X 
 
LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
LIFE CAN NEVER BE 
 THE SAME 
 
 B, 
 W. B. MAXWELL 
 
 Author of 
 
 THE DEVIL'S GARDEN, THE RAGGED MESSENGER 
 THE MIRROR AND THE LAMP. Etc. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS 
 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT 1919 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 Printed in the United States of Americc 
 
 PRESS or 
 
 BRAUNWORTH & CO. 
 
 BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
 
 BROOKLYN, N. Y. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE ....... 1 
 
 RATHER LATE . . . 30 
 
 CHRISTMAS Is CHRISTMAS . . ... . . . ' 59 
 
 THE STRAIN OF IT > ........ 94 
 
 THE CHATEAU . . > .-, ., . . . . 119 
 
 THE WOMAN'S PORTION w M .-. ., . . . 146 
 
 A WIDOW .....( w M r* . . . 169 
 
 THE SHORT CUT . . . , . ^ . ,.. . 194-' 
 
 WHAT EDIE EEGRETTED ... . . . . 215 
 
 THE WRONG DIRECTION . * . . . w . 232 
 
 THE CHANGING POINT OP VHW ., .... 259 
 
 JOAN OP ABO ... . ,., . f . m ..... 281 
 
 458574 
 
LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
Life Can Never Be the Same 
 
 A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 
 
 THE people of Sainte Chose were very proud 
 taking pride in their country because it 
 was France, pride in themselves because they 
 were French, pride in their village because it was 
 solid, well-built, pleasant of aspect, as French 
 things ought to be; and also because no German 
 had ever set foot in it. Not one throughout the 
 war. This bad been a rare piece of good fortune ; 
 for the invaders went far beyond Sainte Chose 
 in 1914. Their Uhlans had poured through the 
 villages to right and left, and on the returning 
 flood had, alas, carried with them many prisoners 
 and captives. "But so it has happened. Not a 
 single German has entered our village. Monsieur 
 can ask the mayor or the cure. They will tell 
 monsieur the same thing." 
 
 Since 1915, when the line settled down three 
 miles to the east of it, Sainte Chose had been 
 occupied by British troops. It held an infantry 
 battalion comfortably; every six or eight days 
 the battalion in possession inarched put to re- 
 
 1 
 
2 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 :VJ 
 
 lieve the battalion holding the line, and that bat- 
 talion marched in; and so on, battalion after 
 battalion, till, in course of time, with changing di- 
 visions, half the British Army seemed to have 
 been here. There was nothing concerning the 
 component parts of a battalion that the villagers 
 did not know by now; they could have put an in- 
 coming battalion to bed in the dark, without 
 the assistance of billeting officers. 
 
 "Battalion headquarters is here, at Emile 
 Veuillot's that is me, my Lieutenant. Your 
 colonel's mess is opposite at Monsieur Achille 
 Nodier's. You will be well there. It is the best 
 house. Your quartermaster's stores? Go for- 
 ward. You are at Madame Binet's. Your trans- 
 port will enter the fields behind the school. Stop 
 not those wagons. Let them go forward down the 
 hill to the first corner. Hold, my Captain, one 
 platoon this way, into the barn. One platoon to 
 the right, for the lofts above the stable. Yes, 
 you will find a ladder. I have placed it there 
 with my own hands " and so on. 
 
 Summer and winter the village street was alive 
 with British soldiers in khaki, horses and mules 
 going to and returning from water, laden wagons 
 passing, companies falling in for parade, sentries 
 on guard, with military police at each end of it 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 3 
 
 to keep order, regulate traffic, and look at peo- 
 ple's passes. It was a friendly invasion, of 
 course, but the village seemed almost lost in the 
 complete Britishness of it. English was the offi- 
 cial language. Englishmen gave you permission 
 to go to the nearest town; these foreigners told 
 you when to put out your lights of an evening, 
 when to open and shut your estaminet, when to 
 keep away from the windmill on the hill; and 
 they saw that you did it all. It was for your 
 own good, of course, and you smiled and showed 
 that you understood and did not resent the in- 
 terference. 
 
 "Ah! What is that? Shells bursting ne^r 
 the windmill. Is it a bombardment, my Com- 
 mandant? Do you wish us to descend into the 
 cellars?" 
 
 "Oh, no, that's nothing. Only keep away from 
 the hill until our artillery has made the silly 
 fools leave off shooting." 
 
 In their own houses the inhabitants were 
 pushed into corners to make room for the amiable 
 invaders; naturally it had to be done, and they 
 were handsomely paid for the accommodation 
 they provided. But beneath it all, the wonderful, 
 quiet, industrious French life went on unchanged. 
 They were French; no swamping by foreigners, 
 
4 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 even friendly ones, would ever change them. Old 
 men, women, lads, girls and children, all of them 
 that the war had left at home, continued their 
 patient labors; nourishing the glorious French 
 soil ; tilling it, sowing it, making it yield its har- 
 vest, keeping it rich and prolific for happier 
 Frenchmen, as yet unborn. Though the zone be- 
 longed to the British Army, they continued to 
 govern themselves in their own way; they had 
 their old rules and regulations, and enforced them 
 in the midst of the new military arrangements; 
 the garde champetre took round notices and 
 manifestos; French gendarmes came in and out, 
 attending to local matters; and the mayor, the 
 schoolmaster, the cure, the doctor from a neigh- 
 boring village, and other notables, used to meet 
 and have parish or district councils, or whatever 
 they were. 
 
 One saw them of an evening some times in the 
 kitchen at Monsieur Achille Nodier's farm-house, 
 assembled either for business or friendly debate, 
 sitting round a table, talking in a low voice, so 
 as not to disturb the English officers in the mess- 
 room close by. 
 
 They all got up when one of the officers came 
 to the kitchen door and disturbed them by ask- 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 5 
 
 ing in his villainous French for the loan of some- 
 thing. 
 
 "Very willingly, my Lieutenant* If there is 
 such a thing in the house, it is at your service. 
 My wife shall search for it at once. Jeanne!" 
 
 And the English officer would of course apolo- 
 gize for inconveniencing them, beg them to sit 
 down, and try to obliterate himself. 
 
 "No, no, no, no," said Monsieur Nodier. "You 
 do not derange us. It is a pleasure." 
 
 They were all so courteous, these old fellows, 
 so kind, so dignified; with the perfect manners 
 that came to them as a birthright because they 
 were French. 
 
 "How much longer, Monsieur," said the cure, 
 politely making conversation, "is this terrible war 
 to last?" 
 
 "Oh, it'll be over by next Christmas, we all 
 hope." 
 
 "So much the better," said the mayor jovially. 
 
 "But you don't want it to be over until they 
 are thoroughly beaten?" 
 
 "No, no, no. A thousand times no," said old 
 Nodier, in his deep, strong voice, at full tone 
 now, and with his eyes flashing. "They must 
 be crushed, for the safety of France." 
 
6 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "For the safety of the whole world," said the 
 mayor. 
 
 "Peace through victory," said the cure. "That 
 is the peace we desire." 
 
 "Where they have trod they must be driven 
 back to the last German and the countries set 
 free again," said Monsieur Nodier; and he 
 shrugged his huge shoulders. "Let it take twenty 
 years, but let it be done. We have lost so much 
 already, to lose a little more will not count. Other- 
 wise, it would be too stupid." 
 
 Then old Madame Nodier came bustling back 
 with the coffee pot, toast-rack, or whatever it 
 was; the English officer bowed his thanks and 
 withdrew; and their quiet low-voiced confabula- 
 tions went on again. 
 
 "Give us peace, but give us victory first." That 
 in effect was what all these villagers said, bearing 
 the almost intolerable burden of the war with 
 such fortitude and dignity; and they all shrugged 
 their shoulders as they spoke of it. So many had 
 lost those they loved, so many had lost almost all 
 that makes life worth living, they had suffered 
 so greatly. But their country must be saved, 
 whatever happened to them. And the very soul 
 of France seemed to shine from their faces as 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 7 
 
 they said it. "Too stupid to stop now, before the 
 end is reached." 
 
 You could not live with them without respect- 
 ing them ; you could not know them well without 
 loving them. 
 
 But they were not easy to know well; they 
 were difficult to understand really. Perhaps 
 a Frenchman can never really be understood ex- 
 cept by another Frenchman. Their pride showed 
 in a certain reticence, or perhaps it was only 
 their natural good breeding which made them 
 treat the English always as guests; they would 
 talk freely of themselves if you proved yourself 
 to be sympathetic and could persuade them that 
 they were not thus boring you ; but they rarely if 
 ever told you about their most intimate private 
 affairs, as the peasants and farmers of other 
 countries always do. 
 
 The Nodiers and their house were typical of 
 the rest of the village. Nodier and his wife had 
 pushed themselves out of the parlors and dining- 
 room on the ground floor, and made the kitchen 
 their living-room; they had given up the whole 
 of the first floor to their guests, and with their 
 two servants, they slept in the attics of the second 
 floor under the roof. A paper on the staircase 
 door that led to this upper floor gently announced 
 
8 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 that a small portion of the house was reserved 
 for the family; and the announcement was scru- 
 pulously honored, even by the officers' servants 
 and orderlies, who were always hunting for su- 
 perior sleeping quarters. There were officers' 
 chargers in the stables side by side with the farm 
 horses ; officers' servants hung tunics and breeches 
 to dry on the cumbrous farm wagons; officers' 
 grooms sat upon the pavement outside the kitchen 
 windows polishing stirrup irons or whitening 
 head ropes; and in the midst of it all Monsieur 
 Nodier went about his work unconcerned, har- 
 nessed his team, went forth to his fields, came 
 back again, summer and winter doing prodigies 
 of labor with no one except a lame, smock-f rocked 
 old man to assist him. 
 
 He was big, robust, valiant, as strong as a 
 giant in spite of his sixty-five years ; and although 
 he talked so quietly indoors, you could hear his 
 voice a mile away across the open fields, as he 
 shouted encouragement to his horses in the heavy 
 plow. He seemed to be as gentle as he was 
 strong, never goading his horses or rating the 
 farm-hand; and it was really a pretty sight to 
 see him in the orchard on a warm September 
 afternoon, with a little deputation of neighbors' 
 children, who had come to ask for apples. 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 9 
 
 "Here, you small birds. Fly away with these;" 
 and he filled their aprons with the ripe fruit. 
 "Go now to madame, and see if by chance she 
 has a brioche. Would you like a brioche?' 9 
 
 "Oh, yes, Monsieur," piped the small birds in 
 chorus. 
 
 And he picked up the youngest child, almost 
 a baby, and carried it on his shoulder; through 
 the archway, across the yard, to the kitchen. 
 
 "Jeanne ! Of your charity, spare a cake or two 
 for this angel and her companions." 
 
 Madame Nodier, as well as himself, adored 
 children ; and readily enough they would tell you 
 about their own two Achille, the elder boy, who 
 was fighting for France, and Leon, the younger 
 boy, who had already died for France. 
 
 Achille was in the artillery, now down in 
 Champagne, and Madame Nodier showed his 
 photograph a splendid young fellow with 
 brushed-up mustache, straight nose, thick eye- 
 brows, and bold kind eyes. 
 
