old boy," Ian broke in, with a tolerant grin on his
fat red face, "but if war breaks out you'll change your mind all right.
Heaven knows, I don't want war, but if it does come I'm going to be in
on it."

"Don't be so silly, Ian," cried Jane. "You're too old to fight and much
too fat."

"Will you oblige me by keeping your trap shut, darling?" he retorted.

Mrs. Henderson's eyes wandered past the formal garden to the park
beyond. The late sun bathed it in a golden beauty. The trees, the
gnarled oak trees with their dark foliage, the lush green of the
meadowland and the sheen of the lake--oh it was lovely. Not a breath of
wind stirred the leaves. It gave you the impression of such perfect,
such heavenly tranquillity that you felt it must last forever. You had a
singular feeling that the moment would never pass, the cows lying under
the oak trees never rise to their feet and the night never come. Time,
as though tired of his restless wandering, stood still. Mrs. Henderson
gave a faint sigh.

"When I went down to the village this morning with everyone so happy and
friendly and contented, and when I look at that peaceful scene with all
of you here, I can't bring myself to believe that there's even a
possibility of war."

But Jim still held Jane fixed with his serious eyes.

"Are there any more questions you want to ask me?" he said.

"No, there aren't," said Mrs. Henderson sharply. "Let me have at least
this one day without an argument."

Dick Murray with his good nature and ready tact threw a casual remark
into a conversation that was on the point of losing its amenity.

"Lucky Roger was able to make it, Mrs. Henderson. It would have been a
disappointment to you if he hadn't got back in time."

"It would. It's dreadfully sentimental and old-fashioned of me, but I'm
bound to admit it, it means a great deal to me to have my family round
me on my birthday."

"Let's hope Roger won't be so damned secretive as he usually is," said
Ian.

"Well, he's a sleuth, isn't he?" Tommy piped in. "If you're a sleuth
you've jolly well got to be secretive."

"I wish I could get into the Intelligence Department," Ian went on.
"It's just the sort of job that would suit me."

"What in Heaven's name makes you think that, Ian?" Jane cried, fixing
him with her monocle. "They want brains for that, my boy, brains."

He gave a great guffaw. She had given him an opening and he promptly
took it.

"I suppose you think if I'd had a spark of intelligence I wouldn't have
married you and I'm not sure that you're not damned well right."

But before Jane could think of a crushing retort Mrs. Henderson gave a
cry.

"Roger."

He was standing in front of one of the open french windows that led from
the great hall of the house on to the terrace. He had come in as quietly
as was his habit and was watching them with an amused smile. He came
forward and taking his mother in his arms kissed her warmly. Tommy
jumped up and flung his arms round him.

"You're not too old to kiss yet, are you, old boy?" said Roger, giving
him a fond embrace.

Then he turned to his wife. She had risen on seeing him and put her hand
to her heart as though to stay its beating. Her pale face had gone paler
still. When he kissed her she slightly turned her mouth away so that his
lips only touched her cheek.

"Hulloa, May. You're looking grand."

"Have a nice journey, Roger?" she asked.

"Not so bad. A bit bumpy."

He greeted the rest of them and then his eyes fell on a stranger.

"This is Dora Friedberg," said Mrs. Henderson. "I forgot, you haven't
been down here since she's been living with us. She's been a great
help."

"May wrote and said you had a friend staying with you."

"The General and Mrs. Henderson have been wonderfully kind to me," said
Dora with a little smile.

"Nonsense, my dear," said the General. "I don't know what we should have
done without you in this great barn with no one but my wife and me to
live in it."

Roger turned back to his mother and fished out of his pocket a small
box.

"I've brought you a present from Warsaw, darling. Many happy returns."

He kissed her again. It was an antique brooch and Mrs. Henderson,
flushing with pleasure, put it on. Roger was her eldest and best-loved
son. He was the heir to the property. She looked at him now as he drank
his tea and ate cake, talking the while easily, and thought with pride
that he was a fine figure of a man. He too was tall, broad-shouldered
and well-knit, but his face was stronger than his father's or Jim's;
there was decision, even sternness in his well-marked features, and his
eyes were keen and observant. Now and then they rested for an instant on
Dora and Mrs. Henderson knew he was taking her measure. When he had done
eating she asked whether he wouldn't like to go and put on something
cooler, for he was wearing a blue serge suit.

"You and May have got your usual rooms."

"I don't mind giving you a tennis lesson after you've changed," said
Tommy, with a grin.

"That's awfully good of you, old boy," smiled Roger. "I'm afraid I can't
stay, Mother. I must get back to town after dinner."

"Oh, Roger."

"I didn't want to miss your birthday altogether, darling, but I'm up to
my eyes in work at the War Office."

The General pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"Come into the library with me, Roger," he said. "I want to have a
chat."

"Oh, George, he wants to talk to May," said Mrs. Henderson. "He hasn't
seen her for so long."

"Let me have him for half an hour, May. You shall have him for as long
as you like after that."

"Of course," she answered.

When the General and Roger had left them Dick Murray got up and
announced that he must go.

"Aren't you going to play any more tennis?" cried Tommy.

"I'm afraid I can't. I've got a job to do in the village."

"You might take a note for me," said May. "I'll go and get it. I'll
bring it out to your car."

She went in to the house. Dick was at the wheel when she came out of the
front door with an envelope in her hand.

"You look awfully white, dear," he said, in a low voice, as she gave it
to him.

"I'm nervous, that's only natural."

"I wish I could be with you."

"I must do it alone."

There was a troubled look on his good-natured sunburnt face, and his
fine blue eyes, with their dark lashes, were harassed. She smiled.

"Don't look so worried. I shall manage. You'd better be going."

As he started the car he glanced at the envelope she had given him. He
saw his own name scribbled on it. When he got out of the park gates he
stopped the car and opened the letter. There was a sheet of note-paper
inside and on it written in pencil only three words.

_I love you._


[II]

May went to her room. She wanted to collect herself. She wanted to be
sure that she would say exactly what she had made up her mind to say. A
shiver ran down her spine and her heart seemed to miss a beat as she
considered the ordeal before her. But she was determined to go through
with it.

At last she heard Roger come in to the adjoining room.

"May," he called.

"I'm here."

He came in.

"I was looking for you."

"Sit down, will you? I want to have a talk with you."

"That suits me," he answered cheerily. "Gosh, it's good to be home
again. Mother's looking grand, isn't she? And Tommy's shooting up. He'll
be as tall as Jim when he's full grown."

She looked at him steadily, though her heart now was beating fast. Her
throat was dry. It was awful to be so scared. The only thing was to set
her teeth and make a dash at it. She knew Roger well enough to be aware
that it was useless to beat about the bush.

"Roger, I want you to let me divorce you."

"May," he cried.

He stared at her with horrified bewilderment.

"Please don't speak. I want you to listen to me. You've always been kind
to me. I've got no fault to find with you. It's just that I can't go on
like this any longer. I'm so terribly lonely."

His eyes were suddenly distressed.

"My dear."

"I'm not blaming you for that. I know it isn't your fault."

"I know I'm away a great deal. I'd take you with me if I could, but I
can't. It's a very peculiar job I've got and I must be completely on my
own."

"I realize that."

"You must know that I love you, May."

She gave him a faint derisive smile. The worst was over now and she had
her nerves under control.

"I think you really do in your way. But it's not a way that brings me
much happiness. You love me as you love an old suit of clothes, because
you feel comfortable in it. You like to think of me sitting in the flat
all ready to welcome you when you come back from one of your hush-hush
jobs."

He moved uncomfortably in his chair.

"You make me sound horribly selfish."

She shook her head.

"Heaven knows you're not that. I know that your work is important and
that you're very good at it. It's just my bad luck that there's no place
for me in your life but just to sit and wait. That's what I've been
doing for years now, waiting. I'm tired of it."

He made an odd little movement of his hands and then clasped them
together. It was as though he were distraught, but were unwilling to
betray himself. May noticed it and thought bitterly how well that
instinctive repressed gesture revealed their married life. She looked at
him sadly.

"Has it occurred to you that after being married to you eight years I'm
still rather frightened of you?"

"Oh, May, what a terrible thing to say," he cried.

"It's a fact. Don't you think it's rather pitiful? You see, I don't know
you. I only know the side of you you've chosen to show me. I'm not sure
that there isn't another side of you that's hard and ruthless."

He looked away quickly as though there were something in his soul that
he did not want her to see.

"You don't seem able ever to let yourself go. You're incapable of
intimacy."

He looked back to her now and there was a good-humoured smile on his
lips.

"Aren't you being rather melodramatic, my dear? I've always looked upon
myself as a very simple sort of chap. I try to do my duty and I want to
do my job as well as I can."

"And your job is the most important thing in your life, isn't it? More
important far than me."

"Need I answer that question?" he chuckled.

"I'd like you to."

"I wouldn't think much of a chap who let his love for his wife hamper
him in the performance of his duty. Would you have me otherwise?"

She sighed.

"I had no idea that you weren't just as happy as I was," he went on.

"If you hadn't been so absorbed in your work you'd have noticed long ago
that something was wrong."

"You can't expect me to chuck my work."

"Of course not."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"There's nothing you can do. I want to live. I want to be happy. I'm
twenty-eight, Roger; if I don't make a break now it'll be too late."

She could see that he was deeply distressed and it hurt her to pain him;
but at the same time she felt that he thought her unreasonable. He
didn't understand. He gave her a searching look and she coloured.

"Are you in love with somebody else?"

"Yes."

He hesitated a moment. His eyes seemed to try to pierce her inmost soul.

"D'you mind telling me who it is?"

"Dick Murray."

"Dick?"

His utter surprise was obvious in his face and tone. Evidently Dick was
the last person in the world whom he would have expected her to have any
feeling for.

"Is he in love with you?"

"Yes."

He was silent for a while. She knew that he hated scenes and she knew
how great was his self-control. He would have been ashamed to show
emotion. He took out a cigarette and deliberately lit it.

"Some fellows have all the luck," he said at last. "He's got nothing in
the world to do except make himself pleasant."

The acidity in his tone made her flush and she was on the point of
giving him a sharp answer. But she restrained herself; she was
determined not to get angry. It would be horrible if they began to say
cruel and bitter things to one another. She forced a little smile to her
lips.

"He's the best agent your father ever had. He's the only one who ever
made the estate pay."

"He's a very good agent. I knew that. That's why I got him the job."

It was her turn now to give him a searching look.

"He's not my lover, you know."

"It never occurred to me that he was. I may not know you very well,
darling, but at least I know that you'd never be able to do anything
underhand."

"Dick wouldn't either. It's not our fault, Roger. We didn't want to fall
in love. We couldn't help ourselves. He owes everything to you. He knows
he's let you down."

"He's a very good chap and he has a lot of charm. You've been thrown
together a great deal; I suppose I shouldn't be surprised if you've come
to care for him."

"I know he isn't as intelligent as you are. You've got a brilliant
future before you. He's so cosy, Roger. I'm not up to your mark really.
Dick and I speak the same language."

"How do you imagine you would live if you were married to him? He could
hardly stay on here as my father's agent."

"He could get another job."

"Have you any idea how hard jobs are to get now?"

"That's our look-out. We want to be married as soon as you'll give me my
freedom."

He got up and began to walk up and down the room. He was thinking
deeply. He stopped in front of her chair.

"It'll be an awful blow for my father and mother. I can't imagine
anything they'd hate more."

"Your people have always been very kind to me, but I should be a fool if
I didn't know I've been a disappointment to them. Your father wanted me
so awfully to have a son. When they've got over the shock, honestly they
won't mind very much. They'll think you'll marry again and have better
luck next time."

"You've got it all settled, haven't you?"

"I've been thinking of nothing else for weeks."

"And supposing I come to the conclusion that this is only a passing
infatuation and refuse to let myself be divorced?"

"I should go and live with Dick and force you to divorce me."

She saw him frown and she almost smiled, for she knew very well what he
was thinking. The mere idea of the scandal such a step would cause gave
him goose-flesh. But when he spoke it was to give her a shock that she
had never anticipated.

"I think I should tell you that the Germans are marching into Poland
tomorrow and we shall be at war in twenty-four hours."

She gave a horrified cry.

"I didn't say anything about it. I thought you'd all know soon enough
and I wanted dear Mother to enjoy her birthday. Dick is in the
Territorials. He'll be called up at once. It's going to be a long and
terrible war. No one can tell what's going to happen to any of us."

"Oh, how awful!"

"Dick may be killed or I may be killed. This isn't the time to think of
oneself. The French are unprepared and we're unprepared. The Germans
will go all out to snatch a quick victory. We shall all be in it, every
man and woman in the country."

May tried to control herself, but she couldn't. She began to cry. He put
his hand gently on her shoulder.

"It may be that I haven't been a very good husband. Poor May. I want you
to be happy. But don't you think this is a moment when we should forget
our private interests? I am going to ask you for your own sake, for all
our sakes, to wait till after the war. Then if you're still of the same
mind I promise I'll do everything I can to give you your liberty as
quickly as possible."

She sighed deeply. She was shattered.

"Very well, Roger. I'll wait."

"You know, darling, you'll have to do your bit like everyone else."

"I shall be thankful to help."

"You might stow it away in the back of your mind that I love you very
much and shall always love you and there's nothing in the world I want
more than your happiness."

"Except winning the war?" she smiled ironically.

"Except that, yes," he answered gravely.

And with that answer she saw that he wasn't thinking of her any more.
They sat in silence.

"Hadn't you better go and see your mother?" she said at last. "If you're
going back tonight after dinner you won't have another chance of talking
to her."

"Yes, I suppose I had."

He roused himself unwillingly from his reflections and rose to his feet.
He looked at May for an instant; his eyes were cold and his lips thin.
She knew what he was thinking: he was impatient that just then she had
introduced into his life a complication that might be a distraction from
the pressing affairs he had to deal with. It wasn't her fault; if he had
only told her before that war was inevitable she wouldn't have spoken.
She would at least have waited to see what happened. She sighed. She
supposed it was unreasonable to expect that in such a terrible crisis
her happiness should seem of any particular importance to him. And, of
course, her happiness _wasn't_ of any importance to anyone but
herself--and Dick.

Roger walked towards the door, but as he was about to open it, turned
back. He gave a light laugh and when he spoke it was in the bright,
cheery way in which he was accustomed to speak. At that moment it
positively startled her.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you a little present from Warsaw too. As
soon as I saw it I knew it was just the sort of thing you'd like."

He took out of his pocket a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper and
undoing it handed her a long gold chain of curious workmanship.

"Unless I've been done in the eye it's an old one."

"It's lovely," said May as he handed it to her.

And it was. It was either Polish or Russian. May was charmed with its
delicate beauty and touched that he should have gone to the trouble of
picking out something that was so much to her taste, but at the same
time she was grievously embarrassed. It seemed shocking to accept a
present from him after what had just passed between them.

"I can't take it, Roger," she cried miserably.

"Why on earth not? Of course you must take it. It's much too good for
Jane and I practically snatched it away from the French ambassador's
wife. She was crazy to get it. Don't be a fool, May."

He spoke with such good nature, with such a breezy friendliness, that
she did not know what to say. She flushed deeply.

"Thank you very much. It's wonderfully kind of you, Roger."

"That's a good girl."

There was an ironical twinkle in his eyes as he nodded and walked out.
May looked at the door he had closed behind him as though she could see
him stalking along the passage to his mother's room. She knew that his
manner, almost jaunty at the last, had changed the moment he withdrew
from her sight and that his face wore once more the stern, vigilant mien
that it always wore when he thought no one was looking at him. But
whether he thought of her as he went or of the war that was imminent she
could not guess; what she knew was that when he entered his mother's
sitting-room there would be no trace that he was anxious or troubled,
and she would find him as ever sweet, sympathetic and tenderly
affectionate.

May sighed. She sank into a chair and her eyes stared vacantly out of
the open window. She had never really understood him. He was a strange,
subtle man. Was he deceitful? No, it wouldn't be fair to call him that:
it wasn't an act that he had been putting on when with so much pleasant
friendliness he had given her the necklace she still held in her hands,
he had always liked to give her presents, and he had felt all he seemed
to feel; his breezy, chaffing, light manner was natural to him; it
inspired confidence because it was genuine. And yet it was only a rind
that covered the active, calculating wariness within. He was wrapped up
in his work, and when he met people he judged them according to the use
they might be to its furtherance. Even when he seemed to be gaily
immersed in social pleasures she knew that at the back of his mind he
was turning over the tortuous schemes he was always concocting. She
sometimes felt that the only pure delight he ever experienced was that
of triumph when he had circumvented the scheme of one of Britain's
possible enemies or discovered some crafty plan that might be to the
country's disadvantage. Of course his motives were patriotic, no one
could have a more passionate love for England than he, but she had an
inkling that there was something in his nature, pitiless and rather
dreadful, that made him take a peculiar pleasure in his secret work.
Because his motives were pure he allowed himself to revel in the crooked
ways in which, setting his wits against theirs, he strove to combat the
wiles of his adversaries. It was a game he played of which the stakes
were the safety and liberty of England, and he found it so absorbing
that he could not stop to consider the feelings of others. It was true
what she had said, there was no room in his life for her.

May smiled bitterly when she thought that she had once imagined that she
loved him. Now that she knew what love was she realized only too clearly
that it was not love that had induced her to marry him. That had come
about so naturally that she could not blame herself. Her father was
killed in the last war and her mother was left with little more than a
pension to support her. She had been a school friend of Mrs. Henderson's
and when May's mother was widowed the Hendersons had offered her one of
the cottages in the village. It was only a mile away from Graveney Holt
and the two families saw one another constantly. From a very early age
May had known that her mother and Roger's had set their hearts on her
marrying him. They both attached a great deal of importance to family
and May's parents, though poor, were what is known as well-connected;
and Mrs. Henderson was too disinterested to care that her prospective
daughter-in-law was penniless. Roger grew into a tall good-looking boy,
and when he came home for the holidays, first from school and then from
Sandhurst, she conceived a girlish enthusiasm for him. They were like
brother and sister together. A greater familiarity existed between them
then, strangely enough, than ever did after they were married. She
worshipped him as his mother worshipped him, but she knew now that there
was no love in her feeling for him. It was a schoolgirl's infatuation
for a boy, a young man, five years older than herself.

Mrs. Henderson had always been fond of her and she was pleased with the
girl's admiration for the son of whom she was so proud. She treated her
as though it were understood that she was the future mistress of the
house. She took pains to instil into May her own feeling for the noble
pile. She made her love its beauties. She taught her to appreciate
treasured pieces of furniture and told her the stories of the ancestors
whose portraits hung on the walls. She filled her with her own dismay
when economic difficulties forced the General to sell the Filippino
Lippi and the Goya. It could not be expected that a young girl should
not be dazzled by the slightly faded splendour that surrounded her when
she came up to the great house from the modest cottage in the village.
It seemed like her real home and she could not refrain from planning
what she would do when she became its mistress. Nor could she be
insensible to the general feeling in the county that it had been settled
long ago that she would marry Roger. There were in the neighbourhood
mothers with daughters who were inclined to think that Roger could do
better than marry the penniless girl of a deceased naval officer, but
since it looked as though there were nothing to do about it, they
decided to take a romantic view of the situation. Sometimes May wondered
what Roger thought of it. He was easy and friendly, he made her fetch
and carry for him when he was a boy, he played tennis and golf with her
when she grew older, he danced with her, he chaffed her playfully; but
he never gave any sign that he was aware of the plans his mother and
hers had made for their future.

Then her mother died. It was a terrible grief to her and she didn't know
how she could have borne it if Mrs. Henderson hadn't been so wonderfully
kind to her. May had nothing now but her pension as an officer's
daughter, she was nineteen, and she wanted to earn her own living. She
had a good figure and the first thing that occurred to her was that she
might become a mannequin. But Mrs. Henderson would not hear of it. Jane
was married by then and Mrs. Henderson was insistent that she should
live with them until her own marriage. It was then that for the first
time she came out into the open with the scheme that had before been
only vaguely presupposed. She told May that she had always loved her as
a daughter and that it was her dearest wish, as it had been her
mother's, that she and Roger should marry. May was too open to pretend
to a surprise she did not feel.

"I should be a perfect fool if I hadn't known that you and Mamma had
settled that when I was four and Roger was nine."

"You like Roger, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Ever since I could walk I've thought him wonderful."

"Then what is to prevent you from getting married as soon as possible?"

"Only Roger. We must let him have a say in the matter, poor brute."

"Oh, but Roger's devoted to you."

"He's never said so."

"I suppose he thought you knew. Men are apt to take so much for
granted."

"There are limits."

"You would marry him if he asked you, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would." May flushed. "But, darling, you must promise me you
won't suggest it to him. I couldn't bear to think he was marrying me
just to please you."

Mrs. Henderson smiled.

"My dear, has it never occurred to you that you're exceptionally pretty?
You only want a little more colour to be a raving beauty."

"You must promise me that."

"I understand. It's very natural. I promise you I'll never say a word to
Roger. I think he's much too clever not to see that if he doesn't snap
you up quickly somebody else will." She looked at May tenderly. "I'd
sooner give my son to you than to anyone in the world. I know how good
you are and I know you're no fool. You're sweet-tempered and you're a
lady, and I'm old-fashioned enough to think that important. Sooner or
later Roger will come into the property and if I'm still alive it will
be a comfort to me to think that I can safely deliver the place into
your hands."

"Oh, darling, don't let us count our chickens before they're hatched."

"I've had a happy life, and I want nothing now but a grandson to dandle
on my knee. You must have beautiful children, my pretty."

May, young though she was then, knew very well how intense was the
desire of the General and Mrs. Henderson to see the succession to the
estate assured. The family's fortunes had been started in no very
glorious fashion at the Restoration by a clever and time-serving parson
who married a poor connection of the great lord to whom he was domestic
chaplain. His patron found him useful and advanced him. In due course he
became a bishop and, his wife dying, he very prudently married the
heiress of a rich haberdasher in the City. When the son she brought him
was of a suitable age he married him to another handsome fortune and it
was this son who in the reign of Queen Anne built the house in which the
Hendersons had lived ever since. He served in Marlborough's army and on
one side of the chimney-piece in the great hall, a pendant to the
portrait in full canonicals of the astute bishop, hung the life-size
portrait of him in uniform. From that time the Hendersons had been
soldiers and country gentlemen and though none had greatly distinguished
himself they had for the most part acquitted themselves honourably. They
had been decent people who did their duty by their country. No doubt
ever entered their minds that God had intended anything else than that
they should look after their property as good landlords should, sit on
the bench and sentence poachers to the penalties ordained by law, hunt
foxes, shoot pheasants, aid the needy, marry according to their station
and hand on to their heirs an undiminished estate. And though with the
decline of agricultural values their income was now sadly diminished
these were still the sentiments of General Henderson and his wife. May
at nineteen had no reason to think them controvertible.

She was little expecting it when Roger at last did ask her to marry him.
He was home on leave for a few days' shooting and one very rainy
afternoon he was sitting in the library by himself. May had been living
with the Hendersons for several months. She happened to go into the
library to replace a book she had taken up to her room. She looked about
for another.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"No, don't bother."

She found a book and was about to leave the room when he stopped her
with another question.

"What have you got?"

"_Hajji Baba._"

"What made you think of reading that?"

"You were talking about it the other night."

"I forgot. You'll enjoy it. It's grand fun." He took out his case. "Have
a cigarette?"

"Aren't you working?"

"I've been working for hours. I think I deserve a spell off."

She took the cigarette and lighting it sat on the arm of a chair to show
him that she was only going to stay a minute. He looked at her with the
slightly quizzical glint in his eyes that even then somewhat
disconcerted her.

"You know, May, you're awfully pretty."

"It's nice of you to say so," she smiled.

"You were pretty awful when you were thirteen or fourteen."

"I know I was. Frightful."

"Funny how girls change, almost from one day to the other."

She could not think of anything to say to this so tried to make a smoke
ring. He watched her.

"Not a very good attempt."

"Rotten."

"Don't you think it's about time we got married?"

Her heart gave a great thud against her chest, but she continued to try
to make smoke rings.

"I hadn't thought about it one way or the other."

"Well, will you?"

He got up from the desk and stood in front of her. He was slightly
nervous and it touched her.

"I can't imagine what put the idea in your head."

"That's a lie. You know I've wanted to marry you ever since I was ten."

"Even when I was thirteen and hideous?"

"I admit I wasn't so keen about it then," he laughed. But all at once he
grew serious again. "May, I think you're far and away the nicest girl
I've ever known in my life. I'd rather marry you than anyone else in the
world."

There was one thing he hadn't said and she waited. Her cigarette was
finished and he took the butt from her fingers. He turned away to put it
in an ash-tray.

"I'm awfully in love with you."

"You might have said that before."

"I thought you knew it. It made me shy to say it in so many words."

She didn't know why tears should come to her eyes. She felt a little shy
too and it seemed vaguely pathetic. He saw the tears and came and sat
with her on the arm of the chair. He took her hand.

"Well, what d'you say to it?"

Because she felt a trifle hysterical she laughed.

"Of course I'll marry you, Roger. I don't know if it's ever struck you,
but you're a great catch."

Laughing he bent over and kissed her. Since he was a boy, on occasion,
when he went off to school or when he came back, he had kissed her on
the cheek in the perfunctory, meaningless way in which he kissed Jane,
but he had never kissed her before on the mouth. It was a curious
sensation. It made her flush; its intimacy was slightly embarrassing.

"Come on," he said, lifting her to her feet, "let's go and tell Mother.
She'll be tickled to death."

A shadow of irritation passed through her mind at his eagerness to do
this. She would have liked to stay there alone with him for at least a
few minutes. But she suppressed the feeling. He was devoted to his
mother and it was only natural that he should want to give her at once
the great pleasure it would be to her to hear that they were engaged to
be married.

They were married in the village church and went to Paris for their
honeymoon. May had never been abroad before and she enjoyed herself.
Roger knew Paris well and his French was fluent. They went to
Montparnasse and Montmartre. They ate in famous restaurants. It was fun
to go about with someone who knew all the ropes and of course because
she had known him so long and so well she felt very much at home with
him. They had so many common memories that they were never at a loss for
something to talk about. They had always been good friends. The only
difference was that they slept in the same room. May, brought up in the
country and a great reader, was not ignorant of the facts of life; Roger
was an affectionate, thoughtful lover and she felt very tenderly towards
him when he lay by her side and held her in his arms. For the rest she
was glad and proud to give him a pleasure she did not altogether share.
She was happy. It amused her that he should only now have discovered
that she had a lovely body. She thought she loved him.

After eight years she knew that what she had felt for him was
admiration, trust, confidence, affection, anything you like but love.

He was already at the War Office and they took a tiny flat in Chelsea.
It was fun to furnish it with the superfluous furniture from Graveney
Holt that they rescued from the attics. They settled down to married
life. Roger went to the War Office every morning at ten, and at six,
when his work was over, went to his club to play bridge for an hour or
so before coming back to dinner. Sometimes they dined out or had Roger's
soldier friends and their wives to dine with them; sometimes they went
to the pictures or to a play; but most evenings they sat at home and May
read or played patience while Roger worked. After the first few months,
during which the new flat, the new friends and the excitement of living
in London had been sufficient distraction, May began to find time hang
somewhat heavily on her hands. She set out on a systematic exploration
of the city; she went to the galleries and museums; she visited
churches. She was not exactly bored; she only felt slightly let down.
She had expected a fuller life. But she was a sensible girl and told
herself that it would be different when she had a baby; that would give
her plenty to do and she wouldn't feel lonely any more. But
unfortunately there was no sign that she was going to have a baby. She
knew how much Roger wanted her to have one, and she knew that his
parents were anxiously awaiting the news that she was pregnant. When a
year passed and nothing happened she discussed the matter with her
mother-in-law. Mrs. Henderson told her not to worry, she was very young,
it wouldn't hurt her to wait a couple of years; but she saw that May was
worried and to give her peace sent her to a specialist. He told her that
there was nothing to prevent her from having children and advised her to
have patience. But when a second year passed and a third she was more
than worried and went to him again. The specialist suggested that he
should see Roger and after an examination announced that there was
nothing in him to account for her sterility; he gave them certain
advice. They followed it with no result and as the years went on they
began to lose hope. They were normal healthy people, but for no
conceivable reason nature seemed to have decided that there should be no
result of their union in sexual congress. It made May unhappy, not only
on her own account, but because, though he never alluded to her
barrenness except jocosely and remained as ever kind, tender and
affectionate, she knew that Roger was bitterly disappointed; and, her
nerves on edge, she thought that the General sometimes looked at her
with something close to annoyance. She imagined him talking it over with
his wife.

"I'm afraid we've been sold a pup, my dear," she thought of him saying.

And his wife's reply.

"Well, George, she looked healthy enough. That's why I encouraged the
marriage, I thought she'd have a baby once a year."

Of course she was unjust. She knew that. They loved her for herself and
never by the smallest word made her feel that she had failed them. But
it was more than you could expect from human nature that they shouldn't
grieve.

Early in her married life she had tried to interest herself in Roger's
work, but he had not encouraged her.

"Oh, it's only a lot of routine stuff," he said when she asked him to
tell her about it. "It would only bore you."

"Won't you let me be the judge of that?"

He gave her his friendly, playful glance.

"To tell you the truth, practically the only pull I have at the War
Office is that I know how to keep my mouth shut, and believe me, the way
some of the nobs shoot their faces off is enough to make your hair stand
on end. And you know, after I've been up to my eyes in work from ten
till six, I'm glad to put it out of my mind for the rest of the day.
Once I've closed my office door behind me I never give it a thought."

She knew that wasn't true; she knew that when he sat in a brown study,
by the fire, and gazed at the glancing flames his thoughts were busy
with the problems that had occupied him during the day. But she did not
insist. As time wore on she discovered certain things about him that she
had never suspected. On one occasion they met at dinner the ambassador
of a foreign power and his wife. Roger was seated next to her and
somewhat to her surprise May saw that he was laying himself out to be as
charming to her as he knew how. She had never before seen him pay any
woman more attention than civility demanded. After dinner he sat again
beside the somewhat massive beauty and openly flirted with her. When
they got into the taxi to drive home May said rather stiffly:

"You seemed to be getting on very well with the ambassador's wife."

He chuckled and even in the darkness she could see the gleam in his
eyes.

"Did you think I did my stuff well?"

"Beautifully."

"The damned fool, she thinks she's irresistible. I gave her the works."

"I don't quite know why."

"Darling, it's as plain as the nose on your beautiful face. Her husband
had told her to pump me and I let her pump me. She swallowed everything
I told her and I bet the wires'll be busy tonight."

May was silent for a moment.

"You were wonderfully convincing."

"I thought I was putting on a pretty good show myself."

Sometimes, as Roger was given more responsible work to do, they had the
military attachs of various embassies to dine with them. He was so
frank, so amiable, so guileless that no one could have imagined that
there was an ulterior motive in anything he said; and if in that
convivial little gathering, flushed with wine and warmed by his own good
fellowship, he let fall a hint that was almost an indiscretion only May
could have suspected that it was calculated. She did not know then
whether to admire his astuteness or be disconcerted by his duplicity.

One morning, opening the paper, May saw that a British officer had been
arrested and was charged with espionage on behalf of Italy. It was a
peculiar shock to her because Roger had brought him one evening to dine
at the flat and she had found him very pleasant. For days people talked
of nothing else. It was frontpage stuff. But May had no notion that
Roger was in any way connected with it till, meeting his chief at
luncheon one day, he congratulated her on the good work her husband had
put in.

"I'm not sure that we'd ever have caught the blighter if it hadn't been
for Roger. He worked for months and when he was through we had a
cast-iron case. Nice job he did."

She told Roger that evening what his chief had said.

"I dare say I didn't do so badly. It wasn't so easy to get the goods on
the fellow; he was as wary as a fox. I had to be careful; one mistake
and he'd have hopped over the Channel."

"I thought him rather nice," said May.

"He could be very amusing. I saw quite a lot of him. He had no idea we
were on to him. You should have seen his face when he was arrested."

Roger gave a grim chuckle.

"What will they do with him?"

"Give him ten years, I suppose. I'd hang him."

He said it so fiercely that May looked up at him with a start. His eyes
were ruthless. She shuddered. She realized that if need were, and he
thought himself justified, Roger would hesitate at nothing.

Gradually May resigned herself to the monotony of her married life. She
told herself that she had expected too much. It was silly to complain
because her girlish dreams had remained unsatisfied. She thought of them
sometimes with a smiling sadness. She had no real reason to complain of
her lot. She had a husband who was devoted to her and proud of her;
everyone told her he was brilliant and it looked as though a
distinguished career lay ahead of him; he was kind and considerate and
he was faithful to her. He was very appreciative; on all subjects except
his work he talked to her as man to man and he attached weight to her
opinions. She had a pleasant, pretty flat, and though they were far from
rich, she never had to skimp and save to make both ends meet. In the
future lay Graveney Holt, that lovely house with all the treasures it
contained, the beautiful gardens and the wide-spreading park; and the
numerous activities which the possession of the estate must entail.

After they had been married for four years Roger was sent to Japan as
member of a mission and was away for three months. It was the first time
they had been separated and feeling more lonely than ever after a few
weeks she went down to stay at Graveney. She fell very easily into the
life that she had led before her marriage. The following year Roger went
away again, to Iran; then he went to Australia, and to Egypt and Turkey.
He was plainly delighted to see her, on his return from each journey,
but after a day or two fell into his old way of taking her for granted.
She had an exasperated feeling that he liked to come back to her with
something of the same sort of feeling as he had on coming back to his
favourite arm-chair and the comfort of his old golf coat. He was more
absorbed in his work than ever. She could not help knowing that to that
he was prepared without a qualm to sacrifice her feelings, her comfort,
her well-being. He would often stay at the War Office till eleven at
night, ringing up a quarter of an hour before dinner to say he wouldn't
be coming home, and she spent the evening by herself. On Saturdays, if
he could get away, they would drive down to Graveney Holt, but there he
was busy with his family, for which his affection was deep and staunch,
and with the estate, in the conduct of which he took a keen interest;
she felt herself as unnecessary to him as in London. She retired into
herself. She was not a woman to make scenes and she was sensible enough
to know that they would only irritate Roger. What had she to complain
of? Nothing that could be remedied. She remained gracious, pleasant, a
trifle silent, and never by a word disclosed that there was an aching
emptiness in her heart.

Then the General's agent died and Roger strongly recommended him to
engage an old friend of his called Richard Murray. He had been at school
with Roger, and for a year at Sandhurst with him; but his mother, a
widow, suffering a financial reverse he had abandoned the notion of
going into the Army and had gone into estate agency. May had never met
him till she found him installed in the village. She took a fancy to
him, and next time Roger came back from abroad told him how much she
liked his father's new agent.

"He's a rattling good chap," said Roger. "He's got an amazing gift for
friendship. He's as straight as a die and what he doesn't know about his
job isn't worth knowing. I think Father's damned lucky to have got hold
of him."

May saw a great deal of him when she went down to Graveney. With Jim at
Oxford and Tommy at school the house was very quiet, and Dick brought a
welcome gaiety into it. He was a bachelor and he came to lunch every
Sunday, but Mrs. Henderson asked him in to dinner once or twice a week,
and a day seldom passed without his coming to see the General on estate
business and stopping for a few minutes to say a few words to the two
ladies. Sometimes May met him in the village and they would stop and
talk for a little. During the summer holidays he would often come up to
make a four at tennis. It gave May pleasure to see him. He was gay,
unassuming and easy to talk to. She found that she could say all sorts
of things to him that she had never thought of saying to anyone else.
She could talk nonsense with him as it was impossible to do with Roger.
She was flattered because he found her amusing, and though she told
herself that he laughed at her little jests because he laughed easily it
was nice to be appreciated. Of course he had charm, immense charm, there
was no doubt about that, and it was no wonder that everybody liked him.
She asked herself what it was due to. Well, it was the contrast between
his grey, strong, curly hair and his bronzed, smooth face; the thick
lashes of his blue eyes, and that warm friendly smile that made you feel
that his heart went out to you because he had a natural love for his
fellow-beings. She had known him for a full year when, in London for a
while and as usual alone, she received a note from him to say that he
had to come up to town for a night and couldn't they dine together and
go to some place to dance. She thought it very sweet of him to take pity
on her solitariness and accepted with pleasure. They spent a delightful
evening. He was an unexpectedly good dancer and she hadn't danced for
months. When he dropped her at her door he suggested that they should
repeat the experiment next time he came to London. She agreed without
hesitation. It was long since she had enjoyed herself so much.

But when she closed the door behind her, instead of going straight to
bed, she went into the empty sitting-room and sat down. She was
breathless. When he held her hand to bid her good-bye there had been in
his eyes a look so tender, so gentle, so strangely understanding, that
it stabbed her to the heart. She knew on a sudden that he had realized
how empty her life was and was sorry, wistfully sorry for her. And as
suddenly she knew that she was in love with him, and had never been in
love before. She was frightened out of her wits. That was the last
straw. She had been dissatisfied with life, but resigned and determined
to make the best of it, but this was going to be hell. It was bad enough
to be starving for bread, and be given a stone, but when the bread was
there within your reach and you might not stretch out your hand for it,
no, that was too much to put up with. Her strong common sense came to
the rescue. There was nothing to be dramatic about. It was only Dick's
charm. Charm? People always said it meant nothing. Roger had often told
her that one must be wary of people who had it. Dick was charming to
everyone, because he couldn't help it; it had probably never occurred to
him that it had such a devastating effect, and there was not the
smallest reason to suppose that he cared two straws for her. He was a
naturally friendly soul and had wanted to give her a good time. But what
had made him see that she was unhappy and lonely? She was sure that
never by a word or sign had she betrayed her feeling, and was convinced
that neither Roger nor Jane nor anyone else had an inkling of it. But
_had_ he seen it or was that just her fancy, and had she read in the
blueness of his eyes a meaning that was not there? She shrugged her
shoulders.

"I dare say it's only because I'm dog-tired," she murmured. "I shall
feel quite differently tomorrow."