 "Yes, he is a good boy," said his father, cour- 
 teously accepting any compliment that one offered. 
 
 "He is but twenty-seven," said Madame Nodier. 
 "As happens often with us who are thrifty and 
 think always of the future, my husband and I 
 married late in life. It is a comfortable property 
 
10 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 that we shall leave to Achille if he survives. 
 It is considerable, now that his brother's share 
 will be his also. But in any event he would have 
 had this farm, as the elder. He had chosen his 
 wife, my Lieutenant, and they would have been 
 happy here and my husband and I, we should 
 have been happy in watching their happiness." 
 
 "And so you all will be, Madame, just as happy 
 &s you expected. The war will soon finish." 
 
 "Alas," said Madame Nodier, with a doleful 
 sigh. And old Nodier gave her a friendly pat on 
 the shoulder, and she went on with her work. 
 She said no more. She was as old as her hus- 
 band, but not a touch of gray showed in her black 
 hair; she was quick of movement, alert, vigor- 
 ous as a girl, and she looked very grand in her 
 black dress when she went to Mass on Sunday 
 mornings. Throughout the week, and except 
 when in church, on Sundays too, she worked un- 
 ceasingly. She had a smile always ready for 
 the officers, and a kind word for the men. It was 
 rare that she sighed, and never without reason. 
 
 If one had asked her, and made her believe 
 that one was really and truly interested, she would 
 have told one why she sighed now. 
 
 The girl that their beloved son was going to 
 marry, had been taken captive by the enemy in 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 11 
 
 1914, and since then her relations had never re- 
 ceived a word to tell them if she was alive or 
 dead. Which should they hope for? Perhaps 
 it was better to think that she had been killed. 
 "Those others, they are very cruel; yet if she 
 were alive, surely they must have allowed her 
 to write one letter to us in all this time." 
 
 She was a cousin, Yvonne Nodier of the Nodiers 
 of Telvillers, the village two miles away on the 
 right. These Nodiers of Telvillers had not been 
 so well-to-do, not so highly considered as the 
 Nodiers of Sainte Chose. No matter. Yvonne 
 was a nice, modest, self-respecting girl; well- 
 favored, too, and accomplished. Her prosperous 
 uncle and aunt had accepted her with open arms 
 as a suitable bride for their boy. Her old grand- 
 father would be able to leave her something a 
 well-filled stocking, if not land enough. Money 
 is not everything. When one has already suffi- 
 cient, one should not be grasping. 
 
 At the outbreak of hostilities, Mademoiselle 
 Yvonne set herself to do nursing in an amateur 
 way. Beds for the wounded had been prepared 
 at the mairie at Telvillers, and she and others of 
 the village made themselves busy. The Germans 
 came flooding forward, frightening people to 
 death but doing little harm. Then, on the return- 
 
12 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 ing flood, when they were being pushed back, they 
 came through Telvillers again; and they took 
 Yvonne and many other people "for hostages," 
 as they called it. Now the old grandfather was 
 dead, of a broken heart, it was said; his stocking 
 and its contents had vanished ; the house had been 
 destroyed by a stray shell ; other members of the 
 family had been killed fighting; still others had 
 migrated. The cruel war had utterly wiped out 
 the Nodiers of Telvillers. Not a Nodier remained 
 there to sigh over the fate of their poor Yvonne. 
 
 Suddenly, in the spring of 1917, the battle 
 front began to roll away from the village of 
 Sainte Chose. The enemy was giving ground, 
 retreating to the famous Hindenburg Line, hotly 
 pursued as he went. Soon he was ten or a dozen 
 miles off. The villagers could plant vegetables on 
 the hill now, and sow spinach round the windmill, 
 without fear of being picked off by a shell-burst. 
 Otherwise things were just the same. They still 
 had a battalion billeted on them, the only differ- 
 ence being that the battalion belonged to a division 
 in support, instead of to a division in the line. 
 
 "This way, my Colonel," said Monsieur Nodier, 
 as usual, welcoming his guests. "Here is your 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 13 
 
 mess-room. Your bedroom is on the first floor. 
 You will be well here;" and, courteous as ever, 
 he would pay a compliment about the appearance 
 of the troops as they marched in. "Your battalion 
 made a good impression on all the village, my 
 Colonel; and I can tell you, we are judges by now 
 we have seen so many." 
 
 It was about this same time, the time of the 
 retreat, that a wonderful piece of news was 
 brought from Telvillers. 
 
 Yvonne Nodier had returned. 
 
 She was there, at the house of Madame Dur- 
 andy. She had arrived last night, exhausted, 
 almost in rags, and had searched in vain for the 
 house of her grandfather. Naturally all thought 
 at first that she must have escaped from one of 
 the villages just surrendered by the Germans in 
 the retreat. But this was not so. Her story was 
 far more remarkable. She came from Toulon; 
 she had been safe in France for a long time, per- 
 haps two years or more. 
 
 "You will hear it from her own lips," said the 
 farmer-friend who had brought the news, as he 
 grasped old Nodier's hand and shook it vigor- 
 ously. "When you have heard her tale, you will 
 take her to your heart. No one could blame her 
 
14 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 nor think the worse of her for what has hap- 
 pened." 
 
 Monsieur Nodier harnessed his old white mare 
 in the charrette, and he and madame drove across 
 to Telvillers to see her who had been lost and was 
 found. 
 
 She was properly dressed now, in borrowed 
 garments, but tearful and shaky ; and she shrank 
 from her relatives when they came into Madame 
 Durandy's parlor. 
 
 "Tell them all, Yvonne," said good Madame 
 Durandy. "Neither they nor any one else can 
 blame thee;" and she left them alone. 
 
 Then Yvonne told her marvelous tale. To be- 
 gin with, she set their minds at rest. She had 
 not been badly treated by the Germans. No, she 
 had nothing to complain of on that score. She 
 had been sent at once far into Belgium, and given 
 work to do at a town close to a large prisoners' 
 camp. There she soon came to know a French 
 officer, and she helped him to escape. They got 
 away together, and after terrible adventures 
 she shivered as she said this they reached France 
 and safety. In France she remained with the 
 companion of her dreadful journey first in 
 Paris, where he was ill ; then at Toulon, when he 
 had returned to duty with the army; then at 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 15 
 
 Dijon, when he joined a regiment at the front. 
 A month ago he was killed ; and she, having spent 
 the money he left with her, having sold her small 
 possessions, being sick and unable to work, found 
 her way back to Telvillers. 
 
 "He did not offer to marry you ?" asked Madame 
 Nodier. 
 
 "It was spoken of, but we were not married/' 
 
 "What was his name?" 
 
 "The Lieutenant Henri Faguet, of the In- 
 fantry." 
 
 "And he is the dead father of your unborn 
 child?" 
 
 "Yes, my aunt." 
 
 "But why did not you write to us?" 
 
 "I was ashamed;" and Yvonne dropped her 
 eyes. 
 
 They asked her no further questions then. 
 Each in turn embraced her, and five minutes 
 afterward they had her safe in the charrette, 
 and were driving her home to Sainte Chose. 
 
 "This is your home now, my child," said old 
 Nodier, as he helped her out of the cart. 
 
 After that one saw her sitting in the kitchen 
 when one went to borrow knives and forks 
 a pale young woman, dressed in black, who had 
 not been there when one borrowed the egg-cups. 
 
16 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 And if one looked at her, Nodier introduced one in 
 a dignified formal style. "Let me present you 
 to my niece, Mademoiselle Yvonne Nodier, who 
 has come to live with us." He said no more, not 
 telling this intimate family story to his guests. 
 If one had known, one might have been touched 
 by the old fellow's tender and chivalrous manner 
 toward the girl. Even not knowing it, one felt 
 that they made a pretty sight as they walked arm 
 in arm through the orchard sometimes on spring 
 evenings. He addressed her as his daughter until 
 Madame Nodier stopped him. She herself was 
 as kind as the kindest mother could be; but she 
 had told Yvonne at once, with perfect candor and 
 straightforwardness, that their son could not 
 now marry her. There could be no thought of 
 that, ever. He must have an untouched maiden 
 for his wife and the mother of his children. 
 
 "No one blames thee, but that is understood, 
 is it not?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, my aunt." The girl did not murmur 
 against this verdict. "When comes Achille on 
 leave next?" 
 
 "Not for two months." 
 
 "I will go away when he comes. I do not want 
 to meet him." 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 17 
 
 "Yes, that may be better. It will arrange it- 
 self easily." 
 
 No one blamed her. Far from being thought 
 badly of by the village, she was made a heroine. 
 Her escape, the romantic wanderings with the 
 French officer now dead, the fact that she would 
 soon be a mother all these things appealed to 
 their hearts. They came to see her at the farm, 
 bringing small gifts to show their unabated Re- 
 gard and esteem; and, greedy for details of her 
 experiences, they would have pestered her with 
 questions if they had not seen that it was pain- 
 ful to her to answer them. Then immediately 
 they desisted, and instead of asking questions, 
 told her news of the village to cheer her. 
 
 "She has passed through much," said a neigh- 
 bor's wife sympathetically. "She wants to for- 
 get." 
 
 "Yes," said Yvonne. "I want to forget it all." 
 
 "Yes," said Madame Nodier, with a swift un- 
 noticed glance at the girl. "She wants to forget." 
 
 Old Nodier had asked her if she learned to 
 speak any German during her brief captivity, 
 and she said, no, scarcely a word. 
 
 "All the better," said Nodier. "It is that much 
 less to forget." 
 
18 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "You did not learn even a few sentences?" 
 asked Madame Nodier. 
 
 "I was not there long enough. And, my aunt, 
 I did not wish to learn. I pray I may never hear 
 a word of their language again;" and Yvonne's 
 pale face lit up, and her dull eyes flashed for a 
 moment with the same fire that always showed 
 in her uncle's eyes when he spoke of the hated 
 enemy. 
 
 "Yes, that is the spirit," he said loudly; and 
 he gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Put down 
 your sewing now, and come with me for a turn 
 among the apple trees. Have no fear of the Eng- 
 lish soldiers they are respectful good boys." 
 
 "I follow you, my uncle;" and Yvonne folded 
 the work that her aunt had given her the little 
 garments that would be wanted soon. 
 
 "One moment, my niece," said Madame Nodier. 
 "I speak to thee once again of coming to Mass 
 with me on Sunday. It is proper or shall I 
 say rather? I would like to have thee there by 
 my side for all to see. Will you not go to con- 
 fession to-morrow? The cure awaits thee. He 
 will be kind and gentle." 
 
 Yvonne sat down again and began to cry. 
 
 "I have no strength. I have no heart. I am 
 ashamed. Let me wait till my baby is born. Then 
 1 jrill make my peace with the Church." 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 19 
 
 "Are you coming?" called Nodier from the 
 courtyard. 
 
 "Be it so," said Madame Nodier. "We will 
 wait till then. Now go to your uncle." 
 
 And she stood at the kitchen window and 
 watched the girl crossing the yard. Her strong 
 eyebrows were puckered by thought; her face 
 became very somber as she stood there by the win- 
 dow thinking. 
 
 It was at night, on the second floor, in that 
 small part of the house that the family had re- 
 served for themselves; and, as had happened 
 once or twice already, Madame Nodier came soft- 
 ly into Yvonne's room and watched the girl while 
 she slept. 
 
 The candle was placed where its light would 
 not disturb the sleeper. Except for the fact 
 that the room was overcrowded with furniture, 
 brought up here to give more space for the offi- 
 cers, it was all very nice and comfortable ; sweet 
 and clean ; tidy and homelike a room that from 
 its aspect and atmosphere might have been hun- 
 dreds of miles away from the war and the hor- 
 rors of war. Not a sound came from the house 
 or the village. The night was quiet and peace- 
 ful. Yet to watch Yvonne as she stirred in her 
 sleep, to hear her rapid mutterings, little cries, 
 
20 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME) 
 
 and sudden sharp, articulated sentences, made 
 one's blood turn cold. 
 
 When she talked in her sleep like this, Yvonne 
 spoke German. 
 
 "Nehmen Sie die Hand von miener* Brust weg 
 . IcH gehore den Offizieren, Ihre Dime 
 bin ich nicht. . . . . " 
 
 Madame Nodier did not understand a word of 
 it; but the sound of the cursed language, here 
 in the silence of the night, froze her blood. 
 
 "Um Gotteswillen, lassen Sie mich los." 
 
 And the girl gave another little cry. 
 
 "Yvonne! Wake," said Madame Nodier, with 
 her hand on the girl's shoulder. 
 
 "My God, what is it now?" 
 
 "It is I. Have no fear." 
 
 Yvonne had sprung up in the bed, stretching 
 out her arms as if to ward off danger, staring 
 with panic-stricken eyes. 
 
 "Drink some of this milk ;" and Madame Nodier 
 fetched a glass from tho side-table. 
 
 "Thank you, my aunt." 
 
 "Now lie down. And I will sit by you, like 
 this with my arm round you, to give you cour- 
 age .... Now we can talk tranquilly 
 . Now you shall tell me the truth all 
 of it. It is proper that I should know. That 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 21 
 
 wonderful adventure, with the Lieutenant Faguet 
 and the life as his dear friend, was not true," 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Tell me how things passed." 
 
 And Yvonne told her. It was a horrible tale, 
 this, the true one. 
 
 She had escaped from captivity only the other 
 day; when the Germans fell back, abandoning the 
 villages that they had occupied so long. She had 
 been at the village of Martincourt all the time, 
 just twenty miles from here as the crow flies 
 close by, as one might say; seeing every day the 
 road that led toward home, the road along which 
 she and the others had come when they were 
 driven like cattle by the mounted men. On her 
 legs there were still scars made by lance prods, 
 as the men goaded them to move faster. Madame 
 Palissy fell on the road and was stabbed to death. 
 Andre Giraud and Jules Fillon were shot. They 
 were allowed to drink at the ditches by the road- 
 side, but they were given no food for two days 
 and one night. Except in this way the women 
 were not maltreated. She believed that an order 
 had been given by an officer at the beginning of 
 the march. 
 
 "Yes," said Madame Nodier, "go on." 
 
 Then the first evening at Martincourt, Yvonne 
 
22 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 had been told to wash and tidy herself, to act as 
 servant; and she was set to wait at table at an 
 officers' mess "like the one in this house, my 
 aunt; seven officers but German, not English." 
 And after dinner they played cards for her, 
 making her understand that the winner was to 
 win her as his companion. But she did not under- 
 stand that the companionship was only for one 
 evening, and that she would be with the others 
 each in turn. After a little time, these troops 
 left and more came in their place "as they have 
 done here, my aunt; but Germans, not English;" 
 and she was told that she belonged to the officers, 
 and would not be* touched by the men if she be- 
 haved herself properly. She would only be given 
 to the men as a punishment. 
 
 She owed gratitude to an old, gray-haired 
 officer, who was town commandant, and remained 
 so all the time. He protected her, saved her from 
 much; and after a considerable period he took 
 her altogether, keeping her at his own billet, and 
 not letting new arrivals know about her. He was 
 over sixty years of age, and seemed to grow fond 
 of her. At any rate, he was unfailingly kind to 
 her. He told her it was useless to try to com- 
 municate with her relatives, for no letter would 
 be permitted to pass. But he allowed her to see 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 23 
 
 and talk with the old French priest of the vil- 
 lage. The priest told her it would be wrong to 
 commit suicide; she must suffer patiently, and 
 she need feel no stain of sin in all the shame that 
 had befallen her. And it was the old priest who 
 eventually gave her the chance to escape, hiding 
 her in a cellar when suddenly the place became all 
 confused by the retreat going faster than the 
 Germans expected, and an order coming for the 
 troops to evacuate without waiting to destroy. 
 
 "But for him I would perhaps have killed my- 
 self. Others did." And she said how there was 
 a pond, and the soldiers were frequently drag- 
 ging it, and always when they dragged they drew 
 out a body. With her own eyes she had seen the 
 dead bodies of Adele Delard and Clarisse Beau- 
 vais, two girls from Telvillers. The village was 
 a hell for the unhappy French. The old men and 
 young boys the original inhabitants were 
 dreadful to see as they went in gangs to their 
 digging; all white and feeble, like ghosts, mov- 
 ing so slowly; staggering under the light weight 
 of a pick or shovel. 
 
 Here, then, she had continued to live, while 
 others were dying, and the months, the years had 
 passed. And then there came a new sergeant or 
 orderly to her protector, the town commandant 
 
24 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 This man was a brute. He made her submit to 
 be his mistress too, threatening her with death 
 and worse than death if she complained to the 
 commandant; laughing at her when she said she 
 belonged to the officers; beating her with the 
 scabbard of his side arm when she resisted. And 
 this man was the father of her unborn child. 
 
 "My daughter, why did not you tell me the 
 truth at once?" 
 
 "I dared not, my aunt/' 
 
 "Call me not aunt, Yvonne. Call me mother. 
 Say it now. Say it always henceforth." 
 
 "Yes, my mother/" 
 
 The old woman was holding her in her arms, 
 kissing her, soothing her. 
 
 "It is how I shall think of you always. My 
 own daughter. Now sleep and be tranquil." 
 
 On a night three weeks later, there was move- 
 ment in the reserved portion of the house, doors 
 opening ^and shutting, footsteps ; noises but not 
 sufficient to arouse or alarm English officers 
 sleeping on the floor below. For some days a 
 wise old crone from the bottom of the village had 
 been in attendance, and even now, when the time 
 had come, the doctor was not summoned to as- 
 sist her. She was well skilled, able to administer 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 25 
 
 morphia, and needed no help. Indeed, since the 
 war began, she had acted often in sole charge of 
 cases more dangerous than this. 
 
 Madame Nodier herself took the child from 
 her hands, and laid it in the arms of her hus- 
 band, who stood waiting in the corridor below 
 the sloped roof. 
 
 And then the wise old nurse had to come back 
 into the room and tell the mother that it was a 
 male child, born dead. 
 
 "Let me see him." 
 
 "No, cherished one," said Madame Nodier. 
 "He is not pretty to see." 
 
 "Oh, mother, let me see him." 
 
 "No, well-beloved." 
 
 "0 Jesus Christ in mercy, give me my little 
 baby;" and she fainted. 
 
 Old Nodier had got out into the darkness of 
 the courtyard, carrying his wrapped-up burden 
 in his arms. Soon he was in the orchard with 
 a lantern and spade. And down there by the 
 poplars, away from the apple trees, he buried 
 the child, just as he would have buried a dead 
 dog. 
 
 One evening two or three days after this, a 
 group of notables was assembled in the Nodiers' 
 kitchen. They sat around the table talking earn- 
 
26 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 estly but very quickly. The mayor, the doctor, 
 the schoolmaster, and a man from a little distance, 
 who seemed perhaps of more importance than the 
 others, sat with their chairs close together; and 
 facing them, side by side, sat Monsieur and 
 Madame Nodier. The two servants had gone to 
 bed after closing the shutters; some logs 
 smoldered on the hearth ; and in the candle-light 
 the shining pots on the dresser, the tiled floor, 
 and the polished woodwork looked cheerfully 
 bright and clean. It was all homelike, comfort- 
 able, intimate. 
 
 , "The circumstances have made a bad impres- 
 sion." 
 
 "That is to be regretted, Monsieur," said old 
 Nodier. 
 
 Monsieur, from a little distance, had been say- 
 ing that war is no excuse for neglect of the for- 
 malities and the proprieties. He said that there 
 Was a lot of talk talk which had spread beyond 
 the village about recent events in this house. 
 The birth of the child, with only an old 
 accoucheuse present, the hasty unwitnessed funer- 
 al, the absence of any notification to anybody 
 these matters had naturally set people talking, 
 and wondering. Not a single paper filled in and 
 deposited. From the point of view of order, au- 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 27 
 
 thority, long-established usage, nothing could be 
 more irregular or more regrettable. "What say 
 you, Monsieur the Doctor?" 
 
 But just then there was a knock at the kitchen 
 door, and a young English officer appeared. In- 
 stead of waiting, as usual, to borrow something, 
 he had brought something with him ; and, in his 
 villainous French, he explained that the colonel 
 wished madame to accept these two photograph 
 frames as a trifling present. 
 
 "The colonel was at Doullens to-day, and seeing 
 them there, he thought you might like them as a 
 souvenir. The battalion will be moving soon." 
 
 They had all risen from their chairs, and all 
 admired the photograph frames. Madame sent 
 her grateful thanks to the colonel ; Nodier offered 
 thanks also on behalf of his wife ; the mayor said 
 it was a very charming idea. They were all 
 courteous, kindly, smiling. 
 
 "I hope that mademoiselle is better," said the 
 young officer. 
 
 "I thank you. She goes on famously. She will 
 be down-stairs again in a week or ten days." 
 
 "We were all of us so sorry to hear she was 
 ill." 
 
 "You are always kind and considerate." 
 
 "Good-night." 
 
28 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Good-night, my Lieutenant." 
 
 Then, when the kitchen door had closed, they 
 all resumed their seats and went on talking. 
 
 "My old friend," said the doctor, "blame at- 
 taches to you." 
 
 "You have acted wrongly and foolishly," said 
 the more important visitor. "Speak now. Con- 
 ceal nothing." 
 
 "I will give you the truth," said Nodier quiet- 
 ly. "Why should I not? I am not ashamed of 
 it. The tale of my niece was a fable. She had 
 been abused over there. Her child was a child of 
 the enemy." 
 
 "Ah! That is sad." 
 
 "But," said the doctor, "the infant itself! 
 Without professional knowledge, one can be de- 
 ceived about still-born children. The signs of 
 life can be misjudged." 
 
 "I did not misjudge," said Nodier. "The child 
 was alive, till I killed it." 
 
 "Killed it?" 
 
 "Yes;" and he hit the table with his fist. "It 
 was a German. A German in the village. What 
 else should I do?" 
 
 "Did the mother consent?" 
 
 "Oh, no. A mother is always a mother." 
 