She went to bed and soon fell into a deep sleep. Next day as she had
foreseen, she found herself able to consider the matter with calm. It
was no good shutting her eyes to the fact; she was in love; but it never
occurred to her for a moment that she could do anything but push back
into her inmost heart this new trouble as for so long she had pushed
back her frustrated hopes. It was impossible never to see Dick, but she
made up her mind not to go down so frequently to Graveney as during
Roger's absences she had been in the habit of doing, and should Dick
ever ask her again to go dancing with him firmly to refuse. She must try
not to think of him. With the world in an unsettled state war might be
imminent, Roger told her it was bound to come sooner or later, and to
distract her mind she thought it would be a good plan to take up some
occupation that would enable her to be useful if it broke out. That very
morning she made inquiries about nursing and a couple of days later
started upon a course. That had the added advantage that it would give
her an excuse not to go down to Graveney except for an occasional
week-end. She found that it helped to have work to do and she took it
seriously. A month passed without any sign from Dick and she laughed at
herself wryly when she thought of the brave resolutions she had made to
say no when next he came up to London and asked her to go out with him.
She had been right, what she had thought was deep feeling on his part
was no more than natural kindliness, and he would be dismayed if he knew
the effect it had had on her. But she was angry with herself because she
could not but feel a trifle sore.

Then one evening, when she had just got back from the hospital, and was
tired and depressed, the telephone bell rang. She answered and the blood
rushed to her heart when she heard Dick's voice.

"I'm only in London for the day; I'm going back tonight. I was wondering
if you'd give me a spot of dinner."

This was so little what she had expected that she lost her head and did
not make the obvious excuse that she was engaged.

"There's nothing much to eat. I was just going to have an egg," she
said.

"Oh, that's all right. I'll bring in a _pt_ or something."

It was impossible to say that he mustn't come. And she wanted to see him
so badly. His voice over the telephone, that warm, caressing voice, took
all her strength away.

"You needn't do that. I'll manage."

"I'll be up at half past seven."

She sent the maid out to buy a sole and some cutlets, had a bath and put
on a very simple dress. She seldom used rouge, but her cheeks were so
pale that she felt obliged to put on a little. Then, with one eye on the
clock, she read the evening paper. The minutes passed with maddening
slowness. When she heard the bell ring she started violently; but when
he came in and gave her his cordial handshake there was nothing to show
that she was not her usual placid and amiable self. He explained that a
sudden piece of business had brought him unexpectedly up to London or he
would have written and asked her to keep the evening for him. She gave
him a glass of sherry. They dined. He talked in his usual fluent,
pleasant way, telling her the news of the estate. He asked her advice on
some point that was troubling him and when she gave it told her he
thought it first-rate and would act on it. She could not but be pleased
and flattered. They discussed his plan to introduce modern methods of
agriculture. He was in full agreement with her on the necessity of
ameliorating housing conditions for the labourers. Their conversation
could have been heard by any one and no one could have found in it
anything that was not perfectly natural; and yet she had an uneasy
feeling that it was not quite natural. She tried to persuade herself
that it was only her fancy that he was talking in order to avoid a
silence fraught with danger, and that there was in the tone of his voice
something strange. The look in his eyes was anxious and did not accord
with the sense of his words. Folly. She was reading into them something
that was due only to her own imagination.

They finished dinner and went back to the sitting-room. They drank their
coffee and May lit a cigarette. Dick asked her if he might smoke his
pipe. He was silent while he lit it and then somehow the silence, like
an emanation rising from the depths, dark and terrifying, a thing with a
sinister life of its own, seized them, thrusting itself between them and
yet drawing them together as in a common danger. Though May was looking
down at the floor she knew that Dick's eyes were fixed upon her. She
felt herself trembling. It was absurd that she could not speak. The
silence was unendurable. At last she raised her eyes and they met his.
That seemed to break the spell.

"You know, a very awkward thing has happened," he said, still in that
strange voice. "I've fallen head over heels in love with you."

She did not say anything. She looked at him and tears filled her eyes
and trickled down her face.

"Are you in love with me?"

She still could not speak, she only nodded.

"Bore, isn't it?"

She laughed through her tears. It was so like him to say that.

"D'you think I ought to go away?"

She gave a gasp. Her face was suddenly twisted with anguish.

"No," she cried violently. But she made a great effort to control
herself. "The Hendersons wouldn't hear of it. The General thinks you're
indispensable."

It was a fact that Dick had brought order into the estate which the last
agent, old and none too competent, had allowed to fall into poor
condition and for the first time in years it was being run at a profit.
At that rate it would be possible to start paying off the mortgages.

"It's serious, you know," he continued. "It's not just a passing
infatuation that I can get over. I'm in it up to the neck and I'm in it
for good."

"Where would you go?"

"I don't know. I might get another job as agent somewhere else, or I
might emigrate. That's what fellows generally do when they're up a gum
tree."

There was another long silence and it was May who broke it.

"Can't we ignore it?" He did not answer and presently she went on. "Why
should you throw up a good job and one that suits you? No one need know
anything about it. We're not going to do anybody any harm. We needn't
even talk about it. It's just something between ourselves."

"I don't think I quite know what you mean."

"I don't love Roger, you know, but I'd never do anything that was--oh,
you _must_ know what I mean. I think the only thing to do is to go on as
we were. After all, we're both decent people, aren't we?"

"Roger's my oldest friend and he got me this job. Of course I wouldn't
do the dirty on him."

"Well, then?"

With his elbows on his knees and his face on his clenched fists he fell
into deep thought. She watched him anxiously. Every now and then he gave
her a troubled glance.

"It's a hell of a situation," he said at last.

"D'you want to go?"

"God, no. It would break my heart," he cried.

"Well, then, let's face it. Surely we've got the strength."

"You don't understand. You think we'll get over it. But I don't want to
get over it."

"I don't either. It's all I've got to live for."

They left it at that. He agreed to let things slide and see how they
went. She felt that he was prepared to lean on her strength and she
exulted in the thought that he was glad to do so. It made her proud and
confident.

"Now you'd better go," she said.

"I suppose I had," he answered, getting up. "May I kiss you?"

She did not speak. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers.
She had never known that a kiss could mean so much. She threw her arms
round his neck.

"Darling, darling, I love you," she murmured.

"My sweet."

The kiss shattered her. When he was gone she stood where he had left
her, her hands to her breasts, and felt that at last life had meaning.
She was so happy that she felt there was nothing more for her to ask.

She was a very innocent woman. She had been persuaded that they could
see one another occasionally and, sharing this secret, continue to act
as though they were the casual, happy-go-lucky friends they had been
before. It never occurred to her that nature could take a hand in the
matter. Sex had not been an important matter in May's life and her
relations with her husband had been perfunctory. But now a revolution
took place in her. Her imagination would not let her rest and shocking,
enchanting dreams troubled her nights. The touch of Dick's hand sent the
blood rushing to her heart. The sound of his voice on the telephone made
her knees wobble beneath her. She desired him as much as she knew he
desired her. Sometimes he would look at her and the passion in his eyes
possessed her with all the violence of carnal possession. She knew now
what it was that had from the first attracted her to him, his
overpowering virility, it called to her with a terrifying force, and she
exulted in it. And because she knew that she had the strength never to
yield to her desire she did not even attempt to curb it. She gloried in
it. It made her feel more alive than ever before. She had a sense of
triumph because she could feel something she had never thought to feel.
She was ashamed of nothing now. She would stand in her room, stark
naked, and look at herself in the glass and revel in the beauty of her
slim figure, her breasts small and virginal, and think of Dick's body
warm against hers and his arms round her. And she would laugh because
everyone thought her cold. But it was not only from sexual desire that
she loved Dick; she felt herself so much at home with him, so
confidentially at ease. It was balm to her soul merely to be in the same
room with him. He was the only person in the world with whom she was not
a little shy.

Thus things went on. May's conscience was tranquil because after that
first time when Dick told her of his love, he had never even kissed her.
Though they had not agreed upon it, by mutual consent, as it were, they
took care not to speak of their feelings for each other; and they never
said a thing to one another that anyone might not have heard. Of course
what made it easier was that May's work at the hospital kept her much in
London and that when they met at Graveney it was almost always in the
company of others. They could have counted on the fingers of one hand
the occasions during that period on which they had been alone together.
There was one thing of which May was quite certain, that there was no
one at Graveney Holt, neither Jane with her sharp tongue and sharp eyes,
nor that Austrian girl the Hendersons had given refuge to, who had the
remotest suspicion that Dick was anything more to her than her
father-in-law's agent.

But when Roger telegraphed that he would soon be coming home they felt
that the situation they must face was insufferable. It revolted May to
receive him with the pretence that she was still his loving wife. She
knew that after a sexual abstinence that had lasted so long he would
want a normal gratification; he was a man, young and strong, with
healthy appetites, and though sex had never absorbed him he had his
natural share of desire and he needed to satisfy it as he needed to
satisfy his desire for food at dinner-time. May had never quite overcome
the embarrassment with which the sexual act had filled her and now she
felt that she could not possibly submit to it. The thought disgusted her
and to commit it with him seemed grossly indecent. With Dick it would
have been natural, inevitable, sacred. She had an inkling that Dick was
thinking of it too. His eyes were worried and he, so frank and open as a
rule, was unusually silent, as though he were brooding over a subject he
could not bring himself to discuss. A day or two before Roger was due,
lying in wait to catch him when he came out of the General's study, she
stopped him.

"What do you say to my coming to your house this afternoon? I think we
ought to have a talk."

"That's O.K. by me," he answered.

She had been there two or three times with Mrs. Henderson to see that
his maid of all work kept it clean and tidy, but she had never been to
it alone before, nor of late at all. It was a pleasant house, with a
walled garden, on the outskirts of the village; but it was large for a
single man and Dick only used two of the rooms. He ate in the
living-room, comfortable with the technical books of his trade and
mystery stories, radio, pipes, tobacco, gramophone records, papers,
magazines and all the litter of an untidy bachelor. It had a pleasant,
lived-in, cosy feel.

"You know what I wanted to talk about?" she said when she sat down in
one of the big, shabby chairs.

"I can guess."

He smiled, but his smile was wan.

"I thought I could go through with it. It seemed possible when Roger was
away and wouldn't be back for ages. But now I know I can't."

"God knows I don't want you to. I love you so much, May."

"I know. I love you too. I can't pretend, and I don't believe Roger
would want me to. Wouldn't it be better to tell him the truth?"

"I'm all for the truth."

"Heaven knows I've given it a good trial."

"How much in love with you is he?"

They spoke elliptically, leaping over intermediate remarks, for they
understood one another so perfectly that you would have fancied they
followed one another's thought without the need of speech.

"I don't think he's ever asked himself. He's taken it for granted that a
husband loves his wife and a wife loves her husband."

"I owe a great deal to him. He's an awfully good chap. It's beastly to
play him a dirty trick like this."

"I know it is. He's a reasonable man; he'll know we couldn't help
ourselves."

"You know I haven't a bob except what I earn here. I've got about two
hundred pounds in the bank."

"Does that matter?"

"Not as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't see that we've got anything to reproach ourselves with."

"Of course you know what you're giving up. This place and everything
that goes with it."

"It's a prison. It stifles me."

He knew the idea that was in her mind though she had made no mention of
it.

"D'you think he'd let you go?"

"He can't keep me against my will. I don't think he'd want to; that's
not in his nature."

"I suppose it would have been better for you if I'd never come here."

"Oh, don't say that. It's not true."

He pondered.

"I think you ought to know what you're in for. Poverty."

"I've been poor before."

"It won't make a very pretty story, the son's wife running off with her
father-in-law's agent."

"Do you care?"

"Not a damn," he laughed.

"Neither do I," she laughed back.

"Come and sit on my knee. God damn it, let's have something we can blame
ourselves for."

She moved over to him and put her arms round his neck. For the second
time he kissed her.

"I feel so intolerably happy," she murmured.

They talked it over and decided that she should ask Roger to allow
himself to be divorced and if he refused they would force him to divorce
her by going away together.

And now she had done what they had arranged only to receive the
shattering blow that in a few hours the country would be at war. What
was there to do now except what she had told Roger she was willing to
do? Wait. She smiled when she thought how wrong Roger was when he
imagined that she could change. It was funny how such an intelligent man
could be so stupid. The dinner-bell rang and May roused herself from her
reflections. The maid had got her bath ready. May undressed and stepped
into it. She inhaled the pleasant smell of bath salts.

"I shan't have luxuries like this when I'm married to Dick," she
chuckled.

Roger drove back to London after dinner.


[III]

Next day at dawn the Germans invaded Poland and forty-eight hours later,
on the third of September, Britain was at war. It was Sunday. There was
not yet a hint of autumn in the air and the sun shone radiant in a
cloudless sky. As you stood on the terrace and gazed at the peaceful
scene, so fresh, so green, so mild, so amiable, it was almost impossible
to realize that for hours already tanks had been thundering across the
Polish frontier and bombers dropping their hideous loads on the
defenceless capital. The bells of the little church in the village, the
church where generations of Hendersons lay buried, called the
parishioners to morning service with their familiar peal. They had a
friendly, welcoming sound which, as never before, comforted the
anguished heart. Mrs. Henderson and May alone went. They prayed for
peace. Dick, as was usual, came to lunch and in the course of the
afternoon May found an opportunity to tell him of her conversation with
Roger. He listened attentively.

"I see his point," he said when she had finished. "I can wait, darling."

"I can wait too."

"It may take a year to smash 'em, it can't take longer than that, and
we've got all our lives before us."

"I'm glad I told him. I'm glad everything is above-board."

He took her hand and gave it a little squeeze. They were happy to be
together. They did not even need to talk very much; they had so much
confidence in each other that there was no occasion for the common
endearments of lovers and their intimacy was such that they found
refreshment in one another's silence.

But it was a sad day. No one had the heart to play tennis. They could
talk of nothing but the war. They listened to the radio and commented
eagerly on every scrap of news they heard. They got Paris and tried to
get Warsaw. At six they gathered together to listen to the King's
speech. Big Ben struck the hour. It filled the great hall of Graveney
Holt with its reverberation. The speech began with these words.

"In this grave hour, perhaps the most fateful in our history, I send to
every household of my peoples, both at home and overseas, this message,
spoken with the same depths of feeling for each one of you as if I were
able to cross your threshold and speak to you myself."

May and Mrs. Henderson began to cry and Jane nervously painted her
scarlet lips.

"The task will be hard. There may be dark days ahead and war can no
longer be confined to the battlefield. But we can only do the right as
we see the right, and reverently commit our cause to God. If one and all
we keep resolutely faithful to it, ready for whatever service or
sacrifice it may demand, then with God's help we shall prevail. May He
bless and keep us all."

For a moment there was an awed silence.

"God save the King," said the General.

"It's no good, I must have a drink after that," cried Ian, his great
booming voice husky. "If I weren't the typical strong silent Englishman
I think I should probably have a good cry now."

It relieved the tension.

"No one knows what it is to be married to a damned fool like that,"
exclaimed Jane, "but about once a year he does have a bright idea. For
God's sake give me a whisky and soda, Ian, and don't drown it with soda
or I'll kill you."

The General and Ian wanted to offer their services at once and so
started off for London bright and early next morning. Ian, before his
marriage, had been in the Grenadiers and proposed to join his old
regiment. Mrs. Henderson, Jane and May followed a little later. Mrs.
Henderson had a plan and since she thought she might need Roger's help
phoned him to ask if he could possibly look in at Jane's house between
five and six. But when they had been gone about an hour Dora asked Jim
if he would drive her up to town. She was worried by her position as an
enemy alien and wished to go to the Home Office to find out for herself
where she actually stood.

"Oh, you'll be all right," he said. "Father'll settle all that."

"Your father's got more important things to do than to fuss about me,"
she insisted. "Please."

He had looked forward to spending the day alone with her.

"It seems rather rough on Tommy to leave him all alone," he said.

"Oh, he'll be all right. He can amuse himself," she answered a trifle
impatiently.

Graveney Holt was only ten miles from the sea.

"I thought we might go and have a bathe. It'll be beastly in London in
this heat."

"I must go. Really. If you won't take me I shall go by train."

"Oh, all right," he smiled. "Of course I'll take you."

She slipped her arm through his. She had got her way.

"Couldn't we dine together and come down after dinner?"

Jim gave a little gasp of delight and his face lit up.

"Come on then, we'll have a lark."

When they arrived in London she told him that she wished to go about her
business alone. She thought it probable that she would have to wait
about for hours and would not hear of it when he told her that he would
be only too glad to wait with her. She was quite firm.

"It would get on my nerves. It would only make me impatient to think I
was trying your patience."

He suggested then that she should go to Jane's when she was through and
he would wait for her there.

"I shall have to tell Mother that we've come up to town and shan't be
back till late."

"I don't think I shall go to your sister's. She doesn't like me."

"Oh, what nonsense. Of course she likes you."

Dora shook her pretty head with decision.

"That's what you think," she said tartly. "I know."

They arranged to meet at six in St. James's Park at Queen Anne's Gate
and go to a newsreel before dinner. She left him with a smile and a
jaunty wave of the hand. Jim watched her thread her way through the
crowd in Parliament Street till he lost sight of her. He liked her
gallant carriage and the energy of her walk. Because he had nothing to
do he went to the National Gallery, but finding that the pictures had
been put away, went to the club to which he had recently been elected.
He found no one there he knew. He read the early editions of the evening
papers and then the news on the tape. He lunched. Then, over a cup of
coffee in the smoking room, he surrendered himself to his reflections.
They were none too pleasant. He hated war; he thought it senseless and
criminal. He had long declared that he would take no part in it if it
broke out and now the moment had come to show that he had meant what he
said. He knew that a lot of the fellows who had thought with him, who
had been so loud in their denunciations of the folly of war, would be
carried away by the wave of patriotism that was sweeping the country,
and, cravenly forsaking their principles, hasten to join up. He would
only despise himself if he followed their example. They would say he was
a coward; it wasn't true. If they only knew how much more courage it
needed to stand up alone and friendless against common opinion than to
stand side by side with your comrades and let yourself be shot at! They
would say he was soft and feared the hardship and discomfort, the cold,
the wet, the intolerable boredom of trench life; that wasn't true
either. It wasn't very pleasant to see the finger of scorn pointed at
you, but it was much worse to lose your soul alive. Now was the time to
prove what stuff he was made of; he would be ashamed to surrender now.
His self-respect was at stake and whatever the consequences he must
follow the dictates of his conscience. He loved his father and mother
and he knew that his decision must cause them bitter pain. Jane would
mock him and Tommy would be aghast. He didn't quite know how Roger would
take it. Oh, yes, he did. With icy disapproval. Oh, well, none of that
could be helped. He must put up with whatever came. He was in for a bad
time all right. Thank God he had the strength to endure it. He had made
up his mind and nothing that anyone could say should make him swerve
from the clear path of duty. You would never have thought it possible
for that pleasant young face to assume an expression of such stern
determination.

"Sooner or later there must be a show-down," he said to himself. "And
the sooner the better."

He made up his mind at the first opportunity to tell them all what he
had resolved and to clarify his thoughts sat down at a desk and wrote
them out as succinctly as he could. When he had finished he glanced at
the clock. His mother should be at Jane's now and he might just as well
go there and wait till it was time to meet Dora. His eyes softened as he
thought of her and his moody look grew tender. She understood him and
sympathized with him and believed in him. Nothing mattered really as
long as he didn't lose her. He loved her with all his heart. If she'd
have him he'd marry her tomorrow. She was beautiful. But she was more
than that; she was good and clever and brave. It was not only love he
felt for her; it was deep respect. Though she was but a year younger
than himself he knew there was much he could learn from her. She made
him feel very humble.

He left the club, got into his car and driving down St. James's Street
crossed the Park. Jane had a little Georgian house in Westminster, close
to the Abbey, and with her infallible sense of unfitness had furnished
it in a style of aggressive modernity, so that her drawing-room with its
chromium plate, cubist pictures and fantastic draperies looked more like
the waiting-room of a beauty parlour than a room in which any human
being could take his ease. She was dressed to suit her setting and with
her marcelled and dyed hair, her painted face and her monocle would have
made a caricaturist throw up his hands in despair. His malice could not
have made her more absurd than she had made herself. She was the only
person there whom the events of the last three days appeared not to have
touched. Mrs. Henderson and May were subdued. They had been to
Westminster Abbey and were still shaken by the sight, tragic and yet
heartening, of the many people silently praying. The General and Ian,
who had just arrived, were having a drink. Jim told his mother how he
chanced to be in London and added that he was taking Dora out to dinner.

"I'm glad," she said, smiling at him fondly. "Sometimes I'm afraid it's
very dull for her in the country. It'll do her good to see a bit of life
for a change."

"What happened to you at the War Office?" Jim asked Ian.

"Need you ask?" answered Jane before he could speak. "Did you ever see
anyone look more like a bear with a sore head?"

"Can you wonder?" he exploded. "I went and told them I wanted to rejoin
my old regiment and some damned little whipper-snapper told me I was too
old. Me! Too old at forty. I'm in the prime of life."

"I tried to see Hore-Belisha," said the General, "but he was busy, and I
only saw his private secretary. I told him I didn't mind what I did as
long as I did something. I can't say he was very encouraging. 'This is
going to be a young man's war,' he said."

"But, damn it, I am a young man," Ian boomed. "I tell you this, I'm
going to get into it somehow. Roger ought to be able to wangle something
for me."

Mrs. Henderson turned to her husband.

"George dear, May and I have been talking things over and with your
approval I want to take some evacuated children. If we made the large
drawing-room and the ball-room into dormitories I think we could
accommodate fifty or sixty."

"Of course it'll be an upset," he said, "but in these times we mustn't
think of that. It'll give you something to do, my dear, and what's more,
something very much worth while."

"May and I can look after them and I'm sure Dora'll be only too glad to
give a hand. You know how competent she is."

"She's that all right."

Mrs. Henderson went on to explain in detail what arrangements she and
May had devised and they were still discussing them when Roger came in.
Ian attacked him at once.

"Look here, Roger, I want to have a word with you."

"Give me a drink, old boy. I know exactly what you're going to say. You
want to get back into uniform and so does Father. You must have
patience. Before we're through with this show every man and woman in
this country will be wanted. Don't make any mistake, it's going to be a
long and terrible business."

He looked very soldierly in his uniform, a fine and upright figure, and
there was a cheerful composure in his manner that inspired confidence.
He gave May a friendly little nod and she smiled faintly in return. He
sat down beside his mother and as soon as she was sure of his attention
she told him of her plan. He made one or two suggestions and promised to
find out what she must do to put it into effect. May knew he must have
important matters to think about, and much to do, and she could not help
admiring the kindly patience with which he listened to his mother's
long-winded explanations. He was a good son and a good friend. He was
the sort of man you could rely on, but he was the sort of man you
couldn't love. May had entered into Mrs. Henderson's scheme with
eagerness not only because she was anxious to do whatever she could in
the emergency, but also because it offered an escape from a situation
that had caused her disquiet. Their flat was small; there were a
living-room and a dining-room, there were two rooms behind the kitchen
for the cook and the maid, a bedroom with twin beds for Roger and her,
and a smaller one that had been intended for the use of the expected
baby. They had taken the flat with the idea that it would do for two or
three years and when other babies made it necessary to have more space
they would move into a larger one. But no baby had come and Roger had
turned the extra room into a study where he could keep his books and
papers and receive visitors whom it was imprudent for him to see at the
War Office. Of course this room could be turned into a bedroom but it
might be that he would need it now more than ever; moreover, she felt a
certain embarrassment at suggesting that they should no longer share the
same room; it was an awkward thing to do, and Jane who liked to look in
on her when she had nothing better to do would soon find out what she
had done, and then the whole family would know that there was a change
in their relations. It was part of the spirit of her bargain with Roger
that the arrangement he had agreed to should remain a secret between
them. Mrs. Henderson's plan solved the difficulty. May would be living
at Graveney for the duration of the war and Roger could have the flat to
himself.

"Oh, and there's something else, Roger," said Mrs. Henderson, when she
had finished with the children, "I wanted to talk to you about Dora.
She's afraid she'll be interned, but there's no risk of that really, is
there?"

"They'll round up the German men, but I don't suppose they'll bother
about the women."

"She's not German, she's Austrian. Your father and I are prepared to
vouch for her."

"The difficulty is that you live within five miles of--" he hesitated
for an instant "--of a military objective."

"You needn't be so mysterious about it, Roger," said Jim, a trifle
acidly. "Everyone in the county knows that you've taken over the land to
build a secret airfield there."

Roger shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose that's so. But we're going to take damned good care that the
Germans don't, and I don't suppose the authorities will want aliens
living in the immediate neighbourhood." He turned again to his mother.
"What do you know about this girl?"

Mrs. Henderson told him Dora's moving story.

"With all those children in the house she'll be invaluable. You know
Jane isn't much use at that sort of thing."

"None," interjected Jane.

"And May and I couldn't possibly manage alone."

"What do you think of this girl, May?" he asked.

"Dora's a good worker and she's willing to put her hand to anything. She
couldn't dislike the Germans more."

"No one could be more anti-Nazi than she is," Mrs. Henderson went on.
"Her stories of the way the Germans treated those poor Austrians when
they seized the country simply make your blood boil."

"What's her name?" asked Roger.

"Dora Friedberg."

"I'll just make a note of it in case of need," he said, taking out his
note-book and scribbling in it. "In your place I wouldn't worry just
yet. When the regulations for aliens are issued Father can go and talk
it over with the chief constable. If he guarantees her I expect it'll be
all right."

"Shall you be going over to France, Roger?" asked the General.

"I'm trying to wangle it. I certainly don't want to spend the war
sitting in an office in Whitehall."

"What d'you think's going to happen in Poland?"

"The Poles were very confident when I left. My own impression is that
they can't hold out for more than three months."

"No longer than that?"

"Well, that'll be something. It'll give us time to look round and get a
bit more ready than we are now."

He turned to Jim and with the affectionate look in his eyes that always
came in to them when he talked with any member of his own family,
jokingly asked him:

"Well, old boy, how d'you like the prospect of forming fours in a
barrack square?"

Jim did not answer for a moment. The time had come and it seemed to him
that his hands and feet had suddenly gone cold. He went very white. He
glanced round the room and because he was nervous his eyes were hostile
when they met Roger's.

"I don't like it at all," he said deliberately. "I'm not going to do
it."

Mrs. Henderson smothered an exclamation and looked anxiously at her
husband. He stared at Jim as though he couldn't believe his ears. Jane,
her lips compressed in disapproval, took out her lipstick and began to
paint them. Roger knew nothing of Jim's pacifist views; he had not seen
him for some time and for one reason or another no one had thought fit
to tell him. He gave Jim a quick, puzzled glance and then after a
moment's pause, laughed.

"You'll have to, old boy. You'll be called up and you'd much better go
of your own accord. It looks better, you know."

Jim did not move. It was with something like scorn on his face that he
answered. He was sure of himself now.

"I think war is horrible and senseless. What did the last war do? Killed
millions of men and left as many men halt, lame and blind. And what for?
To start again after twenty years of misery and unrest. If you like to
be such damned fools as to fight you can. I'm not going to."

No one spoke for a while. Roger looked at his brother reflectively.

"I didn't know you were a pacifist, Jim," he said as casually as he
might have said that he didn't know his brother was a vegetarian.

"Well, you know now."

Roger turned to the General.

"Did you know about this, Father?" he asked with an air of half-amused
indulgence.

The General made a little gesture of helpless bewilderment.

"I knew that Jim went about saying he was a pacifist. I didn't take it
very seriously; I thought it was just a lot of undergraduate nonsense
and if war came he'd forget it."

Jim grew angry. His brother's manner, his father's words, making him
seem like a naughty, troublesome child, deeply affronted him. But he
controlled himself.

"You were wrong, Father," he said, rising to his feet and speaking with
all the earnestness of which he was capable. "I think that war is
wicked. At Oxford I signed a solemn declaration that if it broke out I
would take no part in it. You despise me because I won't break my word.
I should despise myself if I did."

"No one despises you, old boy," said Roger. "We're only trying to
understand."

His voice was conciliatory, almost caressing, and there was a loving
kindness in his eyes. May, watching him, recognized that look. They were
attached to one another with an unusual love, the members of that
family, and though you married into it, though they were fond and
indulgent, you remained, in some strange way, outside it. They never
felt completely themselves except in one another's company. Jim frowned.
It would have been easier if his brother had upbraided him, he could
have coped with bitter words, but that gentle tone, the deep affection
in those eyes so like his own, nearly broke him. He clenched his hands,
but when he spoke he hardly knew his own voice.

"I believe in God. I believe in peace and goodwill to all men. I believe
that if humanity is to advance we must tear hate out of our hearts and
put love in its place. This isn't the moment to hesitate. It's now that
we've got to make our stand, we who hate war, and bear witness to our
faith."

Roger answered with a deep seriousness equal to his own.

"We all hate war, old boy. But we think our honour is at stake."

"Poland!" Jim cried scornfully. "It was Belgium last time. What will it
be next? Afghanistan? Ecuador? Bunk!"

"And we think our freedom is at stake. We're fighting for everything
that makes life worth living."

Jim interrupted him hotly.

"We're going to make the world safe for democracy a second time. Really,
Roger. I thought you were intelligent."

Meanwhile Ian, redder in the face than ever, had been puffing and
blowing and now could restrain himself no longer.

"But look here, Jim, if the Germans start invading this country d'you
mean to say you're not going to resist?"

Jim turned on him angrily.

"Good God, Ian, don't bring up all those stale arguments over again.
We're sick to death of them. No, I'm not. And if they come to my house
and take everything that's in it, I'll let them take it. And if they try
to rape my sister----"

Before he could finish Jane broke in with a shrill cackle of laughter.

"Don't bother about that, Jim. I shall know how to deal with that
perfectly."

He flushed. He gave Jane a piteous look and his voice was not quite
steady when he continued.

"D'you think I like to find myself in this position? D'you think I like
disappointing you and angering you? It would be so much easier to toe
the line and put my principles in my pocket. But I can't. I tell you I
can't. They can beat me, they can put me in prison, they can stand me up
against a wall and shoot me--I will not serve in the Army, I will not
kill, I will not do anything to help others to kill."

"No one's going to put you up against a wall and shoot you, old boy,"
said Roger mildly. "You'll have to go before a tribunal and state your
reasons for refusing military service, and if they're accepted you'll be
put to some work unconnected with the war."

"That I'm quite willing to do."

Roger gazed at his brother and in his harassed eyes was now a deep
compassion.

"I'm afraid you're in for a rather rough time, old boy."

"I can't help that. I've got to do my duty as I see it."

"We've all got to do that."

Roger took a cigarette case from his pocket and took out a cigarette. He
tapped one end against the silver. He seemed lost in thought.

"Is there anything more you want to say to me?" Jim asked aggressively.

"Nothing."

"Then I'll go. I've got to meet Dora. Good night, Mother. Good night,
Father."

He glanced at his father and for a moment, staring, stood stock still.
He was as taken aback as though someone for no reason had suddenly
struck him. Tears, scalding tears were trickling down that worn, lined
face. It was such a dreadful sight that Jim gasped. Then, with a hoarse
cry of anguish, he flung out of the room. For a while no one spoke.

"I'm afraid this is a bad blow for you, Father," said Roger, at last.

Mrs. Henderson got up and sat beside her husband. She took his
handkerchief out of his pocket and put it in his hand. He took it and
dried his eyes. He tried to laugh.

"I'm sorry to make such an exhibition of myself."

"Don't take it too hard, darling," she said.

"I'm so ashamed. I don't know what I did wrong. The boy couldn't have
turned out like that if I hadn't been somehow to blame." He sighed. "The
world of today is too much for me. I've lived too long; it's about time
I made way for you, Roger, my boy."

There was another silence and then Mrs. Henderson spoke.

"The boy's got a right to his own opinions. After all, that's one of the
things we're fighting for. I don't suppose it was easy for him to say
the things he did just now and I'm afraid he's dreadfully unhappy. He's
doing what he thinks is right. I beseech you all not to make it harder
for him."

"Are we expected to treat him as if he was a damned fine fellow?" asked
Jane acidly.

You would never have thought that Mrs. Henderson's face could assume an
expression of such sternness. Jane lowered her eyes before her mother's
imperious gaze.

"You're expected to treat him as my dearly loved son. The laws of
England give him the right to do what he feels is his duty. No one in my
family shall blame him. I will allow none of you by anything you say or
anything you do to hurt him."


[IV]

Jim drove through the quiet streets of Westminster, crossed Victoria
Street and parked his car at the entrance to St. James's Park. He went
in. It was early and Dora wouldn't be there yet, but that was just as
well, for he was shattered, and he needed a little while to compose
himself. He longed for her. He had never wanted her as he wanted her
now. He knew he was doing the right thing, but he was wretched and she
would comfort him. She was wise and good. It had been a great happiness
to him to discover that she was in complete agreement with him in his
opinions. She was indeed as ardent a pacifist as himself. Though like
him she knew the actual horror of war only from hearsay she had the
personal experience of its bitter aftermath. She had seen the despair of
industrious workers who could get no work and had to sit by while their
children died of starvation; she had seen the grey faces of the gaunt
and hungry; she had seen the bitterness that warped the souls of those
for whom tomorrow must be as hopeless as today; she had seen the brave
grow cowardly, the generous mean and the honest deceitful; she had seen
hatred grow up in the hearts of those who had nothing for those who had
a pittance; she had seen class venomously attacking class; she had seen
virtue perish, and all that lent grace to life; and the values that give
man his dignity, honour, truth, loyalty, uprightness, made the mock of
fools and scoundrels. And what had brought it about? A stupid, senseless
war, a war brought about by greedy, ambitious, unscrupulous knaves. The
misery of half a continent was the price of defeat.

And what was the reward of victory? Profiteers had made fortunes. Night
clubs had raked in money hand over fist. Restaurants had done thriving
business. Motor car manufacturers had sold a multitude of cars.
Unemployment reached staggering proportions. The miners starved. The
dole sapped the independence and the spirit of those who found in it a
miserable subsistence. The moneyed wasted their substance in witless
dissipation. It seemed as though the only sensible thing was to have a
good time and the only foolish one to count the cost. You were honest
and sober, chaste and decent; oh God, what a bloody prig! To take
serious things seriously; oh, my pet, how shy-making! Virtue and
valour--Christ, what a crashing bore! Flippancy took the place of wit
and cynicism of wisdom. Vice was no longer shameful, sloth abject and
intemperance discreditable. To be a gigolo was an honourable profession
and if a kept woman gave good enough parties half the world would
scramble for invitations to them. That was what the war had brought to
England, an upper class dead to its responsibilities, a middle class
that had renounced its standards and a working class, ill-housed,
ill-fed and resentful.

Victors and vanquished, they had both been defeated. And now, fools and
knaves, they had blundered into war again. No matter what they thought
of him, no matter the pain and the anguish, the disgrace and
humiliation, Jim swore that he for his part would be true to his
conviction. It happened that he was walking by the ornamental water, and
suddenly growing conscious of the pretty charming scene he stopped to
look at it. An engaging smile broke on his lips as his eyes fell on the
two pelicans that were waddling on the grass with an air of
self-importance. Ducks of bright plumage were swimming on the water and
one of them dived down every now and then and you saw its tail flutter
jauntily on the surface. Mothers with their children playing about them
were sitting on the public benches. Here and there on a chair, reading a
book, was a tired-looking woman. Jim sauntered on. There was an old
gentleman on a bench reading an evening paper. A couple of soldiers in
khaki strolled along and a Canadian trooper asked him the way to
Parliament Street. The trees were in full leaf, as yet untouched by
approaching autumn, and the flower beds were gay with dahlias. There was
a peculiar charm in that little park in the middle of the city; it was
very graceful, rural and at the same time urbane; and to a well-read
youth like Jim it had a pleasant aroma of the eighteenth century. Here
Tom Jones had taken the air with Lady Bellaston and Lady Teazle had
listened to the blandishments of Joseph Surface. And here his own
ancestors, Hendersons in tie wigs and embroidered coats, their womenfolk
in hoops, with powdered hair, had hob-nobbed with the great world of
fashion when they came to London on their periodical visits. Jim's heart
sank when he thought that destruction must inevitably visit that happy
pleasance. They said that only those who had known London before the
last war knew the enchantment of life. What would they say if they were
unfortunate enough to live through the next? He sought in one
comprehensive look to take in what his eyes beheld so that it might be a
permanent possession that nothing could erase from his sensibility. Its
beauty rested him.

But he looked at his watch. It was still early and he rambled on. The
air was delicious on that warm summer evening and there was something
stimulating in the vague, dull roar of the city north and south of the
park. It was as exciting in its way as when things, momentous things,
are happening behind a closed door and you await the outcome of you know
not what. Suddenly he caught sight of Dora. She was sitting on a bench
talking to a woman. He was surprised, for to the best of his belief she
didn't know a soul in London. The woman was talking rapidly and
emphatically and Dora, her eyes fixed on her, was nodding every now and
then as though to show she followed and understood. She was so much
absorbed that she did not see him till he came close enough to hear that
the stranger was talking German. It was the woman who noticed him first
and she abruptly stopped speaking. Dora gave a start and the colour
flushed her cheeks.

"Oh, Jim, I didn't expect you yet; I never heard you come up. It made me
jump."

The woman looked at him for a moment and it struck him that her gaze was
strangely cold, then she got up, gave Dora a curt nod and with brisk
steps walked away.

"Who was that?" he asked as he sat down beside her.

"I've no idea. She was sitting on the bench when I came. She saw I was a
foreigner and began to talk to me. She's a refugee. She told me her
story. It was pitiful and the tragic part is that one can do nothing to
help her. I felt so sorry for her."

"She looked a pretty determined sort of woman. I expect she'll make out
all right."

"Give me a cigarette, will you? What have you been doing all day?"

"Nothing very much."

His tone was so despondent that she gave him a look. He was pale and
drawn.

"Is anything the matter? You look dreadfully tired."

"I'm all in. I told them. That I wasn't going to join up, I mean. They
were all there. It was awfully painful. My father cried."

"Why?" she asked tartly.