A GERMAN IN THE VILLAGE 29 
 
 And Madame Nodier added gravely, "Nature 
 and God so ordain it." 
 
 "That is the truth, gentlemen. All may know 
 it, except her." 
 
 "Yes," said the old woman, in the same tone. 
 "She should never know because what a mother 
 feels is sacred. She, too, is sacred because she 
 has suffered with France and for France." 
 
 "And because of what she has suffered," said 
 Nodier, "my son shall marry her, and while we 
 live, we will try to make her forget." 
 
 "You will let your son marry her?" 
 
 "He would cease to be our son, if he did not 
 wish to marry her when we tell him all." 
 
RATHER LATE 
 
 HERE are probably no people, however dull 
 and illiterate, who do not feel the need of 
 living up to some ideal, who do not nourish com- 
 paratively lofty aspirations, who do not suffer in 
 a vague muddling way, because their actual ex- 
 istence seems to fall short of what it might have 
 been, what it ought to be. 
 
 Mr. Ringe, munitions worker, as he dressed 
 for breakfast at his house in Bethnal Green, had 
 a heavy sense that fate was thwarting him in 
 an inexplicable but miserably complete style. Yet 
 he ought to have been happy this morning. It 
 was his birthday age, forty; "in the prime of 
 me 'ealth," as he often boasted ; with the lameness 
 in the right leg that was chronic, but had never 
 interfered with his work. 
 
 The lameness had prevented his going for a 
 soldier. He had offered himself, and been re- 
 fused perhaps a blessing in disguise; certainly 
 a blessing without any disguise at all for his wife 
 and children, who had kept the bread-winner safe 
 at home so far. "Yes, me lady so far." He 
 thought of the war, the glorious war. "For it is 
 
 30 
 
RATHER LATE 31 
 
 glorious," he thought, "from the industrious 
 point of view. The scarcity of butcher's meat, 
 I grant you, is a denial. But 'oo 'as ever sin the 
 same wide-spread prosperity all throughout the 
 industrious world? The money the good money 
 that is now made by all, not o'ny the skilled 
 mechanic like meself, but the tradesman, the prer- 
 fess'nal man, such as dentists, the unskilled 'and, 
 any hobblede'oy youth or 'ussy of a gell, yes, and 
 kids, too the money to be 'ad for the astin' is 
 what none 'ave ever dreamt of before the war 
 began." 
 
 And he thought of war-workers no better than 
 himself to begin with, and their surprising ac- 
 cession to affluence men with little shops, men 
 with a few carts and horses, men who kept poul- 
 try or cured fish. Nothing originally, before the 
 golden age of war began, but now risen to sub- 
 stantial fortune. And why had he not so risen, 
 even a part of the way? The answer presented 
 itself instantly: 
 
 "Becos I 'ave a millstone 'anging round me 
 neck." 
 
 He brushed his hair rather fiercely, and glanced 
 out of the window down into the back yard. It 
 was a splendid summer morning, only five o'clock 
 by solar time, the sky high and clear, the air all 
 
32 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 fresh and sparkling. His own back yard was 
 bare and grim in the sunshine not so much as 
 a row of beans planted in it. The yard next 
 door was a picture. You could hardly see the 
 yard itself because of the rabbit-hutches; and, 
 already, there was his neighbor's wife in her 
 bonnet and alpaca jacket, opening the little doors 
 of her menagerie, putting in cabbage stalks and 
 waste potato rind, glorying in the number, size 
 and sprightliness of the rabbits. That's a wife, 
 that is. 
 
 He went down-stairs. 
 
 "Breakfast ready?" 
 
 "Not quite," said Mrs. Hinge. 
 
 Not quite. No, that summed it up. 
 
 "Here you are," said Mrs. Ringe, putting a 
 plate upon the table and removing the metal 
 cover. "Bacan and an egg! I wanted you t 9 
 have a good breakfast this morning." 
 
 Mr. Hinge's face had softened at sight of the 
 rasher. Curiously enough, he had not smelt it; 
 so that it came as a complete surprise. He spoke 
 to his wife in a gentler tone. 
 
 "Why this mornin', particularly?" 
 
 "It's your birthday." 
 
 "Oh! Thought you'd forgot that." 
 
 "No, I hadn't forgot. I don't forget." 
 
 She was a pale, rather slatternly woman, and 
 
BATHER LATE 33 
 
 yet one could still see that she must have been 
 pretty once; even now, when she dressed herself 
 properly, she was quite decent-looking. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Ringe, "you're one o' the sort 
 that can't let bygones be bygones." 
 
 "It's easy for you to say that after what 'ap- 
 pened last night." 
 
 A sudden impulse moved Mr. Ringe, and he got 
 up from the table. He felt as if a wave of mag- 
 nanimous emotion had floated him away from 
 the hot tea and bacon. 
 
 "Ally!" And he took his wife in his arms 
 and kissed her. "I'm sorry. Now don't let's ever 
 'ear another word about it. Is that a bargain?" 
 
 "All right till next time." 
 
 "Now, now!" said Mr. Ringe severely. "No 
 going back to it. I've said I was sorry, once for 
 all." And he went on with his breakfast. 
 
 Mrs. Ringe had begun to cry; but she wiped 
 her eyes, and even achieved a pallid smile. 
 
 "Many happy returns of the day." 
 
 "Thanks. Where's the children?" 
 
 "Up-stairs." 
 
 "Aren't they done dressing?" 
 
 "Not quite." 
 
 It was pleasant now in the kitchen, for a few 
 minutes. Mr. Ringe finished his breakfast, lit 
 Jiis pipe; then, alas, unpleasantness began again. 
 
34 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Why don't the kids come down?" 
 
 "P'raps they're afraid to." 
 
 "Afraid? What of 1" 
 
 "Well, after what happened last night." 
 
 "I won't stand it !" Mr. Hinge struck the table 
 with his fist, and shouted. He was terribly angry. 
 "If you turn those kids against me, their own 
 fawther, I'll chuck the 'ole blasted thing. I'm 
 pretty near fed up as it is. But if you come be- 
 tween them and me depriving me of their nat- 
 chral love and affecshun, then I've nothin' left, 
 and I'll chuck it." 
 
 Mrs. Ringe defended herself under this cruel 
 accusation, with a pallid, forlorn sort of vehe- 
 mence. She said she wondered anybody could 
 talk both so silly and so wicked. She said when 
 it came to a respectable man threatening to chuck 
 his wife and family, only two explanations offered 
 themselves. Either he had gone out of his senses, 
 or he was running after another woman. 
 
 "M e! Another woman !" Mr. Ringe almost ex- 
 ploded from the stress of his indignation. He, the 
 patient bread-winner, the model father, the per- 
 fect, long-suffering husband, to be accused of run- 
 ning after the petticoats! It was too rich oh, 
 much too rich ! He opened the kitchen door, and 
 
RATHER LATE 35 
 
 bellowed : "Tom, Alice, Maud ! You come down- 
 stairs this instant !" 
 
 The children appeared a boy of twelve, two 
 girls of eight and nine ; and there was no getting 
 away from the fact that they looked at their 
 father apprehensively. He saw it at once. 
 
 "What! You shrinking away from me like 
 that?" he asked severely. "D'you think I'm 
 goin'to'ityou?" 
 
 They did not answer. 
 
 "Come 'ere." 
 
 They stood in a bunch close to their mother, by 
 the door, and did not move. 
 
 Mr. Hinge sat down again and nodded his head 
 gloomily. His anger had evaporated with extra- 
 ordinary swiftness, and all kinds of different 
 ideas invaded his mind. They were such unin- 
 teresting children, so poorly clothed, too, so 
 slovenly of aspect, not even clean. There was 
 nothing about them in which you could really take 
 pride. They were not so fond of him as they 
 ought to be ; but then and he knew it now, what- 
 ever he had fancied a minute ago he was not 
 really fond of them. He wished he had gone to 
 his work, and left them up-stairs. But having 
 ordered the parade, he must carry it through 
 somehow. 
 
36 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Tom," he said, "I ast you to answer me. When 
 did I ever raise my 'and against you?" 
 
 "Whit Monday," said Tom. 
 
 "Oh! On the Bank 'oliday, my boy, it is true 
 I gave you a 'idin', with your mother's full ap- 
 proval, for going to the cupboard there and getting 
 at its contents. But I don't mean that at all. That 
 was punishment. What I mean is, in an ordinary 
 way I never touch any of you except as a caress. 
 Then why should you be'ave as if you were afraid 
 of me?" 
 
 Tom looked at his father in silence, as if he had 
 been asked a conundrum and would prefer an 
 easier one. 
 
 "Come 'ere, all of you, and kiss me." 
 
 They obeyed, pushed forward by their mother, 
 who whispered some prompting words, 
 
 "Many 'appy returns, father." 
 
 "Many 'appy returns." 
 
 " 'Appy returns." 
 
 "Thank you, my dears. Now you can go and 
 wash your faces. They do wash them, don't they, 
 Ally?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 The children went into the little scullery behind 
 the kitchen; and, left alone, husband and wife 
 made it up again. It was not quite such a good 
 
BATHER LATE 37 
 
 making-up as the last one, and Mrs. Ringe did not 
 stop crying so quickly. 
 
 "We were all going to buy you presents," she 
 sobbed. "The children were full of it. Saved up 
 their their money." 
 
 "I don't want no presents," said Mr. Ringe firm- 
 ly. And he added that all he wanted was a happy 
 home, a tidy, well-managed home, where love and 
 peace reigned, and a man who was working him- 
 self to death could see some reward for his labors. 
 
 "And I was to ask you a favor," Mrs. Ringe 
 went on, sniffing dolefully. 
 
 "What was it?" 
 
 "Sence it's your birthday, and you've the after- 
 noon, to come 'ome early and give them and me a 
 treat." 
 
 "What d'ye mean by a treat?" 
 
 "Well, to take us out anywhere. On an omni- 
 bus anything. All of us together for a treat." 
 
 In imagination Mr. Ringe saw himself trapesing 
 the gay Saturday afternoon streets with his slat- 
 ternly lady and his poorly dressed children. The 
 mental picture did not attract him. 
 
 "I 'ave to see me cousin Jack at three P. M." He 
 had put on his hat and was going. "Matter o' 
 business." 
 
 "Come 'ome after that. It'd be early enough." 
 
38 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Look 'ere. I'll come 'ome as early as I can." 
 
 "You will r 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 "May I 'ave the children dressed ready for it?" 
 
 "Oh ! You'd smarten 'em up a bit f er it, would 
 you?" 
 
 "I'd do my best. Can I tell 'em you'll come?" 
 
 "No, don't do that. I don't want to promise 
 what p'raps after all I couldn't pe'f orm." 
 
 He was going out into the dingy hall, and she 
 followed him. 
 
 "You won't be late 'ome, will you?" 
 
 "No, no. Ta-ta." 
 
 "Remember, it's the full moon. I'm that nerv- 
 ous at night, alone with the children " 
 
 He was gone. 
 
 He looked back and waved his hand as he hur- 
 ried away. He was thinking that his was the 
 shabbiest house in the street, the worst home, the 
 most incompetent wife, the grubbiest, stupidest 
 children. There were flowers in some of the 
 neighbors' windows; new blinds and gaudy cur- 
 tains flaunted in others everywhere he saw the 
 warlike signs of prosperity, and in the midst of it 
 all he felt balked, misunderstood, a failure. Why 
 were things not better with him ? Simply because 
 he had four millstones round his neck, keeping him 
 down. 
 
RATHER LATE 39 
 
 The munitions works at which he was at pres- 
 ent employed were outside London, in the Baling 
 district. Work for him finished this Saturday at 
 one P. M.; and at about four he was still in the 
 Baling district, with Cousin Jack and a party of 
 friends, seated in the garden of a cheap restau- 
 rant. Tea had been ordered, and they would enjoy 
 it here in the open air. 
 
 For a moment he thought of Ally and the kids. 
 Too late for the afternoon treat now. Perhaps he 
 would buy some cooked fish in the Whitechapel 
 Road on his way back and give them a birthday 
 supper. Then he dismissed this thought and went 
 on enjoying the conversation. There were good 
 talkers in the party ; but it was nice give and take, 
 each one getting a turn. 
 
 "Don't tell me but what the politician and I 
 don't care who he is that's going to speak of a 
 premature peace, well, he's going to find out he's 
 made the biggest mistake of his life in insulting 
 the intelligence of the country." 
 
 "It'd be so much treach'ry to the brave lads who 
 are gone," said one of the ladies. 
 
 "No, this has got to be fought to a finish. We've 
 all got to keep a stiff upper lip and go on doin' our 
 bit each in his own way." 
 
 "Otherwise the whole thing would begin over 
 again." 
 
40 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Not in our time, p'raps." 
 
 "I ain't so sure o' that, either." 
 
 "Look at that boy," said another lady. "Lost 
 his arm, he has." 
 
 The garden was full of people. There were girls 
 dressed as pretty as fairies, comfortable, friendly 
 groups of elders, nurses in uniform, and many sol- 
 diers, several of them wearing the hospital blue. 
 To some of these one of Mr. Hinge's friends spoke 
 jovially. 
 
 "Are we down-hearted?" 
 
 "NO!" said the wounded in loud chorus; and 
 they laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 Truly it was impossible to be down-hearted. The 
 sun shone, delicate streamers of white cloud glided 
 at a fabulous height in the limpid sky, sounds of 
 happy voices filled the air. Presently two unseen 
 musicians began to play upon a mandolin and a 
 piano. It was all so pleasant. There was a gaiety, 
 an animation, a sense of holiday making that one 
 never had on Saturday afternoons before the jolly 
 old war began. 
 
 But beyond these general feelings of satisfac- 
 tion and the relief from morbid thought, Mr. 
 Ringe took a special pleasure in the presence of 
 one member of the company. This was Mrs. 
 Yates. She was a comparatively new acquaint- 
 
RATHER LATE 41 
 
 ance of Jack's wife, and Mr. Ringe had met her 
 several times before. He had rather expected to 
 meet her to-day, rather hoped to do so, perhaps 
 for between them, although nothing whatever had 
 passed, there had arisen as it seemed to him, a sub- 
 tle and mysterious sympathy, like that of two 
 kindred souls floating high above the realms of 
 matter, touching, dancing away again, and then 
 reuniting in the ethereal maze. Mr. Ringe, with 
 his billycock hat tilted forward over his nose and 
 a pipe in the corner of his mouth, felt that he and 
 Mrs. Yates were doing all that again now, as from 
 time to time they glanced at each other without 
 speaking. 
 
 "Hullo. Here we are. Tea. Now, miss, ra- 
 tions are rations; but if that's supposed to go 
 round among oh, all right. More to follow ! Bon. 
 Tray bon. We leave ourselves in your fair 'ands, 
 young lady. You won't let us starve." 
 
 They did not starve. They had a hearty mal ; 
 and more and more Mr. Ringe felt himself pene- 
 trated, wrapped round by the varied charms of 
 Mrs. Yates. Outwardly she was a neat trim 
 woman of say thirty-five, with beady brown eyes, 
 a high complexion, and a vigorous, determined car- 
 riage of the head and body. Her figure was beau- 
 tiful and substantial. Her costume was fine with- 
 
42 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 out being 1 excessive, ladylike and yet not sloppy. 
 Inwardly she shone as a gay choice spirit; show- 
 ing herself quick as lightning in repartee if 
 chaffed, able to hold her own in serious debate 
 obviously a person of superior education. 
 
 "Look 'ere," said Mr. Ringe. "Fair's fair. I 
 ought to have mentioned, p'raps, that I'm a mar- 
 ried man." 
 
 "Married, are you?" said Mrs. Yates. "Well, 
 so am I." 
 
 "Oh! Thought you were a widow. 'Usband 
 living, is he?" 
 
 "I'll tell you about that later," said Mrs. Yates, 
 smiling. 
 
 It was half past six now, and Mr. Ringe had got 
 no nearer home than Hammersmith. The party 
 breaking up, he and Mrs. Yates had somehow 
 drifted off together. They had come as far as 
 this on a tram-car, and were now sauntering along 
 the crowded pavements arm in arm. Not a word 
 had been said about their spending the evening 
 together. 
 
 "No, you don't surprise me by the fact of being 
 a married man. I guessed that first time I saw 
 you." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
RATHER LATE 43 
 
 "By your face. Your countenance is the sort 
 that gets snapped up before its owner reaches the 
 age of thirty-two. You are thirty-two, aren't 
 you?" 
 
 "Goon. I'm forty!" 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "Yes, I am. Forty years of age to-day. To- 
 day's my birthday." 
 
 "No?" Mrs. Yates gave his arm a delightful 
 little squeeze of impulsive friendliness. "A birth- 
 day boy ! Then I must drink your health over our 
 snack." 
 
 "What say? Oh! Just so." 
 
 He had not thought of taking another snack so 
 soon, but it seemed a good idea. There were 
 plenty of cheap restaurants to choose from. 
 
 They sat long at table, and Mrs. Yates was very 
 arch and fascinating, drinking his health and call- 
 ing him a gay deceiver. But she could pass from 
 gay to grave in a moment. She was all womanly 
 sympathy when he told her that, far from being 
 a gay deceiver, he was a very unhappy man. And 
 he took pity from her. Without disloyalty he 
 hinted at the darker side of his domestic life, an<J 
 she pitied him. Her pity was as stimulating as 
 her sprightliness. 
 
 to blame?" she sighed. "I can't seem 
 
44 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 to understand it. You're not a drinker. I saw 
 that at once when you ordered the small bottle." 
 
 "I don't drink," said Mr. Ringe earnestly. "I 
 don't care for drink. I'm sober and honest. 
 There's no one 'as done 'is bit steadier than what 
 I 'ave throughout this war." 
 
 "Ah," and she sighed again. "I've had to deal 
 with topers in my time. That's what breaks up a 
 home. . . . Mr. Ringe, when married life 
 goes wrong, the blame is due to one partner or the 
 other. And I don't believe it's your fault." 
 
 They went to a small music-hall, still in the 
 Hammersmith district ; and as he followed her up 
 the stone staircase to the circle, he kept thrusting 
 at her waist with his fingers. 
 
 " 'Urry up, my dear, or all the fun '11 be over." 
 
 "Let me alone, can't you ? I'm ashamed of you." 
 
 At every touch he could feel how solid she was. 
 Nothing slack or slommacky about Mrs. Yates 
 all firm and trim and decided, from the top of her 
 hat to her quick-moving heels. 
 
 It was a poor show, but Mr. Ringe enjoyed him- 
 self enormously. More and more he surrendered 
 to the fascination of his charming companion. 
 Whenever the music and the singing permitted, 
 he talked to her about himself ; telling her every- 
 thing now ; feeling it as an immense relief to open 
 
RATHER LATE 45 
 
 his heart thus to a cultivated, highly-educated 
 woman who wasn't born yesterday; pouring into 
 her sympathetic ear more and more details of his 
 wrongs and suffering. 
 
 "So last night no supper, nothing ready for 
 me I own I lost me temper." 
 
 "I'm not surprised." 
 
 "An' pushed her. 'Set about it/ I says, an' 
 give her a push. Now, believe me, it was no more. 
 I laid my 'and on her arm like this " 
 
 "All right. You needn't act it. I understand." 
 
 "An' I says: 'Set about it. Quick! See?' 
 An' I give her a push. 'Oh,' she says, 'you brute, 
 to strike a woman,' and begins to 'owl loud enough 
 to wake the neighbors. An' I 'adn't struck her. 
 See?" 
 
 In his often interrupted but unceasing mono- 
 logue he went on to describe how the noisy lamen- 
 tations of Mrs. Ringe had scared the children, how 
 they also began howling, and how they and their 
 mother had cried and fussed about it half through 
 the night. He had felt it as undermining the chil- 
 dren's affection for him, and had said so. Then 
 magnanimously he had made friends over it and 
 he reached the climax of the narrative. He said 
 he felt now that he could not go on with life under 
 such conditions; he was fed up with it; he had a 
 
46 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 jolly good mind to go into the army under another 
 name and desert the wife and kids forever. 
 
 "How could you go into the army? You say 
 yourself you're lame." 
 
 "It doesn't interfere with me. 
 
 "But you limp a bit." 
 
 "Nothing to stop me. They ain't so particular 
 as they used to be." 
 
 "Oh, I shouldn't go and do anything rash." 
 
 "It's what I shall do, unless " 
 
 Then the orchestra struck up the tune of 
 The British Grenadiers, and a man dressed like 
 an officer and a gentleman stepped smartly on the 
 stage. This performer had a large white cloth 
 instead of a painted scene behind him; he made 
 a brief but stirring speech about the war; then 
 immediately the lights were lowered and a cine- 
 matographic picture of the king was thrown upon 
 the screen and welcomed with loud applause. 
 
 "Who are the leaders we can trust?" asked 
 the performer ; and there followed pictures of Sir 
 Douglas Haig, Mr. Lloyd George, and other cele- 
 brated persons. Each was received with loud 
 plaudits. There were many soldiers in the 
 audience, and they cheered enthusiastically when- 
 ever the portrait of a soldier appeared not 
 always sure who he was, not even sure that it was 
 
RATHER LATE 47 
 
 not a poor portrait of their own colonel. But all 
 the more reason to cheer. 
 
 "What are we fighting for?" 
 
 The orchestra played Home, Sweet Home, and 
 the picture on the screen showed a sad and 
 anxious-looking woman leading a child in each 
 hand as she came out of the gate of a cottage 
 garden. Yes, we were fighting for home, for the 
 women and children of England, just as surely as 
 if we were getting killed on Clapham Common 
 instead of in the Somme Valley. The applause 
 was terrific. 
 