"He thinks it such a disgrace. He's ashamed. He doesn't begin to
understand my point of view."

She was silent for a moment and her face grew sullen. He went on.

"You mustn't think too hardly of him. He's an old man and we've been in
the Army for generations. You see, he thinks if you're not a soldier you
might just as well be a chimney-sweep. And when there's a war on he
can't conceive of one's not moving heaven and earth to get in."

"Was your brother angry with you?"

"Not angry exactly. Kind with the tolerant kindness with which you'd
treat someone who was just a bit dotty." Jim gave a mournful chuckle. "I
don't think life is going to be very pleasant at home."

Dora gave her shoulders a shrug that might have meant anything.

"Did your mother say anything to your brother about me?" she asked.

A smile broke on his lips. He was glad to talk about her.

"Yes. He made a note of your name. He says it'll be all right and I'm
sure it will. It would be monstrous to intern you. After all, you're not
German, you're Austrian, and the rotten deal you've had entitles you to
some consideration."

"The fact remains that I'm an enemy alien."

"You needn't be, you know," he smiled.

His meaning was plain and she made a slight gesture, but what it
signified he couldn't have said. He took her hand and she let him hold
it, but did not speak. A passer-by looked at them inquisitively and
smiled as he went on. Jim waited till he was out of earshot.

"Darling, won't you marry me?"

She withdrew her hand and looked down. There was the shadow of a frown
between her eyes.

"If you were my wife you'd be a British subject and then the authorities
would have nothing to say."

She seemed to hesitate for an instant. She gave him a little smile with
her lips, but her eyes were grave.

"You're sweet, Jim. No, I can't marry you."

"Why not? I love you. You know how passionately I love you. I thought
you cared for me."

"It wouldn't be fair to your father and mother. They've been so kind to
me; I couldn't repay their kindness like that. They'd hate your marrying
me."

"I don't believe it. They want me to get married."

"Perhaps. But not to a penniless, middle-class foreigner. Even if she
had half a dozen babies they'd resent her."

Jim sighed. He couldn't expect Dora with her cleverness not to have
discovered that his father, now Roger had failed him, looked to his
second son to produce the heir on whom his heart was set. He realized
that a high-spirited, idealistic girl was justified in disliking to be
treated like a brood-mare.

"I need you so badly, darling. I'm going to have a rotten time, make no
mistake about that; I can bear it. But I need you."

"It would only make it harder for you if you had an Austrian wife."

"I wouldn't care. Then they couldn't take you away from me. Oh, Dora,
say yes. I promise you you'll never regret it."

She looked at him with her fine, candid eyes and leaning towards him
lightly kissed his cheek.

"Don't let's decide now. Let's think it over. I don't want them to take
me away, you can be very sure of that. It wouldn't suit my book at all.
If there's any danger of that, then yes, let's get married."

She said it so lightly, so charmingly, that his heart was uplifted.

"I've got half a mind to denounce you as a German spy so as to force
your hand," he said gaily.

She laughed.

"That wouldn't be very nice of you."

"You might say you don't positively dislike me."

"You're more nearly a civilized being than anyone else I've met in this
country. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that I was madly in love
with you."

"My angel."

She put up her hands in protest against the passionate embrace she
foresaw.

"Not here. It's really too public. Didn't you say you were going to take
me to a newsreel?"

They got up and strolled out of the Park. As they came to the gate a
newsboy ran past with a late edition of the _Star_.

"Paper. Paper," he shouted. "Liner _Athenia_ sunk. Paper. Paper."


[V]

Mrs. Henderson went to work without delay for it was urgent in as short
a time as possible to get the house ready to receive the children she
designed to take. Everyone expected London to be heavily bombed and the
hospitals were instructed to make preparations to accommodate several
thousand casualties. Such of the sick as could be moved were sent to the
country and those who could without danger be discharged were returned
to their homes. There was an air-raid warning on the first day of the
war and great numbers of people, many in fun, many in fear, the majority
because they thought it was expected of them, hurried to the inadequate
shelters. The authorities were pressing for the evacuation of children
and the trains out of London were crowded with them. It was hard at such
short notice to find suitable accommodation for that daily stream.

Mrs. Henderson cleared the ball-room of its furniture and placed cots,
hurried down from London, in two rows along the walls; she emptied the
great drawing-room and made it into a play-room; and the big
dining-room, used only for large parties, was turned into a refectory.
That left the hall, decorated by William Kent and one of the show-pieces
of the house, a smaller dining-room, a smaller drawing-room, and the
library, its carving by Grinling Gibbons, for their own use. On Roger's
advice she had decided to start with thirty children and they came in
two batches, one of twelve and the next of eighteen. They came from
Stepney and they were from four to twelve years old; some were decent
enough, the children of respectable working-men, but others only too
shamefully betrayed their parents' debasing poverty. They were ragged
and lousy. They had to be washed and scrubbed and clothes had to be
provided for them. The little ones were easy enough to deal with, but
some of the older ones, especially the boys, were hard to control; they
were of dirty habits, foul-mouthed and wilfully destructive. Two or
three at first seemed quite unmanageable. They broke whatever was
breakable and with eager little feet mischievously trampled on the
flower beds in the garden so that not a flower was left standing. Some
had never sat at a table before to eat their meals, but had eaten them
on the floor, and when they were made to sit at table in obstinate rage
threw everything within reach on the ground. But perhaps those most
difficult to deal with were the homesick. They felt frightened and
lonely in the big house in the depths of the country, and hankered for
the noisy, squalid streets of the London slums. Then there were the
mothers who came down for the day to see their children. Some were glad
to have them out of harm's way and though they missed them could not but
see that to live a healthy life in the country was good for them. They
felt instinctively that they could entrust them to the kind lady who
spoke so nicely. But others were more difficult. They were dissatisfied
with the plain, wholesome food Mrs. Henderson gave the children and
complained that they were starved. It was a grievance that she provided
fresh milk instead of canned. Mean, they called it; they were convinced
that she was getting money for the children's keep from the Government
and didn't try to conceal their belief that she was making a good thing
out of it. They resented the neat clothes she had bought for them; it
was an aspersion on their ability to clothe their children decently; and
because they were all dressed alike anyone would have thought "they was
charity." Nor did they hold with "all them baths" Mrs. Henderson
insisted on their having. "They'll only catch their death of cold, poor
little things," they protested. Several indeed insisted on taking their
children away. Others came in their place, and it was a toss-up if they
would be nice and well behaved or little ruffians bent on making
trouble.

But in a few weeks, by a combination of firmness and kindliness, Mrs.
Henderson succeeded in establishing an influence even over the most
obstreperous. Her tender heart was glad when she saw how with good food
to eat and good air to breathe they filled out and their cheeks grew
rosy. The most acid of the mothers were obliged to acknowledge that they
seemed to be doing all right and were ready to admit in a funny
shamefaced way that "the old girl wasn't 'alf bad really." It was a
triumph for Mrs. Henderson when a fierce, hard-featured woman, the
mother of six, said to her:

"You're a lady and no mistake, and I don't mind who hears me say it."

But it was hard work. The men servants had gone, the butler to drive a
truck and the two footmen into training, so that only the women servants
were left. By the time Mrs. Henderson, May and Dora had tucked the
children up in their cots for the night they were exhausted. The older
ones went to the village school and so were kept out of mischief for
some part of the day. May and Dora took it in turns to look after the
others.

Dora, as Mrs. Henderson had predicted, was invaluable. She was more
severe than either May or Mrs. Henderson could bring themselves to be,
and Mrs. Henderson had to remind her once or twice that they were only
children, children who had never had a chance to learn and so too much
could not be expected of them, but there was no doubt that she knew how
to keep them in order. They did not like her as much as they liked Mrs.
Henderson or May, but they respected her. They soon learnt that when she
told them to do anything she meant it should be done.

A curious incident occurred soon after the outbreak of war. Jim was
looking at an illustrated paper and saw a picture of the staff of the
German embassy leaving London. He showed it to Dora.

"Look at that," he said. "Isn't that the old girl you were talking to in
St. James's Park the other evening when we were up in town?"

It was a tall, dark woman with marked features. Dora gave the picture a
glance.

"I shouldn't think so," she said casually. "That woman said she was a
refugee."

"It's the same hat. And she has the same hard look. I wonder if she
really was a refugee."

"Well, if she was trying to get anything out of me she didn't succeed,"
Dora answered with her frank smile.

Jim thought no more about it. But when his father came down for the
week-end and just as a matter of curiosity he thought he would show him
the picture he couldn't find the paper. He wondered where it had got to.
The General, despairing of getting anything better to do, was working at
the central office of the Red Cross and only came down for week-ends. He
treated Jim as kindly as he had always done, but avoided being alone
with him; and Jim, his nerves on edge, felt that now and then his
father's eyes rested on him with a sort of unhappy perplexity. But when
he deliberately looked at him, his father looked away. May and Mrs.
Henderson talked to him with invariable cordiality but of indifferent
things, and never mentioned the subject that divided them. Once he tried
to broach it with his mother.

"Oh, Jim, let's not discuss it," she said. "Presumably you've made up
your mind and nothing I can say will change it."

"Am I making you very wretched?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

One Sunday morning when they were at breakfast he found a letter on his
plate. He opened it and taking out its contents showed it to them.

"The first white feather," he said.

The General and Mrs. Henderson stared at it aghast. May in embarrassment
looked down and Dora gazed at him with a singular expression in her blue
eyes. Jim examined the postmark.

"Not very far from home," he remarked. "I wonder which of our kind
friends had the thought."

With a smile on his lips he put the feather in the button hole of his
coat. The General rose from the table and walked out of the room. The
others finished breakfast in silence.

In due course he received a summons from the local tribunal that had
been established to hear the pleas of those who had been called up and
claimed exemption from military service. He had courage and it was
without fear of the ordeal before him that on the appointed morning he
drove to the neighbouring town of Lewes. He was a trifle disconcerted by
the appearance of the other conscientious objectors who were gathered in
the hall waiting for the members of the tribunal to enter. There were
seven of them and, with the exception of an agricultural labourer with
an honest, open face, they were miserable, undersized, weakly creatures.
It wasn't very pleasant company to be in. Jim, tall and stalwart, felt
ill at ease when he looked at them; they wouldn't have been of much use
in the Army anyway; they were such a pitiable crew, they gave his
convictions a shoddiness that momentarily shook him. One, the first to
be heard, was obviously filled with self-conceit and when he was asked
on what he based his claim made a long, rhetorical harangue flaunting
his communist beliefs. He was a haberdasher by trade. He refused not
only to serve in the Army, but to do anything that was even remotely
connected with a capitalist war. He challenged the tribunal to send him
to prison. The labourer, whose case was heard next, came under a
different category. He belonged to a small and obscure sect called the
Twelve Apostles. In this strange and heartless world its adherents
sought to carry out to the letter the precepts of Jesus Christ. It was
moving to hear that plain, unlettered man proclaim in halting words his
earnest faith. There could be no doubt of his sincerity. He took them
far back, those who were there to decide and those who were there to be
heard, and with an astonished awe you felt that you were listening to
one who might himself have been a disciple of the Nazarene. Jim was
deeply affected. That good man's idealism was a ray of sunshine that
flooded his heart with light and when his own turn came he faced his
judges with manly confidence. He knew personally the members of the
tribunal and the chairman was an intimate friend of his father's; but if
any of them thought it strange that he should appear before them they
showed no sign of it. Jim read the short statement he had prepared and
answered the questions that were put to him.

"Are you prepared to work on the land?" the chairman asked.

"Yes, sir. I'll do that very gladly."

"Very well."

Exemption was granted him.

There were several farms on the Graveney estate, but the tribunal had
stipulated that he should not work with one of his father's tenants, so
next day he applied for a job to a farmer who cultivated his own land.

"Conchie, are you?" the farmer asked him.

"Yes."

"You look a strong, husky young fellow. Have you ever done a day's work
in your life?"

"Not the sort of work you mean."

The man looked him up and down as though he were a strange animal.

"Well, I don't mind giving you a trial. I'm short of hands. All my young
chaps are in the Army and I suppose I must put up with any riff-raff I
can get."

Jim found a room in a cottage near by that belonged to a couple whose
son had joined up. He was glad to get away from home. He was sensitive,
and the fact that the others, his father, his mother, May, avoided any
reference to his inglorious situation exasperated his nerves more than
if they had openly condemned it. He felt like a man who has come back to
his family after a term of imprisonment and who knows that they are
always on their guard to see that no remark escapes their lips to wound
him. He was at ease only with Dora. But since the children had descended
upon them she had been kept too busy to have much time to give him; and
he had to content himself with an occasional stroll in the park or a few
minutes' conversation when he chanced to catch her by herself. He
reproached her sometimes because he saw so little of her, but she told
him she thought it wise that they shouldn't seem to be too intimate.

"I don't want anyone to suspect that there's anything between us till
we've finally made up our minds."

"I've made mine up," he said.

"I haven't."

Her retort would have made him angry and unhappy if she hadn't
accompanied it with such a radiant smile.

The farm on which Jim had found work was only six miles away and it was
arranged that he should come home every Sunday to spend the day. But
that would give him small chance of seeing Dora alone and he exacted a
promise from her that now and then, when she could get away, she would
meet him of an evening at a little Elizabethan cottage that stood on the
brow of a low hill near the high road but just within one of the park
gates. It was only a short bicycle ride from Graveney. It had a thatched
roof and though tiny was habitable; indeed a cranky uncle of the
General's had lived in it for years and in recollection of that the
Hendersons still spoke of it as Uncle Algy's cottage. But in the
neighbourhood it was known as Badger's. Jim had always hoped that Roger,
when he succeeded to the property, would let him have it for his own;
and he liked to take Dora there and plan the alterations they would make
in it.

"It would be perfect for you and me," he told her, looking at her with
fond eyes.

"It certainly has a lovely view," she smiled.

Situated as it was on an elevation you could see from its windows a
great stretch of the surrounding country.

"All Sussex is spread before you," he said proudly.

"It's sweet."

"I can't see any reason why we shouldn't get married right away and come
and live here."

"You must be very stupid then. I've told you often enough."

He sighed. He knew by now that when once she had made up her mind no
appeal could shake her. She had decided that to marry him would be a
shabby trick to play on his father and mother who had been so kind to
her, and though he thought her notion unreasonable he could not but
esteem the delicacy of her scruple.

"All the same I wish you weren't so damned high-minded," he said.


[VI]

It was a lovely autumn. Towards the end of September Tommy went back to
school. But by then a Russian army had entered eastern Poland and with
the invasion, Polish resistance collapsed. Warsaw surrendered. The
victors divided the spoils between them. The first brief chapter of the
war was written. British troops in a steady stream were ferried across
the Channel and Roger went on the staff of the Commander in Chief.
Winter set in. Dick Murray was with his regiment in the wilds of
Norfolk. Though it had been a grief to see him go, May was relieved that
he was no longer there to drop in at odd moments. She felt that she must
keep not only to the letter but to the spirit of her bargain with Roger
and it was harder to do it when she saw him constantly. She was glad
that he, like Roger, was serving the country. They did not write to one
another often, but when she got a letter from him, and it wasn't a love
letter, it was just an account of what he was doing, interspersed with
complaints that it was all very boring, her day was made. She could hear
his rich, eager voice in his matter-of-fact phrases and every casual
word told her that he loved her. It was lucky for her that she had
plenty to do. Her work kept her so busy that she had little time for
thoughts unconnected with it and, though one day was exactly like the
last, the weeks flew by at a gallop. She had not realized that Christmas
was so near till Mrs. Henderson announced one morning that she was going
up to London to buy presents for the children. A tree was brought in and
placed in a private room, and May and Dora in their leisure moments set
about decorating it. Tommy came home for the holiday. He had grown, but
he was still a little boy, thin and weedy, with hands and feet too big
for him and a mop of brown hair that his mother in vain tried to keep
tidy. His dark eyes were keen and intelligent. His vitality was so
abounding that, except when he was reading, it seemed a torture to him
to sit still: you might have thought quicksilver flowed in his veins
rather than blood. His movements had the clumsy, charming awkwardness of
a new-born colt. Mrs. Henderson, noticing how tall he was growing, could
not but think rather sadly that soon his voice would break and then in a
little while he would be a great big fellow like his brothers and in the
grown man she would lose the child who was so dear to her. She thanked
God he was too young to fight. No harm could befall him.

Christmas Day came. The General, down from London for forty-eight hours,
brought Tommy a new bicycle. The evacuated children were thrilled with
their presents and the Christmas tree, of which they had never seen the
like, filled them with admiring wonder. They ate turkey and plum pudding
and drank ginger beer. They played games. They had a grand time. One
small boy remarked that he didn't care how long the war lasted.

It was just after the New Year, one evening, while the children were
being given their supper, that Tommy came in to the refectory.

"May, you're wanted on the phone," he said.

"Who is it? I can't come now. I'm busy."

"It's Dick Murray. He says he only wants to speak to you for a minute.
I'll carry on for you."

May was holding a plate heaped with macaroni and she put it down
quickly, for her hand trembled. She knew why Dick was calling. His last
letter had told her that his regiment had a good chance of being sent
over to France and he hoped to God it would come off; for he was sick
and tired of sitting about and doing nothing. If there was a chance of
seeing him before he went she meant to take it; she couldn't let him
leave without at least a glimpse of him. She went out into the hall and
then to the library, so that she could speak without risk of being
overheard. She lifted the receiver, but her knees were shaking so that
she had to sit down.

"Yes?"

"May, we're off."

His voice was gay and eager. She clenched her hands.

"Oh, that's splendid," she said lightly. "When?"

"Tonight. We're sailing at dawn."

"So soon? Oh, Dick."

She hadn't expected that and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself
from crying.

"You mustn't be upset. I shan't be in any more danger than if we'd
stayed on in Norfolk. Nothing is going to happen till the Germans attack
in the spring and then we'll smash them to smithereens."

She made an effort.

"I hope it won't be dreadfully boring."

"I'd have given anything in the world to see you to say good-bye. I
naturally expected to get a day or two's leave and I've been grousing
like hell at being done out of it."

She couldn't speak for a moment and he asked if she was still there. She
strove to keep her voice steady.

"Perhaps it's just as well. I don't think I could have borne it."

"Oh, my sweet."

His voice faltered.

"Good-bye, darling. God bless you."

"I love you with all my heart."

"Good-bye."

She put the receiver down. It was all over and it hadn't lasted three
minutes. It was too little, oh, so much too little. Her mouth trembled,
but she couldn't let herself cry, and she clenched her teeth. She stayed
where she was, by the telephone, for a while to collect herself. She
couldn't afford to let anyone see that the news she had received meant
more to her than it should. Oh, the deceit--how hateful it was! When she
went back to the refectory there was no sign, except the whiteness of
her face, that her heart was wrung.

"What did he want?" asked Mrs. Henderson.

"He rang up to say good-bye. He's going to France tomorrow."

"Oh, I'm glad. He must be delighted."

"He seemed in the highest spirits."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Ian was ordered out to France too, for, after pulling all possible
strings, he had achieved his desire and was once more in khaki. Because
he spoke French adequately he had been made a Security Officer, which
was a job that he thought suited him perfectly; Jane disagreed; she
pointed out to him that it needed tact, judgment and common sense, and
no one knew better than she that those were qualities in which he was
completely deficient. He listened to her tart remarks without turning a
hair.

When the time came for him to go, having agreed that she shouldn't come
to the station, he and Jane had a last drink together in the
drawing-room of their little house in Westminster. He was to sail from
Southampton to Cherbourg.

"I hope we have a smooth crossing," he said. "You know what a rotten
sailor I am."

"You look awful when you're seasick."

"I don't care a hang about that. I feel awful."

As a rule they had plenty to say to one another, but just then, they
didn't quite know why, there really didn't seem anything to say. Jane
was smoking a cigarette through an immensely long holder and suddenly,
as though she were angry with it, took it out and crushed the stub
savagely into an ash-tray. Ian glanced at his watch and gulped down the
last mouthful of his whisky and soda.

"Well, I suppose I ought to be toddling."

"Ought you?"

She took out her lipstick and applied it to her lips. Looking at herself
in her pocket mirror as she did this, she asked casually:

"You're quite sure you don't want me to come to the station with you?"

"Not on your life. I don't want a hysterical woman sobbing all over my
brand-new uniform."

"Hysterical be damned. But what they want to send a fat old man like you
to France for is more than I can understand."

"Old my foot. I'm in the prime of life. And fat my other foot. I've lost
twenty pounds since I got back in the Army."

She gave him a derisive glance.

"No one would know it to look at you." She fixed him sternly with her
monocle. "Now look here, Ian, if you see a German coming for you, you
run like a hare."

He grinned.

"I don't mind telling you I get awfully out of breath when I run."

"Well, I warn you, if you go and get yourself killed I'll never speak to
you again."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

Jane threw up her hands in desperation.

"Why in God's name did I ever marry that man?"

"I can answer that one," he cried with a throaty chuckle. "Because no
one else was such a fool as to ask you."

Jane giggled.

"That's right. How did you know?"

He heaved his great weight out of the chair and taking Jane's hands
pulled her to her feet.

"Give the old man a kiss before he goes."

Jane swallowed.

"O God, I believe I'm going to cry."

"Don't be a damned fool, Jane," he said roughly.

"O God, don't let me cry. I'll never be able to manage that man again if
I cry."

"Think of your eyelashes, darling, don't think of me."

She looked at him with one eye because for a reason she could only
guess, the monocle was dimmed and she couldn't see through it.

"You're old and you're fat and you're stupid," she said angrily, and
then her funny hoarse voice went back on her, "but you're all I've got
in the world and I don't want to lose you."

"Shut up, Jane, or I'll give you a sock in the jaw. If you go on like
this, you'll have me crying too."

"I'm not crying, you fool. I won't cry." She made a terrible face. "Oh,
Ian, I do love you so."

"I've sort of suspected that for a good many years, dear," he said,
taking her in his fat arms.

She flung hers round his neck and with a fearful grimace asked him
pitifully:

"You do like me a bit, don't you?"

"You're a nagging old bitch, Jane, but, my God, I love you."

Their lips met and they put into that long kiss all their love and all
their devotion. She tore herself away from him.

"Get the hell out of here. I can't bear it another instant."

Without a further word he flung out of the room, slamming the door
behind him, as though they had had a prodigious fight. Jane, her eyes on
the door by which he had gone, bit her lips to cling on to her
self-control. Her comic, ugly face worked in strange contortions. Then
she gave up the struggle.

"To hell with my eyelashes."

She threw herself on her knees and joined her hands. "O God, keep the
old fool safe."

The tears streamed down her face. They made a terrific mess of her
make-up.

                 *        *        *        *        *

And in like manner, though in their different ways, women in England
through the long, bitter winter said good-bye to their men. They said
good-bye to them in the crofts of the distant Hebrides and in the
fishermen's cottages of wind-swept Cornwall, in the slum dwellings of
the big cities, in the drab villas of the suburbs, in the orderly houses
of the well-to-do and in the mansions of the great. When it was possible
they went to the station to get a last sight of them as they entrained.
On the coaches the men in high spirits chalked up facetious quips. Hang
out your washing on the Siegfried Line. They sang lustily as the train
steamed out. They were going to France. They were going to Gibraltar,
Malta, Egypt or the East. Not all of them, it might be, would reach
their destination in safety. The women, many of them crying still,
flowed out of the station and went about their chores.

Jane continued to lead her normal life. She went out to dinner a great
deal and lunched at the Ritz where you saw everyone you knew. She gave
smart little parties in her tiny house. Since she lived in a convenient
spot friends of Roger's from the War Office, men at the Foreign Office
and members of the House of Commons were glad to drop in of an evening
for a cocktail and a gossip. She generally had a funny story to tell
about this general or that or a bit of scandal about a Cabinet Minister
and you were pretty sure of two or three good laughs when you went to
see her. Her fantastic appearance added point to her wisecracks. Of
course the war was a crashing bore, but it was no use to pull a long
face and she didn't see why she shouldn't get what fun out of it she
could. It certainly gave her ample scope for her sardonic wit. She
missed Ian; he was the perfect foil; and when the conversation was
growing sticky she could always count on him to rise when, as though it
were a fly and he the fat trout he really rather looked like, she flung
a caustic remark at him. They played into one another's hands like a
pair of black-face comedians.

But when people asked her if she missed him, Jane shrugged her shoulders
nonchalantly.

"I suppose I do in a way. Sometimes I could kill him when he's here, but
there's no doubt about it, absence does make the heart grow fonder."

She was thankful that he was in no danger. Some of the people who came
to see her were quite important and it was a comfort to her to be told
by them that everything was going according to plan. The blockade was
doing very well and the information that came out of Germany was that
there was already a considerable shortage of raw materials. The Germans
weren't starving yet, though they'd had to tighten their belts; but they
were suffering from cold, for owing to the breakdown of transport they
couldn't get coal in sufficient quantity. That could hardly fail to have
a depressing effect on the population, which in any case had accepted
the war with resignation rather than with enthusiasm. For the sake of
morale, if for no other reason, Hitler would have to attack in the
spring. The Maginot Line was impregnable. It was common knowledge that,
though the generals, who belonged to the old army, weren't to be
despised, the Germans suffered from a serious lack of company
commanders, and when they got up against the well-trained and
well-officered troops of the French they'd discover what a fatal
handicap that was. After they'd been beaten back from the Maginot Line
the Allies would advance. The Germans would have to dig in, if a
revolution didn't break out and put an end to the whole show without any
more bother, and then all the Allies had to do was to sit tight and let
the blockade do the rest. Jane's friends at the Foreign Office told her
they were pretty confident that Italy would stay out; Bastianini, the
ambassador, informed everybody who was prepared to listen that she would
never fight her old ally England. It was reassuring to hear those
Foreign Office men talk. They were so calm, apparently so unconcerned,
you couldn't but feel that there was nothing to worry about. The war
might have been a game they were playing, a game you played according to
the rules in a gentlemanlike way, and if you lost it, which was out of
the question but of course possible, you must take your defeat like a
good sportsman. One evening Jane had three Ministers of the Crown at
dinner. The conversation turned to literature and she was impressed with
their intimate acquaintance with the modern poets. She had no idea they
were so cultivated.

January, February and March went by.


[VII]

This story is concerned with the war only in so far as it affected the
fortunes of a small group of persons, members of a single English
family, and so nothing need be said here of the events that followed
upon one another's heels in a rapid and appalling succession, the
invasions of Denmark and Norway, of Belgium and the Netherlands. But
then the French lines broke south of Sedan and a few days later the
Germans captured Arras and then Amiens and reached the Channel. A week
after that King Leopold surrendered the Belgian Army. The German
communiqu announced that the fate of the Allied armies was sealed.

Jane was shattered. What had they meant by what they had been saying for
three months, those confident fellows who came to drink her cocktails?
They had never so much as hinted at the possibility of disaster. Why,
Chamberlain himself, when the Germans invaded Norway, said in the House
of Commons that Hitler had missed the bus. It wasn't a month ago that
one of the big shots, with ribbons all over his chest, had told her that
the French Army was on its toes and he'd eat his brass hat if it didn't
give the Hun the surprise of his life. Ian was in France. He might be
killed and the best that could be hoped was that he would be taken
prisoner. Of course Roger was there too. But Roger could take care of
himself. Ian was such a fool. She was distracted with fear. She went
here and there trying to get reassuring news, she called up influential
friends; one of the Ministers told her over the telephone that the
B.E.F. was entrapped and it would be a miracle if more than thirty or
forty thousand got away.

"Not so good, is it?" she said.

"Pretty grim," he answered.

She gave a little, throaty chuckle.

"I suppose Ian will be taken prisoner. I've been telling him for years
he ought to take a slimming cure. He'll take it now, won't he,
willynilly?"

"Don't lose your nerve, old girl," said the Minister. "We shall pull
through, you know."

"Of course."

She hung up. She put her hand to her heart, for the pain in it was
agonizing. With her funny face all puckered with anguish she stood
biting her lips and stared at the blank wall in front of her. She felt
on a sudden terribly alone. Friends? What was the use of friends? She
was suffering. She couldn't face the dinner party at the Savoy she was
due to go to that evening. She couldn't face solitude either. Even when
he wasn't there Ian was all over the house. His clothes, his old pipes,
his guns and fishing tackle, his golf clubs--she couldn't go into a
single room without feeling his presence. And now the house was empty
and hostile.

"I can't bear it," she cried aloud. "I want to go home."

Only her mother knew really what Ian, that great hulking brute, with his
great bellow, was to her. She had to go to her as she had done when she
was a tiny girl, plain as the devil, and had fallen down and hurt
herself. It was a filthy trick nature had played to give her a face like
hers and a heart like hers. She packed, took the first train available
and three hours later, putting on a jaunty air, strolled into the hall
of Graveney Holt. Mrs. Henderson and May were alone and May's eyes were
red and swollen.

"Hulloa, Mother, I thought I'd run down and see how you were getting on.
This is a pretty kettle of fish those fools in Whitehall have got us
into."

"We must all hope for the best, darling," said Mrs. Henderson gravely.
"You mustn't lose heart."

Sitting down and peeling off her gloves Jane took a mirror out of her
bag and looked at herself.

"My God, what a sight! I'm not in the least worried about Ian if that's
what you mean. Before he went away I made him promise that if he saw a
German he'd bolt like a hare and he knows he'd get hell from me if he
didn't do what I told him." Jane fixed her monocle more firmly in her
eye. "London's frightfully boring just now and I'm a bit run down; I
thought if you'd have me I'd like to stay a few days."

Mrs. Henderson looked at her daughter with calm, discerning eyes and
Jane had more than a suspicion that she understood the situation.

"Of course."

"I brought a few things down in a suit case. And of course my face."

What Jane called her face was a flat, rectangular metal box in a neat
velvet cover. It contained a large number of little bottles, rouge,
powder, lipstick, mascara, and whatever else could possibly be needed to
compose that fantastic counterfeit of the human visage which she
presented to the world.

"I thought you'd probably be coming down," said Mrs. Henderson. "You can
make yourself useful with the children. We've tried to keep the worst of
the news from them, but they're as sharp as nails, the older ones, and
they come to me and ask: 'Is my dad all right, ma'am?' and I can't
answer them."

"I suppose there's no news of Roger?"

"What news could there be? We're worried, dreadfully worried."

"Well, he's on the staff. Nothing ever happens to Red Tabs."

It irritated her to see May's white face and swollen eyes. Roger would
get away with Lord Gort and the rest of them, but who was going to
bother about her fat, old Ian? She gave May a sharp look. Perhaps it
wasn't Roger that May was so upset about. It had occurred to her in the
summer that she and Dick seemed on very good terms.

May rose to her feet.

"I must go to the children now. I can't leave Dora alone with them too
long."

She left them. She hadn't missed the glance Jane had given her and had
been seized with a panic fear that she guessed that her eyes were not
red with crying for Roger. She was concerned about him, of course, she
didn't want harm to befall him, but she felt certain he would be all
right and would get away, the only real danger he incurred was from a
stray bomb; but Dick--it was no good trying not to, she could think
really of no one but him. That was a sharp, nerve-racking misery that
gave her not a moment's respite through the long day and held her
sleepless hour after hour of the interminable night. She hadn't heard
from him since the march of the British troops into Belgium. For a
fortnight he had been in the thick of the fighting. He might be wounded;
he might be dead; and there was no one she could turn to in her pain.
Mrs. Henderson, ascribing May's distress to anxiety on Roger's account,
was kind to her as even she had never been before. Never a demonstrative
woman she sought ways now to show May how deep and sincere was her love
for her. Suppressing her own fears, in order to console her she tried to
make light of Roger's peril. Her tenderness was very hard to bear. May
hated herself for the dissimulation she must practise, the comfort she
must feign when Mrs. Henderson told her she was convinced that Roger
would get back safely and she must try to be brave in this time of
trial; for it was Dick she was thinking of, Dick who might even now be
lying dead on the field of battle, Dick whose death, if he was killed,
she could only mourn in secret. But what could she do? In her anguish
she felt like blurting out the truth to Mrs. Henderson, but she
restrained herself; she could not bear to cause that poor woman an added
grief. It would be dreadful just then to tell her that if she had ever
loved Roger, she had long ceased to do so. It would be worse than
hitting a child. There was no help for it, she must bear her burden
alone.

"God knows, I didn't want to love Dick," she said to herself. "I can't
help myself. He's everything in the world to me."

Thinking of him, thinking of him incessantly, praying for him, she
conceived the notion that if she promised God to give him up, God would
spare him. It was only her strong good sense that prevented her from
yielding to the temptation. God was not a cruel God and to save did not
need from his creatures the propitiation of a frustrated life and a
broken heart. It was the God of Moses who had claimed eye for eye and
tooth for tooth, not the God of love. She fell on her knees and prayed
for Dick's safety, but she prayed also for all those who were even then
in deadly peril.


[VIII]

The next five days, those during which the evacuation from Dunkirk was
effected, were days of fear to the women of Graveney Holt. Sick at
heart, their faces drawn, they listened in silent dread to the radio.
The German bombers without pause attacked the retreating troops and the
rescue ships. The men, weary after a fortnight's hard fighting, waited
on the open beaches to take their turn in the small craft that had
gathered to bring the survivors to the ships that waited off shore. The
Germans entered Dunkirk to find that their prey had escaped. After
fearing the worst it was almost with exultation, as though victory had
been snatched from defeat, that those women heard the news that, though
all else was lost, guns, tanks and equipment, more than three hundred
thousand men had been saved. And though they knew nothing of what had
happened to those whose fate most concerned them they ventured once more
to hope. All through that dark period Mrs. Henderson went about the
heavy work entailed by the care of thirty children with a stern, set
face. She kept the others at it too and with something like ferocity, as
though hoping that by driving them to death she could take their minds
off their sickening fears.

On Sunday Jim as usual came over to spend the day, but it was a sad,
harassed meal they sat down to at one o'clock. The General had stayed in
town over the week-end. May was silent because her heart was heavy and
Jane could not bring herself to speak to Jim. She avoided looking at him
and when he addressed her answered in a monosyllable. His eight months
on the farm had braced him; the hard manual labour had steeled his
muscles; the sun had bronzed him and he looked the picture of health.
But his physical condition was an affront to Jane and it was only fear
of her mother that prevented her from uttering the bitter sarcasms that
were on the tip of her tongue. Mrs. Henderson looked at him sorrowfully.
His face was drawn, as though from a spiritual conflict, but it gave him
a new distinction of appearance and now, so strong and well in body, he
was really a very handsome young man. His hands distressed her, for they
were rough and stained and calloused; but for all that they were fine
and well formed. It was with a demure pride that Mrs. Henderson told
herself that they betrayed his breeding. Only a gentleman could have
hands like that. It chanced that May's eyes fell on them too and she was
struck by their sinewy power. They were like Roger's, but larger, and
she hardly knew why, more significant. There was something queer about
them, almost sinister, that didn't depend altogether on the hard usage
that had coarsened them. They contrasted oddly with the pained,
stubborn, pathetic look in his brown eyes. Mrs. Henderson gave Dora a
glance. She was sitting with downcast eyes apparently absorbed in the
roast beef and Yorkshire pudding she was eating with healthy appetite.
With her corn-coloured hair and lovely neck she was certainly a very
comely young woman. Of course Mrs. Henderson knew that Jim was in love
with her, but she was quite certain that Dora wasn't in love with him.
It was nice of her to have refused the offer he must surely have made.
It showed that she was disinterested. For with May childless Jim must
eventually inherit the property and it was a good match for a penniless
refugee. Mrs. Henderson felt very tenderly to her. It was true what Jane
had said long ago, the General would hate Jim to marry a foreigner; that
was of course a prejudice; she wouldn't have liked it much either, she
wanted Jim to marry a nice English girl of good family, the sort of girl
the Hendersons had always married; but if Dora had loved him and he was
sure she would make him happy, she was the last person to put obstacles
in the way. And there was no doubt about it, you only had to look at her
to know that she wouldn't leave the nurseries at Graveney untenanted.
Mrs. Henderson wondered what Dora was thinking about. She seemed to be
holding herself apart from the rest of them and made no attempt to join
in the conversation that Mrs. Henderson sought with effort to keep
going. The atmosphere was so strained that, having exhausted every other
possible subject, she turned to Jim and began asking him about his work
on the farm. He answered her questions, but it was hard to be natural
when he knew that she only asked them to avoid any reference to the
disaster that weighed so heavily on their hearts. She might have been
making conversation with a stranger to whom the catastrophe was
indifferent. In point of fact he was happy in his work. It gave him a
peculiar satisfaction to see the wheat growing in the fields himself had
ploughed, and the chores of the daily round in their variety were a
source of unceasing interest to him. He was proud because during the
lambing season he had not lost a lamb. He sat up all night with a cow
that was about to calve, not because his employer told him to, but
because he was uneasy about her. He milked the cows, fed and watered the
horses, mixed slop for the pigs and fed them. To work hand in hand with
nature gave him a sense of peace that was very grateful to him.

It enabled him to bear with half-amused indifference the hostility of
his employer. Mr. Jenkins was a small, wiry man with grey, thinning
hair, a lined, bony face and red-rimmed eyes. He was determined to keep
Jim on the job. The utmost praise Jim ever got out of him was a scornful
grunt and when he made mistakes, as in his ignorance at first he often
did, Jenkins berated him with obscene abuse. Jim had a notion that he
took a malicious pleasure in giving the son of General Henderson the
rough side of his tongue. He spoke of him, even in his hearing, as the
conchie and would not let his wife and children have any further
communication with him than was inevitable. Sometimes he would go out of
his way to make Jim lose his temper so that he could go to the police
and complain of him.

"Picking oakum, that's what you ought to be doing," he snarled.

Jim took care to be as civil and respectful to Jenkins as, if their
positions had been reversed, he would have expected the man to be to
him. But he made up his mind that when peace came and he was free he
would thrash the brute within an inch of his life. That would be well
worth going to prison for.

It happened that the evening before something had happened about which
he could not avoid speaking to his mother. He knew it would be a score
for Jane and would as soon she should not know about it, but just
because of this feeling he forced himself to mention it then and there.