 Mr. Ringe could not talk during this turn, but 
 the darkness allowed him to take his companion's 
 ungloved hand and fondle it respectfully. She did 
 not resist the caress, she even seemed to respond 
 in a delicate, refined way. And while the soldiers 
 shouted and the orchestra played the well-known, 
 patriotic tunes, he felt the uplift of it all. Great 
 thoughts seemed to be finding birth in him. Why 
 shouldn't he distinguish himself as a warrior, 
 strike sword-blows instead of making shell caps, 
 rise high in the service, come home safe and sound 
 at last as a general ? It seemed to him he could do 
 it something grand and tremendous if only he 
 had any one who, understanding his temperament, 
 would encourage him and egg him on. 
 
48 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "What's the time?" asked Mrs. Yates, when 
 the turn was over. 
 
 "Quarter to nine." 
 
 "Well, if we're going to get any refreshments 
 we'd better slip out now, or we shall be caught 
 napping by closing time." 
 
 "Don't go and act foolish," said Mrs. Yates. 
 
 They were in a noisy crowded bar, but they had 
 secured two chairs and a little table by the wall, 
 and they sat almost nose to nose, as they had their 
 drink and talked to each other. The crowd did 
 not disturb them; Mr. Hinge had a sensation of 
 being quite alone with her, wrapped round and 
 hidden from prying eyes by clouds of tobacco 
 smoke. 
 
 "London isn't the only place in the world," she 
 continued. "There's munitions making all over 
 England. You're worth your money anywhere. 
 Well, then, if you feel you can't stand it any longer 
 if you're fully determined to desert 'em, and 
 turn over a new leaf, and make a fresh start, why 
 not go up north, right away? Change your name. 
 That's sensible enough. Begin a new life. Make 
 a new home." 
 
 "It's what I'll do." 
 
 "But you'd want some one to take care of you ;" 
 
RATHER LATE 49 
 
 and her face was close to his, the small brown eyes 
 glowing, the complexion all bright. "Well, why 
 not make me Mrs. Hinge or whatever the new 
 name is to be?" 
 
 Mr. Hinge looked into her eyes and seemed to 
 be looking into an abyss. 
 
 "D'you mean bigamy?" He whispered the 
 word with a stammer. 
 
 "Oh, I'm like the Germans," said Mrs. Yates. 
 "I'm not to be stopped for a scrap of paper or 
 the want of it." 
 
 He tittered feebly. She made him feel giddy; 
 she was so charming, so ardent, and yet so matter- 
 of-fact. She said something very eloquent about 
 the war having destroyed all petty prejudices, and 
 wedding bells and marriage lines not now being 
 necessary to the union of hearts ; and then she ex- 
 plained that she had her own reasons for wishing 
 to change her name and leave London. Her hus- 
 band if he was her husband and she wasn't too 
 sure about that was due back on his ship, and 
 she had no intention of waiting to welcome him. 
 She had got on all right without him for two years, 
 and she never wanted to see him again. 
 
 "But he'd trace us I mean, wouldn't he follow 
 you up?" 
 
 "Not he. Besides, how could he? . 
 
50 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Well, what do you say? I'd make you comfortable. 
 I know what men want. I've had a lot to do with 
 men/' 
 
 "You 'ave?" 
 
 She took up her glove, and gave him a little flip 
 with it on the face. 
 
 "You're keepin' me waitin' for an answer. 
 . . . oh, lord, what's that ?" 
 
 It was the unmistakable sound of gun-fire. 
 
 " 'N air raid !" said Mr. Ringe, springing up 
 from the table. "Those cursed 'Uns 'ave come 
 back again." 
 
 The barroom was emptying itself slowly, and 
 he pushed his way through the press, followed by 
 his companion. 
 
 "Which way you going?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 "I'll go your way a little way. No such hurry, 
 is there?" 
 
 "Yes, I've got to get 'ome long journey. I 
 want to catch District train. I promised not to 
 be 'ome late." 
 
 Outside in the streets no one was hurrying. 
 People strolled along laughing and chatting; but 
 the great beams of the search-lights swept the sky, 
 whistles sounded, and the guns made a tremendous 
 racket. At each bang Mr. Ringe stepped out more 
 briskly. 
 
RATHER LATE 51 
 
 "When shall I see you again?" panted Mrs. 
 Yates. "I I can barely keep up with you." 
 
 "I dunno not for certain." 
 
 "Stop a moment and I'll give you my address, 
 where you can write to make an appointment." 
 
 "No, keep moving. Tell me in the train." 
 
 There was a crowd at the Broadway Station, 
 and somewhere in the crowd he mislaid Mrs. Yates 
 and did not find her again. No matter. She was 
 a capable woman who could find her own way all 
 right. She was not a bit afraid. Nobody in this 
 crowded train seemed to be afraid, nobody in the 
 whole of the West End of London, perhaps, was 
 afraid except himself. And he was afraid be- 
 cause he was in the West End instead of the East 
 End, where the bombs would probably fall if any 
 bombs fell. A cold superstitious fear had seized 
 upon him. 
 
 It passed off in a minute, before the train had 
 reached West Kensington. Nonsense. 
 
 At Earl's Court everybody was told to get out 
 of the train. 
 
 "When's the next train for Whitechapel?" he 
 demanded excitedly. 
 
 "Ask the Germans," said the official. "There 
 won't be a train for Whitechapel till the raid's 
 
52 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Then the fear returned to him. No train ? No 
 'bus? No means of getting home? It was one 
 thing to be dead sick of them, to mean to leave 
 them forever; for they would, normally, get on 
 very well without him, better than with him, per- 
 haps. It was quite another thing to think of them 
 in momentary peril, terrified, cowering, and him- 
 self miles away, when he had promised to be with 
 them and had broken his promise. Outside EarPs 
 Court Station he looked at the sky tiny stream- 
 ers of faint cloud at an immense height that might 
 have been anything; bright moonlight, so bright 
 that you could not see the stars, and could barely 
 see the search-lights. The anti-aircraft guns 
 whizzing and twanging and booming. Must get 
 home. He ran. 
 
 The perspiration was pouring off him, and his 
 lame leg was giving him intense pain when he 
 came out into the main road west of Kensington 
 High Street. There were some military lorries 
 moving slowly in the right direction, and with an 
 extraordinary effort he scrambled up on the back 
 of one of them. To his disgust the lorry turned 
 round at Knightsbridge and dived into the Bromp- 
 ton Road. He jumped off, slipped, fell, got up, 
 and ran again. Then by luck he saw a chock-full 
 belated omnibus, and, jumping on that, went for- 
 
RATHER LATE 53 
 
 ward in the right direction. The conductor made 
 trouble, stopped the 'bus, told him to get off the 
 platform, and with breathless excitement he stat- 
 ed his necessity. 
 
 "I 'ave to get 'ome. See?" And he appealed 
 to the whole 'bus-load, the whole universe, for 
 assistance in his extremity. "Must get 'ome 
 somehow. My 'ome is in Bethnal Green, which 
 is prob'ly bearing the brunt of these in'umin 
 fiends." 
 
 "They haven't dropped anything yet," said a 
 man in khaki. 
 
 "Is that so?" 
 
 "Yes. Here, take my place. . . . Drive 
 on, conductor." 
 
 The omnibus went no farther than Charing 
 Cross, and beyond that omnibus traffic seemed to 
 be suspended altogether. In the Strand the quiet 
 aspect of things steadied his nerves, made him feel 
 that his fear was ridiculous. Nevertheless he 
 jogged along. Then at Wellington Street he saw 
 parties of refugees, foreign Jews, men and women 
 with bundles, hurrying for shelter. This un- 
 nerved him, and a few minutes later he heard 
 what he felt certain was the crash of exploding 
 bombs. It was unmistakable. He had heard it 
 several times before quite different from the 
 
54 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 sound of the guns. There again it was, straight 
 ahead of him, in the east; and once more he ran 
 fast. 
 
 He had said that the lameness would not inter- 
 fere with him; and it did not, but the pain was 
 almost unbearable. His ankle seemed to be on 
 fire ; the bones of his leg seemed to strike on the 
 stone pavement, and the concussion pierced his 
 thigh joint with red-hot nails and still he ran 
 on, faint, gasping, despairing. "Said I wouldn't 
 be late anyhow an' she said she was that nervous 
 if left alone." 
 
 The "All clear" signal had been given long ago 
 when he got to Bethnal Green, and came limping 
 toward the corner that led to his street. Things 
 had been reassuringly quiet and orderly in the 
 main thoroughfare omnibuses and trams at work 
 again; only one fire-engine going westward, sug- 
 gesting that there had been trouble or an alarm 
 of trouble somewhere. The fear had gone; only 
 a little anxiety mingled with his great fatigue. 
 Then, as he turned the corner and saw the end of 
 his street, he nearly fainted. 
 
 There was a crowd, a fire-engine, hose pipes, 
 policeman, firemen in helmets, 
 
 "Stand back." 
 
BATHER LATE 55 
 
 "Lemme pass. I'm a tenant. Me own property. 
 Wife and kids. Don't you try to stop me. See?" 
 
 He was struggling wildly in the arms of two 
 plethoric special constables, and pushing them 
 backward through the crowd into the open space 
 beyond. A fireman lent a hand and they over- 
 powered him. Then it was all like a nightmare. 
 The street had been bombed, many houses had 
 been demolished, perhaps other houses might fall 
 in at any minute. But presently, on his promising 
 to go quietly and behave like a sensible person, he 
 was taken down the street to see for himself. 
 
 His home had vanished utterly. At the end of 
 the street there was a yawning rent in the houses ; 
 where his home had been there was nothing but 
 an immense rubbish heap of smoldering beams 
 and red-hot bricks, played on by fountains of 
 water. His own house, the houses of his next- 
 door neighbors, the yardful of rabbit hutches, 
 everything had disappeared in smoke and horror. 
 The street itself had gone, with its pavement and 
 lamp-post. He stood in the cruel moonlight, on 
 the edge of a bottomless crater, raving and yelling. 
 
 "Th' in'abitants. Th' inhabitants. Is they all 
 done for?" 
 
 They made him understand that everybody had 
 been warned to get out and run for the borough 
 
56 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 shelter. Anybody who did not act on the warning 
 was lying under all that. 
 
 Then he was like a madman, wanting to stop 
 the fire-engine and dig among the hot bricks with 
 his own hands, fighting, yelling. A clergyman 
 appeared from nowhere, and led him away, ex- 
 hausted. Why despair? Why doubt Providence? 
 Let us come and hunt for your dear ones. 
 
 They were not at the shelter. It had been 
 emptied and shut up. They might be at the 
 school in Raymond Street, where other refugees 
 had been sent. And they were at the school. 
 Directly he entered the schoolroom door he saw 
 them his whole family, a forlorn little group 
 apart from the others, hatless, dirty, miserable; 
 the wretched woman crying; the children cling- 
 ing to her and trembling. 
 
 Now w^ould have been the time to desert them. 
 They had not yet seen him. After all, they were 
 alive and safe ; but homeless, without beds, ward- 
 robe, crockery, cooking utensils; everything gone 
 from them, everything to be provided for them. 
 But he did not want to desert them now. 
 
 "Ally! Well, my dears!" 
 
 He was kissing his wife's wet face; he was 
 hugging his grubby children. 
 