"Mother," he said, "d'you think Father would have any objection to my
sleeping at Uncle Algy's cottage?"

This was the cottage, known to the villagers as Badger's, which was at
the north gate of the park.

"Oh, my dear, it would be awfully uncomfortable for you."

"Well, the people I've been living with, the Carrs, want me to get out."

"Why?"

"It's rather a long story. When I paid my weekly bill last night, I saw
Mrs. Carr had something on her mind. Carr was hanging about outside and
I knew he was listening. I asked her if there was anything the matter
and she said, 'Well, sir, the fact is we're wanting your room, so I must
ask you to make other arrangements.' I couldn't make it out at first; my
board and lodging have been a godsend to them now that their son's away
and they haven't got his wages to help. I asked her why she wanted me to
get out and she said it was too much work. I knew that was all rot, I
give hardly any trouble; and at last she came out with it."

Jim looked steadily at Jane and there was a caustic smile on his lips.
Repeating Mrs. Carr's words, he imitated her broad Sussex accent so well
that, if you hadn't known how bitterly he felt, you would have laughed.

"She said, 'Well, sir, if the truth must be told it's like this. Carr,
he says, what with our Bert in the Army, in the thick of the fray, as
you might say, and perhaps we'll never see the poor boy again--we don't
want you here. Seems like an insult to our Bert, if you understand what
I mean.'"

"I'm bound to say I see her point," said Jane.

"Be quiet, Jane," said Mrs. Henderson sharply. "Yes, of course your
father will be glad to have you live at Uncle Algy's. What will you do
about your meals?"

"I can get them at the Cornford pub." Cornford was the name of the
village near which was Jenkins's farm. Jim smiled wryly. "They're not
allowed by law to refuse to serve me."

They finished lunch in an oppressive silence. Dora hadn't opened her
mouth.

It was a relief to Jim to escape for a stroll with her later in the
afternoon. It was warm and sunny and great snowy clouds, like white
primeval monsters sunning themselves on the surface of the deep, lay at
rest in the blue sky. After two days' rain the green of the oak trees
was glossy and shining. Dora was what the French call _journalire_;
there were days when she was almost plain and others when she was
beautiful. This was a good one. Her eyes had caught the colour of the
sky and there was a warm glow in her cheeks. She trod the earth with a
lovely impetuosity as though it were dirt beneath her feet and she had
only to will and she would sail through the air like a witch on a
broomstick. Jim had never loved her with a more eager longing. He took
her hand. Suddenly, to his utter surprise, she burst into a ringing peal
of laughter.

"What on earth are you laughing at?" he cried.

She stopped at once and gave him a rapid, searching glance. Her bright
eyes were on a sudden veiled.

"Nothing; I'm sorry, it was just hysteria. All those glum faces round
the table."

He flushed in momentary vexation. He thought her tactless.

"You couldn't expect them to be very cheerful. They're frightfully
anxious."

"I know. Forgive me. I didn't mean it. It was stupid. I suppose this is
the end."

"What d'you mean by that?"

He was still a trifle affronted, but she gave him a charming, even a
tender, smile.

"Darling, have a little sense. France is beaten. England can't go on
alone."

"She will."

"She can't. What's the use of prolonging a hopeless struggle? Don't you
want peace?"

He looked down with harassed eyes.

"I don't want England to be beaten."

"Why don't you go and fight then?" she said coolly.

"Dora," he cried aghast. "You're not going to turn against me too?"

"Of course not. Only I don't understand your attitude. It doesn't seem
logical."

"I dare say it isn't," he smiled sadly, "but there's nothing I can do
about it. I hate war. I still think it criminal and senseless. But I
don't want England to be defeated."

"England is defeated. What's the good of shutting your eyes to obvious
facts? The only thing she can do now is to make the best terms she can
with the Germans. Then we shall have peace for a hundred years."

"What sort of a peace?"

She shrugged her shoulders. She seemed about to speak, but apparently
changed her mind, and they walked for a while in silence. Once or twice
she gave him a sidelong glance from beneath her eyelashes.

"You're very quiet today," she said at length.

"I'm unhappy."

"You needn't be," she smiled.

"I wouldn't be if you'd marry me."

She made a quick gesture of withdrawal.

"No, no, no. I've told you it's impossible."

"Oh, Dora, don't say that. It breaks my heart."

"Don't be so silly," she laughed. "Not yet, I meant. You know that.
There's no hurry."

He sighed.

"I sometimes wonder if you care for me at all."

She gave him a teasing smile.

"Have you never looked at yourself in the glass? I was looking at you at
lunch today. You're very good-looking."

She paid him a compliment so seldom that he blushed.

"Pure Aryan, at all events," he laughed.

She took his hand.

"You're very sweet," she said. "But you mustn't try to bustle me. You
must have patience."


[IX]

A day or two later they got some good news. It wasn't what Mrs.
Henderson would have liked best to have, but it strengthened her hope of
better news to come. Dick Murray rang her up and told her that he
thought she might like to know he was back in England safe and sound.

"Oh, I'm so glad," she answered. "Are you quite all right?"

"Not a scratch. A bit tired, you know, but otherwise in fine fettle."

"D'you know anything about Roger and Ian?"

"Oddly enough I ran across Ian on the beach at Dunkirk. I heard his
bellow one night and routed him out. Don't you worry, he'll turn up."

"And Roger?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, Dick."

Mrs. Henderson could not keep the dismay out of her voice.

"Don't get in a panic, Mrs. Henderson. Everything is in a bit of a
muddle just now. I expect he'll be all right. There may be all sorts of
reasons why he hasn't been able to let you know. I dare say it never
even occurred to him that you were anxious."

There was something in that. If he had got away with Lord Gort, and were
frightfully busy, the thought might never have entered his head that
there was any need to assure them of his safely. When Mrs. Henderson
went back and told the others what Dick had said it was only by a
miracle that May prevented a great cry of relief from breaking through
her lips. She had to make a tremendous effort not to appear more than
decently interested.

"I'm glad he's all right," she said very quietly. "Did he seem
cheerful?"

"Quite."

She wondered how long she must stay, acting as though it meant nothing
more than was natural in the circumstances, before she could get away to
her room and there thank God, thank God with all her heart, for his
great mercy. But Jane broke out in violent exasperation.

"If that old fool's back and hasn't let me know I'll give him such hell
when I see him he'll wish to God the Germans _had_ taken him prisoner."

"Remember that May and I are just as anxious about Roger," Mrs.
Henderson said mildly.

Jane gave May a sidelong glance.

"Why should it be Dick that's come back? I don't suppose he matters a
damn to anyone."

She saw May flush.

"How can you be so selfish?" Mrs. Henderson answered. "At a time like
this we must try to hold all men equally dear."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Though Jane protested that she was no good at that sort of thing, Mrs.
Henderson had insisted on her helping with the children. She refused to
do any housework, vowing that she simply didn't know how to make a bed
or sweep a room, and as for washing-up she wasn't going to risk breaking
her nails for any children in the world; but she constituted herself
their entertainer. In twenty-four hours she had them eating out of her
hand. She swore at them with her deep, husky voice, and threatened to
beat the hide off them if they didn't behave; they thought her the
grandest buffoon they had ever seen and they crowded round her laughing
shrilly at her absurdity. She told them highly immoral stories in which
the bad boy came off best and the good little girl never got her reward;
they loved them and made her repeat them over and over again. The babies
struggled for a place on her lap, and she held them there telling them
what little beasts they were, and the others pressed close begging for
her attention and shouting with glee when, her monocle fixed in her eye,
but a look in it few had ever seen, she made a fool of herself for their
amusement.

"Why haven't you got any kids of your own?" one urchin asked her.

"D'you think I want a lot of dirty little brats like you round me? As a
matter of fact I've had twelve, but I always drowned them before they
got their eyes open, like puppies."

"Where d'you drown them?"

"In the water I did the week's washing in," she answered promptly. "Then
I knew that for once in their lives they were clean."

Then Jane received a telegram from Ian, sent on from her house in
London, telling her that he was in a hospital at York.

"Both doing well," he added. "Baby weighs forty-two pounds. Sex
uncertain."

"Fool!" cried Jane furiously. "He's wounded. He may be dying."

"D'you think he'd send that silly telegram if he were?" laughed Mrs.
Henderson.

"O God, why did I ever marry a congenital imbecile?"

Jane sent him a frantic wire to say that she was coming up by the first
train. There was a great wailing among the children when she set off for
the station and she had to promise faithfully to come back soon. She was
inclined to preen herself because she had been such a success with them.

"It seems to me I've got quite a way with kids," she said. "I suppose
it's because they know I'm just as unscrupulous and immoral as they
are."

Mrs. Henderson gave her a tender, slightly mocking little smile.

"You can't deceive children. They know instinctively if you really like
them or if you're only pretending."

"Do they like Dora?"

"She's a very good disciplinarian," said Mrs. Henderson.

"Then they must dote on her," answered Jane dryly.

Next day but one she wrote to her mother.

    _Well darling all the way up to York I designed my weeds I never
    have worn black but with my colouring I believe it would suit me
    and I thought out some frocks that were positively startling
    What I was going to wear at the funeral is nobody's business Ian
    would have jumped out of his coffin and run screaming from the
    church But I'm not going to be a widow after all so I took all
    that trouble for nothing That big fat fool you made me marry is
    going to get perfectly well He got away from Dunkirk all right
    and then was such a donkey he would be as to get on a ship that
    was torpedoed The idiot got his face bashed in and lost all his
    front teeth I don't so much mind about that as his teeth always
    were bad and I've been nagging him for years to have them out
    but his face is a mess He looks as though he'd got dropsy mumps
    and elefantasis (how'd you spell the bloody word) and he's got
    two of the most beautiful black eyes you ever saw He can't speak
    only mumble but that's just as well because when he tries to say
    anything it's only to curse and swear something horrible I
    really didn't know there were so many four letter words in the
    language I've told him exactly what I thought of him and as he
    can't really answer back I'm having my chance at last I'm going
    to get him out of hospital as soon as I can so as I can look
    after him myself It makes my blood boil to see those nurses
    fussing over him as if he was a blasted hero And the indecent
    questions they ask him about his bowels and him a married man
    too it just makes me blush all over A lot of desiccated virgins
    that's what they are_

                                                    _Your loving_
                                                              Jane

    _PS He seemed quite glad to see me He called me a lousy bitch
    this morning He is rather sweet sometimes isn't he though of
    course the most selfish brute that ever was_

    _PPS It was all a lie about his having a baby though to look at
    him I've often wondered if he wasn't going to_


[X]

The men who had been rescued from Dunkirk were safely home. Roger was
missing. The General went to the War Office day after day to see if
there were news of him and by dint of persistence discovered that during
the retreat to Dunkirk Roger had been ordered to go on some errand to a
village where a battery was holding back the Germans as they tried to
advance. It was known that he had got there and when the battery, short
of ammunition, was forced to retire he had left in the car he had come
in to go back to headquarters. He had never got there. There could be
little doubt that he was either killed or taken prisoner. The General
telegraphed to the Red Cross at Geneva and asked them to make inquiries.
Until the answer came it was possible to hope for something better than
the worst.

Mrs. Henderson went about her duties as usual, but her silence and the
severity of her mien betrayed sadly the torture of her gnawing anxiety.
May's heart was wrung with compassion. She reproached herself bitterly
because, try as she might, she couldn't share the dumb misery that made
Mrs. Henderson's eyes so woebegone. Dick was safe and well. That was
everything. She went cold with terror when she thought that instead of
being alive now he might well be dead, but she was horrified when, in
the same breath, as it were, it occurred to her that if Roger were dead
there would be no obstacle to her happiness. Oh, shameful! She couldn't
owe her happiness to his death. That would be awful. She didn't want him
to die. If any word, any deed of hers, could have brought him safely
back she would not have hesitated to say or do it. With all her heart
she desired his safety. He was young and should have many fruitful years
of life before him and he had a right to them. No, no, even though his
death would solve all her difficulties she didn't, she wouldn't wish his
death. But it was very hard to keep her mind off the possibility that
her wanton fancy, whether she would or no, presented to her. Everyone
has a right to happiness and she and Dick could be so happy if only...
if only, no, no, no--it was dreadful to think of that. And Roger
perhaps not yet cold in a foreign grave. They were made for one another,
Dick and she; she understood him as she had never understood Roger; they
had everything in common. What fun life with him would be! He was so
easy. You needn't ever be afraid of saying a foolish thing to him--he
wouldn't think it foolish, he'd only laugh and think you very sweet. She
had an intense conviction that with him she would have children. Heaven!
It was much more than love she felt for him; it was a strange, powerful
yearning as though, only half herself, in him she could find the
complement of her incompleteness. Oh, it was so hard to put it into
words! It was as though, hankering for home, she had been an exile all
her life and in him had found the home she had always known was waiting
for her.

A week went by, a week of tremulous hope; a second week went by, a week
of terrified foreboding. The Red Cross telegraphed from Geneva that they
had been unable to discover that Roger was a prisoner. Mrs. Henderson
never spoke to May about him, but one evening when they were strolling
in the garden after the evacuated children had been put to bed, she
slipped her hand through May's arm.

"Darling," she said, "I've thought it better that you and I shouldn't
talk to one another about Roger. I knew that you were feeling just what
I was feeling and I thought it would only upset us more to speak. You've
been wonderfully courageous."

May said nothing. She was ashamed.

"But now I think we've got to talk about it. I'm afraid you must prepare
yourself for the worst."

"Don't you think there's any hope at all?" asked May in a low voice.

"I wish I could say yes. No, I'm afraid there's very little. I want you
to be brave. I want you to say to yourself that he died a gallant death
in the service of his country, and we must be proud of him." Her voice
faltered. "We must try to find in our hearts the strength to look upon
his death as a sacrifice we make willingly for the sake of the land we
love and all we hold dear in this England to which we owe everything we
are."

May wished she could cry; she couldn't. It wasn't certain, not quite
certain yet that Roger was dead, and the odd thought crossed her mind
that Mrs. Henderson was anticipating the worst with a strange
superstition that thus it might be averted. Poor lady. She was terribly
sorry for her. And how shocking it was that at that very moment of all
others she felt a pang of joy in her heart because Dick was safe and
free!

She had not seen him since his return to England, but he had written to
say that as soon as he could get leave he would come down to Graveney.
He asked her to come to his house so that they could spend an hour or
two together by themselves. Ordinarily, because it didn't seem fair to
Roger, she would have hesitated to consent to this, but now, after all
the horror Dick had gone through, her desire to be alone with him was
too strong to be resisted. She wrote and told him that she would gladly
come. She wasn't surprised then, but only overjoyed, when a maid called
her to the telephone and she heard his voice. He asked her if she could
come at once.

"Yes, easily," she said. "I'll get on my bike and be down in ten
minutes."

He had evidently been on the look-out for her, since as she dismounted
at his door he opened it and drew her into his living-room. Her eager
face froze as she saw the look on his. It was very grave. He didn't kiss
her. He didn't even ask her to sit down.

"I haven't come to stay. I've got to get back to town at once. The
General asked me to come down. He phoned me from the War Office."

"Oh, Dick," she cried.

Her heart seemed to miss a beat and she went deathly white. She knew
what was coming.

"May, Roger's dead."

She stared at him with horrified eyes. She was stunned. For a moment
neither of them could speak. They looked at one another blankly. Dick,
clenching his fists, forced himself to continue.

"He's been posted missing, presumed dead. The General wouldn't come; he
said he had to work at the Red Cross and couldn't get away. I think he
couldn't bear to bring the news himself and he hadn't the heart to tell
it over the phone. He's all to pieces, poor old chap. He asked me to
tell you and ask you to break it to Mrs. Henderson."

"Oh, Dick, how awful! What a frightful thing to ask me to do!"

"I know."

They gazed at one another miserably.

"Do they know any details?" she asked at length.

"It appears that a Belgian refugee got into Havre in one of our staff
cars. They spotted it and asked him how he'd got hold of it. He said
he'd found it in a ditch and had got it to run. He crowded into it as
many people as it would hold and eventually managed to reach Havre. It
was riddled with machine-gun bullets and the front seat was covered with
blood. It was the car Roger had taken when he went off that morning. The
whole district was lousy with Fifth Columnists and parachutists and it
looks as though Roger and his chauffeur had run into an ambush and been
killed."

May sighed deeply.

"Poor Roger. God knows I didn't wish him dead."

Each knew what thoughts, unwelcome but importunate, beset the other; it
was bad enough to envisage them, it would have been shocking to utter
them. They were silent.

"You don't look any the worse for what you've gone through, Dick," she
said at last.

"Oh, I'm all right."

They spoke as though there were nothing between them. May sighed again.

"I suppose I'd better go back. His mother's been expecting it. Poor
thing, I'm so desperately sorry for her."

She moved towards the door and he opened it for her. He did not even
touch her hand. He watched her as she got on her bicycle and then turned
back into the house.

When May reached home she went into the sitting-room, looking out onto
the terrace, which in summer they used in preference to the great hall;
for she felt that she must have a short respite to collect herself. The
house was ominously silent and you might have thought those old walls
held their breath as they waited for impending evil. Mrs. Henderson and
Dora were with the children, who just then would be having their tea,
and there was no one about but Tommy. German bombers had been over the
seaside town on the outskirts of which was situated Tommy's preparatory
school and it had seemed prudent to send the boys home. May could see
him in the garden engaged in complicated evolutions among the narrow
paths between the flower beds on the bicycle that had been his father's
Christmas present. She knit her brows as she tried to think how best to
break the tragic news she brought. It seemed brutal to blurt out the
truth without some kind of preparation, but with Mrs. Henderson in the
state she was the first word must tell her everything. Poor Roger. His
death grieved her piteously, and yet at the back of her mind, like a
mischievous glimmer of light in the black-out, lurked the cognizance
that it removed all hindrance to her marriage with Dick. She hated
herself because at such a moment such a notion should occur to her. With
a sigh, she rose to her feet and with set jaw went to find Mrs.
Henderson.

"It's no good funking it. The longer I wait the harder it'll be."

She went to the refectory.

"Oh, May, I wondered what had become of you," said Mrs. Henderson.

But as the words fell from her lips, catching sight of May's face, she
stiffened.

"Can I speak to you for a minute?"

Without a word, with a curious, swift motion, like a tiger pacing his
cage, she came down the length of the room and followed May out. She
shut the door behind her.

"He's dead?"

May nodded.

"Come."

She took May by the wrist and pulled her into the hall. There was
something terrible about her at that moment. Very white, but with a
frown on her brow, she stood fronting her daughter-in-law as though she
were a thief caught in the act and she were about to mete out punishment
on her. Faltering, May told her that she had seen Dick and repeated what
he had said. Mrs. Henderson, listening, held May's eyes with her own as
though by main force she would drag from her everything she had to tell.
But when there was no more to say she bent her head and slow tears
trickled down her face.

"Oh, darling, darling," cried May, wanting to take her in her arms.

But Mrs. Henderson drew herself away.

"Don't touch me."

The two women stood thus, facing one another, and May's heart was full.
She wept now too; she wept with compassion for the unhappy woman who was
so dear to her. She would have liked to utter some word of comfort, but
she could think of nothing that might avail, and she felt that Mrs.
Henderson didn't want her to say anything. It would have been so much
easier if the poor thing would only have allowed her to share her
sorrow. But she was shutting herself up in it and May felt that she
resented it that anyone should try to share it with her. Suddenly they
heard Tommy's voice.

"Mummy," he called. "Mummy."

Mrs. Henderson pricked up her ears and looked in the direction from
which the sound came.

"I shan't tell him yet."

"Oh, darling, you must. He's bound to know."

"Later perhaps, not yet. He worshipped Roger. After all it's not
absolutely certain. He may be in a hospital and unable to communicate.
He may have lost his memory. Why should Tommy be made miserable before
it's absolutely necessary? It'll be time enough to tell him when we've
abandoned hope."

The younger woman was dismayed. It was true that Tommy worshipped Roger;
to him he was a hero and his vocation, with the secrecy it involved,
excited his imagination. He had always been fonder of him than of Jim.
He adored him as a small boy may adore an elder brother who is to him
the personification of adventure and romance. He thought him perfect.
But after all Tommy wasn't a child, he was thirteen, bright, and with
all his wits about him. It was impossible to keep Roger's death a secret
and surely it would be much worse for him to hear it from a stranger
than from one of them. And how could Mrs. Henderson pretend that the
event was in doubt? None of their inquiries had resulted in anything.
The refugee and the blood-stained car. And how could one imagine that
the General would have sent Dick down to break the dreadful news to them
if he hadn't himself been certain? May sighed.

"It must be as you wish, darling," she said.

Mrs. Henderson did not seem to hear her. She turned away and went out of
the room.

"I suppose I must carry on," May said to herself.

She went back to the refectory to see if she was wanted there. The
children had finished their tea and Dora was clearing away.

When the children had been put to bed and they had had their own frugal
dinner, Dora, as she did now and then, went out for a walk. It was still
light. Mrs. Henderson, May and Tommy sat in the sitting-room. The two
women knitted and Tommy, unusually quiet, was poring over some books. No
one spoke. The clock struck and Mrs. Henderson looked up.

"Half past nine, Tommy. You must go to bed."

"Half a mo. I'm just trying to find something out."

"Are you?" said Mrs. Henderson, giving him a wan, indulgent smile. "What
is it?"

He ran his hand through his unruly hair and faced her with a frown of
absorption on his fresh, young face.

"Well, I've been giving it a lot of thought and I've come to the
conclusion that Roger's a prisoner in Germany. Now if I know anything
about Roger he'll escape. A lot of chaps did in the last war. I wanted
to see how he could get to Switzerland. I mean, Holland's out, isn't
it?"

He was so immensely serious that, if it hadn't been intolerably
pathetic, one would have laughed.

"Oh, well, that'll wait till tomorrow. Come and say good night to me."

He got up and went over to kiss his mother. She took him in her arms and
pressing him to her heart kissed him on the lips. A little surprised at
the warmth of her embrace, he gave her a questioning look, but said
nothing. When they were alone Mrs. Henderson felt that May's sad eyes
were on her, but she would not meet them. She went on knitting. They sat
in silence.


[XI]

On the following afternoon May, off duty for a while, went into the
sitting-room to think things over. She knew that at that hour she would
have it to herself. During luncheon Tommy, still full of his notion that
Roger was a prisoner, had asked Dora a string of questions about
Germany. He had been studying books in the library and was crammed with
knowledge of mountain passes and unfrequented roads. He had learnt where
the chief prisoners' camps had been during the last war. He insisted on
telling them the plan of escape he had thought out for Roger. He didn't
know how he could fail. It was painful to listen to him. May felt that
it was false kindness to keep the truth from him. It was bound to leak
out--why, Dick, not knowing that it was to be kept secret, might very
well have told someone in the village before he went back to London, and
it would be cruel to let Tommy hear it casually from a gamekeeper or one
of the tradesmen. Though she didn't relish it, for Mrs. Henderson could
at times be obstinate, May decided that she must try to make her see
reason. Surely, after brooding over it for twenty-four hours, she must
see that to go on hoping against hope was bootless.

Unwillingly May got up to look for her. She was at the door when Tommy
burst into the room.

"May, May, there are two strange men in the park," he cried. "D'you
think they're parachutists?"

She turned back and stepped out on to the terrace.

"Where?"

"Shall I get Daddy's gun? We'll capture them."

Unhappy as she was, she could not but smile at his excitement. He was
such a kid. Of course it would be awful for his mother, telling him; he
was so unprepared for it. She looked at the two men who were walking
slowly towards them. One limped badly.

"They're only a couple of tramps."

"They're foreigners. Look how they're dressed. I'm sure they're
parachutists."

"Nonsense. I expect they're Belgian refugees or something like that.
They've probably wandered up here from the village and lost their way."

"I'd better get the gun in case."

"Don't be so silly, Tommy. They don't look in the least dangerous. I
wonder if they're hungry and want food."

The two men climbed over the low iron railing that separated the park
from the formal garden and were now walking up the broad grass path that
led to the terrace steps. One was dressed in dirty, rumpled denims, with
a beret on his head, and the other, the one who limped, had a
handkerchief round his neck and wore an odd sort of jacket and a funny,
high-peaked cap. They both had short, scrubby beards. They were unkempt
and dirty. May looked at them with distaste. She went to the top of the
steps and stood there with Tommy by her side. As they came near it was
quite obvious that they were foreigners.

"_Bonjour, monsieur, dame_," said the man who limped, the taller of the
two.

May answered in French.

"What do you want? You must go round to the side door."

Suddenly, with a shriek, Tommy flung himself down the steps and into the
arms of the tall bearded man with the limp.

"Roger."

May had been pale before, but now her pallor was ashy and to steady
herself she put out her hand on the balustrade. She stared aghast. For a
moment she thought she was going to faint. Tommy, clinging to Roger,
burst into tears.

"I knew you weren't killed," he sobbed hysterically. "They all thought
you were, but I _knew_ you weren't."

"Of course I'm not killed, old boy."

The voice! Yes, that was his voice all right; she knew that faintly
mocking ring.

"I kept a stiff upper lip when you were missing, but now--now I
don't--seem--able to control myself."

"Never mind, old boy. You have a good cry if you want to."

"I'm not crying," sobbed Tommy. "It's only water pouring out of my
eyes."

Roger kissed him and petted him as though he were a child. May, as still
as the statue at her side, stood at the top of the steps staring.
Contradictory emotions assaulted her. She was glad he was alive,
thankful he was alive and well, and yet her heart sank; that was the end
of those dreams that she had striven to drive away, but that for all her
striving battered at her consciousness like desperate strangers beating
on a door to be let in.

"Where's your mummy?" asked Roger.

Tommy snatched himself from his brother's arms.

"I'll go and tell her. Oh, she'll be so pleased."

He bounded up the steps and ran into the house shouting for his mother
as he went. Roger limped up to May.

"I'd better not come too near you, darling," he said. "I haven't had a
bath for weeks and I stink."

"Oh, Roger."

She threw her arms round his neck and he kissed her on both cheeks.

"I'm so glad you're safe, Roger. We've been so frightfully anxious."

"Is that why you're looking so pale, dear?" he said, with an odd,
slightly derisive smile in his eyes.

"Why are you limping? Are you wounded?"

"Nothing to speak of. D'you like my beard?"

It changed his face completely. His eyes seemed larger than they used to
be and his temples were hollow. He looked over her shoulder and saw his
mother come out of the french window. He went towards her and she held
out her arms to him.

"Oh, my boy, my dear boy."

Their lips met as though they were lovers.

"I recognized him first," chirruped Tommy, jumping from foot to foot in
his excitement. "May didn't know him."

Mrs. Henderson stepped back a little and with her hands on his shoulders
looked at him. Her face was transfigured and her eyes shone.

"My poor boy, you look a perfect scarecrow. No wonder they didn't know
you. Don't you want a bath?"

"Badly. A drink first and a bath next."

"May and Tommy will look after you. I must phone your father. I want to
tell him myself. He's been in an awful state about you. I'm sure he'll
come down at once."

"I can't stay, Mother. We only stopped off because I thought you might
be anxious. We got somebody to give us a lift as far as the village and
I took a short cut through the park. As soon as I've had a bath I must
get on to London and report. I'll see Father there."

During this time the man who had come with Roger was standing where
Roger had left him, watching what was going forward on the terrace with
a shy but friendly grin on his face. He was a short, sturdy fellow with
a knowing look in his bright little eyes; he had a cigarette stuck to
his lips and with a fortnight's beard on his chin, his filthy denims and
the slouching way he stood, he looked so tough that had you met him on a
dark night you would have been glad to give him a wide berth. Roger gave
him a twinkling smile.

"Come along, Nobby."

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth, crushed it out, and putting
it behind his ear shambled up the steps.

"This is my friend Nobby Clark, Mother. We had a bit of a job getting
back, didn't we, Nobby?"

"That's right, sir."

Nobby spoke with a cockney accent you could have cut with a knife. Dirty
as he was, and unkempt, the merry look in his eyes, the impudent
cheerfulness of his grin, made his ugly, common little face singularly
attractive. Mrs. Henderson held out her hand. He looked at his own, came
to the conclusion it was filthy and rubbed it on his dirty denims,
making it filthier still, and then shook hands with her. Roger
introduced him to May, then turned to Tommy.

"This is my friend Corporal Clark, Tommy. I don't know if we should be
here now if he hadn't been a damned good mechanic. Take him upstairs and
give him a bath. He needs it."

"That's right, sir."

"Come along, Corporal," said Tommy.

Tommy was a Boy Scout and he looked very nippy in his short khaki pants
and his shirt open at his thin neck. Thrilled to have a soldier who had
escaped from France put in his charge, he was determined to do the thing
in style. He took him to a bathroom and emptied half a bottle of bath
salts into the hot water. Nobby took off his foul clothes and stepped
into it.

"Gorblime, don't it smell good?" He soaped himself and then said: "Give
me back a scrub, will you, sonny?"

"Right-ho, Corporal."

"Cheese it. Don't call me Corporal. Call me Nobby same as they all do."

Tommy scrubbed him vigourously.

"You're simply disgusting," he said with delight. "I never saw anyone so
dirty."

"I was surprised at meself when I saw me feet. I 'aven't 'ad me clothes
off for a month."

"The water's simply black. We'd better change it.'

"Don't you do no such thing, me lad. I like it like that. I like to see
'ow dirty I was." He lay down luxuriously. "This is a bit of all right
and no mistake. And them bath salts you put in--Lor lumme, I could stay
'ere for a week."

"I know what you want now," said Tommy. "Wait a minute."

He bolted out and in a moment came back with a tankard of beer.

"What's this? Beer? Beer."

He put into that monosyllable all the passion that ever poet put into
the praise of his mistress. He drained the tankard at a gulp.

Roger went up and had a bath too. He shaved off his beard and got
clothes from his father's room. It was a bit of luck that he and his
father were of a size; the look of the things he had taken off disgusted
him. It was good to put on clean linen. He was sitting at the
dressing-table in his shirt sleeves, combing his hair, when May came in
to see if there was anything he wanted. Though he looked again very much
his old smart, confident self May was suddenly shocked at the sight of
him. Now that he was shaved she saw how thin he was and white; his
cheeks had fallen in, and in that drawn face his haggard eyes were
enormous. He looked frightfully tired. He saw her look of dismay in the
mirror in front of him and laughed.

"Don't look at me as if I was a ghost."

"I've seen you look better," she said, forcing a smile to her lips.

"I got into a bit of a jam. I shall be all right after a few days'
rest."

"Your limp?"

"Oh, that's nothing. I got a bullet in my leg and it was rather painful
for a bit. But it's healing up nicely."

"I want to tell you again how awfully glad I am that you got back
safely. I'm so ashamed that I didn't recognize you at once."

He turned round on the stool he was sitting on and smiled kindly.

"Oh, that's all right, dear. I looked a hell of a sight, didn't I? If
I'd met myself in the street I'd have cut myself dead."

"I didn't expect you. And then, coming with another man. You see, you'd
been posted missing, believed dead."

"Was I, by Jove?"

"The car in which you'd been driving turned up at Havre. It had been
fired at and there was a lot of blood."

"It wasn't mine; it was my driver's; he was killed, poor chap. I got
away with a few scratches."

"I'm so thankful now we didn't tell Tommy. You see, we only heard
yesterday. We didn't tell anybody."

"How did you hear, by the way?"

"Your father was told at the War Office. He asked Dick to come down and
break it to us."

"Dick? He got away all right, did he?"

"Yes."

"Good for him." He gave her a slightly mocking glance. "I hope this
isn't too great a disappointment to you, May."

She flushed deeply.

"Oh, Roger, how can you say anything so unkind? Surely you know me
better than that?"

"Sorry, old girl."

He made a great play of lighting a cigarette, and then in a tone
deliberately casual asked:

"Are you still in love with Dick?"

"I'm afraid I am," she replied gravely.

"I see." He gave her a friendly little smile. "Let's go down and have a
drink, shall we? And then I must be off."

"Must you really go so soon?"

"I'm afraid so. I couldn't have come as it is if it hadn't been on my
way to town. But I'm sure to get a spot of leave and then I'll come down
again."

It was a relief to get the conversation back on to a level of
commonplace.

"Don't forget that we're dying to know how you escaped. Tommy will be
simply thrilled to hear."

"I'll tell you all about it in due course."

                 *        *        *        *        *

Half an hour later Roger stepped out of the front door. The Hendersons
still had their chauffeur, an elderly man, and the Rolls was waiting.
Nobby Clark was standing by. A pair of grey flannel pants had been found
for him and a sweater.

"Why, Nobby, you look a new man," smiled Roger.

"Same to you, sir," he answered with a grin. Then with some misgiving:
"Sir, Master Tommy's given me an undershirt and drawers--silk they
are--and a pair of socks. I dunno where they come from."

"His things were filthy, Roger. They just stank."

"Quite right, Tommy. That's O.K., Nobby. I expect they're my father's
and I'm sure he'll be glad you should have them."

"My ole woman won't 'arf laugh when she sees me in silk drawers
tonight."


[XII]

Roger reported at the War Office, saw his father, and then he went into
hospital to have the bullet still in his shoulder taken out. It was
nearly three weeks before he was able to get back to Graveney. He was
much better, but still looked tired, and he was as thin as a rail. Tommy
made haste to remind him that he had promised to tell them the story of
his escape, but he laughed and said there was nothing to tell. He had
got into a jam and more by good luck than by good management had got out
of it. But this was far from satisfying the schoolboy's curiosity and by
dint of questioning, notwithstanding his mother's expostulations, in the
end he succeeded in getting it out of Roger. He wouldn't sit down and
narrate it step by step from the beginning, but told them an incident
here and an incident there, as it occurred to him and the conversation
led up to it, so that May had to exercise her imagination in order to
construct out of his desultory reminiscences a story that hung together.

So far as she could make out, the whole thing had started with an order
he had been given to transmit. There was a small village near Cassel
that it had been decided must be defended to delay the enemy, and since
there was no infantry available the task was entrusted to a battery of
the R.H.A. It was so late at night when Roger reached it that he decided
to stay the night, but at dawn an attack started, and tanks, supported
by parties of German infantry, penetrated the outskirts of the village.
The fighting was furious. By afternoon the ammunition had run low and
the guns could only fire every few minutes; it was clear that the small
garrison could hold out no longer and a withdrawal was ordered. Roger
had felt it impossible to go when every man was needed and he had taken
command of a small detachment of yeomanry that had appeared. But now,
since he could no longer be of use, he decided to get back to
headquarters. He shook hands with the commander.

"You've put up a grand show," he said.

"Well, I had to do something," the other grinned.

All the guns but two had been put out of action and they and the wounded
were to be sent ahead, and the rest of the force was following later by
a different route.

They were to meet at a village three or four miles away.

"What makes you think the Germans aren't holding it?" asked Roger.

"If they are we shall be damned unlucky. But we'll kill a hell of a lot
of them first."

"Well, good luck to you."

"You'll want a bit of luck yourself to get through. The blighters are
swarming all over the shop."

"Oh, I shall be all right. I'm going to get off the high road as soon as
I can. It'll take me a bit longer, but I think it's worth it."

There was a lull and Roger set off with his chauffeur. They drove for
some distance, along a river, and then, at a fork, saw a car coming
towards them on the road they intended to take themselves. There were
two British officers in it and Roger stopped them.

"Is the road all right behind you?" he called out.

"Right as rain. Not a sign of a Hun."

"O.K."

He drove on. Looking at his map he saw that there was a bridge some
miles on and shortly after that a side road he judged would lead him by
a detour to his destination. The country was flat and they didn't spare
the gas, but there was a straggling line of refugees on the road and
every now and then they were held up. They passed through a wood and
were just getting to the bridge when there was a sudden burst of
machine-gun fire and the car swerved violently. The driver slumped over
the wheel. The car skidded into a ditch and with a terrific jerk
stopped, but by a happy chance did not turn over. Roger jumped out and
amid a hail of bullets ran for the bridge and dived over the parapet
into the water. He was hit as he went over. He swam for dear life. The
Germans ran to the bridge and fired down the river, but it was overhung
with trees and they could only fire at random. He wasn't hit again. Then
he heard another burst of firing, much more intense, but it wasn't
directed at him; he paused for a moment to take breath and then heard
the droning of a plane. He guessed at once what had happened. A British
plane was gunning the men who had lain in ambush and they had scuttled
to the cover of the wood. He looked about him; he was pretty well done
in by now, and it seemed to him that he could do nothing better than
climb up the bank and hide in the thick undergrowth. He lay there for a
while listening with all his ears; the firing had ceased; the Germans
had either taken to their heels or had thought him not worth pursuing.
He got up and, moving cautiously, started to walk, but his leg hurt him
and he staggered and fell. He was wounded in the leg, though he didn't
think badly, and he had what felt like a nasty cut on his face and a
flesh wound in the right shoulder. He slithered along the ground and
sitting down propped his back against the trunk of a tree.

"This is a howd'ye do," he said to himself.

"Why did you say that?" asked Tommy.

"I couldn't think of anything else to say."

"If I'd been you I'd have cursed and sworn."

"I knew Mother wouldn't approve of that," laughed Roger.

"Oh, my dear, after being married to your father for thirty-five years I
may say that there's not a word in the English language that can make me
turn a hair," she smiled.

"Go on," said Tommy impatiently.

"Well, I tried to think what I'd better do next. I thought the first
thing was to have a bit of a rest, and then, when it got dark, to get
back to the road and see if I couldn't find some house where I could put
up for the night. You see, I had to try and get back to headquarters
somehow. Luckily I had several thousand francs on me."

"Didn't you feel awful?"

"Rotten. I was wet through. I couldn't do anything about my face and my
shoulder, but I thought I'd have a look at my leg. It wasn't much, but
it was bleeding a bit; I'd got a bullet just above the knee and as far
as I could make out it had injured a tendon. That's why it gave me such
gyp to walk. I wanted a cigarette more than anything in the world and my
cigarettes were in that case you gave me, May, and they were as dry as a
bone; but my lighter wouldn't work and so I couldn't smoke. Well, I made
myself as comfortable as I could and just lay there--I should think for
an hour, and then I heard some one trampling through the brushwood."