 The clergyman and kind ladies said that they 
 
RATHER LATE 57 
 
 would all be given beds and blankets for the night 
 at a building in Church Place. This lady would 
 lead them there ; and presently they were meekly 
 following the lady through the now silent streets. 
 
 He squeezed his wife's arm and patted Maudie 
 on her bare head as they walked along. Each 
 of the children clutched in its right hand a small 
 object wrapped in paper. 
 
 "What 'ave they got in their 'ands?" he asked. 
 "Biscuits?" 
 
 "No, it's your presents what they bought for 
 you. I couldn't get 'em out of the house without 
 'em. Maudie there, she left hers and ran back for 
 it, making the policeman that angry." 
 
 Then Mr. Ringe began to cry. 
 
 "Ally," he said tearfully, "don't you fret about 
 all this. It's all right;" and he blew his nose 
 resolutely. As he spoke, he felt the uplift again ; 
 the war spirit, stimulated by the pictures and 
 patriotic tunes at the music-hall, stirred in him 
 again ; but it was the real spirit now, not a false 
 one. 
 
 "Ally, it's a blessing in disguise. London isn't 
 the on'y place. I'm sick of it. I ain't done well 
 'ere. I ain't treated you well 'ere. I'll turn over 
 a new leaf, make a fresh start. I'm worth the 
 money anywhere. We'll go up north. We'll make 
 
58 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 a new 'ome, an' start fair in it, with bygones as 
 bygones. I'll do better, we'll be 'appier in the 
 new 'ome? See?" 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 
 
 IT was the first Christmas Day that the Tenth 
 Battalion spent in France; and, as they 
 thought at this period of their history that it was 
 also the last Christmas Day they were to spend in 
 France, they made rather a fuss about it. 
 
 Turn and turn about with a battalion of an- 
 other brigade, they were holding a nice attrac- 
 tive bit of the line with a still nicer and more 
 attractive village three miles behind it; one 
 battalion in the trenches, the other battalion in 
 the village as support ; and for six weeks the Tenth 
 had been calculating how the turns would come 
 about with regard to Christmas. According to 
 the calendar, if the times for reliefs were not 
 altered, if no accidents occurred, it looked as if 
 the Tenth would be out of the trenches and snug 
 in Sainte Chose for their Christmas dinner, and 
 they so laid their plans ; but one dreaded accidents 
 this war was so full of them and one had an 
 unworthy suspicion that the general officer com- 
 manding the other brigade might somehow do the 
 dirty and get his lot out for the festival instead 
 of ourselves. 
 
 59 
 
6Q LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 However, it all happened as the Tenth wished. 
 The other brigadier attempted no wrangling with 
 the higher command ; he was a gentleman, second 
 only in gentlemanliness to their own brigadier; 
 and on the twenty-third of December they came 
 down from the line, plastered with mud, but 
 happy as birds at entering the comfortable nests 
 afforded by their beloved village. 
 
 The Tenth had fallen in love with it at first 
 sight when they marched in last September and 
 saw the white-walled mairie and schoolhouse, the 
 apple orchards with the ripe fruit, the estaminets 
 with flowers in the windows, and the friendly 
 French people at the house doors with welcoming 
 smiles on clean kind faces; and ever since then 
 their affection for it had been deepening. It really 
 was a topping village for billets. The farm- 
 houses and cottages were so solidly built, the barns 
 and lofts were so commodious, and as yet it had 
 suffered so little from shell-fire. There were little 
 shops like Whiteley's contracted into one small 
 front parlor; eggs, butter, and other delicacies 
 were plentiful; the inhabitants had now become 
 bosom friends of the battalion and would do any- 
 thing for one. No wonder the Tenth thought 
 themselves in clover there, and wrote home saying, 
 "This place, which I may not mention its name, 
 is Al. There are nice girls in it, but you need no$ 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 61 
 
 be jealous, Katie, for they all have French sweet- 
 hearts in the French Army. They can make 
 coffee a treat, and the French beer is not so bad 
 as I used to think. Altogether we seem at home 
 here, and you feel as if you were hundreds of 
 miles away from the war." 
 
 Yet in fact one was only three miles as the crow 
 flies from the German front trenches, and you had 
 not to go far from the crossroads by the mairie 
 before the war announced itself again in its usual 
 ugly way. Four roads met at the corner by the 
 mairie; and two of these were, so to speak, 
 innocent peaceful roads that took you back to 
 other inhabited villages, and two were wicked 
 roads that led you forward to desolation and the 
 cruel business of fighting. One of the two bad 
 roads forked immediately, thus making a third 
 forward road. It was the left fork that the 
 battalions used when going to this special place 
 of business. You went up a gentle slope between 
 the comfortable farm-houses and courtyards that 
 were B Company's main billet, battalion head- 
 quarters, the colonel's mess, A Company's head- 
 quarters; then you came to some shattered 
 tenantless cottages ; you passed the apple orchards 
 and poplar trees that formed a fringe to the 
 village and in summer hid it completely, a crucifix 
 still standing untouched on a high bank, a clump 
 
62 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 of somber fir trees ; and after that you were out 
 in the open waste, with nothing between you and 
 the trenches except a roofless ruin that had once 
 been the quadrangle of a large farm, a pile of 
 white stones that was a windmill, and the brown 
 sea of weeds that used to be rich cornfields. It was 
 a rapid and striking transition from the normal 
 aspect of the village to this wild heath, the belt of 
 devastation that stretched away on either hand 
 as far as the eye could see. As well as the high 
 road, always empty of life in daylight, there were 
 tracks over it used by artillery wagons and the 
 regimental limbers; here and there one came 
 upon sunken roads that ran for a little way 
 parallel to the line; and the whole place was full 
 of traps formed by weed-covered shell-holes, 
 disused trenches, old gun pits. Almost every inch 
 of it had been fought over in the early days before 
 the line settled down in its present position. 
 Riding across it in the day-time, one was often 
 startled by finding one's self close to troops before 
 one had guessed that there was anybody else 
 moving within a mile of one. It was so big, 
 so empty, so utterly forlorn, so dead that it 
 seemed to swallow every sign of life. The dull 
 brown tints of the rank vegetation absorbed into 
 themselves the color of khaki tunics; the faint 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 63 
 
 wintry sunshine refused to flash on the men's 
 accouterments ; and platoon after platoon could 
 go plodding along the mud tracks without betray- 
 ing their presence, unless you chanced to hear the 
 sound of a voice, or the rhythmic creaking of 
 equipment that told you men were marching in 
 step somewhere. 
 
 On the innocent roads that led backward from 
 the village it was quite a different story. There, 
 all was animation and comfort. One passed 
 through endless wagon lines of artillery and army 
 service corps ; lorries were active ; red-hatted staff 
 officers in motor-cars came spinning along, and 
 their soldier chauffeurs hooted at huge farmers' 
 carts blocking the way ; sentries saluted ; military 
 police asked you where you were going; the fields 
 were being tilled by bent old peasants ; boys and 
 girls were tending the cattle. The village a mile 
 or so back was divisional headquarters, with a 
 chateau for the general and a street full of offices 
 for his staff. Two miles behind that a bigger 
 village was army corps headquarters, with another 
 chateau for the general, three streets of offices, 
 squadrons of cavalry, more military police, a 
 prisoners of war camp, all sorts of wonderful 
 things. And still farther back were the railway, 
 the channel ports, England. It cheered one and 
 
64 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 bucked one up only to look in that direction and 
 think where one would get to if one went far 
 enough. 
 
 The Tenth Battalion liked to do things in style, 
 and they spared no expense in making Christ- 
 inas at Sainte Chose a matter to be remembered. 
 They had been further heartened and encouraged 
 in their efforts by confidential literature from 
 the higher command, which said it was desired 
 that, as far as possible, the day should be enjoyed 
 as a holiday by the troops out of the line. It 
 should not, of course, be forgotten that war is 
 war but, within reasonable limits, officers com- 
 manding units might remember that Christmas 
 is Christmas. 
 
 The festivities began on Christmas Eve with a 
 grand children's party for the inhabitants. At 
 three P. M. one saw the guests arriving at the 
 schoolhouse next to the mairie; mothers, aunts 
 and grandmothers issued from the clean and 
 comfortable billets leading little children dressed 
 like fairies, with shawls wrapped round their 
 finery; groups of young girls stood shyly in the 
 roadway, not giggling and nudging one another as 
 girls of other countries would on such an occasion, 
 but looking desperately serious, as all French 
 people do in moments of slight embarrassment. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 65 
 
 "This way. Come along/' said young English 
 officers, welcoming the guests. 
 
 "I thank you, my Lieutenant." 
 
 "Ah, Mademoiselle Louise. How smart you 
 look. What a lovely costume. And this is your 
 little brother, Pierre? Come along, Pierre, and 
 I'll find you a good seat near the tree." 
 
 When the guests entered the big schoolroom 
 they gave little cries of admiration and delight. 
 The small scholars could scarcely recognize it as 
 the place of toil and boredom to which they were 
 accustomed. All the candles had already been 
 lighted ; flags of the Allies were festooned across 
 the high ceiling; three immense tables were 
 spread out with all the requisites for a sumptuous 
 English tea ; and at the far end of the room stood 
 a noble Christmas tree profusely laden with toys. 
 The toys were so many that a table of them had 
 been arranged as a tombola in charge of the 
 quartermaster, while a further overflow were to 
 be got rid of by the padre with a bran pie. But 
 tea first. 
 
 "Give yourself the trouble to sit down, Madame. 
 This way, Mademoiselle Clotilde." 
 
 Soon then all were seated; the matrons sand- 
 wiched in between their shy little relatives or in 
 groups at the heads of the tables ; the mayor, the 
 
66 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 schoolmaster, and other village notables strolling 
 about; the English officers acting as waiters, 
 carrying plates of cake, cutting well-intentioned 
 and totally incomprehensible jokes in what they 
 believed to be the French language, each of them 
 of course paying special attention to the family 
 of his own billet. For a few minutes it was 
 rather a silent party ; then the shyness "wore off, 
 the naturally glib tongues were unloosed again. 
 Even before the crackers were handed round the 
 noise had become sufficient to satisfy the hosts 
 that their party was a success. The crackers 
 were something entirely new to Sainte Chose, and 
 the screams and laughter amid the sharp 
 explosions proved how much they were appreci- 
 ated. Young ladies of eighteen allowed officers 
 to assist them in putting on the paper head- 
 dresses ; the quartermaster crowned his landlady, 
 old Madame Binet, with a red cap of liberty it 
 was all very jolly and homelike. As one looked 
 along the table, at all the smiling faces, heard the 
 babel of happy voices, and saw the little girls just 
 as prettily dressed as children at a party in 
 Portland Place or South Kensington, one seemed 
 to be a thousand miles away from the rotten old 
 war. Truly it was a pretty sight. 
 After tea the tables were moved, the children 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 67 
 
 i 
 
 filled the floor space, and the distribution of toys 
 began. Old farmers returning from work came 
 to see the fun. The doors were thronged with 
 elders going in and out. The regimental medical 
 officer entered fully disguised as Santa Glaus and 
 was scarcely noticed. Non-commissioned officers 
 in appropriate costume sang music-hall songs and 
 were not listened to. The children were enjoying 
 themselves now without restraint; the party was 
 a terrific success. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the crowd and the noise and 
 the gaiety, one little girl of ten gradually had 
 attracted the notice of everybody and became, as 
 it were, the belle of the ball. 
 