"Weren't you scared?" asked Tommy.

"Scared out of my wits. I took my revolver and pointed it in the
direction of the sound. If it was a German he was for it."

To his surprise it was a woman that appeared. When she saw him she held
up her hands.

"Friend. Friend," she said. "I've been looking for you."

"Well, you've found me," he replied. "What are you going to do about
it?"

She was a stocky young woman, with a flat face and apple-red cheeks; she
looked like a peasant and Roger supposed she was a refugee. She had very
small, very black eyes, like buttons, and they were hard and shrewd.

"Are you wounded?" she asked him.

"Not seriously."

"I saw it happen. They were parachutists. It was luck for you that plane
came along. Five of them were killed."

"How about my chauffeur?"

"He was dead."

"Are there any Germans about?"

"Motor cyclists. No tanks yet."

"How can I get away from here?"

He couldn't tell from the look on her flat face if she was stupid or
hostile.

"You're an officer, aren't you?"

"Yes."

She seemed to consider.

"Look," she said then, "you're safe here for the present. Wait till it's
dark and then I'll take you to the farm."

"What farm?"

"My father-in-law's. It's on the edge of the wood. Shall you be able to
walk there if I help you?"

"Oh, yes."

"Don't move. I'll whistle when I come back."

She disappeared into the greenery and he was left alone once more. He
was in pain and he was none too sure that she meant what she said. It
might be that she had gone to inform on him and would come back with a
party of Germans to take him prisoner. He had a mind to crawl from where
he was to a place of greater safety, but it seemed useless; she'd know
he couldn't get far and they'd soon find him. The only thing was to sit
still and take his chance. He was beginning not to care what happened.
Night came and he shivered in his wet clothes. At last he heard a sound
of someone coming and then a cautious whistle. He waited a moment,
listening with all his ears, to make sure the girl was alone and then
whistled back. She made her way to where he was lying. He could only
just stand now, but she put a strong arm round him and together they
made their way through the wood. He wondered if he'd find half a dozen
Huns waiting for him when he got out of it, and heaved a sigh of relief
when they got into the open and there was not a soul to be seen. The
farm stood a little way back from the road.

"I've told my mother-in-law," the girl said. "You can sleep the night.
My father-in-law has been down in the village since dinner. He hasn't
come back yet."

The door was opened for them by a plump, tallish woman of middle age.

"Here he is," said the girl.

The woman, without speaking, made way for them to enter and Roger sank
into a chair. He was terribly thirsty and asked for a glass of water.
While he was drinking it there was the sound of footsteps outside and
the girl said:

"There's Father."

She unlocked the door and a thin, wizened man, with a mean face,
entered. He started when he saw Roger. He gave the two women an angry
look.

"What's this? Who have you got here?"

"It's an English officer. He escaped when the parachutists attacked his
car."

He clenched his fist and went up to Roger.

"Get out. Get out."

"He's wounded," the girl said.

"I don't care. The Germans are here. If they find him they'll burn the
farm. I was in the last war and I know."

"I only want to stay the night," said Roger. "I'll pay you well."

"No, no, no. Get out."

"He can't go, he can hardly stand," cried the girl. "He'll die."

"Let him. That's his look-out."

Roger hoisted himself up from the chair.

"I'll go."

"No, I won't let you," she cried. She turned to the farmer and, her eyes
furious, screamed: "And my husband? Have you forgotten him? He's your
son, isn't he? For all you know he too may be wounded or in want of
help."

"Yes, man, there's your son," said his wife.

"You don't know the Germans. They're capable of putting us up against a
wall and shooting us all three."

"Let him stay the night, Michel."

At that moment they pricked up their ears. There was a screech of brakes
and then the tramp of heavy boots.

"Germans."

The farmer's wife sprang to a door and opened it.

"Go in there. Hide under the bed."

The girl put her hands under Roger's armpits, lifted him to his feet and
flung him into the next room. He stood against the closed door, his
revolver in his hand, and heard her say to her father-in-law:

"If you give him away I'll kill you with my own hands."

There was a loud knocking.

"Open. Open."

One or other of them unlocked the door and two motor cyclists came in.

"Don't be frightened. We're not going to hurt you. We've lost our way
and we saw your light. We want to get to Andrecy."

"Where have you come from?" said the farmer.

"Germany. Where did you think?"

"You keep on this road for another four kilometres, and then you take
the turning on your left."

"And we're as thirsty as the devil. Have you got any wine?"

The girl set a couple of bottles before them. They took them and
prepared to go, but the farmer got between them and the door.

"That'll be four francs."

"The general will be along tomorrow. You ask him for it."

The man who spoke pushed the wizened Frenchman aside with a sweep of his
arm and the two of them strode out. The farmer shook his fist at them.

"Swine."

Roger hobbled back to the kitchen and sank down once more into a chair.
He put his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands.

"You see he's not fit to move," said the girl. "You can't have the heart
to turn him out into the night."

The farmer looked at him sulkily. It might have been that his wrath at
having two bottles of wine taken from him without payment had more
effect on him than pity for a wounded man. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Let him stay. But I won't have him in the house. He can go in the
hayloft. If the Germans find him there I can say I knew nothing about
him."

The girl gave him a suspicious stare and then went up so close to him
that her face almost touched his. Her little black eyes were set and
fierce.

"The Boches aren't going to find him unless you tell them where he is.
Swear that you won't give him away. Swear on the head of your son."

The farmer, as though he could not meet that menacing stare, glanced
shiftily away. His wife looked up.

"Swear, Michel."

The farmer uttered a filthy word. Then sulkily:

"I swear--on the head of my son."

It was a job for the two women to get Roger up a ladder into the loft.
They laid him down on a pile of hay.

"Oh, my poor boy," said Mrs. Henderson, when he told them this part of
the story.

"I was jolly glad to hit the hay," Roger smiled. "It's astonishing how
comfortable you can make yourself when you get used to it, and anyhow it
was a damned sight better than a prison camp. I was pretty well all in,
you know."

He spent ten days in that loft. For next morning he was so sick that
there could be no question of his going. Jeannette, that was the girl's
name, brought the farmer to see him; the man looked at him angrily, and
then without a word clambered down the ladder again. His daughter-in-law
followed him. Roger guessed that a bitter altercation took place, but he
felt too ill to bother. He could only trust in the power of those two
strong-willed women over the frightened, mean-spirited man. In an hour
Jeannette came back and said that her father-in-law had agreed to let
him stay till he was well enough to walk. She brought him milk to drink,
and food; he couldn't touch the food, but he drank the milk greedily.
His leg didn't trouble him much, nor the scratch on his face, but his
shoulder throbbed painfully. He felt feverish. He felt worse and worse
as the day wore on and that night he was delirious. He was no better
next day. He wasn't sure if it was on the third or fourth night that he
heard other steps besides Jeannette's on the ladder. That was the end,
he thought; either a gendarme or a Gestapo man. He was too weak to
resist. But it was the village doctor that Jeannette, frightened at his
condition, had persuaded under seal of secrecy to come and see him. He
was a rough, uncouth fellow, who looked as if he were more used to
treating animals than human beings and who was evidently nervous at what
he was doing, but he was not incompetent and he cleaned and dressed
Roger's wounds and gave him aspirin. After that, he came every night.
Roger began to mend. He was a strong man, young and in good condition;
feeling better every day he occupied his long hours of solitude in
making plans for his escape. He had been looking at his maps when the
parachutists had attacked him and had lost them when he jumped out of
the car and ran for the bridge, so to decide what route to take he had
to trust to his own inadequate knowledge of the country and what he
could learn from Jeannette. She had lived all her life in the vicinity
and such information as she could give him of what lay beyond was
unreliable. His scheme was to reach the sea and then get a fisherman to
take him across the Channel. He was thankful that he had enough money on
him to make it worth a man's while. The news Jeannette brought him was
bad; she said the British Army in Flanders had surrendered and the
French were retreating. Weygand was in command now, and was withdrawing
his troops with the idea of launching a counter-offensive at the proper
moment and driving the Boches back to their own frontiers. Roger didn't
know what to believe. He couldn't think it was true that the British had
surrendered, but he knew in what a perilous situation the capitulation
of the Belgian King had placed them and it was instinct rather than
reason that made him refuse to believe it.

According to Jeannette the whole place swarmed with Germans and it
looked as though his only chance of getting through was in disguise. He
asked her if she could get him clothes in which he could pass unnoticed.
She suggested a suit of her husband's.

"He's about your size," she said.

She brought it to him, wrapped in a large bundle, one night, and he
tried it on. The sleeves were short for him, and so were the pants, but
he could wear it. He would look a sight, but so dressed no one would
take him for a British officer. To exercise his limbs he walked up and
down the loft for half an hour at a time. He could walk now without
great pain. On two nights, after they had gone to bed at the farm, he
crept down and walked for a while along the road. It made him
light-headed and he was tired when he got back. One morning when
Jeannette brought him food, which she did soon after dawn and then again
when night fell, she said to him:

"I've been thinking. What'll you do about papers? A gendarme might stop
you and ask for them."

"I've thought of that. I think I can pass as a Belgian refugee and I'll
say they were stolen from me on the way."

"That's dangerous. I'll give you my husband's."

"Good girl."

She was indeed a pearl. That flat plain face, the sullen mouth and the
cold shrewd eyes were no indication of her character. Roger had been
mistaken in her. In her rough, churlish way she was wonderfully kind.
Her behaviour proved her courage, her tenacity and her compassion. When
Roger tried to express something of his gratitude for all she had done,
she only made a gesture of impatience.

"It's nothing," she said. "I'd have done the same for anyone." For the
first time he saw something like a smile on her face. "You're a
fine-looking man. It would be a shame to let the Boches get you."

Then one morning she came somewhat later than was her habit. The sun had
been up for an hour.

"Good morning, Jeannette," he said breezily. "I thought you'd forgotten
me."

"I had to wait till the old man was out of the way."

"Oh, why? Is he turning nasty again? How about some food? I'm starving."

"Listen, we've kept you as long as we can. There are Germans in the
village and the old man's frightened. They say they'll shoot anyone
found harbouring an Englishman."

"Charming people." He gave a cheerful nod. "All right. I'll get out
tonight. I'm quite strong enough."

"The old man's gone down to the village and we don't know why. You must
go now. Get into my husband's clothes. I've got his papers all ready and
a cup of coffee waiting for you."

It was plain enough that Jeannette thought her father-in-law had gone
down to the village to give him away. There was not time to lose. He
hastened to dress, climbed down the rickety ladder and walked over to
the farm. He went into the kitchen. He hadn't seen the farmer's wife
since the night on which Jeannette had brought him, wet through and
wounded, to the farm and he greeted her warmly. But she interrupted him.
He saw that she was in a fever of nervousness.

"Drink your coffee quickly," she said. "This is no time for fine
speeches."

It was waiting for him on the table in a bowl. He sat down and dipping
pieces of bread in it began to eat. Jeannette gave him a little booklet.

"Here are the papers."

He glanced at the photograph of a stolid-looking man of about his own
age.

"I can't say he looks much like me," he grinned.

"The beard makes a difference, but he might have grown one too."

"Good God, I forgot I hadn't shaved since I got here. What do I look
like?"

"See for yourself."

Jeannette handed him a glass and he saw himself for the first time since
he arrived at the farm. He gasped.

"Make haste, make haste," said the farmer's wife. "Here's a piece of
bread with a bit of meat in it. That'll do you till tonight."

Roger took it and stood up.

"I shall never forget your kindness to me. I should like to give you
something for all your trouble."

"We don't want your money," said Jeannette. "What we've done for you
we've done for France."

"Go now for God's sake," said the other.

Roger kissed them, shut the door behind him and slipped out on the road
to freedom.


[XIII]

The sun shone and the air was sweet-scented with the fragrance of the
morning. He was in high spirits. It was good to be on the way and the
risk he ran pleasantly excited him. He walked and rested and walked
again. In the evening he ran across Nobby Clark. He related the incident
with so much gusto that Tommy was beside himself with glee.

"I'd been tramping all day and I thought it was about time to find some
place to sleep. Well, just as it was getting dark I passed a small,
two-storeyed house standing by itself; the shutters were up and it
looked deserted. It was one of those little houses that you see all over
France and that retired tradesmen build as a retreat for their declining
years. It had a bit of garden in front with painted statuettes in it, of
gnomes and dwarfs, and two great silver balls. You know the sort of
thing. Typical. Well, I was dog-tired and my leg was giving me hell. I
didn't know how far the next village was, and I thought it very
improbable that I'd get a bed there, so I thought I'd better do a bit of
house-breaking and spend the night in that empty house. I tried the
door, but it was locked and so I went round to the back. There was a
glass door there, but it was locked too. I looked round for something to
smash it with. There was a wood shed at the end of the garden and I
thought I might find something there. I did and it was just what I
wanted. A hatchet."

Roger paused for a moment, a grin on his face, and looked around at his
tiny audience.

"You know, I don't believe I'd ever make a first-rate burglar. I was as
nervous as a cat when I smashed the lock and got into what was obviously
their living-room."

"Whose?" asked Tommy.

"The people who lived there, you owl. I suppose they'd done a bunk when
they heard the Huns were coming. It was crammed full of furniture and
everything was covered with dust-sheets. I don't know why, but there was
something damned frightening about it."

"I bet you weren't frightened, Roger," said Tommy.

"You'd lose your bet, old boy. I was trembling like a leaf. That's the
worst of being a law-abiding feller. It shakes your nerve to pieces when
you start breaking the law. Well, I went out of the door into the
passage; there was a staircase that led upstairs and I was just going up
when I happened to look at a looking-glass that was hanging on the wall.
I got the shock of my life. I saw a man crouching at the top of the
stairs with what looked suspiciously like a jemmy in his hand. Well, his
intentions were obvious and they weren't what you might call friendly.
My heart jumped to my mouth. I turned damned quick and then I saw he was
a British soldier."

"And it was the corporal?"

"It was," said Roger.

The man almost started out of his skin when Roger spoke to him.

"What the hell are you doing there?"

"English, by gum," the man spluttered. He chuckled. "Lucky you spoke, I
was just going to biff you one." He came down the stairs. "You don't
look English."

"That's the idea."

"Got a fag?"

"Here you are," said Roger, handing him a cigarette. "Come along in
here."

They went back into the sitting-room.

"How did _you_ get here?" asked Roger.

"I was taken prisoner. We was in a camp first and then we was marched
off somewhere, Lille or some place, and when we was passing a wood I
legged it. They 'ad two or three shots at me, but they didn't get me.
An' I been leggin' it ever since, goin' by night on account of me
uniform."

"It does make you a bit conspicuous, I must say."

The soldier looked at him with sudden suspicion.

"Look 'ere, you ain't an orficer, are you? You look like a blinkin'
tramp."

"Oh, that's all right, old boy. Don't you worry about that. Where are
you legging it to?"

"Blessed if I know. I want to get back to me regiment."

"Fat chance you've got of doing that."

"Where are you goin'?"

"England. Want to come?"

"Not 'arf."

"All right. I don't know the way, mind you, but I've got a pocket
compass. We'll get to the coast and then we'll see."

"I suppose you 'aven't got anythin' to eat, 'ave you? I ain't 'ad a bite
all day."

"Yes, I got something in the last village I came through."

Roger took out of his pocket a hunk of bread and cheese and handed it to
the soldier.

"Can you spare it?"

"Rather. All I want's a sleep. I've been walking since morning and I'm
all in."

"There's a bed up there," said the soldier as he began to eat hungrily.
"I been sleepin' in it meself."

"Wake me up in two or three hours and we'll get going. I don't think
we'd better waste any more time than we need."

"Right you are, sir."

"And you needn't call me sir. By the way, what's your name?"

"Clark's my name."

He just avoided adding the sir. Roger smiled.

"And I suppose they call you Nobby?"

"That's right."

While Roger was telling them this Tommy had been showing signs of lively
impatience and now could contain himself no longer.

"I say, Roger, was that the compass I gave you before you went over to
France?"

"It was, old boy, and very useful I found it."

"I knew you would. You see I was right, Mummy. Mummy said she couldn't
possibly see what you'd want with a compass."

They trudged through what remained of the night, Roger and his
companion, and at dawn found a coppice well away from the road which
they decided would be a good place to spend the day at. Roger went on to
a hamlet they had caught sight of with the first glimpse of daylight and
brought back a loaf, sausages and two bottles of wine. From his accent
Roger knew that Nobby was a cockney and he learnt now that he was born
and bred in London. He was a mechanic who in peacetime worked in a
garage in the Horseferry Road, which is in Westminster, behind Victoria
Street. He seemed an alert, clever little man who could make himself
useful in an emergency and the way he had escaped showed that he had
spirit. The only thing that bothered Roger was the uniform. That
increased the risk of their being caught, and somehow or other civilian
clothes must be got for him. It wasn't too easy, since they had to
travel by night and in any case avoid even the smallest towns where they
might be stopped and asked inconvenient questions. The nearer they got
to the coast the greater the danger would be.

When Roger on leaving the hospital came to stay at Graveney Dora
diffidently withdrew herself from the family circle. She continued to do
her work conscientiously, but spent such leisure as she had walking in
the park and in the evening, immediately after dinner, went up to her
room. Mrs. Henderson could not but appreciate her tact, for much as they
all liked her, it was natural that just then they should want to be
alone with Roger and an outsider, however intimate, could not but be in
the way. It was clever of Dora to realize it. She seldom joined them
except at meals and then, though Roger politely sought to bring her into
the conversation she seemed disinclined to take part in it. She spoke
only when spoken to. Mrs. Henderson was glad to see that Roger was
disposed to like her and she took care to tell him how much they all
thought of her.

"Except Jane," he smiled.

"Oh, you know what Jane is. She thinks she's broad-minded, and in point
of fact she's the most insular and prejudiced woman I've ever met."

"That sounds as though you were quite resigned to Jim's marrying Dora."

"Has Jane been talking to you?"

"What would you expect?"

Mrs. Henderson paused for an instant of reflection.

"I have a great admiration for Dora. I'm sure she's a thoroughly nice
girl and of course she's wonderfully pretty. I suppose I've got my
prejudices too and I won't deny that she isn't the wife I'd have chosen
for Jim myself, but if she'll make him happy--well, that's the chief
thing; and there's no doubt that he's very much in love with her."

Jim came over on Sunday. The two brothers had not met since that
afternoon in Jane's house when Jim to the general dismay had stated that
he meant to abide by the dictates of his conscience. But they had a real
affection for one another and Jim had been as cruelly anxious as the
others when May waited from day to day for news of Roger and no news
came. He was immensely happy to see him again. They chaffed one another
in the old way.

"Well, old boy, I've done you out of the broad acres this time. I
suppose you were counting on your chickens like mad."

"Well, wouldn't you? As a matter of fact I got an adding machine. A
dirty trick I call it to do the Enoch Arden stunt on us when we'd all
given you up as lost."

"Damned inconsiderate of me, wasn't it? Now you may have to wait another
forty years for the property."

"I know. And it'll probably be mortgaged up to the hilt when I do get
it."

"Be quiet, you boys," said Mrs. Henderson. "I'm not amused."

"Like Queen Victoria," they said in unison.

Mrs. Henderson was delighted to see that notwithstanding everything they
were such good friends. Jim was in unusually good spirits. Roger chatted
with him about his work as though it were the most natural thing that
just at that period in the world's history he should be an agricultural
labourer. The General had come down for the week-end, but he took his
cue from Roger and was more genial with Jim than he had been since the
beginning of the war. He even went so far as to suggest archly that he
was having a devil of a time with the land girls he had heard Jim's
employer had lately taken on. He was in fact beginning to accept his
son's aberration as an idiosyncrasy such as you found from time to time
in many old families. In the St. Erths, for instance, there was always a
spinster aunt who had been shut up in a lunatic asylum for twenty years;
and in the Hollingtons at least one member who was a confirmed drunk.
But he was as anxious as Tommy to hear the details of Roger's escape
from France and that evening at dinner made him tell again some part of
what he had already told.

"But how was it that you never saw any Germans?" he asked him at one
point.

"Oh, but I did," answered Roger. With his breezy smile he turned to
Dora. "I had one very narrow shave of being collared by your Nazi
friends."

"They're not friends of mine," she answered coldly.

He laughed.

"I know they're not. I was only being facetious."

"I'm sorry. I sometimes don't understand English humour."

"That has all the ear-marks of a nasty crack," he retorted
good-humouredly.

"Go on, Roger," said Tommy. "Tell us about it."

This is the story he told them. They had been on the road two days,
trudging through the night and only resting when the pain in Roger's leg
became unendurable, and early on the third morning came to a tiny
village. They had been looking for a wood where they could lie doggo for
the day, but the country was bare and the only thing was to push on.
They were tired, hungry and thirsty. They walked through the one street
of which the place consisted and opposite the church came to a humble
little inn where the men of the village came to have their _apritif_
and play cards; a woman was sweeping the floor and they caught a whiff
of roasting coffee. The smell was inviting.

"Let's chance it," said Roger and walked in, with Nobby following.

The woman gasped when she saw his British uniform. Roger told her in his
fluent French that they were English escaping and were hungry, and asked
her if they could stay there for the day. He could see by her face that
she was friendly, but frightened, and he was hardly surprised when,
frowning a little, she said that she would give them coffee and
something to eat, but couldn't let them stay. She led them into a
kitchen behind the bar and poured out for them two bowls of steaming
coffee and gave them a loaf of bread. When Roger had finished he went
out to ask her what was the least dangerous route they could take to get
to the coast, but before she could answer a little boy rushed in.

"_Maman_," he cried, "the Germans."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when several motor cyclists
stopped at the door and dismounted.

"My God, they're coming in," said the woman. "Hide yourself."

"Keep cool," said Roger.

He thought they might have seen him and if he wasn't there might find it
suspicious. He quickly got behind the counter and began mopping it with
a wet rag. They came in, six of them, and one addressed him in halting
French.

"Two bottles of champagne," he ordered.

Pale, but apparently calm, the woman stepped forward.

"Certainly, gentlemen."

She pointed to two bottles on a shelf behind Roger and gave him a nipper
to cut the wire. He opened the bottles and filled six glasses.

"_Prosit. Prosit_," the Germans said, clinking glasses before they drank
thirstily.

"Why aren't you in the Army?" asked the one who had spoken before,
presumably the only one who spoke French.

"I've got kidney trouble," answered Roger. "They wouldn't take me."

"Lucky, aren't you? Have a glass of champagne."

"I'm not allowed to drink. It's bad for my kidneys."

"Damn you, when a German soldier offers you a drink, you drink."

Roger filled himself a glass and drank the champagne. The soldier turned
to one of the others and broke into German.

"Surly blighter, I've got a good mind to smack his face."

"None of that, Fritz," said the man he had spoken to. "Orders are
orders. The civil population must be treated with every consideration."

"For the present. But when we've finished with England we'll show them
who their masters are."

They drank the wine, paid what Roger asked for it, and crowded out. The
woman began to laugh.

"Well, you had your nerve with you when you asked them twenty francs a
bottle," she said. "I sell it for five-fifty."

He couldn't find Nobby when he went to look for him, but on opening a
door discovered him standing on the seat of a stinking toilet. He was
holding the bar of iron from which he had refused to be parted and had
evidently intended to make a fight for it if he was found. He followed
Roger back into the kitchen, wiping his sweating forehead with the
sleeve of his tunic.

"That was a near thing, governor," he said. "I thought you was for it."

"I don't mind telling you that I had a bit of a sinking feeling myself."

The woman of the house joined them. Her nerve was shaken and she begged
Roger to be off. He asked her where her husband was. In the Army. He
told her they would go at once if he could get some civilian clothes for
Nobby and asked her if she wouldn't sell him some of her husband's. She
wouldn't, he'd want them when he came back, and though Roger offered to
pay twice what they cost she would not be persuaded. At last he got her
to let him have some overalls and these, to his surprise, she refused to
accept money for.

"It's not that I don't want to help you," she said, "but one has to
think of oneself."

It didn't take Nobby long to get out of his uniform and into the
overalls. Half an hour later they were tramping confidently along the
high road; no one would have guessed that those two dusty vagabonds were
respectively a British corporal and an officer in the Military
Intelligence. They trudged on for three days more. They kept away from
the towns, buying their food in villages, and slept under hedges, for
they dared not go to an inn for a night's lodging in case they were
asked for their papers. Roger had those of Jeannette's husband, but he
was none too sure that he could persuade an inquisitive policeman that
he was the man they said he was, and Nobby had none. Then, climbing one
morning wearily to the top of a steep hill they caught sight of the sea.
Roger couldn't trust himself to speak. He pointed to the shining expanse
below them. Nobby spat.

"Thinkin' of swimmin' across, are you?"

"You fool, Nobby," laughed Roger.

"Let's 'ave a sit down. I could do with a fag."

"Well, we've got so far without mishap," said Roger. "I think the worst
is over."

"Oh, you do, do you? I wish I did."

"You mustn't lose heart now, Nobby. I'll get you home all right."

"They do say that where there's a will there's a way."

They couldn't take their eyes off that great sheet of water and Roger's
heart quivered in exultation. Over there was England. He inhaled the
smoke of his harsh French cigarette with voluptuous relish.

Nobby grinned his ugly, attractive grin.

"My old woman won't be 'arf sorry to see me," he said. "I promised to
bring my Ernie a German tin 'at. I 'aven't told you about my Ernie, 'ave
I? Fine little nipper, 'e is. Nine years old next month."

"Come on, let's get going. You can tell me about your Ernie when we're
on the briny ocean."

They started off again and presently, below them, saw a town with boats
lying in a trim little harbour.

"One of those would suit us all right," said Roger.

"'Ow are you goin' to get one?"

"Beg, borrow or steal it."

Nobby grinned.

"You're so 'uman, sometimes I forget you're a gentleman," he said. "Can
you sail a boat?"

"I have sailed a boat," said Roger prudently.

They walked on and after a while, on the cliff, came to a row of small
villas facing the sea. They sat down again in front of one of them to
rest and decide what they had best do next. An old woman was working in
the garden and Roger had a mind to ask her for something to eat so that
they needn't go into the town till nightfall. He didn't like the notion
of taking Nobby with him and he thought it a risk to leave him alone.
She had a pleasant, homely face. But while he was still considering, an
old man of respectable appearance came up the road, evidently from the
town, and opening the gate turned into the garden.

"Any news?" the old woman asked him.

"Only bad news."

"Poor France," she sighed.

He had been so abstracted that he had not noticed the two disreputable
men who sat at the roadside.

"They say the English are going on."

"That's not bad news."

"How can they? They've lost everything, their guns, their equipment,
everything."

Roger heard no more for they walked together up the path and went into
the house.

"They're all right," he said. "They'll help us if they can. Come on."

With Nobby following he went up to the front door and rang. The old
woman opened it.

"What is it?"

"May I talk to the master of the house?" said Roger.

"He's busy. We've got nothing to give you, my poor friends."

She tried to shut the door, but he put his foot in it.

"Please listen to me."

"No, no, no. I'm sorry we can do nothing for you."

The old man came into the passage.

"What is it, Adle?"

"More refugees." Then again to Roger: "I tell you we can't help you.
They come every day."

"I am a British officer, madam. My companion is a corporal."

The woman seemed to catch her breath; she went white and stood aside to
let them pass.

"Come in."

She closed the door behind them and led them into a room the walls of
which were lined with books. The old man presented himself.

"I am Professor Dubois of the University of Rouen."

Roger gave his name and rank.

"We have been walking for five days. We want to get back to England."

"But there are Germans everywhere," the professor's wife broke in. "The
town is occupied. Why do you come to us? You put us in such danger."

The professor looked at Roger with speculative eyes. He was a small man
with thick grey hair and an untidy grey beard; but he had a look that
was both intelligent and kindly.

"What do you want us to do?"

"I want to get a boat. I have money."

"Money? It's not a question of money."

The professor pulled his beard. He continued to gaze at Roger with
musing, preoccupied eyes. His wife, on a sudden seeming to see what he
had in mind, gave a gasp of terror.

"Andr, what are you thinking of?" she cried. "It's not fair to me to
take such a risk."

Roger had no notion what she meant, but guessed that the professor had
in view some way to help them and he turned to her.

"Madam, we should never have got so far if there hadn't been women in
France who weren't afraid to take risks to help us. I was wounded and a
peasant woman kept me hidden in a hayloft for ten days."

"We're old people, my husband and I. I'm a coward."

Tears came into her eyes and rolled down her withered cheeks.

"It is our duty to help them," said her husband.

She gave a heart-rending sigh.

"I know." Her voice broke. "Do what you like, my dear."

It was with a sad, unsmiling face that the professor turned to Roger.

"Can you sail a boat?"

"Certainly," said Roger with a confidence he was far from feeling.

"I have a cutter, but she's very small. The barometer is falling and I
wouldn't advise anyone to cross the Channel unless he was an experienced
sailor."

"It's better to take a risk than to fall into the hands of the Germans."

"Very well. When it's dark I'll show you where she lies. You can take
her. But I warn you I shall have to report her disappearance tomorrow
morning. You'll only have twelve hours' start."

"That'll be enough."

"She's got a motor auxiliary, six horse-power, but I'm afraid it's not
in very good condition."

"The corporal's a mechanic in civil life. He boasts there's not an
engine in the world so bad that he can't make it go by a suitable
combination of kind words and firmness."

The professor cast a wan smile on Nobby, who had been standing there not
knowing what they were jabbering about.

"Have you eaten today, my poor friends?" asked Madame Dubois.

"Not yet."

"They'd better go into the kitchen. They'll be safer there," said the
professor. "Anyone would take them for refugees."

"There's Marie," said his wife. "I'm not so sure she can be trusted.
She'll know they're not French or Belgian."

"Then we must warn her." The professor went to the door and called:
"Marie."

The maid, a sturdy, middle-aged woman, came in, and seeing the two
disreputable tramps, uttered a groan.

"More refugees. Oh, no, I've had enough of them here. I've got nothing
in the kitchen."

"Marie," said the professor, "these are two English soldiers. They've
come here for shelter till night so that they may escape to England to
return and drive the Germans out of the country. If you won't help us I
must send them away."

She looked from the professor to the two men and then back again to him.
She threw back her head.

"_Vive la France_," she said.

"You know that if they're found here we shall all go to prison."

"_Vive la France_," she repeated.

Madame Dubois began to cry.

"They're hungry, Marie," she faltered. "Take them into the kitchen and
feed them."

A look of grim determination came over the maid's broad face.

"Come along, boys. I'll feed you till you burst."

Roger was overjoyed. Their luck, their wonderful luck, kept up and here,
providentially, it had placed in their hands the means of escape.

"We shall be in England tomorrow, old boy," he said to Nobby, his eyes
sparkling.

When night fell the professor took them down to the harbour. He was
nervous but determined; and Roger had a warm feeling in his heart for
that old man, trembling in his shoes, but, though it might mean
imprisonment or even death, determined to do what he thought was right.
He walked ahead of them and since the night was dark they had to keep
their eyes skinned not to lose him. There was nobody about. Finally he
stopped.

"There she is," he whispered. "The little one painted black. The dinghy
is attached to the stern. You'll have to swim out to her. It's only a
few metres. Here's a torch. I must leave you. I daren't stay any longer.
Good-bye and God-speed."

He did not stop to hear Roger's thanks, but hurried away on noiseless
feet. In an instant they lost sight of him.

"We've got to swim out to her, Nobby," whispered Roger.

"I can't swim."

"Oh, damn. All right, I'll go and fetch the dinghy."

He slipped off his boots and coat and slid into the water. He got into
the dinghy and paddled back to fetch Nobby. They climbed into the cutter
and while Roger raised the anchor Nobby started pottering with the
engine.

"I'll get her going in two shakes," he said.

"We must get out of the harbour first. Can you row?"

"I've rowed on the Serpentine."

"Take this rope and jump in the dinghy. Make it fast to the seat and
then row out of the port."

Nobby got in and started to tow the cutter while Roger remained at the
helm. At regular intervals a searchlight swept the sky. When they got
out to sea Nobby clambered back on board and they cast the dinghy
adrift. Nobby went to work on the engine and after a while got it going.

"It's a rotten little engine this," said Nobby. "I don't know if it'll
'old out."

"You're a mechanic, aren't you? You've bloody well got to make it hold
out."

It seemed to make a terrific noise in the silence of the night and Roger
cast an anxious glance at the searchlight. He knew it was planes they
were looking for, but it might occur to some bright spark to swing his
light over the sea. It would be tough luck if they got caught just when
they had a chance of getting away. Then Nobby pricked up his ears.

"I don't like the sound that engine's makin'. I'd better 'ave a look at
it." He crouched down. "I think there's water in the gas. I'll 'ave to
take the carburettor down and clean it."

"All right, go ahead. How long will it take you?"

"Seven or eight minutes, and then I'll 'ave to do it all over again."

Roger's heart sank.

"At that rate we shan't get to England till the middle of next week."

They were in the open now and there was a bit of sea running.

"Beginning to bob about, ain't she?" said Nobby uneasily.

"We're running into a squall, thank God. They'll have a job to find us
if they do come after us."

"I'm feelin' sick," said Nobby.

"Be sick, blast you," said Roger savagely.

He didn't feel like trying to hoist the sail in the pitch darkness, for
he had small experience of sailing a boat, and he thought they had
better trust to the auxiliary. But the engine only ran for a few minutes
at a time. Nobby, feeling like death, cleaned the carburettor every
quarter of an hour, and while he was cleaning it they tossed about
helplessly in the choppy sea.

"D'you think we shall make it?" asked Nobby, peering into the darkness.

"Better be drowned than fall into the hands of those filthy Huns," Roger
snapped.

Nobby vanished again.

The night seemed endless and when the grey dawn broke they were both
very tired. The sky was heavy with threatening clouds and the sea was
dirty. Roger had no notion how far they had gone. He didn't think they
could even now be more than a few miles away from the coast of France.
The daylight was a comfort, but a danger as well, for they might be seen
by a German motor boat and then it was all up with them. Giving the
reluctant Nobby the tiller and showing him in which direction to steer
he managed to hoist the sail and then they proceeded with an easier
motion. Madame Dubois had stuffed their pockets with food and there was
water in the tank, but Roger would let Nobby eat only sparingly; he did
not know how long they would have to make their provisions last. All
that day they went on and all the next night. Every few minutes Nobby
had to take down the carburettor and clean it; he took cat-naps between
times, but Roger felt he couldn't afford to close his eyes. Whenever the
motor began to splutter he gave Nobby a kick to rouse him. They were wet
and cold and Nobby was very seasick. They didn't speak for a couple of
hours at a time. Their stock of food was getting low and it looked as if
soon they would have to go hungry. Luckily there was plenty of water.
But where was the land? Where was that bloody land? Roger didn't like
the look of the weather; the old man had said the glass was falling and
if a storm came up, inexperienced sailor as he was, he was none too sure
that he could cope with it.

"We shall be in the soup," he muttered.

The day seemed endless. Roger, thinking that hours had passed, would
look at his watch only to find that scarcely an hour had gone by. Time
loitered like an idle errand boy. You might have thought that for two
steps forward it took one step back. They never saw a ship. They might
have sailed an unknown sea that none had sailed before. At long last the
day drew to a close. The sun set threatening behind a bank of cloud and
darkness shrouded them in a fearful loneliness. When morning came, a
dun, sullen morning, with the sea running high, Roger wondered grimly
whether either of them would see the night. His tired eyes persistently
searched the horizon. Suddenly his heart turned over. For a moment he
felt as sick as his wretched companion.

"Hi, Nobby, take a look out."

Nobby, lying in the cockpit, was groaning with misery; he raised a
miserable and aching head.

"What's up?"

"Can you see something straight ahead?"

Wearily Nobby got to his feet and supporting himself on the gunwale
stared in the direction in which Roger pointed.

"That?" He made a funny little sound in his throat; it might almost have
been a sob. "That ain't land, is it?"

"That's what it is, old boy, land."

"Lor lumme, if I didn't feel so awful I'd 'ave me last fag."

"England."

There was something in Roger's voice that made Nobby give him a quick
look. He grinned.

"Makes you feel you want to cry, don't it?"

"Shut your bloody trap, damn you," Roger snapped angrily.

Nobby, with still the remains of a grin on his sharp little face,
sketched a military salute.

"Right you are, sir."

As he told Tommy afterwards: "Rare job the major 'ad to pretend 'e
wasn't feelin' same as I was, but 'e was, and when 'e thought I wasn't
lookin' 'e blew 'is nose so I thought 'e'd blow it right off."

For that was the end. A couple of hours later they landed on the Sussex
coast.


[XIV]

But there was one part of his story Roger left untold. There was little
light in the loft in which he had spent ten dreary days and even had
there been enough to read by he had nothing to read. It was hot and
stuffy. He was in pain. He turned from side to side on the hay trying to
make himself comfortable and when he fell asleep it was only to be
awakened after a few minutes by the throbbing of his shoulder. He had
nothing to do but to think, and the fever that was upon him confused his
thoughts so that, even when he was awake, they had the incoherence of a
crazy dream. They ran riot in his aching head like a panic-stricken
crowd rushing hither and thither without knowing where they wanted to
go. The war, the day he had spent with the battery, the sudden shooting
when his chauffeur had slumped over the wheel and the car had skidded
into the ditch, the scene at the farm, Graveney Holt, his mother, Tommy,
May, his ignorance of what had happened to the retreating forces--it was
all muddled together like the pieces of a hideous jig-saw puzzle and
every piece was a pain.

He had always valued the lucidity of his brain and it was a relief when,
after his wounds were dressed and the fever abated, he found himself
able to think clearly. His thoughts were dark. He was anxious about the
fate of the British force; it was a bad, bad show, but notwithstanding
the gloomy news that Jeannette brought him he had a strong confidence
that it would not prove an irreparable disaster. England had been in a
tough spot before and in the end had won through. He was in a tough spot
himself. For the first time since he was wounded he chuckled; if he
didn't get back to England somehow--well, he'd eat his hat. His spirits
rose as he considered ways and means. He'd have to be wary--well, he was
wary; he'd want a bit of nerve--well, he had a bit of nerve; he'd have
to keep his wits about him--well, he was not entirely devoid of them.

He thought of May. If he'd been killed instead of his chauffeur she
could have married Dick Murray. Poor May. He wondered what she saw in
Dick. Of course he was a good fellow, he was a gentleman and all that
sort of thing, and he had a certain charm. What else? He was
conscientious, a very good agent, not a bad business man either; and he
was gay and pleasant, a good shot, and he rode well. But that was about
all. No one could call him intellectual. If he ever read anything beside
the morning paper, the _Tatler_ and the _Field_, it was a detective
story. May on the other hand was a tireless reader. She had been ever
since as a young girl she had had the run of the Graveney Holt library,
and Roger had often been amused to discover the out-of-the-way
information she possessed. She had a good brain. It was not often that
he had had occasion to ask her advice, but when he had it was with
pleasure that he had noticed how well she reasoned and how sound her
judgment was. She had a feeling for beautiful things. Not even his
mother had a more sensitive appreciation of the fine furniture at
Graveney Holt. May had a charming feeling for decoration. With the odds
and ends they had gathered from the attics she had made a little gem of
their flat in Chelsea. It was an admirable background to her flower-like
beauty.

What could all that mean to Dick Murray? And of what use would be her
social sense to him? When Roger had military attachs of foreign nations
to dine at the flat, or members of some mission or other, the effortless
ease of her manner was beyond all praise. Because she was so natural, so
candid she made them feel at home and the pleasant impression she
created had more than once helped him to enter into useful relations
with the strangers. He was proud of her. He had been very happy with her
and it had come as an astounding shock when without warning she had
asked him to let her divorce him. He could not remember that they had
ever had a quarrel. They had never even had a disagreement. He recalled
that at first she had seemed a trifle put out because he was reticent
about his work. But it was not his business to talk, there was a great
deal too much chatter going around on the matters with which he was
particularly concerned, often unfortunately coming from persons in high
place who should have known better, and on occasion May had been a
trifle tart because she had learnt something which he had thought fit to
keep secret from her. Well, it was not his fault if his superiors were
indiscreet. But all that belonged to the past. For years now May had
realized that part of his job was to hold his tongue and had ceased to
concern herself with his affairs.

He couldn't see what she had to complain of. Of course he was away a
great deal, but that again was part of his job, and he couldn't take her
with him. The heads of missions sometimes carried their wives along and
that meant all sorts of social complications that certainly didn't
facilitate the work of the mission. It was true that when he was away he
didn't think of her a great deal, he was generally too busy for that,
but when he did it was with tenderness; and when the time came for him
to return to England his first thought was of the pleasure it would be
to be with her again. It had never occurred to him that she was lonely.
She had friends in London and she could always go down to Graveney. The
pity was that she had no children. They'd been married eight years and
they might have had three by now. Then she would never have thought of
leaving him. She would have had plenty to do and wouldn't have missed
him so much. He had never let her see that her childlessness was a grief
to him and when on occasion she had lamented it he had done his best to
persuade her that he did not mind. So far as his means allowed he gave
her everything she wanted. She had never expressed a wish that he hadn't
been only too pleased to grant. He had had no reason to suppose that she
was not as happy in their marriage as he was.

Certainly no one could admire her more. He felt that no one delighted as
he did in her slightly fragile beauty. He liked her delicate nose, her
wide-browed eyes and the exquisite texture of her skin. He liked her
good breeding, her unassuming self-assurance, her tact and her poise. It
might be that after the war there would be changes and that many things
that had seemed of consequence before would cease to seem so, but as
things were, it could not be denied that she fitted her station in life
with supreme distinction.

She wasn't happy. It wrung Roger's heart to know it and the tormenting
thing was that he didn't know what to do about it. For a moment he had
been irritated that just when the crisis came she should have thrown
this unexpected complication into his life. It was as if you were
running to catch a train and someone stopped you to ask a futile
question. But that was unfair; naturally she hadn't known that war was
imminent. Now, in his hayloft, Roger saw that down there at Graveney, in
that peaceful scene, it was inconceivable that the world was even then
rushing to destruction. Anyhow he had to face the facts. She had fallen
in love with Dick and for his sake was prepared to give up all that he,
Roger, had to offer her. It was a pity that there was nothing of the
snob in her and that she was completely disinterested.

He had failed her somehow. What was it that Dick could give that he
couldn't? He visualized his friend. With his grey, curling hair, his
fine, blue eyes, with their dark lashes, his sturdy build, his hearty
good-humour and ready, friendly smile--yes, he supposed Dick had a
sexual attractiveness that might appeal to some women. But May was the
last woman he would have expected to be interested in it. He had never
found her a sensual woman and he would have been a fool to think that
she was eager for sexual congress. He had not much minded that. He had
not expected it. He was hard-worked and he had things to think of that
seemed urgently important. And after all they had been married for eight
years.

He had grown up with the idea that they would marry. Although neither
his father nor his mother brought any pressure to bear on him, he was
very well aware that they hoped for it. Before his marriage he had had
the ordinary adventures of young men, but he had never met any woman
that he liked half as much as he liked May. He had never known another
as well. Perhaps that was part of the trouble. They had been as intimate
as brother and sister and when they set off on their honeymoon it had
been with no sense of strangeness or even of great excitement; he might
almost have been going on a jaunt with his sister Jane. Of course the
honeymoon had been fun; they had had a grand time in Paris. It had been
nice to sleep in the same bed with May and at the same time rather comic
and slightly indecent. It was somewhat like committing incest with the
blessing of the Church. And what made it so delightful was that there
was no embarrassment between them; they kissed and laughed and loved,
and it was all as natural as going to supper in Montmartre before they
went to bed or drinking their _caf au lait_ before they got up in the
morning. It was perfect.

Since then he had never looked at another woman. During his long
absences he had often had opportunities to divert himself with others,
but he had never done so. He could not say that he had resisted
temptation; he had never been tempted. There was always May to go back
to and there wasn't a woman in the world to compare with her. She was
sweet. And now his marriage was on the rocks; May wanted to divorce him
and he had promised to let her if she still wanted to after the war was
over. He wished he hadn't done that; he didn't want to lose her; it was
not only her beauty he loved, he loved her character, gentle yet firm,
quietly humourous yet sedate; she was a woman in a thousand. And he was
used to her. It might be that that was where he had gone wrong, he had
grown so used to her that he had taken her for granted. That was what
she herself had said. She had said that she was no more to him than the
chair he habitually sat in or the old golf coat he put on when he came
home from work. He had been a fool. But why wouldn't women be taken for
granted? With so much to do and the world in a hell of a mess how could
they expect you to fuss about them all day long? A man had his work,
hadn't he? In any case it was too late now, even if he had the time or
the opportunity, to be the assiduous husband who spent his time
forestalling his wife's wishes. Besides, he wasn't that sort of man.
Funny, women were; he had always thought May so sensible. He hated the
idea of divorce. Even now that the law had been changed it was an odious
business, this going down to Brighton with a stray female you had never
seen before, registering at a hotel as man and wife and making sure that
the chambermaid saw you in the same room next morning. It was ugly and
vulgar, and the thought of the tittle-tattle that would ensue gave him
goose-flesh. Roger shared with his family a horror of publicity. It
would have seemed shameful to them, when they had a house-party at
Graveney, to have pictures of it in the _Tatler_ or the _Bystander_ or
when they went up to London for a few weeks to have the unimportant fact
announced in the _Morning Post_. They had an almost morbid dislike of
seeing their names in print. They were quiet people, with a sense of
their own dignity, and anything approaching self-advertisement was
disgusting to them. And there was another thing: Roger had long had the
intention of standing for Parliament in his own constituency; he had
ideas about the Army that he thought should be put before the nation and
the House of Commons was the best place from which to do it; but in the
respectable district in which Graveney was situated the fact that he had
been co-respondent in a divorce case and that his wife had afterwards
married his father's agent would ruin his chance of being chosen as a
candidate.

But he had given his word and he was prepared to keep it. It was
dreadful to think of May being unhappy, and what would their life be
together if she was continually hankering after another man? She had as
much right to happiness as anyone else. It was a mistake she was making,
at least from the worldly point of view, but if she was determined on
it, and he had never thought her a weak, easily influenced woman, what
could he do about it? It was his own fault that she had ceased to love
him, though not his wilful fault; it had been a dreary life he had asked
her to lead, he saw that now only too clearly; it was a pity he saw it
too late; and it wasn't much good to say he was a soldier and had to
obey orders. Youth lasted such a little while; she was right when she
said she was passing it waiting, just waiting. Selfishness on his part?
Yes, he supposed it was, and the worst of it was that if he had his time
over again he would do exactly as he had done before. His work, and the
peculiar form it took, gave him the great exhilaration of his life. But
the war would be a long one. He had expected it to last three years, but
now with this disaster in Flanders he was convinced it would last five.
Much may happen in five years. May would see Dick, if she saw him at
all, only at rare intervals; he would change and she would change; and
mightn't it be that when they met again they would find that everything
was different? They had fallen in love because they were thrown in daily
contact with one another; well, when that contact ceased mightn't they
fall out of love? It might be that then May would come back to him. He
knew so well what she'd say:

"Roger darling, I've got a sort of idea that you've prevented me from
making an awful fool of myself."

"Have I, my pet?" he would answer.

He could see the amusement in her eyes, amused because she felt ever so
slightly embarrassed, and yet meaning exactly what she said.

"You know, I don't really think Dick is quite my cup of tea."

"I never thought he was, sweetie."

"I've come to the conclusion that on the whole I like you best."

"I've been telling you for years that I'm quite a likable chap really."

"Well, the long and short of it is that even if I catch you in bed with
one of the housemaids and you give me a black eye I shall absolutely
refuse to divorce you."

"Does that mean that I've got to be burdened with you for the rest of my
life?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I don't know what I'm going to do about it," he answered as he took her
in his arms and tenderly kissed her soft lips.

For a moment he forgot that he was lying on hay in a dark loft and
fancied himself back at Graveney Holt in the room May always had. It was
a nice room. The chintz was faded, but the dressing-table, the tallboy
and the bed were Chippendale, and from the wide windows you saw the
green meadowland of the park and the spreading oak trees.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Though it was in response to Tommy's impetuous questioning and to
satisfy his father's demand for meticulous detail that Roger told such
parts of his story as he chose to tell, May had a feeling that he was
particularly concerned with the effect it might have on her. His eyes
rested on her and there was a look in them that seemed to say: you
mustn't take it too seriously, you know; it was all rather a lark
really. She had a notion that it was on her account that he passed off
with a pleasantry the risks he had run and made a joke of the hardships.
He spoke as though his adventure was something that might have happened
to anybody and indeed as though there was nothing to it. You had to read
between the lines, as it were, to recognize the dreadful danger in which
he had been, how near death, and what resource, presence of mind and
endurance he had shown. His attitude put May, sitting there in silence,
listening intently, strangely ill at ease. He seemed bent on ridding her
mind of any suspicion she might have that there was anything remarkable
in his exploit, as though for such a reason to excite her admiration or
to appeal to her sympathy would not be quite playing the game. You would
have thought he got a sardonic amusement out of showing himself in a
ridiculous light when he was in imminent peril. It slightly wounded her.
It was an aspersion both on her heart and on her head. May saw very well
how greatly it lessened his chance of escape to be saddled with a man in
uniform who couldn't speak a word of French and she was sure that it had
never even occurred to him that it would be wiser to leave him to shift
for himself. She knew Roger well enough to be certain that never in the
darkest moment of all had he given way to discouragement. It was in
circumstances that called for his utmost that he was at his best: he was
fearless, reliable, quick to decide and undaunted by obstacles.

At night when she lay in bed, unable to sleep, in the next room to
Roger's with only a closed door separating them, and turned over in her
mind some of the incidents he had related, May's eyes filled with tears.
It was heart-rending to think of him lying there in the wood, soaked to
the skin, wounded and alone; it was awful to think of those long days in
the hayloft when he had lain there hour after hour, burning with fever
and in pain. She wondered if he had thought of her then. Perhaps not:
perhaps he thought only of the straits in which the calamity in Flanders
had thrown the country and of the slim chance he had of escaping; but if
he did, it could only be with bitterness because she had let him down.
He still bore on him the traces of his ordeal. His cheek-bones were
prominent, his temples hollow, his face was haggard and his eyes had a
hard brilliance that was abnormal. In a way he was better looking than
he had ever been; his illness and the hardship he had undergone, his
determined neglect of the pain in his leg as he plodded on mile after
mile, had worn him down and there was something pathetic and even
romantic in his appearance that he had never had before. May was truly
thankful that he had come through; and it filled her with shame to
remember that she had wished--no, that she had never done--that she had
considered the possibility of his death. She wondered if he knew that;
if he did, he wouldn't blame her, he would only find it slightly comic.
Bit of a sell for the poor girl: that's what he would say. He'd chuckle.
That woman who had made her in-laws give him refuge, who had brought the
doctor to see him, who had done so much to get him home safely--she
didn't love him; he meant nothing to her and what she had done, she had
done in human charity and perhaps from patriotism. It was curious when
you came to think of it that Roger owed his escape almost entirely to
women; women had hidden him, women had clothed him so that he might pass
without remark, women had fed him, women had risked their liberty to
succour him.

Strangers. She was his wife; he had surely the right to expect something
from her that strangers couldn't give him, and yet it was strangers who
had done so much for him while she--what had she done? Nothing very
pretty or very kind. She didn't quite know why it should distress her so
much, more than anything almost, that she hadn't recognized him when he
came limping along the path in those funny clothes he was wearing. If
she had loved him, if she had only loved him as Tommy loved him, she
would have known him at once. Not to have done so seemed frightfully
heartless: it must have cut him to the quick. For of course he loved
her; it was no good pretending to doubt that; it wasn't the sort of love
she craved for, but how could he help it if it wasn't in him to give her
that? It was a matter of temperament. May was tormented. She was
conscience-stricken. In the darkness she stretched out her arms and
called to Dick to help her. She wanted him, she wanted him so badly, and
yet if he had been there she would have pushed him away with horror. Oh,
misery! To love with all your heart and to feel--to feel what? To feel
that if you surrendered to the love that consumed you, you would never
have a moment's peace or happiness for the rest of your life.

For a thought, no, hardly a thought, a feeling seemed to entwine itself
with her deep dissatisfaction with herself; in dismay she tried to drive
it away, but it was no good; it frightened her like an angry man with
his foot in a door she couldn't close; and at last, in despair, flinging
the door open, she faced it. She had always been confident that Britain
would win the war; it was inconceivable that she shouldn't, she couldn't
be beaten; but now the possibility had to be considered that she might
be. The idea filled her with horror. Yet there it was, the B.E.F. had
escaped from France, but with the loss of all its equipment; tanks, guns
and ammunition had to be provided before it could take the field again;
France had fallen; it might be that, for all their promises, the French
would deliver their fleet to the Germans; the Germans were flushed with
triumph; any day now they might attempt an invasion, and who could be
sure that just then, after the disaster of Flanders, the British had the
power to repel it? Hitler had said he would sign peace in London on the
fifteenth of August and up till now he had been as good as his word. The
peril was desperate. It was no good shutting one's eyes to it. The shame
of defeat. The ignominy of living under the heel of a brutal conqueror.
To lose everything you held dear; to knuckle under to people you
despised; to be reduced to thralldom. There would be no more laughter
then; there would be no more frankness; you would have to be constantly
on your guard. May had met in the Tyrol a Bavarian prince and he had
told her how, at home, in his family, they had to watch their every
word, for they knew that their servants were Nazi spies who would report
what they said. And defeat would mean more than that; it would mean that
goodness was banished from the world and the only meaning of right was
might. It would mean the end of honour and decency and fair play and
uprightness and loving kindness. It would mean that life wasn't worth
living.

What was it that Roger had said when he told her that the Germans were
about to march into Poland? This isn't the moment that any of us can
afford to think of his private concerns; or something like that. If it
wasn't the moment then, it was far, far less the moment now. Now
everyone was concerned, everyone must do his utmost or all would be
lost; now happiness didn't matter; the only thing that mattered was
England. It was vile to think of oneself. One must be prepared to
sacrifice everything one held dear. May smothered the shriek that burst
from her lips when, like the corpse of a murdered man rising to the
surface of the water, like a discreditable action that haunts your
memory, like a vulgar jingle that teases a fevered brain, the notion
came to her of the sacrifice that was demanded of her. It was absurd.
She couldn't make it. It was asking too much. It was as silly and
childish as when Dick had been in the retreat to Dunkirk and she had
been tempted to promise God to give him up if only he escaped alive. It
was as stupid and dangerous as when at that time, playing patience in
the evening, she had had the inclination to tell herself that if it came
out Dick would be saved. What good could it do anybody if she made the
sacrifice? There was no sense in it. Why should she lose her only chance
of happiness? It was insane. And yet some inner compulsion stronger than
her will, her reason, her instinct constrained her; it availed her
nothing to say that it was witless, she knew that she would have to make
the sacrifice. There was no help for it.

So one evening after Roger had been at Graveney for some days, May asked
him to come for a stroll with her. They sauntered under the ancient
cedars of what was called the English garden; it was shut off from the
formal garden by an old red brick wall on which ivy grew thick, and it
was very pleasant to walk there in the cool of the day. Though only two
old men and a boy remained to tend it, the lawns were kept mowed and the
herbaceous borders in flower. Just then they were in full beauty. Roger
talked as he always did with her, agreeably, but of casual things, the
evacuated children, Jim and his work on the farm, the Government and so
on. He never referred to their personal relationship. May was a trifle
nervous.

"Will you give me a cigarette?" she said.

He stopped to light it for her and as they sauntered on she slipped her
arm through his. She did not look at him, but gazed straight in front of
her.

"Roger, you know what I asked you just after you came back from Poland?"

"Yes."

"I don't want you to do what I asked you to do then!"

"I'm very glad."

He did not seem particularly surprised; indeed he took it almost as a
matter of course. She would have liked him to be more enthusiastic,
perhaps even a trifle demonstrative. It wouldn't have been unnatural if
he had taken her in his arms and kissed her. He did not speak for a
minute or two.

"That day I got back from France," he said then, "I asked you if you
were still in love with Dick and you said you were."

"I've written to Dick and told him I don't wish to be divorced from
you." She gave him a quick look. "You don't wish it, do you?"

"Of course not. I've never wished it. You see, I happen to love you."

"Won't you kiss me?"

He smiled a little shyly and lightly kissed her lips.

"I want you so awfully to be happy, Roger, I'll do all I can to be a
good wife to you."

"I know you will, darling."

There seemed nothing more to say and May was relieved when she saw the
General wandering towards them. She glanced at her watch as he joined
them and said:

"I'm going to leave you two together. I must go and see to my chores."

Walking back to the house she felt an ease of mind she hadn't known for
days. Now that she had made her decision she was convinced that she had
done right; she felt almost light-hearted; she wasn't the only person in
the world who couldn't have what she wanted and she had a feeling that
in time this aching for Dick, this bitter aching, would grow less
violent; perhaps one day it would be no more than a tender regret.
Perhaps then she would even be glad that she had thrown away her hope of
happiness. The letter she had written to him had been hard to write and
painful; to receive it would be a cruel grief to him, but she thought he
would understand that she had no alternative. At least he could never
doubt that he had all her love.

She was glad that Roger had asked for no explanation of her change of
mind. Though at the first moment she had been a little taken aback that
he should accept it so casually, now she saw that it had been well for
him to do so. But as the days went by May was a trifle puzzled that the
talk she had had with Roger seemed to result in no great difference in
their relations. He was pleasant, friendly and thoughtful, affectionate
even, but he had always been that. She wondered if it was possible that
he had not understood all she meant to intimate. His leave was drawing
to an end and when he went away it might be that she would not see him
again for weeks. He had a bed in his office and slept there every night,
so that, even if her work at Graveney hadn't made it necessary for her
to stay there, it would have been pointless to set up housekeeping
together again in London. She didn't mean to do things by halves. If she
hadn't made what she meant quite plain, well, she must make it plain;
but it wasn't easy. She still felt a little strange with Roger; it
wasn't that she was frightened of him really, it was that she was never
quite at home with him; even though she had known him nearly all her
life she had never been intimate with him in quite the way in which she
knew it would have been so easy to be with Dick; perhaps it was their
marital relations that had made her shy with Roger, and in any case sex
was something it made her uncomfortable to refer to. It had often made
her flush hotly to hear Jane talk of it so coarsely. On the day before
he was due to go, having given the children their dinner and done her
share of the washing-up, she went in search of Roger. She found him in
the library, sunk in a huge arm-chair, with a book in his hands. He
looked up with a smile as she came in.

"I wanted to find something to read," she said.

"Plenty to choose from," he said with a glance at the crowded shelves.

As though she meant nothing by it, she seated herself on the arm of his
chair and putting her arm round his neck, asked him:

"What is it you're reading?"

He showed her. She did not move. Her cheeks were burning and her voice
wasn't quite steady when she spoke.

"Roger, when we talked about things the other day and I said I wanted to
be a good wife to you, I meant every word of it. I meant all that that
implies. I wanted to make no reservation."

"You're very sweet, darling. I wouldn't ever wish you to do anything you
didn't want to do."

She lightly stroked his cheek.

"Don't you think it would be nice if we had a baby? Because we haven't
had one yet there's no reason why we shouldn't have one now."

He closed the book he held and turning his head a little, half grave,
half smiling, looked into her eyes.

"Dear heart, I think I have an idea why you said what you did the other
day. It was very dear of you. But I don't believe I'm mistaken in
thinking it was due to a change of mind rather than a change of heart.
And in these things it's the heart that matters. I don't set much store
on the Victorian notion of conjugal rights. I don't think sexual
relations are very satisfactory unless they spring from mutual desire;
unless they do that there's something rather humiliating about them for
both parties, don't you think? There are certain things no one can force
himself to want. I'm afraid it isn't enough for me that there should be
desire on my side. Desire's a funny thing, you can't bid it to come, it
comes unbidden; perhaps one day the desire will be mutual; I shall know,
you know, you won't have to tell me."

She looked down without answering; tears rose to her eyes and slowly
trickled down her cheeks. He took her hand and kissed it.

"Don't cry, my pet. It's no good grieving over things over which we have
no control."

"I wanted so to make you happy."

"You have, darling, you've made me very happy. My heart is full of warm,
devoted love for you."

She sighed. It seemed hard that he should give her everything and she
should give him nothing in return, and the cruel part of it, the part
that left her miserably aware that she had failed in what she desired to
do, so that her sacrifice came to nothing, was that deep down in her
heart was a feeling of relief that he was content to let their relations
stay as they were. She shivered as though someone were walking over her
grave.


[XV]

Roger went back to London and resumed his work. He had good reason to
know that Nobby was a reliable, clever little fellow, so, sending for
him, he offered him a job as messenger in his own office. Nobby jumped
at the chance. To its other advantages was added this one, that he would
be able to sleep at home, for as he said himself, "I'm a family man, I
am," and he had felt it "cruel 'ard" to be separated from his wife and
children.

"Lost like I feel without the missus," he had told Roger during one of
their long talks on the way to the coast, "an' it's a funny thing if you
come to think of it, 'cos I didn't really want to marry 'er, only she
never give me a moment's peace till I did. If I told 'er once I told 'er
fifty times I wasn't a marryin' man."

"I suppose she knew what was good for you," smiled Roger.

"You never said a truer word in all your life. An' that's a fact."

One day, at the War Office, Roger noticed that Nobby had something he
wanted to say, but was shy about saying. He asked what it was.

"Well, sir, it's like this; I've told me old woman all you done for me,
an' she says, might she thank you 'erself?"

"I don't know that I did any more for you than you did for me, Nobby."

"I told 'er you was too busy to be bothered with 'er, but you know what
women are, sir, once they get an idea in their 'eads they don't seem
able to get it out again an' she's been naggin' the life out of me to
ask you if you won't come an' 'ave a cup of tea one day when you can
spare the time. It'd be a rare treat for the kids."

"Is that all? Of course I'll come. Tell your wife I'll be delighted."

Having fixed a date there and then, a few days later he went with Nobby
to the mean little house in a Westminster slum of which the Clarks
occupied the ground floor. Nobby's wife was a small, untidy, brisk woman
with thin, carroty hair and a missing front tooth. The two children, a
girl of ten and a boy of nine, were puny, but keen-faced; they were
struck with awe at the sight of the officer in uniform and watched him
with speechless wonder. But Mrs. Clark was as chatty as her husband, and
as unself-conscious. She had the same quick cockney humour that he had
and Roger found himself laughing heartily at her quips. He was touched
to see the affection that obviously existed between the members of that
lively, contented family. It was touching, too, to see the pride the
Clarks took in their sordid dwelling. There was no bathroom and they
shared the only privy with the other people in the house; the children
slept in an airless cubby-hole, and the living-room, which was the
kitchen as well, was tiny and so crowded with furniture and knick-knacks
that you could hardly move; but it was home and they loved it. Roger
suggested that the children would be better off in the country and said
his mother would gladly take them, but neither Nobby nor his wife would
hear of parting with them.

"Whatever should we do without them kids to worry the life out of us?"
said Nobby with his friendly grin.

"My kids don't leave London till I leave London," said Mrs. Clark with
decision. "An' I don't leave London till Nobby leaves London."

"An', speakin' for meself, I don't leave London till the major leaves
London."

"And I don't suppose I shall leave London in any circumstances," laughed
Roger.

"So there you are, as you might say," added Mrs. Clark. "An' if you
don't stop pickin' your nose, Ernie, I _will_ send you to the country.
Whatever will the major think of you?"

"'Ere's me 'anky," said Nobby, taking out a handkerchief that was none
too clean. "If you want to blow it, blow it, and if you don't, leave it
alone."

Roger could hardly have said why he felt in such good spirits as he
walked back to the War Office.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Dick Murray went out to Egypt and within a few weeks, Ian, having
recovered from his injuries and got himself a handsome set of false
teeth, followed. Jane was once more alone in her little house. Since it
was close to the War Office, whenever she was free and he could manage
it, Roger strolled along and dined with her. Meanwhile life at Graveney
Holt went its accustomed way. Owing to a reorganization the General lost
his job at the Red Cross and having nothing to do in London returned to
Graveney for good. His uselessness made him fretful and though
ordinarily a placid man he was inclined now to be moody and irritable.
He felt his age. Since Dick was no longer there to look after it, he
took over the management of the estate; but he was too easy-going and
too irascible to do it with conspicuous success. Tommy's preparatory
school had been transferred to Canada, and his parents, not quite
knowing what to do with him, decided to keep him at home till they saw
how things went. Jim continued to work on the farm. Mrs. Henderson had a
notion that of late he had seemed more at peace with himself. She
wondered whether his passion for Dora was grown less intense: to the
best of her belief they met only on Sundays and then there was nothing
in their behaviour to suggest that there was even an understanding
between them. It was true that in the afternoon they went for a walk,
but there was no harm in that. She was sufficiently assured of Dora's
high principles to be certain that she would permit no undue intimacy.
Besides, she was not in love with the boy. Of that by now Mrs. Henderson
was also certain.

In this manner the summer wore on. All over England work was pursued
furiously in order to prepare for the invasion that seemed imminent.
Wiseacres examined the tides and decided on which day exactly it would
take place. There were rumours that a party of saboteurs had landed on
the South Coast and been exterminated, and rumours that a fleet of
barges had been intercepted off Cornwall and sunk; hospitals in Paris
were said to be jammed with German soldiers suffering from frightful
burns. The Luftwaffe started in earnest to attack England and every day
towns were bombed. People learnt to distinguish by the sound of the
engine which were German planes and which were British. There was
furious fighting in the air and hundreds of enemy planes were brought
down. At the end of September the Germans assailed London. The docks
were bombed, and whole streets of poor houses in the East End were
reduced to a mass of smoking rubble; then came the turn of the West End;
Buckingham Palace was hit; Regent Street, Bond Street, Piccadilly: there
were great holes in Mayfair where an old Georgian house had once stood.
A factory in Croydon was bombed and two hundred girls were killed. Here
and there a direct hit caught a shelter and few who had sought refuge in
it escaped. The raids started at dusk and the all-clear did not sound
till the first sign of dawn. The people of London passed harassed
nights, but they went on with their work and maintained their calm.

The country was much disturbed by the common talk that Fifth Columnists
were active; for it was notorious that their operations had greatly
helped the enemy in the invasions of Poland, Belgium, Holland and
Norway, and it was not to be supposed that the Germans would fail to
employ in England methods that had elsewhere proved so efficacious. Wild
tales flew about and the complaints were universal that the Government
was not sufficiently alive to the danger. In consequence aliens were
rounded up and numbers of them sent to detention camps. Then there was
an outcry that they had been taken pell-mell, those that were suspect as
well as those that were beyond suspicion, and the left-wing papers were
violent on the Government's want of discrimination. But this also kept
the matter in the public eye. The Hendersons were anxious. It was
impossible to deny that Dora, though an Austrian who had suffered from
Nazi persecution, was according to the letter of the law an enemy alien,
and the risk that she would be, if not interned, at least removed to
some other part of the country, was intensified by the fact that
Graveney Holt lay within five miles of a secret airfield. Everyone in
the neighbourhood knew about it, but it was supposed to be so
ingeniously camouflaged as to be invisible from the air at the height at
which enemy planes, wary of anti-aircraft guns, would be forced to fly.
There was notwithstanding the danger that a Fifth Columnist might find
means to give its exact locality away. General Henderson went to see the
chief constable of the county and the Air Force commander at the
airdrome and gave his personal guarantee of Dora's integrity. He made a
point of the good work she had done since the outbreak of the war. With
all those children to look after they simply couldn't get on without
her. It would be a monstrous abuse of power to insist on her departure.
He was a man used to getting his own way and he was extremely
dissatisfied when the utmost he could extract from the authorities was
permission for Dora to stay till her case was further considered. He
wrote a very cross letter to Roger and was annoyed when he replied that
the matter was not within his province and he was afraid nothing he
might say would have any effect. Roger was not surprised when two or
three days later he was called from Lewes by the chief constable. It was
about nine at night and he was just finishing his work at the office.
The chief constable was an old friend of the family's. He told Roger
that it had been decided to remove Dora to some place, at a distance
from any military objectives, which the proper authority would shortly
appoint.

"I'm afraid your father will make trouble," he concluded. "He gets very
peppery when he's crossed."

"I know he does," smiled Roger.

"I understand you're coming down to these parts next week anyway."

"Yes."

"I wonder if you couldn't advance it. Couldn't you come tomorrow?"

"I suppose I could, but I don't quite see the object."

"Well, I think you could make your father see reason. We've had to put
up with a lot of criticism lately. It would be a bore if your father got
a question asked in the House or wrote to the _Times_."

"Those are the only two things you fellows are afraid of," chuckled
Roger. "All right, I'll come tomorrow. Though mind you, I'm pretty
certain that Miss Friedberg is all right. My people have known her for
some years and her father was done to death by the Nazis. But I agree
with you, it's better to be on the safe side."

He put down the receiver and began to reflect. Dora had struck him as a
nice, honest sort of girl, and it was inconceivable that she should be
mixed up in espionage. If the Huns got on the track of the secret
airfield it could hardly be through her; she hadn't the opportunity
either to get or to transmit information. But of course if the
authorities wanted to shift her they were within their rights. He smiled
again when he thought of the chief constable's obvious disinclination to
tackle his father. The General was an obstinate fellow. He had held
various honorific positions in the county and as a large landowner and a
magistrate was inclined to think that his word was law; as a soldier he
had been something of a martinet and, when crossed, could fly into a
towering passion. Roger had a notion that his mother too wouldn't very
much like having her wishes disregarded; gentle and sweet-tempered as
she was, she also was accustomed to having her own way.

Roger touched the bell and Nobby came in. At that moment there was a
burst of anti-aircraft fire.

"Jerries are a bit busy tonight, sir," said Nobby.

"It does seem rather noisy. I'm just going along to Mrs. Foster's. She's
inclined to be a bit jittery these days and I may spend the night
there."

"Very good, sir."

Nobby helped him on with his coat and he put on his tin hat.

"You can go now, Nobby."

"Right you are, sir. If there's no objection I'll just go along an' see
'ow me old woman and the kids are gettin' on."

"Of course. Are they all right?"

"Yes, sir--when last 'eard of. We 'ad a bomb in our street last night
and all the windows are gone."

"Bit chilly, isn't it? D'you think it's very safe to leave them there?"

"Well, sir, they go to the shelter in the Horseferry Road at night. Nice
and cosy they are there."

"You're a damn' fool not to send them down to Graveney."

"I'm beginning to think you're about right, sir. But my old woman won't
'ear of it. Separate me from my kids? she says. Not much. I wish you'd
speak to 'er, sir. Since you give me this job she thinks the world of
you."

"I'll go and see her in a day or two. I'll try and persuade her."

Roger walked along to Jane's house and let himself in with a latch-key.
She was playing the piano.

"I suppose you know there's a hell of a raid on," he said with a grin,
as he opened the door of the drawing-room.

His words were accompanied by another burst of anti-aircraft fire. It
sounded to Roger as if the planes were just overhead.

"I suspected it, I admit," she answered, going on with the Chopin waltz
she was playing.

Roger poured himself out a whisky and soda. Jane's playing was better
than you would have expected and he listened to her with pleasure.

"You played a wrong note there, dearie."

"I did it on purpose."

Suddenly she stopped and turned round on the stool. He saw that her face
under the outrageous make-up was drawn and that her eyes were haggard.

"I couldn't knit any more; I was dropping every other stitch. It's no
good denying it, Roger, I'm just scared stiff."

"Why the devil don't you get out of London, then? You've got nothing to
keep you here now that Ian's gone. Go home. You'll be safe there."

She gave him an indignant stare.

"Me leave London? Why, I wouldn't miss the excitement for anything in
the world."

There was a dull thud and the house gave a little tremor like the tremor
that passes through a ship when a great wave strikes her. A bomb had
fallen not far away.

"Blast them," Jane barked angrily.

"You're looking awfully tired, darling."

"I haven't slept very well for the last few nights," she replied with a
deprecating smile. "To tell you the honest-to-God truth, I've been much
too frightened."

"Why in heaven's name don't you go and sleep in a shelter?"

She snorted.

"I'm not going to let old Hitler drive me out of my house. I wouldn't
give him that satisfaction."

"I think the chances are that he won't hear about it."

Just at that moment there was a deafening explosion and all the windows
in the room were shattered. Jane gave a piercing shriek and Roger
instinctively sprang to his feet and put his arms round her.

"It's all right, dear. No great harm done. It fell next door."

"Oh, I'm scared, I'm scared," she whimpered.

"Come on down to the basement. Where are the maids?"

"I sent them to a shelter. They went before the raid started."

There was a terrific noise of firing and again the explosion of a
falling bomb. The house shook and rattled as a tea cup on a saucer held
by a trembling hand rattles and shakes, and with a crash, covering them
with dust and debris, part of the ceiling fell down. They leapt out of
the way. The lights went out.

"Come on," said Roger, grabbing her wrist, "we'd better get out of here.
We shall have the house on our heads in a minute."

They hustled down the stairs. Jane snatched up a fur and they ran into
the street. There were patches of flame where incendiaries had fallen
and the house next door was burning. Men were running along, airwardens
and police, and there was a shouting of orders. You couldn't see planes,
but a hundred searchlights swept the skies. A-A guns were firing
furiously.

"We must run for it," said Roger.

"I can't run in these heels."

"Damn your heels."

He took her arm and scurried her along. The nearest shelter was that off
the Horseferry Road where Nobby's wife and children were and that was
where he wanted to go, but in the black-out it wasn't easy to find the
way. They passed vague and mysterious figures, people hurrying like
themselves, hurrying, and in the darkness they were like flitting,
shapeless chunks of night. Suddenly they heard the sinister, terrifying
whistle of a falling bomb ahead of them.

"Throw yourself on your face," cried Roger.

To make his meaning plain he gave Jane a slap on the back and they both
flung themselves full length on the pavement. The bomb fell and the
crash was deafening. For a moment Jane thought she would choke.

"That's all right, get up," said Roger.

"I don't want to get up. I'm very comfortable where I am."

"Get up, you fool."

He pulled her roughly to her feet. She clung to him and he knew that she
was badly shaken. Her voice didn't sound her own when she spoke.

"I thought we were for it then, Roger."

"Bit too close for comfort, wasn't it?" he said grimly. "Bastards!"

"I don't know why I don't have a heart attack. I've never been so
frightened in my life."

"Come on. I expect we shall have to go round. The road's blocked ahead
of us."

Suddenly Jane gave a sharp cry.

"What's up?"

"Wait a minute, I've forgotten something."

Before he could stop her she had kicked off her shoes, picked up her
skirts and was racing back to the house they had just left. He couldn't
imagine what she'd gone for. He groped about for her shoes. For a moment
he was at a loss; he was afraid to go after her in case he missed her in
the black-out; it was better to wait where he was. He fumed. Several
minutes passed and he grew desperately anxious. He was on the point of
going back to try to find her when up she ran. She was breathless. He
saw that she was carrying something.

"I'd forgotten my face," she panted. "I only just got there in time, the
house is on fire."

"D'you mean to say you went back to fetch your damned make-up," he
shouted at her. "You might have been killed."

"I had to have my face."

He was so angry, he very nearly hit her; but he didn't: the absurdity of
it struck him suddenly and he burst into a shout of laughter.

"Don't stand there laughing like a fool," she cried irritably. "Let's
get to this damned shelter. I'm scared stiff."

"I don't believe a word of it. You're as brave as a lion."

"I had to have my face, you idiot, bomb or no bomb. And I've ruined a
pair of brand-new silk stockings and I shan't be able to get any more.
What a life!"

She leant against Roger while she put on first one shoe and then the
other.

"Now you've got your make-up perhaps you'd like to paint your lips."

"Don't be a damned fool, how can I in pitch darkness?"

"If you're quite ready then let's get a move on and be damned quick
about it."

"If you want to run, dear, you run. I'll find my way all right."

"If I have any more of your lip I'll give you such a smack on the jaw
you won't be able to speak for a week."

"Spoken like a perfect gentleman," she said.

There seemed to be a lull and they walked through the black uncanny
streets. Searchlights restlessly swept the sky.

"Is the raid over?" she asked.

"The planes have passed over. There won't be another wave for a few
minutes."

They took one or two wrong turnings, but eventually reached the shelter.
Two or three wardens were standing outside and one of them opened the
door for them. The shelter was a large one, with several rooms, and it
was crowded with people. Some, trying to sleep, were lying on mattresses
or blankets and some on the bare concrete; others were sitting on chairs
and camp-stools. Others again were eating and drinking, and a group of
four men, sitting on the floor, were playing cards. Others stolidly read
the newspaper. Women chatted in undertones and a good many were
knitting. There were boys and girls and children in arms. It was hot and
smelly. Jane stopped for a moment as the musty stench of humanity
assailed her nostrils.

"The stink," she said. "I can't stand this."

"Nonsense. You'll get used to it in a minute."

He pushed forward, for he wanted to find Mrs. Clark and put Jane in
charge of her so that he could go back to the War Office. He was afraid
it had been hit. He looked about and in the second room caught sight of
Nobby with his wife and children. They had found a corner for themselves
and the two children were lying together on a couple of blankets.

"Why, look who's 'ere," said Nobby, as he and Jane made their way to
him.

He jumped up and saluted.

"This is my sister. She's just been bombed out of her house, so I
thought I'd bring her along here."

"My dear, I've lost everything," said Jane cheerfully, as she shook
hands with Mrs. Clark. "I've got nothing except the clothes I stand up
in, and my face, thank God."

The children sat up on their blankets and stared at the painted woman in
her fantastic raiment.

"Who's that, mum?" asked the little boy.

"Now then, Ernie, you go to sleep," said his mother sharply.

"I ain't sleepy."

"Shut your eyes, lovey, and pretend you're sleepy and you'll be asleep
in no time."

Jane looked at him with an impassive face and deliberately winked at
him. His mouth fell open and he stared at her in startled amazement.
Room was made for Jane to sit down and Mrs. Clark offered her a cup of
tea.

"I got a thermos," she said. "I ain't got a cup though, you'll 'ave to
drink it out of the top."

"Never mind that. I'd love a cup of tea."

There was another burst of gunfire.

"There they are again."

"How they can expect children to get their night's rest with all this
bombing and all them guns is more than I know," said Mrs. Clark.

"You'll be all right here for the night, Jane, won't you? I must go back
to the War Office," said Roger.

"Of course I shall be all right; I've got my face with me."

"Mrs. Clark will look after you. I'm going down to Graveney tomorrow
morning. You'd better come with me."

"I suppose I had. I hate leaving London, but I must have a roof over my
head--though they do say that streetwalkers are doing a wonderful
business just now."

"You'll be able to get a taxi when the all-clear sounds. Then the best
thing you can do is to go along to the Dorchester and have a wash and
brush-up and I'll come and fetch you after breakfast."

"Right-ho. Domineering man, my brother," she added to Mrs. Clark.
"Though what they'll say to my turning up at the Dorchester in a fur
coat and my harlequin nglig is nobody's business. They'll probably
take me for the Archbishop of Canterbury."

Roger and Nobby started to thread their way through the crowd when there
was an explosion so near, so loud, so shattering that it seemed for an
instant as if the shelter had been struck. Women shrieked and all, men
and women alike, leapt to their feet. The wardens shouted: "All right.
No harm done. Keep calm." Many of the children burst out crying and
there was a loud, confused buzz of excited talk. It had evidently been a
close shave. Roger, with Nobby at his heels, pushed forward to the
entrance and as he passed the card players noticed that they hadn't
interrupted their game. He almost laughed. A woman shouted: "Now then,
boys, 'Roll out the Barrel'"; and a lot of them started singing. The
guns blazed away. A pasty-faced lad came through the doorway of the room
in which the Clarks had their corner and hurried up.

"Mrs. Clark, there's that woman as lives in your house," he said, "will
you come along? She's taken bad and the nurse is busy. She's askin' for
you."

"Oh, poor thing, yes, I'll come immediately." She gave Jane a hesitating
glance. "Would you mind keepin' an eye on the kids, ma'am, I shan't be
long?"

"Don't hurry. I'll look after them."

The children were white and tearful. It had been a bad fright. Jane
tried to get them to lie down again, but they were too startled.

"Don't let them hurt me, miss," the little girl whimpered.

"Of course I won't let them hurt you," Jane answered in her gruff, deep
voice; then she gave a cackle of laughter. "You couldn't be more
frightened than me, dear, and when I'm frightened I always do my face."

She reached over for the velvet-covered box and opening it displayed
enough bottles, tubes, little china pots and what not to stock a beauty
parlour. The two children watched her open-mouthed and wide-eyed as she
began upon the complicated process of making herself look more like a
figure of fun than nature had done already. Some of the people had
settled themselves down again in the hope of getting to sleep, but there
were still a number scurrying here and there, and there was a lot of
nervous talking. But the two children, fascinated by Jane's proceedings,
forgot their fear. She gave the little girl a smile, that queer, droll
smile of hers that was so disarming that your heart went out to her.

"Like me to do you?"

"Oh, yes," cried the little girl.

"Come here then."

Jane daubed cream on the child's face, powdered and rouged her, reddened
her lips and darkened her lashes.

"Your mother won't know you when I've done with you," she chuckled, as a
sudden burst of firing made her start. She was in the middle of giving
the child a fine pair of arched eyebrows. "That's made a mess of your
eyebrow; I shall have to do that one again. Spit on your hanky, child."

"Do me too," cried Ernie, wild with excitement.

"You're a boy. You can't have your cheeks rouged. I'll give you a
moustache."

With her eyebrow crayon she painted a black moustache on his upper lip
and gave him whiskers and a goatee; and then, giggling, with her
lipstick gave him a bright red nose. Jane was contemplating her work
with a good deal of satisfaction when Mrs. Clark came back.

"Look, mummy," the two children cried.

"Why, whatever 'ave you two gorn and done?"

"She done it."

"Now you'll 'ave to 'ave your faces washed."

"I don't want me face washed," Ernie whined.

"What was the matter with the woman?" asked Jane.

"Oh, she's all right. She's only goin' to 'ave a baby. Could I leave the
kids with you, ma'am? I think I ought to go back. It may come any minute
now."

"Go ahead. They'll be all right with me."

"We needn't 'ave our faces washed, need we, ma'am?" said Ernie as soon
as his mother's back was turned.

"Not until I wash mine," said Jane, "and I'm not going to do that till
the all-clear sounds."

Just then Roger came back and told her what had happened. The bomb had
fallen in the street just opposite the doorway and two wardens had been
killed and a man who was just coming in badly wounded. But all the same
they had to congratulate themselves; if the bomb had fallen a little
more to the right it would have got the shelter fair and square and the
slaughter would have been dreadful. Roger went off and Jane settled
herself down on the blankets with a child on each side of her. Soon they
fell asleep. She lay on her back longing for a cigarette, and stared at
the ceiling.

"Very rum life is," she muttered. Then, thinking of the woman in labour:
"And my God, what a place and time to have a baby."


[XVI]

Jane was up and about betimes next morning, for when need be she could
cope with an emergency as well as anyone. She found a friend at the
Dorchester who lent her a dress to go out in and a hurried visit to the
shops in Regent Street provided her with an outfit sufficient for the
moment so that when Roger drove up to fetch her she presented an
appearance that was not too fanciful. Since it was but little out of
their way they went to have a look at her house. Nothing remained but a
bare wall against which a bath was precariously perched. Houses on
either side had been burnt out and men were already clearing the debris.
The roadway was littered with broken glass. For once Jane found nothing
to say. Heavy tears rolled down her painted face.

"Never mind, dear," said Roger.

"Damn you, I do mind."

He drove on. The household had just finished luncheon when they arrived
at Graveney. They were all, all but Tommy who had gone off on his
bicycle, in the sitting-room having their coffee; and though it was a
week-day Jim happened to be there too. He had had to go to the dentist's
and had dropped in to lunch. Mrs. Henderson and May were knitting and
Dora was listening to the General who was telling her how he would
conduct the war if he were Prime Minister. She had heard it all before,
but notwithstanding appeared to listen with interest. Jane and Roger's
appearance was a surprise, for he had not telephoned to announce their
coming and Jane, without giving them a moment to draw breath, broke into
a humourous account of her adventures on the previous night. She had
already told her story several times at the Dorchester so that by now it
was highly coloured. It had become a slap-stick farce so outrageous and
so absurd that her listeners in their laughter lost sight of the fact
that she and Roger had escaped death by a hair's breadth. When she had
finished Roger got up and sat down beside Dora.

"Miss Friedberg, I've got bad news for you," he said. "I'm afraid you'll
have to leave here. They're tightening up on aliens and the authorities
think it undesirable that you should remain at Graveney."

Before she could speak the General burst out irascibly.

"I never heard such nonsense," he cried. "I'll go and see the chief
constable again. Who the devil does he think he is? I've given him my
personal guarantee that Dora is all right."

"We can't do without her, Roger," said Mrs. Henderson. "She's been
incredibly useful and she's worked wonderfully well."

"I'm awfully sorry, Mother, but I'm afraid there's no help for it. I
knew it would put you out, that's why I thought I'd better come down and
tell you myself. I had a little job to do here anyway."

Dora seemed less agitated than the others; she even smiled a little when
she addressed herself to Roger. He had a suspicion that there was
something derisive in the smile.

"I suppose it's on account of the airdrome," she said. "I've never been
near it. In fact I don't know exactly where it is."

"It's maddening, all this red tape," the General fumed. "Why, she's like
our own daughter. She isn't even German, she's Austrian, and she's as
anti-Nazi as we are."

"All that's perfectly true," answered Roger. "It's inevitable in a time
like this that individuals should suffer hardship. It's not a question
of interning her. It's only that she's got to go and live in some place
that the authorities approve of. She's an alien and she's got to adhere
to the regulations."

"But she's not an alien," said Jim quietly. "She's a British subject.
She's my wife."

There was a general gasp of astonishment.

"Is it true, Dora?" asked Mrs. Henderson.

Dora's face in repose often had a sullen look and it had it now.

"We were married last August," she answered.

"Why have you kept it secret? I didn't deserve that of you, Dora."

There was an unaccustomed coldness in Mrs. Henderson's eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Mrs. Henderson. I'm afraid I'm very much to blame. How
could I expect you to be pleased that your son should marry a penniless
refugee that you know nothing about?"

Mrs. Henderson raised her eyebrows.

"Is that the sort of people you think we are after living with us all
these months?"

"She didn't want to marry me, Mother," said Jim, with a pathetic
eagerness that she shouldn't think ill of Dora. "I asked her over and
over again and she refused. She begged me to wait till after the war."

Roger looked up quickly.

"What made you change your mind?" he asked Dora.

She hesitated an instant.

"He was unhappy. No one was very kind to him here."

"That's not true, Dora," said Mrs. Henderson, sharply. "We couldn't
approve, but we respected his convictions."

"It wasn't respect he wanted, it was love."

Mrs. Henderson looked from her daughter-in-law to her son.

"I'm a soldier's daughter and I'm a soldier's wife and I'm a soldier's
mother. It's been a bitter grief to me that a son of mine should refuse
to fight for his country, but I accepted his decision. I tried to
understand and to sympathize. I felt sure he wouldn't have done what he
has if his conscience hadn't persuaded him it was the right thing to
do."

The General had been looking at Dora. She was so pretty and young; he
had a soft spot in his heart for her. It would be a pity if his wife
said anything to hurt her.

"It's no good crying over spilt milk, my dear," he said. "What's done is
done. She's his wife now."

"This alters things, Roger, doesn't it?" asked Jim.

"I suppose it does."

He understood now the meaning of the derisive smile that he had seen on
Dora's face. He glanced at May. She wasn't knitting, but sat there,
looking down at the floor, with knitted brows. Jane was painting her
lips and managed to put into that proceeding the maximum of disapproval.

Dora rose to her feet and went over to Mrs. Henderson.

"I hope you'll forgive me, Mrs. Henderson."

"I want my son to be happy, Dora."

"I shall try to make him so."

Mrs. Henderson sighed and then drawing Dora down, kissed her.

"If you do that I shall have nothing to forgive."

"Dora can come and live with me at Badger's," said Jim.

He had been sleeping there since the people with whom he had found
lodging at first had turned him out. The cottage was partly furnished
and there were still plenty of unwanted things in the attics at Graveney
to make it pretty and comfortable. Walking, if you took the short cut
through the park, it was barely a mile from the house and by road not
much more. Dora could very easily continue to help with the evacuated
children. Jim's remark eased the tension and with relief they entered
upon a discussion of the sheets and blankets, pots and pans, dishes and
plates, knives and forks that would be required to enable the young
couple to set up housekeeping.

Roger left them to it and drove off to Lewes to keep his appointment
with the chief constable. He found him in his office, waiting, a
grizzled, retired colonel, slightly fussy and not too bright, and with
him were an officer of the R.A.F. from the neighbouring airdrome and a
police inspector.

"Well, is it all settled?" asked the chief constable when Roger had
taken a seat.

Roger frowned.

"I'm afraid it's not. There's a snag. It appears that she's a British
subject. She's married to my brother."

"What? Damned fool." The chief constable recollected himself. "Sorry,
old man."

"Oh, that's all right. They've been married since August. For reasons
best known to themselves they've kept quiet about it."

"That's awkward."

"I don't quite know what to do about it," said Roger.

"The fact remains that the Germans know we've got an airfield in the
neighbourhood," said the R.A.F. officer.

"What about your camouflage?"

"That's all right. No one could spot it who didn't know it was there. We
had a German plane over the other day. It had obviously just come to
have a look and when we sent a plane up after it, it sheered off.
Someone's given the show away; there's no doubt in my mind about that."

Roger had been as surprised as the others to hear that Jim and Dora were
man and wife, and he didn't like the idea of Jim having married a girl
who when all was said and done was an enemy alien, but he thought like
his father that there was nothing to do but make the best of it and now
that she was one of the family his instinct was to stand up for her.

"You know, as far as this girl's concerned," he said, "I'm pretty sure
you're barking up the wrong tree. She's Austrian in the first place and
my people have known her since long before the war."

The chief constable turned to the detective.

"You haven't got anything more to tell us, Inspector?"

"No, sir. She seems to have no friends outside. She's a good worker and
everyone speaks well of her."

"What about her correspondence?"

"She's never had a letter since we've been on her track."

"That's not very strange," said Roger. "Her only relative is her mother
who lives in Austria."

"Of course we knew she'd been seeing a lot of Mr. James Henderson, but
that was none of our business."

"Where did they meet?"

"In Graveney Park and sometimes she went to see him in that cottage he's
been living in. Badger's they call it."

"If they were married it's natural that they should be together
sometimes," said Roger.

"I'm not saying it isn't, sir," answered the inspector. "Of course we
didn't know they were married."

"So I suppose you put the worst construction on it."

"Come off it, Roger," said the chief constable. "They're young and she's
a damned pretty girl. What construction would you expect the inspector
to put upon it?"

"Well, sir, if you want the truth, the fact is, sir, that my man saw a
light in the bedroom when she was there."

"And drew the obvious conclusion," continued the chief constable. "Don't
look so glum about it. If they were occupied as the inspector seems to
think they were, it's unlikely that she was up to any monkey business.
It all sounds perfectly normal to me and I think we can probably give
her a clean bill of health."

"Where is this cottage you're talking about?" asked the airman.

There was a large-scale map open on the table round which they sat and
the inspector pointed out the exact position of Badger's. The airman
raised his eyebrows.

"Funny," he said. "Look, Henderson, there's Graveney Holt and there's
Badger's. From your house it gives a direct line on our airdrome."

"Remember it's only a four-roomed cottage with a thatched roof. It
couldn't be seen from the air."

"I dare say not. Unless someone showed a light. It seems to be on a
hill."

"Hardly that. A hummock."

"Are you quite sure of your brother? He's a conchie, isn't he?"

Roger thought the question offensive; but answered pleasantly enough.

"I'm absolutely sure of him. He's a damned fool, but he's been an ardent
pacifist ever since he went up to Oxford. He's incapable of doing the
dirty."

"Incapable," agreed the chief constable, who had known Jim all his life.

"Is he going on living at the cottage?" asked the airman. "You'd better
tell him to be very careful not to show a light."

"He wouldn't be such a fool as that. But I will. I'll get my mother to
see that they take every precaution."

"They? Who's they?"

"Of course his wife is going to live with him."

The airman looked sulky.

"I don't like it and it's no good saying I do. Someone's given the show
away and I miss my guess if we don't get bombers over one of these fine
nights."

"Damn it all, you can't prevent a man from living with his wife," said
Roger.

He was irritated at the fellow's persistence. He might be a good airman;
he was an obstinate, insular and narrow-minded man. It was exasperating
that at this time of day you should still have to deal with people who
suspected anyone who hadn't had the good fortune to be born British. But
as ever Roger was wary of his prepossessions. Even though the airman had
rubbed him up the wrong way, it wouldn't do to pay no heed to his
misgivings. And he was none too easy in his own mind. He couldn't see
why Dora had insisted on making a secret of her marriage with Jim. The
reason she had given was flimsy. Her behaviour struck him as
unpleasantly deceitful. He rose to go, for he had urgent matters to
attend to elsewhere.

"I'm sure I needn't tell you fellows to keep your eyes skinned," he
said, in his hearty manner.

It was a general admonition and if they applied it to a particular case
that was not his look-out.




[XVII]

Jim and Dora set up housekeeping. They ransacked the attics of Graveney
for such furniture as they needed. Jim brought his books and the
woodcuts he had had in his bedroom, and they gave the tiny parlour a
homelike air. Mrs. Henderson gave them linen. The General drove over to
Lewes and brought back the kitchen utensils of which Dora had given him
a list. Having got over the first shock he was delighted with his new
daughter-in-law and described admiringly to his wife the brisk, orderly
way in which she put everything in its place.

"Jim might have gone a damned sight further and fared a damned sight
worse," he told her.

Jim was thankful that now everything was open and above-board. He had
hated the deception he had been forced to practise; it seemed so unkind
to his parents, and he had only consented to it because otherwise Dora
refused to marry him. It was heaven to sit facing her at the little
table and eat the supper she had cooked for him. It was heaven to sit in
an arm-chair by the fire in his slippers, smoking a pipe, while she in
another arm-chair on the other side of the fire place knitted woollies
for the children. It was heaven to talk, it was heaven to be silent. It
was heaven to think that after a while they would go up to bed together.
Now everything would be all right. For things hadn't turned out quite as
he had expected and marriage hitherto hadn't been as completely
satisfying as he had hoped it would be. He was passionately in love with
Dora and it perplexed and hurt him that his passion roused no
corresponding warmth in her. She had sought to avoid the consummation of
their marriage until the time came when she was prepared to acknowledge
it and she had only yielded when he threatened, half jokingly and half
angrily, to produce the marriage certificate to his family there and
then. But he was too sensitive not to be conscious that she submitted to
his embraces with coldness.

He was young and inexperienced and even if, since Dora had sworn him to
secrecy, it had been possible to seek advice, there was no one with whom
he could have brought himself to talk the matter over. He would have
been ashamed to speak of it to his mother, and Jane would only mock him;
there was a virginal quality in May that made it impossible for him even
to think of mentioning it to her. It never entered his head to consult
Roger. He was driven therefore to reassure himself with the scraps and
pieces he had heard about women and tell himself that they weren't like
men and that desire in them was more slowly awakened. Yet from the look
of her, so fresh, healthy and blooming, you would never have suspected
that Dora was a frigid woman. She was very modern and highly educated;
what they called the mysteries of sex were no mysteries to her; seeking
for a plausible explanation for behaviour that seemed so contrary to her
nature he asked himself whether it was possible that she had attached
some mystical value to her chastity and could not yet reconcile herself
to the normal exigencies of the male. From the very first Dora had given
him to understand that she was not prepared to have a baby and, though
unwillingly, he had agreed that it would be as well to wait till they
could announce their marriage. Now that this had been done and they were
living together there seemed no reason to hesitate. To his dismay Dora
would not hear of it.

"No, no, no," she said. "This is no time to bring a child into the
world."

He tried to reason with her. He knew how much it would please his
parents and if she had a baby it would dissipate any feeling of
disapproval they still might have because Dora and he had married on the
sly. The dearest wish of his father's heart was to behold the birth of a
boy who could inherit the land his forbears had owned so long. Dora
listened to him in sullen silence. He would never have believed her face
could bear such an expression of exasperated stubbornness as he saw on
it then.

"If you loved me you'd want to have a baby by me," he said.

The look she gave him sent a cold shiver down his spine. It was a look
of hatred. He was so startled that he said no more.

Of course she had been working very hard for a long time and it might be
that she was suffering from the strain. She was worried about her mother
in Austria of whom she had had no news since the outbreak of the war. He
must go easy. He must be very kind to her and hope that with time she
would change her mind. After all, he couldn't expect to know already the
business of being a husband and why should he expect her to know that of
being a wife? They both had a lot to learn. They had to get used to one
another and they had to discover all the things about one another that
only the intimacy of common life in marriage can manifest. As time went
on he discovered one or two things that he wasn't prepared for. He
discovered that Dora had a quick temper. He had never seen her anything
but composed and good-humoured; indeed at Graveney they had often
marvelled at the fact that nothing put her out; but now she seemed at
times to be seized with an uncontrollable irritation and would say sharp
and wounding things. One might almost have thought that marriage had
changed her disposition. Then her face went red and there was a cruel
hardness in her eyes. She would recover herself very quickly, say she
was sorry and behave towards him with unwonted tenderness. But he hated
to see her like that and, though without definite intention, made it his
business to avoid giving her occasion to be annoyed with him.

Another thing that distressed him was her attitude towards his
relations. He was deeply attached to them and it was a grief to him that
she was inclined to be acid about them. Considering how kind they had
been to her, and how generous, it seemed rather ungrateful. She took
care never to say anything about his mother, but it was not difficult
for him to guess that she looked upon the General as an old fool. Jim
would have thought his father's open partiality for her would have
touched her. Perhaps it was natural that she didn't like Jane or Roger.
She couldn't understand that Jane's offhand way was only a mannerism and
that, for all her brusque downrightness, she was a thoroughly good sort.
You could expect short shrift if she thought you were trying to put
something over on her, but if you were really in a hole you could count
on her doing her damnedest to get you out of it. And if she made a
perfect sight of herself, well, did it really matter? It amused her and
did no one any harm. It was true that Roger had tried to turn Dora out
of Graveney, but he was only doing his duty; it didn't seem fair to hold
it up against him. Dora said he didn't like her and when Jim said she
must give him time, answered with a shrug of the shoulders:

"To tell you the truth I don't care a damn if he does or not. He's
ridiculous."

"Why d'you think him that?" asked Jim with a smile of frank amusement,
for that was the last thing he would have said of his brother.

"Don't you know that May is having an affair with Dick Murray?"

"What on earth are you talking about?" he said with amazement. He
laughed. "My poor Dora, May's incapable of doing a mean and despicable
thing."

"She's been in love with him ever since he came down here. She doesn't
care twopence for Roger."

"Nonsense. They get on like a house on fire. You've got your knife into
Roger and you're prepared to believe anything to his discredit."

"Ask Jane. She knows."

Jim was vexed, not because he thought there was a word of truth in what
Dora said, but because she could so calmly make such shocking
aspersions; but he did not want to start an argument that might become
acrimonious.

"I don't think you know English people very well yet, darling," he said
mildly.

"Jane doesn't suffer under the disadvantage of being a foreigner. Why
don't you ask her?"

"Shall we talk of something else?"

Dora shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. What she had said rankled, but
Jim told himself that he would be a fool to take it seriously; women, he
knew, were inclined to say outrageous things about one another and half
the time they didn't mean them. After all, it wasn't unusual for people
not to like their in-laws, and women were funny, they were sensitive
about all sorts of little things that men wouldn't think worth bothering
about. It might be that Dora in her somewhat dependent position at
Graveney had suffered slights that he had never noticed and that he was
sure weren't intended, but that had stung her. Well, now they had their
own home that couldn't happen any more; he felt pretty sure that she
only had to know his people better, and perhaps in a different way, as
one of the family herself, to discover that they weren't really half a
bad lot. And even if marriage hadn't given him quite all he had hoped,
at least not yet, he couldn't complain. He had wanted to marry Dora ever
since they first met at Kitzbhl, and he was married to her. She made
him wonderfully comfortable in that dear little house. She did all the
housework herself and kept it like a new pin. It was a treat, after his
long day at the farm, to come back to that nice cosy room and eat the
tasty Austrian dishes she had prepared for him. He thought it was too
much for her, for after she had made the beds and washed up the
breakfast things in the morning she went off to Graveney to help with
the children and did not come back till it was time to cook supper. She
worked seven days a week. But when he suggested that they should get a
woman from the village to help her she refused.

"I like to do everything for you myself," she said.

She could be very endearing when she chose: when she said things like
that he could have died for her. It might be that she didn't love him
quite as much as he loved her, well, he could hardly expect that,
perhaps he wasn't very lovable, but surely if he loved her enough he
could make her love him as he wanted to be loved. There was plenty of
time; they had all their lives before them.

When the airman told Roger he was convinced the Germans had got wind of
the secret airfield he was right. Bombers came over twice, but it looked
as though they weren't able exactly to locate it, for they went away
without discharging their loads, and it wasn't till a month later that
an attack was made on it. That night, Dora, saying she was tired, went
to bed early. Jim was reading and, wanting to finish a chapter, told her
he would stay up a little longer; but once she was gone he felt restless
and so in a few minutes, putting down his book, he went up to their
room. He was surprised to see that she hadn't started to undress. The
room was in darkness, but she was sitting at the open window, though it
was a cold December night, and she had just lit a cigarette. She was
holding the match in her hand and it gave a surprisingly bright light.

"Dora, what are you doing?" he cried.

"Lighting a cigarette," she answered unconcernedly.

"Put out that match. You mustn't show a light like that."

"Oh, don't be so silly. We're miles from anywhere."

"Put it out I tell you. I've told you how careful we must be."

He snatched the match from her fingers and blew it out. He shut the
window, drew the curtain and lit a couple of candles.

"It was so hot downstairs in that poky little room, I felt I had to have
a breath of air."

He happened to catch sight of the match she had used. He took it up. It
was a fusee. This is a match with a long black head and a wire core in
its stem, which holds its flame for a considerable time and which some
people in England still use because it doesn't easily go out in a wind
and is convenient for lighting a pipe in the open.

"Why on earth were you lighting a cigarette with a fusee?"

"I didn't know I was. In the darkness I just took the first box I could
find."

"But how d'you happen to have fusees?"

"Oh, I've had them for ages. I thought they might be useful."

"A light like that can be seen for miles."

She put up her mouth to be kissed.

"Oh, Jim, don't be such an old fuss-pot. What harm can it do in the
depths of the country like this?"

He put his arm round her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Darling, those R.A.F. people don't much like the idea of your living
here because you were Austrian. I know it's idiotic, but there it is. If
anyone saw that light we shall get it in the neck."

"It was stupid of me; I didn't think. I won't do it again."

"Suppose you give me those matches."

"Trusting fellow, aren't you?" she smiled.

But she handed him the box and he put it in his pocket.

Jim slept so soundly that he heard neither the planes coming over nor
the firing, and it wasn't till next morning when he went to work that he
knew that the airfield had been bombed. No harm was done and it was not
positive even then that the Germans knew its precise situation; it might
well be that having only a vague idea of it they had dropped bombs at a
hazard and chance had favoured them. But Jim was worried; the planes, it
appeared, had come over at nine and it must have been around half past
eight when Dora had lit her cigarette at the open window. Of course it
couldn't be anything but a coincidence, the light of her fusee couldn't
have lasted a minute and it was absurd to think that, even if it had
been seen from the air, a reconnaissance plane could have seen it and by
rounding up a squadron somehow given it a direction. It was a heart-felt
relief when a few days later there was another raid which could by no
possibility have been connected with any carelessness of Dora's, because
it came on an evening when they were both at Graveney. There was a good
deal of uneasiness in the neighbourhood and a lot of people were
convinced that there were Fifth Columnists at work in their midst. It
wasn't hard to guess the names that were given them. He, because he was
a conchie, and Dora, because she was a foreigner, were under suspicion
and he was conscious of a veiled hostility in the persons he
encountered. It vexed him, but he knew there was nothing he could do.
Since he did not want to disturb Dora he took care not to give her any
hint of the feeling against them. Fortunately, since she never went
anywhere except to the big house to look after the children, there was
no likelihood that she would discover it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

It was getting on for Christmas. General Henderson had the gout. He was
sitting in an arm-chair, with his foot up, in the great hall of Graveney
Holt reading the _Times_. Tommy, in the Boy Scout uniform that gave him
an inordinate satisfaction, curled up in another chair, was reading a
book. It was seven o'clock and the General looked up as it struck.

"Tommy, you haven't done your good deed for the day, have you?" he
asked.

"I haven't had a chance, Daddy."

"Well, you can do one now. Just walk round the house and see that no
lights are showing. Put a coat on."

"All right."

The little boy ran out and when he had been gone a few minutes Jim came
in.

"Hulloa, Father," he said. "I thought I'd come round and see how you
were and take Dora back with me."

"I can't walk yet, but I'm better. Dora's gone. She left about half an
hour ago."

"She can't have. I've just come from the cottage and I didn't meet her
on the road."

"Perhaps she walked back through the park."

"She wouldn't do that. It's pitch dark."

"I know she's gone. She came to say good night to me."

"I wonder where the devil she is."

The front door opened and slammed and Tommy came racing in.

"Daddy, there's a fire."

"A fire."

"It's just where your cottage is, Jim."

"Gosh!"

He ran out and Tommy bolted after him. They could see a blaze in the
distance. They jumped on their bicycles and rode towards it. The road
was winding and they lost sight of the fire, but on turning a corner
came in full view of it.

"That's not the cottage," cried Jim. "My God, it looks like a rick
burning."

They pedalled with all their might and as they came near saw that in
fact it was a rick blazing fiercely in a field a few hundred yards from
Badger's.

"How did it catch?" asked Tommy. "D'you think it's a signal?"

"It looks damned well like it." Jim gave an anxious glance at the sky.
"We shall know very soon."

As they reached the field two or three men ran up with pitchforks and
began raking at the hay, trying to get the fire under control, but the
heat was intense and they had to give up. The whole rick was in flames.

"You nip back home, Tommy, and ring up the police station," said Jim.
"I'll go and see what Dora's up to."

He was thankful she'd had the sense to keep away. Heaven only knew what
those men would have said if they'd come and found her there. He went
back to the cottage. Dora was standing in the dark at the open window of
their little parlour looking at the blaze.

"Where have you been, Dora?"

"Nowhere. I've been waiting for you to come back."

"I was here half an hour ago. You weren't here then."

"I was. I didn't hear you. I had a headache and went upstairs to lie on
the bed."

"But your bike wasn't in the shed. That's why I went on to the house to
ride back with you."

"Well, it was. I put it there myself."

Funny. He could have sworn her bicycle wasn't in its usual place.

"There's nothing to do about that rick. It'll just have to burn itself
out."

"I love a fire. It's thrilling."

Jim saw that she had no idea that it might be a signal. He thought he
had better not say anything.

"I wonder how it caught."

For a while they stood side by side and watched the soaring flames.
Presently Dora turned away.

"D'you want to go and wash?" she said. "Supper's ready."

"All right. I'll only be a minute."

When he went up to their bedroom he noticed that the bed showed no sign
of having been lain on, but of course Dora was a tidy woman and she
might very well have smoothed down the counterpane and shaken up the
pillow if she had mussed them up. They had barely started to eat when he
heard the hum of planes overhead. He jumped impulsively to his feet.

"Good God! It was a signal then?"

"What d'you mean?"

"The rick."

"Oh, Jim, don't be so silly. D'you mean to say you think someone set
fire to it on purpose?"

"It's obvious now."

"It's much more likely a tramp set it on fire by accident."

"What would a tramp be doing at the bottom of that field at this time of
night?"

"He might have been going to sleep there. For goodness sake sit down to
your supper. You're not frightened, are you?"

"No, dear," he grinned.

He sat down and went on eating. Then in the distance they heard the
sound of firing.

"That means they're over the airdrome."

She pricked up her ears, but did not say anything. They finished the
meal in silence.

Tommy got home and proceeded impetuously to tell his father about the
burning rick. They heard the planes too and this raised his excitement
to fever heat. He wanted to run upstairs to look if he could see
anything from an upper window.

"No, you little devil, you stay here," said the General. "I'm not going
to let you out of my sight."

"I won't go out on the roof, Daddy. I promise."

"You do as I tell you. Read a book."

"I don't want to read a book."

"Then twiddle your thumbs."

Mrs. Henderson came in.

"George, there are dozens of planes flying over."

"I'm not deaf, dear. It looks as though they were making a mass attack
on the airdrome. I hope our fellows get after them."

"I've left May and Jane to keep the children quiet. They're all mad to
go out and see what's happening."

"I can't blame them. If it weren't for this damned foot of mine I'd be
out myself."

Tommy looked at him wide-eyed, but was too wily to say anything.
Bitterness filled his soul as he took cognizance once more of the
flagrant injustice of grownups.

"I'm worried about the boys who've gone down to the village for choir
practice," said Mrs. Henderson.

"What the devil have they done that for?"

"Christmas carols. They were so keen to go I didn't like to disappoint
them. There are five of them who've got good voices and the choir-master
wanted them."

"They'll be all right," said the General calmly. "The Huns aren't going
to waste their bombs on them."

"I know, but when the planes go back they'll come right over us, and you
know, when they're unloading no one can tell where a bomb will drop. I
think I'd feel easier in my mind if they stayed where they are till the
raid's over."

"All right then, telephone."

"How can I? They're practising in the vestry."

Tommy saw his chance and leapt at it.

"Mummy, shall I go down on my bike and tell them? It'll only take me
five minutes."

"No, Tommy, I don't want you to go out."

"Oh, Mummy, please let me. I might see a German plane brought down."

Mrs. Henderson felt a great responsibility towards the young children
placed in her care and she knew she would never forgive herself if
anything happened to them. She didn't know what to do.

"Daddy, tell her it's quite safe," pleaded Tommy.

The General smiled. He loved the boy's eagerness and he was proud that
he was fearless. A chip off the old block.

"Honestly, my dear, I don't think there's the smallest risk. If you're
really anxious about the kids why don't you let him nip down to the
village?"

Mrs. Henderson hesitated. Somebody ought to go; she hadn't ridden a
bicycle herself for twenty years; of course there were May and Jane; if
it was dangerous for Tommy it was dangerous for them. With a sigh she
gave in.

"All right, dear, you can go. But you must stay till the raid's over,
and tell the choir-master to keep all the boys in the crypt."

"All right, Mummy; I promise you I shall be all right."

He dashed out. But he had no sooner gone than Mrs. Henderson regretted
it. She walked up and down the enormous room restlessly. After a while
the General looked at his watch.

"You can stop fussing now. He's got there by this time. It's ten minutes
since he left."

She drew a long breath of relief. They put out the lights and opened the
windows to listen to the distant firing. They looked up at the sky, but
could see nothing. The night was pitch black. Then they heard once more
the sound of planes overhead, but whether it was another wave coming
over or those that had come going back they could not tell. Suddenly
they heard a dull thud.

"What's that?" cried Mrs. Henderson.

"A bomb. Some blighter unloading."

"It sounded awfully close."

"Hard to tell."

"That means they're going back?"

"Yes, I suppose they found it too hot for them."

"I wish I hadn't let Tommy go."

"Oh, my dear, don't be so silly. He's all right in the church. The
choir-master's a sensible fellow, he won't let any of them stir till the
all-clear."

She tried to smile.

"I'm sure he won't. Don't take any notice of me; I'm only nervous
because I'm so tired."

"Well, the fun's over for the present. Sit down and rest yourself. May
and Jane can look after the kids for once."

The anti-aircraft guns ceased fire and silence, as softly as falling
snow, settled upon the night. They shut the windows, drew the curtains
and turned on the light. Mrs. Henderson was exhausted and lay down on a
sofa. The General, putting on his spectacles, went back to his paper and
in a few minutes she dropped off to sleep. She was awakened by the
coming of Jim and Dora.

"We came over to see if you were all right. We heard a bomb and it
sounded pretty close to you."

"We heard it too," said the General. "I think it may have fallen
somewhere in the park."

"D'you think they got the airfield?" asked Dora.

"We shall hear tomorrow. There was a lot of firing overhead. I suppose
that means we sent planes up after them. I wonder if we brought any
down?"

They went on talking over the raid and then Jane came in.

"We've put all the little brats to bed, Mother," she said, "and they're
waiting for you to go and say their prayers with them."

"The boys who went down to choir practice aren't in yet."

"Yes, they are; they've just come in. They're undressing."

"But where's Tommy?"

"Tommy? Isn't he here?"

Mrs. Henderson gave a frightened gasp.

"Don't get in a state, dear," the General said, frowning. "He's all
right. He's probably only up to some mischief. You know what a young
devil he is."

But she was terrified and nothing that anyone said could reassure her.
Jim suggested going out to look for him, but that seemed useless. The
only thing was to wait. They racked their brains to think of a possible
reason for his non-appearance.

"He must know how anxious I am," said Mrs. Henderson.

"I'm sure he's only stayed out on the chance of seeing something
exciting," said the General.

"But it's all over now," cried Mrs. Henderson.

"If I hadn't got the gout I'd give him a damned good hiding when he
comes back."

But when there was a great, thundering knock of the bronze knocker on
the front door they all had a sickening fear that something dreadful had
happened. Jim went to the door and opened it.

"Who is it, Jim?" asked his mother in desperate anxiety.

A constable came in.

"I'm afraid there's been an accident. Your little boy, ma'am."

Mrs. Henderson put her hand to her heart and stared at the man with
horror-stricken eyes. The General rose painfully to his feet and hobbled
up.

"Where is he, Constable?"

"Two chaps of the Home Guard have got him."

He signed to the unseen men waiting at the door and they brought in the
body of the dead boy. There was a silence of black horror. They were
stunned. Then Jim sank into a chair and covering his face with his hands
burst into tears. Mrs. Henderson looked at the child with a frozen face.
It was heart-rending to see.

"Take him upstairs," she said. "Put him on his bed."

Jim thought she was speaking to him and getting up went towards the two
Home Guards, but his mother stopped him.

"Don't touch him," she cried. "Aren't you ashamed to cry like a woman
for a child you wouldn't defend like a man?"

He gasped when he heard her words and, his face ashy white, shrank back.
Jane stepped forward and touched one of the Home Guards on the arm.

"I'll show you the way." Then to her mother: "Come, Mother."

"In a minute. The children are waiting to say their prayers."

Gaunt-faced, her eyes tragic, she went with slow steps out of the room.

Those who were left, Jim, Dora and the General, were silent. The General
sat slumped in his chair, and Jim, glancing at him, saw how hard he was
trying to maintain his self-control. He sat staring into vacancy, but
his mouth was twitching. He felt Jim's pitying look.

"Someone must go and tell May," he said.

"I'll go." Jim turned to his wife. "You can do no good here, Dora; you'd
better go home. I shall stay the night."

"After what your mother said to you?"

"My mother has the right to say what she damned well likes to me."

His tone was so strange that she gave him a quick look of misgiving.
Their eyes met in a cold stare.

"As you like," she said at last, with a slight, contemptuous shrug of
the shoulders.

She went out without another word.


[XVIII]

Jim telephoned to the War Office and told Roger the awful thing that had
happened. Work prevented him from getting down that night, but he said
he would come as early as possible next morning. Then Jim sat with his
father. They found nothing to say to one another and so after an hour he
went up to the room he had slept in as a boy. It looked bare without his
books and pictures. An alien room, a room that seemed to resent his
presence. He tried to read, but dreadful thoughts distracted him, and
the words on the paper made no sense. He read the same lines two or
three times over and his mind remained blank. The blood in his head was
throbbing, throbbing, and every now and then a stabbing pain shot
through his skull as though someone had thrust a red-hot bodkin into it.
Agony; but not such agony as his appalling thoughts. They chilled him to
the bone and he shivered. He put a match to the fire. It warmed his icy
hands and feet, but against the cold in his heart availed nothing.
Horror! Horror! An anguished sob burst from his throat and in anger he
dug his nails savagely into his palms; he felt near tears; this was no
time to feel sorry for himself. He wished he had never been born; he
wished he was dead. He felt as though phantoms, crowded and menacing,
pressed him on every side and he could not force a way through.

Presently the handle of his door turned softly and his mother came in.

"I thought you might be asleep. I didn't want to wake you."

Her face still bore that look of anguish he had seen on it when they had
carried in the child's body, but she was calm.

"Jim, dear, I'm sorry I spoke to you like that. I didn't know what I was
saying. It was dreadfully unkind. Will you forgive me?"

Tears came to his eyes.

"Darling, there's nothing to forgive."

"I've always loved you and I know how bitter life has been for you all
these months. And now I want your love more than ever." She kissed him
tenderly; then she said: "I want you to come and see Tommy."

The little boy lay on his bed. You could not see the wound that had
killed him. Mrs. Henderson looked at him sadly.

"I'm not certain if one ought to regret those who die in these times.
Perhaps they're fortunate to be out of it."

They stood for a while in silence. Then she gave Jim a piteous look.

"Do you believe in God, Jim?"

"Yes."

"I try to. Would you mind, I'd like to pray."

They sank on their knees by the bedside and buried their faces in their
hands. After a little Mrs. Henderson rose to her feet.

"I must go to your father," she said. "And you must go to bed. There's
no use in your tiring yourself out. Good night, darling."

"Good night, Mother."

But though he undressed and got into bed he could not sleep. He tossed
from side to side in anguish of spirit. He tried to find reasons to
allay the suspicion that beat upon his consciousness, thump, thump,
thump, like the hammering of a nail into a granite wall. It was so
monstrous that you only had to look at it fair and square to know there
couldn't be anything in it. It was against nature: it was as incredible
as that water should run uphill. A dozen little incidents that when they
happened had made no impression on his mind now recurred to him. He
remembered the woman he had seen with Dora in St. James's Park and whose
likeness to the woman on the staff of the German embassy had so struck
him; Dora had said she was a refugee with whom she had got into
conversation: was it true, or was she a German agent and had Dora been
in relations with her? Was it possible that Dora had managed to get
herself invited to stay at Graveney because the German Secret Service
knew that Roger was in the Military Intelligence and thought it would be
useful to have someone in the house who might get hold of useful
information? It wasn't the first time Jim had miserably asked himself if
Dora had married him only because otherwise the authorities would have
insisted on her leaving. Was it she who had first given away the closely
guarded secret of the airfield? And that evening, a fortnight back, when
he had found her lighting a cigarette with a fusee when an ordinary
match would obviously have been more convenient, was it only a
coincidence that shortly afterwards the German planes had come over? Was
it she who had set fire to the rick? Jim buried his face in the pillow
trying to shut out the dreadful fear that assailed him. He loved her,
loved her with all the strength of his soul and with all the vigour of
his body. It was inconceivable that she should have acted a part for so
long; and it was inconceivable that anyone should be so dead to the
natural feelings of gratitude for all the kindness his father and mother
had shown her; it was inconceivable that anyone should be so
treacherous. He hated himself that such doubts should even occur to him.
There must be an explanation for everything, but, O God, what was the
explanation? She couldn't be a spy, he loved her so much; there must be
an explanation.

Towards morning he fell into an uneasy doze, and though used to early
rising did not wake till nine. He was angry with himself for he had
purposed with the first light of day to go to the field in which the
rick had burnt on the chance that he might find out how it had been set
on fire. He knew what he meant to look for. He did not intend to go to
the farm that day; he wanted to be with his father and mother, and there
would be dreadful things to see to that they were in no fit state to
deal with. He dressed in haste and set out. He did not take his bicycle,
but went the shorter way through the park; he passed his own cottage,
but there was no sign of life in it and he presumed Dora was still
asleep; he did not go in; he took the gate out of the park and walked
along the road. What he feared had happened, the police were there; two
cars stood in the road and when he came to the stile that led into the
field he saw that several men were busy over what remained of the rick.
He climbed over and tramped across the stubble till he came up to them.
Among them were the village constable and the local inspector of police.
Nodding, he bade them good morning. It was easy to guess that they had
come with the same intention as himself. They were routing among the
ashes.

"You chaps are on the job early," he said in as hearty a manner as he
could assume.

"We've been at it since it was light enough to see," said the inspector.
"And perishing cold it was when we first come."

"What are you up to?" Jim asked.

"We're trying to find out how the fire was started. We've been through
the ashes with a fine tooth comb."

"What do you expect to find?"

"We shall know when we find it."

"Pretty hopeless I should think."

They didn't know what to look for and he did. If they went away he would
have a chance.

"We haven't done so badly so far."

His heart sank.

"Got anything?"

"Something."

The inspector pointed to a handkerchief that lay on the ground. Jim
walked over and looked. There were four or five charred fragments on it,
little bits of wire that had resisted the heat, and on one of them was
still a scrap of fibre. Jim wouldn't have known what they were if he
hadn't known what to expect.

"Any idea what they are?" asked the inspector.

Jim shook his head.

"I wouldn't be certain, mind you, but they look to me as if they might
be fusees. If that's what they are and we can find out who they belonged
to we shall know who the devil was that set fire to this rick."

Jim's mind was in a daze. He wanted time to think.

"You don't think it was an accident? A tramp lighting his pipe."

"Ever heard of a tramp going about with a box of fusees in his pocket?"

Jim was silent. One of the men still working over the ashes cried out
suddenly:

"'Ere, what's this?"

The inspector stepped over to him quickly.

"Don't touch it, you bloody fool," he exclaimed as the man was about to
pick up what he had found.

The inspector got a shovel and scooped up the object together with the
ashes that surrounded it. He took it aside. It was a fragment of charred
sheets of paper held together by the wire that had been used to bind
them. A little jagged bit, perhaps two inches wide, had resisted the
flames and you could just see on it the beginnings of printed lines.

"Looks like a pamphlet or something," said the inspector. "Be careful
with it now. It may be important. Looks as though they'd used it for a
torch." He peered. "Blowed if I can make out the words."

Jim couldn't either. But he had recognized the type.

The black of printer's ink was slightly shiny, visible against the brown
of burnt paper. He knew that that charred scrap had once been the _New
Statesman_. He stared aghast. He thought the inspector looked at him
curiously and he pulled himself together.

"Well, I'll leave you fellows to it," he said. "I haven't had any
breakfast yet and I'm getting peckish."

He walked away. He knew now what he wanted to know; he knew now what he
had feared to know. There was smoke coming from the chimney at Badger's:
Dora was up and had lit the fire. He went back to Graveney. Miserably,
his heart wrung with pain, his brain dazed with the dreadful assurance
of Dora's guilt, he went about the necessary things he had to do that
morning. She didn't come, so Mrs. Henderson, Jane and May had to see to
the children without her brisk and efficient help. They did not mention
her and Jim had a notion they were glad she had kept away. The General
hobbled about the house as in a maze. He could find nothing to do and
when, his gouty foot still hurting him, he sank into a chair it was only
to stare moodily into space. No one knew how Tommy had come by his
death; he had been found on the road, fifty yards from where the bomb
had exploded, and had been hit by a fragment. It could only be supposed
that instead of staying with the other boys in the crypt he had gone out
to see what he could of the fighting. Soon after lunch Roger arrived. It
was a sad meeting. They all had difficulty in finding anything to say;
after such a tragic event words were futile and they spoke to one
another in broken, inept sentences. What was the good of saying you were
broken-hearted? What was the good of saying you were sorry? Roger had
been to the airfield on his way and told them what had happened there.
Then Jim said he would go over to the cottage and see why Dora hadn't
appeared.

"I suppose she's too upset," said Mrs. Henderson mildly. "Give her my
love and tell her not to come over till she feels up to it."

Roger came to the door with Jim.

"Jim, old boy, I have something to tell you that I think you ought to
know," he said.

Jim looked at him, his white face going even whiter, and waited. Roger
hesitated for a moment.

"We've found out that Dora's mother wasn't Austrian, but German. Her
husband, Dora's father, was Austrian. He was a socialist and anti-Nazi.
His wife betrayed him to the Germans and he was put in a concentration
camp. He died there."

Roger saw his brother's face stiffen.

"That's not to say that Dora shared her mother's views or had any
connection with the act that cost her father his life."

Jim found nothing to say. He got on his bicycle and rode off. He was
sick at heart. He too had been relieved that Dora had not come that
morning; he had been turning over in his mind what he must do and his
head was aching; he felt as though a slow fire within his skull was
burning his brain. He dreaded seeing Dora. He longed, he longed
desperately for her to have an explanation of those damning facts. Even
now, though the evidence was overwhelming, he had a faint tremulous hope
that she might somehow be able to clear herself. What heaven it would be
if those doubts that racked him so cruelly could be dispelled and,
taking her in his arms, he could beg her to forgive him because he had
ever had the disloyalty to suspect her. Then something occurred to him.
He turned round and rode back, past the gates of Graveney again, to the
village. He went to the one general shop it boasted, a little shop that
provided all the odds and ends the villagers needed, and asked for a box
of fusees.

"Lor' bless you, master Jim," the old woman who kept it replied. "We
ain't had none of them for donkey's years."

He got back on his bicycle and rode to the cottage. He found Dora lying
on the bed in their bedroom reading a novel.

"Hulloa, where have you come from?" she asked coldly.

"From the house. Why didn't you go there today?"

"I didn't think they'd want me."

"The children have still got to be washed and fed."

Dora shrugged her shoulders.

"I was angry at what your mother said to you. It was cruel."

"Nonsense."

"I haven't your capacity for turning the other cheek."

"Roger's come down."

"Your mother will be glad of that. He's always been her favourite son."

"Several poor chaps were killed last night, but not much damage
considering has been done to the airfield."

"Oh?"

"Aren't you glad?" he asked, eyeing her.

"That men were killed?"

"No, that no great harm was done to the airfield."

She slightly shrugged her shoulders, but made no remark. She got off the
bed and lit a cigarette.

"Dora, the police have been routing around in the ashes of the rick."

"Oh?"

"They've found charred fragments of fusees." He waited an instant,
watching her face carefully to see what effect his disclosure had on
her. It remained impassive. "You set the rick on fire, Dora."

For a moment she was taken aback, but only for a moment. She gave her
head a scornful toss.

"Don't be so stupid, Jim."

"How'd you explain the fusees?"

"I don't know that any explanation is necessary. You know they weren't
mine. You took mine away from me."

"I took one box away from you. You might have had another."

"I hadn't. Anyone might have fusees. One of the workmen on the estate."

"They're not much used now, you know. I've just come from the village
shop. They haven't had any for years. How did you ever come to have
some?"

"I don't know. I happened to find them. I thought they were yours."

"Where were you last night when I came in?"

"I told you. In this room."

"How is it that your bike wasn't in its usual place the first time I
came and it was when I came back?"

She smiled slightly.

"I've been thinking about that. I've remembered that I left it outside
and then went out and brought it in."

"Why should you have thought about it? Because you thought it might be
necessary to furnish an explanation?"

She frowned.

"I'm rather tired of answering your questions, Jim. I want to read.
Please leave me alone."

"You were out of the cottage for just the time necessary to cycle to the
field and set fire to the rick."

"It's a lie."

"I can't prove it, but I know it's so."

"All right, have it your own way. Now please leave me."

"Dora, there's no doubt in the minds of the authorities that the rick
was set on fire as a signal to German planes. They're going to make an
inquiry. D'you think they'll be satisfied with the answers you've given
me?"

"Why should they ask me anything? The only thing against me is that I'm
a foreigner. Except for that no one would dream of suspecting me."

"I think I should tell you that the police didn't only find remains of
fusees. They also found remains of a _New Statesman_."

She gave a start now and for the first time he saw fear in her eyes.

"It was only a charred fragment and the local people don't know what to
make of it. But they'll find out what it is in London all right. Who is
there around here who takes in the _New Statesman_ but me?"

They stared at one another for a moment.

"Anyone can get into the cottage in the daytime," said Dora. "Anyone can
get hold of a paper that's been thrown in the dust bin."

He made no reply and they continued to stare at one another.

"What are you going to do?" she asked at length.

"I can't bring myself to give you away." He paused. "If I'm asked
questions I shall have to tell the truth."

"You say you love me."

He flushed.

"God knows, I love you. I loved you. You don't love me, do you? You
married me to become a British subject."

She looked at him sharply. He could see that she was thinking.

"What if I did? It's no crime. It's what lots of other refugee women
have done. Do me the justice to acknowledge that I never said I loved
you. After all, May married Roger because he was a good match; I've been
a better wife to you than she's been to him. I've refused to have a
baby; I've told you why: this is no time to bring a child into the
world. You can't really think I set fire to the rick. What would have
been the object? You know just as well as I do that if the Germans get
here I shall suffer."

"Just before I came here Roger told me that it was your German mother
who betrayed your father to the Nazis and sent him to die in a
concentration camp."

"It's not true. That's just another of your English lies."

"Our English lies? That's a funny thing for you to say."

He noticed the rapid intake of her breath. It looked as though, taken
unawares, she had made a blunder and was aware of it. Her face red, her
eyes dark and sullen, she gazed at him reflectively. She lit another
cigarette.

"Do you really believe I set fire to that beastly rick?"

"I'm certain of it."

She inhaled the smoke and watched it emerge from her nostrils.

"And if I did what's it got to do with you? This war is no business of
yours. You're a pacifist."

"Do you think I don't love my country?"

She had regained her self-possession and spoke now with calm. There was
no longer any hostility in her tone; it was indeed strangely
conciliatory.

"I'm sure you do. But then why not listen to reason? England's beaten.
She deserved to be beaten. Nothing lasts forever in this world, and
you've had a long spell of power, you English; now it's our turn. You
don't really suppose the Germans are the inhuman monsters your
propaganda makes them out to be. In a revolution severity is necessary
and there are bound to be excesses, but in reality we're _gemtlich_,
idealistic, warm-hearted people. We've always admired the English. We're
only too anxious to be friends with you if you'll be sensible enough to
accept the inevitable. You were ruled by the Romans for four hundred
years and they transformed you from half-naked savages to civilized
people. We're prepared to give you our science and our culture, our art
and our organization; we'll teach you our industry and our discipline.
The French are a logical people and they've accepted the New Order.
Can't you see that it's only common sense to look facts in the face and
cease this useless slaughter? You're a pacifist: we offer you peace.
You're clever, Jim, you're well educated; the Germans want Englishmen
they can put in a position of authority. Your name means something in
the county and the party would welcome your collaboration. You know,
they're no fools, the Nazis; they'll be glad to have German women marry
English men and produce children who'll be half German. The party has
always rewarded those who've served it well and they owe me something.
Wouldn't you like to own Graveney? You love it better than anything in
the world. We could be very happy there, Jim. I promise you you'd never
regret that you married me."

He had listened to her without trying to say a word, but as he listened
he went paler and paler.

"And what about my father and mother and Roger?" he asked now.

"We've got accounts of long standing to settle with Roger. He'll be
disposed of. Your father and mother are old, they can be sent away."

"You slut!"

With his open hand he smacked her face so hard that she staggered. She
put her hand to her cheek and held it there. She was not frightened, but
mad with rage. Her eyes blazed.

"Swine," she screamed. "Swine. I have no patience with you. You're as
stupid as all the rest of you. All right, you can hear the truth. Yes, I
married you because I wanted to be a British subject. Yes, I lit a fusee
at the open window as a signal, and the fusees were given me for that
purpose. Yes, I set fire to the rick to give our planes a line. And now
you know, what are you going to do about it? Call the police? Have you
forgotten that by your English law a husband can't give evidence against
his wife? That was the second reason why I married you. The third was
that I knew you were a fool. Go on, call the police. I shall deny
everything. What can you prove? I'm a German, yes, that's true, but
you're a conchie, and your word's no better than mine. Doesn't it strike
you that the fusees might have been your fusees just as the _New
Statesman_ was your _New Statesman_? D'you think I'm frightened of
prison? The Germans will be here in three months and they'll release me.
I shall swear that whatever I did, I did because you forced me; I shall
swear that you set the rick on fire yourself because you thought a
German victory was the only way of bringing about peace. If I go to
prison, you'll go to prison too. But you'll stay there."

It seemed as if she had cast off the self-restraint she had exercised
ever since she came to Graveney Holt, the ceaseless guard she had kept
over her every word, her every action, and were drunk with the sudden
liberation. Her eyes were black with hatred and she was like a woman
possessed.

"You say you love your country. You make me laugh. If you loved your
country you'd be prepared to die for it. D'you call yourself a man? I
despise you from the bottom of my heart. D'you think I'd have married
you if there'd been any other way of doing the work I was sent here to
do? A child? I should have been ashamed to have a child of yours. I hate
you as I hate all you English with all my soul. How can you be expected
to understand me--you poor, mean-spirited creature? I knew the risk I
was taking when I came here. I took it gladly. And I've done what I had
to do; they know where the airdrome is now and before they're through
they'll bomb it to pieces. And it's me that led them to it, me, me, me."

She burst into a rasping scream of laughter. Her lovely face was a mask
of malice. Jim stood swaying a little on his feet as if he weren't quite
sober, and his lips twitched as if he were trying to speak and couldn't
form the words. His face was livid and there was sweat on his brow.
There was so strange a look in his eyes that on a sudden she was
frightened. She stopped laughing abruptly and the silence between them
was as startling as the crash of thunder. She stepped back, away from
him, and gave a quick glance at the door. He moved towards her and she
knew what he was going to do; she made a dash for it, but he caught her
by the arm and pulled her roughly back.

"Jim, Jim," she screamed.

Before she could say another word he had put his hand over her mouth and
with a violent gesture flung her on the bed; and then he took her neck
in his avenging hands. He was very powerful and though she struggled
desperately she struggled in vain. He pinned her body down with his
knee. He was like a man mad with a mute and sinister madness. His hands,
rough with hard usage, strong with hard work, pressed upon her throat.
Her face swelled and went blue and her eyes stared horribly. Her mouth
opened wide as she fought for breath. His teeth clenched, blind fury in
his look, his pitiless hands pressed on her windpipe. When he released
her she was dead. He panted like a man who has run a race. He looked at
the woman lying on the bed, a horrid sight to see, and a great shudder
passed through him. He sank into a chair; he felt very tired. He
couldn't think; his mind was blank. The silence in the room was ghastly.
It was a silence that was alive.

He couldn't have guessed how long it was before he heard the sound of a
car stopping and the toot of a horn. He did not move. There was a knock
on the front door. He looked out of the window and recognized Roger's
car. He went downstairs and opened the door for him.

"Jim, is Dora here?"

"Yes."

"Can I see her?"

"What do you want to see her for?"

Roger came in and sat down on the edge of the table.

"Well, old boy, I'm afraid you've got to prepare yourself for a bit of
unpleasantness. I don't mind telling you that she's been under
observation for some time, but nothing actually has come up against her,
except what I told you just now about her mother. She wasn't quite
straight about that. She very distinctly gave us to understand that her
mother was Austrian and anti-Nazi. I'm sure it'll be all right, but they
want to question her about her movements last night. The chief constable
is up at the house. You'd better come along too so that you can confirm
her statements. Where is she?"

"Upstairs."

"Call her, will you, old boy. I want you to come along in the car right
away."

"She's dead," said Jim quietly.

Roger looked at him aghast. What Jim said was incredible.

"Dead? What do you mean?"

"I killed her."

"Good God!"

He looked at the little wooden staircase and ran up. In a minute he came
down again. He looked at Jim in silence.

"She set fire to the rick. It was a light she showed a fortnight ago
that gave the Germans a line on the airfield. She was a spy."

"But, my God, why did you kill her?"

"I killed her because I had to. I killed her because I wanted to see her
dead."

Roger gave a deep sigh. For a long time neither of them spoke. But
something had to be done; they couldn't stay there indefinitely and
stare at one another.

"I'm afraid you've made an awful mess of things, old boy," said Roger,
almost in a whisper.

"A hell of a mess. I only had in my heart, love and peace for all men.
And it's all gone phut. I had to stand by my convictions. It's funny,
isn't it, that I who put up with all that humiliation rather than take a
human life, should have killed the person I loved more than anyone in
the world?"

Roger was shattered. Poor Jim. He could only feel compassion for him and
deep affection. And what was there to do?

"I'm afraid you're in for a very sticky time," he said, his voice husky.

"Shall I be hanged?"

"No, of course you won't be hanged, but you'll have to go to trial. You
know what English justice is, we can't take the law into our own hands.
A good lawyer will be able to make a pretty good case in your defence.
I'm sure any jury would bring in a verdict of manslaughter."

"You mean I'd get off with a few years in prison."

"I can't say. I dare say you wouldn't get more than a year or two."

"What shall I do, Roger?"

"One can't give advice in a case like this, old boy."

"What would you do if you were in my place?"

Roger, looking down, hesitated. It was horrible to say what was in his
mind. He thought of his father and mother. What a fearful blow to them,
what a grief and what a humiliation! And then there was something he
hadn't the heart to mention; it wouldn't help Jim that he was a
conscientious objector; it would seem strange to a jury that this man
who wouldn't fight for his country should kill his wife. They might find
him guilty of murder and then he'd be condemned to death; the sentence
would be commuted to penal servitude for life. Fifteen years. He forced
himself to answer Jim's question, but he couldn't look at him and kept
his eyes on the ground.

"I think if I'd been so unfortunate as to kill somebody I wouldn't want
to put up with all the beastliness of a trial. I'd go while the going
was good."

"You're a good friend, Roger," Jim replied, with a little smile. "I was
hoping you'd say that."

"I know you have courage, old boy."

Roger's face was grey. He stole a glance at Jim. There was something he
wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. Jim caught the
look and understood.

"I've got my gun," he said.

Roger shut his eyes. He was afraid he was going to cry.

"I think if one's got to do something unpleasant it's better to do it
quickly," said Jim.

"I dare say you're right."

Jim held out his hand.

"Good-bye, Roger. You've been a brick to me."

"Good-bye, old boy."

Roger's eyes were wet with tears so that he could hardly see his way
out. He got into the car and waited. In a few minutes he heard within
the cottage the sound of a gun being fired. He leant over the wheel and
hid his face. Then he pulled himself together and drove back to Graveney
Holt.


[XIX]

It would serve no good purpose to tell of the consternation, the horror,
of the persons concerned in this story when Roger broke his appalling
news to them. They were stunned by this new and unexpected sorrow; it
would be futile to dwell on the anguish that desolated them. Because of
certain circumstances connected with national defence it was possible to
avoid the wide notoriety that such a sensational occurrence must
otherwise have aroused; but the facts in a garbled form were bruited
about the neighbourhood. The General and his wife, shamed as well as
unhappy, were touched by the expressions of sympathy they received even
from persons unknown to them, and by the great kindness that was shown
them by all and sundry in their tragic misfortune. Though nothing could
console, to discover how much they were loved and how deeply respected
made their grief perhaps a little easier to bear. Mrs. Henderson sought
to still her gnawing misery by unremitting toil on behalf of the little
band of children entrusted to her care. For a while, now that Dora was
no longer there to give her efficient help, the others had so much to do
that there was little time to give way to fruitless mourning; but
presently Roger persuaded Mrs. Clark to come down with her two children,
and she proved a capable and willing assistant. Her lively bustling, her
quick humour lightened the darkness of that sad house. Roger was
fortunate in that his work demanded all his attention. He made a point
of coming down to Graveney, even if only for a few hours, whenever he
could get away. He was the only son left to his parents and he knew how
much he meant to them. Relations between Roger and May remained cordial,
even intimate, but they were those of two very close friends and not
those of husband and wife. It was to her alone that he told the story of
that last awful visit of his to Badger's. She heard it with fear and
pity. She knew it was true that in Jim's place he would have done as Jim
did, but it was a hard, pitiless thing to tell poor Jim to kill himself,
for that was what it amounted to, and it distressed her and a little
frightened her too, that he should have been capable of it. And yet,
what was the alternative? To face the music; to stand trial, with
perhaps a shameful death at the end of it, and at best the horror of
imprisonment, and on release a life without honour or usefulness. Poor
Jim. He was not twenty-two. So young. Too young. It was shocking that
Roger should have been able to bring himself to do such a fearful thing.
His manner to his father and mother was so tender, so charming in its
solicitude, that she could not doubt for a moment that it sprang from a
deep and genuine feeling: how could he be at the same time so ruthless
and so gentle, so harsh and so kindly? She sighed unhappily; it was no
good trying, she could never feel at home with such a man; there was
something in him that repelled her. Yet he was all she had now, for she
neither wrote to Dick nor did he write to her. She had made her
decision, for reasons that seemed good, and was prepared to abide by it.

It was hard that her sacrifice had brought her no satisfaction; she
could not even persuade herself that it had any utility. With a touch of
humour she told herself that it was like leaving a peach for somebody
else to eat and seeing it go bad because nobody wanted it.

                 *        *        *        *        *

The war went on, Greece withstood the Italian onslaught with unexpected
tenacity; the German Air Force bombed the cities of England, men, women
and children were killed; the British pounded away at the Rhineland and
the Channel ports, they made ready with grim determination to repel the
expected invasion; and then suddenly the British Army set upon the
Italian troops and drove them out of Egypt. They drove them back into
Libya, stormed stronghold after stronghold and took prisoners by the ten
thousand. The triumph was spectacular, and the public enthusiasm, after
so many disasters, was great. But Jane's satisfaction, like many another
woman's whose kin were in the fighting force, was mingled with
apprehension. Ian was in Egypt and she had not heard from him for weeks.
Dick Murray was in Egypt too. One morning May went down to the village
on an errand and one of the Graveney tenants stopped her.

"I'm sorry to hear about Captain Murray, Mrs. Roger," he said.

Her heart almost stopped beating.

"Has he been--has he been wounded?"

"Mrs. Murray, his mother, wrote to his housekeeper. She got the letter
last night. Yes, he's been wounded."

"Seriously?"

"She didn't say. I hope not; but we miss him here, you know. He was very
popular with the tenants. It would be a good thing for all of us if he
were invalided out and could come back."

When she got home and told what she had heard she constrained herself to
speak calmly, but she was in a pitiful state of anxiety; of course
General Henderson and his wife were concerned, Dick was a competent
agent and they liked him, but they contented themselves with saying they
trusted it was nothing of consequence; Jane, to her relief, asked if
inquiries couldn't be made, and the General said he would drop a note to
Roger and tell him to find out if he could how Dick was. Roger was due
for a few days' leave very shortly and was coming down to Graveney;
perhaps by then he might have heard. With her heart in a turmoil May
found it hard to accept the casual way they took the matter.

"I understand there've been astonishingly few casualties," said the
General. "Good man, Wavell. I knew him when he was Allenby's chief of
staff."

But when Roger came down, May could not bring herself to ask him whether
he had any news. Though sick with fear, she compelled herself to listen
with a show of interest while he talked of the recent raids on London
and the seriousness of the German attacks on Atlantic convoys. She had
been able, if not to forget Dick, at least to keep from thinking of him
as long as she knew he was well and safe; and she had tried to persuade
herself that the pain of parting from him forever was growing more
endurable; but now that he was wounded, perhaps dangerously, her love,
like a fire that has sunk and on a sudden wind bursts again into leaping
flame, was as consuming as it had ever been. She knew now that nothing
could ever kill it. It was when the General entered upon a discussion of
the Libyan campaign that Jane put the question that May, though it
trembled on her lips, had resolutely prevented herself from asking.

"Oh, Roger, have you heard anything about Dick? You got Father's letter,
didn't you?"

Roger gave May a fleeting glance.

"Yes. I cabled. He's on his way home."

"Is he badly hurt?"

It seemed to May that he hesitated for a brief instant and she held her
breath.

"I don't really know. His life is not in danger."

It seemed a strange answer. She had an inkling that, though he spoke to
Jane, it was to reassure her that he added the last sentence.

"When will he be back?" asked Jane.

"Any day."

Only three days later, early in the afternoon, Mrs. Henderson, the
General and Jane were sitting out on the terrace, for it was one of
those warm sunny days that we sometimes get in England at the end of
March. The two women were knitting and the General was reading the
_Times_.

"Where's Roger?" asked the General.

"I don't know where he's gone," his wife answered. "Here's Clark, he may
know."

Roger had brought Nobby down so that he might see his wife and children
and the Hendersons had taken a fancy to the facetious little man. He was
walking towards them, along the centre path of the formal garden, and
the General called him up on to the terrace.

"Well, Clark, been taking a stroll in the park?" he said.

"Yes, sir. First 'oliday I've 'ad since the beginnin' of the war. It's a
treat to me."

"Where's the major? My wife tells me he went out early this morning."

"Yes, sir. He didn't say where he was goin'."

"I wish Roger wouldn't be so damned secretive about all his movements,"
said the General, after dismissing Nobby. "Why couldn't he say where he
was going?"

The General had taken his grief very hardly. He had aged much in the
last three months and was apt, even more than before, to be unreasonably
peevish over trifling annoyances. He had imposed upon himself a
determined silence in respect of the catastrophe that had befallen; he
could not speak of Tommy and would not speak of Jim; but the strain had
worn him down and his nerves were in a state of fretful irritability.
Mrs. Henderson understood that his pettishness was only superficial;
beneath, he was the devoted, unselfish, well-intentioned man he had
always been.

"Isn't it lovely today?" she said now, to distract him, "Some of the
shrubs are already in bud."

The General, taking off his reading glasses, scanned the fair sight that
he had known as long as he could remember. The trees were bare of leaf,
but the grandeur of their naked branches lent the landscape, in summer
so urbane, a more solemn austerity. The contours, in that clear, limpid
air, had an exquisite and precise delicacy. It was indeed a noble
prospect. He gazed at it with singular intensity. You might have
imagined that he thought never to see it again and was impressing every
particular of it on his perceptivity so that it might remain an
imperishable memory. He sighed.

"I wish it weren't so lovely. It's on a day like this that I feel what a
wrench it'll be to part with it."

"Oh, Father, don't talk like that," said Jane cheerfully.

"My dear, it's no good fooling ourselves. We shall never be able to live
here after the war. We shall be as poor as church mice. The life we knew
and loved has gone never to return."

"Nothing in the world can last forever, George," said Mrs. Henderson.
"We've had a pretty long innings."

He smiled at her sadly.

"I'm not grousing, dear. It would be inhuman to expect me not to regret
the past, but I hope I can face the future like a man. Jim and Tommy are
gone now, and after me there's only Roger to come."

"Oh, George," Mrs. Henderson began compassionately.

But he interrupted her.

"No, dear, let me speak. I've been chewing the cud on this for a long
time and I want to get it off my chest. We haven't always been wise, we
landowners, and I dare say we've been complacent and high-handed, but on
the whole we've been decent and honest and we haven't done badly by our
country. Perhaps we've accepted the good things our happy lot provided
us as though they were our due, but according to our lights we've tried,
the best of us, I mean, and I think I may say most of us, to do our
duty. But you're right, dear, we've had a long innings. What is it that
feller Landor said? Something about warming both hands before the fire
of life. 'It sinks and I am ready to depart.' The future belongs to the
soldiers and sailors and workmen who will have won the war. Let's hope
they'll make it a happier and better England for all the people who live
in it."

It was not often that the General gave expression to such feelings. Mrs.
Henderson took his hand and pressed it in loving sympathy. She too could
not but be sad that the land should know them no more. Silence fell upon
them. It was broken by the appearance of Nobby with a packet of letters.
The General took them and handed one to Jane.

"Here's a letter for you, dear."

"It's from Ian," she cried excitedly.

She tore it open and began to read it avidly.

"Where's it from?" asked the General.

"He doesn't say. He's well and happy. Bless his heart. Grousing about
the heat. Oh, listen." She began to read aloud. "'Have you seen Dick
Murray yet? He ought to be back by the time you get this. Rotten luck
for him, wasn't it? Anyway he's out of the war, poor chap.' What can he
mean?"

"I'm afraid it means he's very badly wounded," said Mrs. Henderson.

"They wouldn't have sent him back if it hadn't been pretty serious,"
added the General.

"Oh, poor Dick."

Just then Roger came out of the house.

"Oh, Roger," cried Jane. "I've just had a letter from Ian. It looks as
though Dick was badly wounded."

"I've just seen him. I've been to the hospital he's in."

"How did you know where he was?"

"I made it my business to find out," he answered dryly. "Where's May?"

Jane gave him a questioning glance. He looked very grim.

"He's not dying?"

"No, he's not dying."

"May's with the children."

"Go and take her place. I want to talk to her."

His manner was so peremptory that ordinarily Jane would have felt called
upon to tell him somewhat crudely where he got off, but she had an
instinct that this was no time for backchat.

"All right."

She went into the house and in a moment he followed her. May found him
walking up and down the library. It was the room he liked best in the
house. She stopped dead still on the threshold when she saw his face.
She flinched. She thought he was going to tell her that Dick was dead.
Her knees shook.

"Come in, May."

She stepped forward. She put her hand on the back of a chair to steady
herself.

"I've just seen Dick. He's at a military hospital about thirty miles
from here."

"He's not dying?" she cried.

"No, he's not dying, he's blind."

She gave a great cry and tears trickled down her white cheeks. He
watched her in silence. With a desperate effort she controlled herself
and raised her eyes to meet Roger's.

"I must go to him, Roger."

"I know."

She had a sudden pain in her heart, as though it had been pierced with a
sharp knife, for though he spoke so quietly his voice was desolate. She
had tried to persuade herself that he had long since ceased to care for
her, but it was no use; she couldn't be so dishonest as to pretend to
believe it; she knew that in his strange, undemonstrative way he loved
her truly.

"Don't think me terribly unkind, Roger."

"My dear, I know you're incapable of being unkind."

"If this hadn't happened I promise you I'd have stayed. I thought I'd
get over it in time. But now it's different. You do see that, don't
you?"

"Yes, I see that all right." A funny little sound issued from his
throat; it was something like a melancholy chuckle and something like a
sigh. "The luck's against me."

"Can I go now?"

"Yes. Nobby will drive you over."

"Good-bye then, and thank you."

"Good-bye, May."

She held out her hand and he took it, then with a strange, bitter smile
dropped it; she turned and walked quickly out of the room. He hesitated
a moment as though he didn't quite know what to do, then took up an
illustrated paper and sitting down on a sofa began to look at it. Time
passed. He heard the door open, but did not look up. It was Jane. She
came over and sitting down beside him affectionately slipped her arm
through his.

"Why aren't you looking after the kids?"

"Don't talk, you fool."

He went on looking at the paper and she looked with him.

"I suppose you know," he said.

"Yes, I've known all along."

"I did love her so, Jane, in my way."

"I know you did, old boy. I'm afraid it wasn't the right way. Women are
queer cattle."

"You never really liked her, did you?"

"Oh, yes, I did. I thought her a dear. A little colourless, but very
sweet."

"Cat."

He turned the page and looked at another.

He didn't know how long he had been looking at the same picture.

"He's blind, you know. As soon as I heard that I knew I hadn't a chance.
I knew that if she had to choose between a man who was hale and hearty
and a man who was blind she wouldn't hesitate. Damned unfair advantage
to take, I call it."

"Rotten. D'you think he did it on purpose?"

"You fool, Jane."

He turned another page and with a show of interest they looked at a row
of young women in large hats and a few sequins, each of whom was kicking
a black-stockinged leg as high as her head.

"Anyhow I've got my work. That's all that matters, isn't it?"

"And to coin a phrase: there'll always be an England."

He smiled and for the first time looked at her.

"Not a bad phrase either. But I seem to have heard it before."

"You can't have. I've just invented it this moment."

He slipped his hand along and took hers and gave it a little squeeze.

"You're a good girl, Jane."

"No, dear," she said. "Not good. Beautiful."






[End of The Hour Before the Dawn, by W. Somerset Maugham]