 "My Colonel, grant me this pleasure ;" and she 
 asked the C. O. to pull a cracker. 
 
 "Indeed I will;" and the colonel immediately 
 fell in love with her. 
 
 And so it was with everybody else. Yet she 
 did not push herself forward; she was soberly, 
 even shabbily, dressed compared with the others ; 
 she was by no means the prettiest child there. 
 She was quiet and unassuming, with an earnest 
 little face, a serious voice, and the perfect man- 
 ners of a grand lady of sixty ; she was irresistible. 
 "Yes, yes, it is Antoinette," said the French 
 people. They made quite as much of her as the 
 English did. 
 
68 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 She lived with her Aunt Rosine at the farm 
 occupied by the regimental transport, and men 
 of the transport section knew her well. They 
 would tell you how she seemed to run the whole 
 farm for Rosine, taking the cattle to the fields 
 and bringing them back, making out lists of things 
 to be purchased when her aunt went to market 
 at Doullens, preparing meals for the children 
 while auntie was away; and in leisure moments 
 acting as amateur line orderly, telling the trans- 
 port sergeant that two of his heavy draught 
 horses had broken loose or the old spotty-faced 
 mule had got cast again. 
 
 "Yes," said the mayor, speaking to the colonel, 
 "that child is a little heroine. She has been in 
 the hands of the Germans, my Colonel, in the early 
 days, with all her family. They escaped, I know 
 not how. But the family is no more the father 
 killed in battle, the mother dead and the aunt 
 has given her shelter." 
 
 And the schoolmaste: praised her as highly, 
 saying how quick she was at her book, and how 
 she had been exempted from school as indis- 
 pensable to Madame Rosine. 
 
 "That child," said the schoolmaster, "would 
 carry the whole village on her shoulders;" and 
 he reminded the mayor that it was Antoinette 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 69 
 
 who had given the warning when Monsieur 
 Nodier's barn caught fire. "She has seen the 
 smoke and runs straight to the mairie with the 
 alarm." But for Antoinette half the village might 
 have been burned. 
 
 "It is true, all that he relates, my Colonel." 
 
 Because of her popularity Antoinette seemed 
 in danger of getting rather more than her strict 
 share of the toys, but she herself was careful to 
 prevent this happening. 
 
 "I thank you, but excuse me, I beg," she said, 
 with a grave smile. "Give that to another. You 
 have overwhelmed me already." 
 
 "Watch her now," said Madame Giraud to a 
 neighbor. "See, she gives her doll to Hortense, 
 because she knows that Hortense is lame and sits 
 all day on the hearth." 
 
 "That," said Madame Veuillot, "is what 
 Antoinette does ever. She thinks only of others. 
 Yes, we are talking of you, Antoinette. Come 
 and give me a kiss." 
 
 "Jarvis," said the colonel, for a moment 
 touching on business as the transport officer 
 passed him. "Jarvis, you have seen that thing?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I initialed it and passed it on to the 
 machine-gun officer, as directed." 
 
 "It affects you, of course." 
 
70 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Where are your lot dining to-morrow?" 
 
 "At the Estaminet du Moulin." 
 
 "That's the place at the corner, close to your 
 lines?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Good." 
 
 The thing to which the C. 0. alluded was a 
 synopsis of strictly confidential literature issued 
 by the higher command a few hours ago. Bri- 
 gades and battalions were warned that various 
 indications suggested the possibility of the 
 enemy's attempting something in the nature of a 
 surprise to-morrow. It might be bombardment, 
 gas, or direct assault; but the idea of the higher 
 command was that the enemy would somehow try 
 to take advantage of its being Christmas Day, and 
 officers commanding battalions in support should 
 therefore exercise vigilance and be ready for 
 anything. Christmas is Christmas, but war is 
 war. 
 
 Officers, speaking of this confidential matter 
 while the children drank their tea and pulled their 
 crackers, agreed that it was the sort of dirty trick 
 the Germans would play if they could play it. 
 
 Two young platoon commanders were speaking 
 of it now, as the padre distributed the last of his 
 toys from the bran pie. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 71 
 
 "It doesn't mean standing by, does it?" 
 "Oh, no, only to be ready to turn out." 
 And they went on talking. The child 
 
 Antoinette was close to them; and at something 
 
 that they said she turned sharply and watched 
 
 their faces with large anxious eyes. 
 
 "Hallo, Antoinette! Do you understand 
 
 English?" 
 
 "No, my Lieutenant, but one word 'the 
 
 Germans. 9 You said the word. What of the 
 
 Germans?" 
 
 "We're only saying we're afraid they'll want 
 
 to interfere with our Christmas dinner," and 
 
 Lieutenant Thompson laughed. 
 
 "But is that possible?" Antoinette echoed the 
 
 laugh; then she became grave and asked some 
 
 solemn questions. "They can not come here, can 
 
 they?" 
 
 "Not unless they make a hole in the line first." 
 "But they would be stopped by the other 
 
 regiments ?" 
 
 "Yes, unless the smell of our turkeys and 
 
 sausages made them very fierce indeed. They 
 
 might risk everything to get a share in the plum 
 
 pudding." 
 
 "But you will guard against it?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, we'll try to guard against it." 
 
72 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Antoinette spoke very gravely. "You will want 
 somebody to watch while you are at dinner." 
 
 "Thompson, don't be an ass," said the other 
 officer. "You are frightening her." 
 
 "Not she. Are you afraid, Antoinette?" 
 
 "I am never afraid," she said firmly. "But 
 believe me, the Germans want watching always." 
 
 At the end of the party the colonel, who talked 
 all languages that a soldier ought to know, made 
 a little speech in perfect French, saying how great 
 had been the pleasure of the Tenth Battalion to see 
 their kind friends there that afternoon; and the 
 mayor, who, like all Frenchmen, knew only one 
 language and never wished to learn another, 
 responded with a few happy phrases of acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 "Not only," said the mayor, "do we sleep 
 tranquilly in our beds because you form a living 
 and unyielding wall between us and the cursed 
 enemy, but by your kindness and sympathy you 
 have bound us to you as more than allies, as true 
 friends ;" and he added that they would have liked 
 to sing God Save the King, had they been able to 
 master either the tune or the words; but they 
 would sing it silently, deep in all their hearts. 
 
 Then the colonel called for The Marseillaise. 
 He told the quartermaster to sing it, and the 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 73 
 
 quartermaster said it was more in the padre's line, 
 and the padre hurried out of the room. 
 
 "Shameful," said the colonel indignantly. "I'll 
 sing it myself, if you fellows are such " 
 
 But the cry arose, "Antoinette. Antoinette. 
 She sings it ever. Antoinette !" 
 
 It was pretty to see the child's shy expostu- 
 lations and graceful surrender. They put her at 
 the top of the room facing the audience, and she 
 raised her little voice and sang. The chorus 
 nearly broke the schoolhouse windows ; every one 
 went mad with enthusiasm. When it was over 
 they put Antoinette on the table where the toys 
 had been, and made her sing it again. 
 
 It was wonderful and touching to see and to 
 hear the rather shabby, pathetic little figure 
 perched high on the table, the small face flushed 
 from the effort of singing, the eyes bright and 
 large, the hand raised dramatically; and the thin 
 but sweet little voice piping out the glorious song 
 of unconquered and unconquerable France. All 
 went mad for the second time. 
 
 This was the culmination of Antoinette's 
 success. As one left the party one felt that it 
 would have been nothing without her. 
 
 Outside in the village street night had fallen 
 pitchy black; all lights were carefully screened, 
 
74 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and only a gleam showed here and there as a door 
 opened and shut or somebody flashed his torch 
 lamp; but well-practised eyes soon grew accus- 
 tomed to the darkness. One heard the sound of 
 horses' hoofs and moving wheels and one guessed 
 at once what this might be, before the sentry at 
 the corner challenged. It was a limbered wagon 
 and the mess cart, both heavily loaded with the 
 Christmas mail forty bags of it, for the bat- 
 talion. They turned in by the archway to 
 Madame Binet's courtyard, the quartermaster's 
 stores ; and soon the post corporal and his special 
 assistants were going round the dark village with 
 thousands of letters and cards from home. 
 
 "Halt. . . . Who goes there?" Another 
 sentry challenged. "Pass, friend. All's well." 
 
 All's well. The spirit of Christmas was floating 
 in the night air. At the snug, warm, officers' 
 messes the talk was of home and of being there 
 this time next year. Just before the meal was 
 finished at headquarters mess a wagon stopped 
 outside the windows and carol singers interrupted 
 the conversation. They were musicians of the 
 divisional band going round the villages in a G. S. 
 wagon, stopping at important points, singing their 
 carol, and passing on. 
 
 At Sainte Chose we flung open the windows and 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 75 
 
 stood with the night air blowing into the room 
 while we listened. 
 
 "Is the band sergeant there? Come in, Ser- 
 geant, and have a glass of port wine." 
 
 "Thank you all the same, sir, but we must get 
 on to Telvillers, to sing outside the brigade mess." 
 
 "Then good night. A happy Christmas to 
 you all." 
 
 One felt that if the band sergeant could not 
 wait for a glass of port he must really be in a 
 hurry. 
 
 A few minutes before nine officers were going 
 round billets to see that all was in order before 
 lights out. On the gentle slope in the roadway 
 at the top of the village one could hear distant 
 rifle fire, an occasional rattle of the machine guns, 
 or the solid booming of artillery ; stars rose in the 
 east, the pallid flares with which the enemy would 
 light the sky all through the night ; and one knew 
 that over there, on the far side of the waste, 
 thousands of men were watching and listening in 
 the darkness ; that little knots of men were creep- 
 ing on hands and knees through gaps in the wire ; 
 that men were trying to blow one another to pieces 
 with bombs, to shoot, stab, tear, to rend the life 
 out of one another somehow in the darkness. But 
 all that was normal, quite in order; from the 
 
76 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 business point of view, it was a quiet, peaceful 
 night. One turned from the roadway, went along 
 a muddy lane, came to a barn, and opened the door. 
 Twenty, thirty or forty men were lying wrapped 
 in their blankets on the floor; and, fixed in 
 improvised tin sconces, ends of candles burned 
 cheerfully against the brick walls above the men's 
 heads. By the candle-light they were looking at 
 their Christmas cards and re-reading their letters 
 from home. 
 
 "All present, sir," said the non-commissioned 
 officer. 
 
 "Are you all right there ?" asked the officer. 
 
 "Yes, thank you, sir," said the men. "All 
 right, sir." 
 
 "Got enough straw?" 
 
 "Plenty, thank you, sir." 
 
 "Then lights out." 
 
 Next moment all was dark in the barn. 
 
 "A happy Christmas to you." 
 
 "Same to you, sir. Happy Christmas." 
 
 Out of the darkness their strong, brave, friendly 
 voices came in a jolly chorus; and one went 
 squashing through the mud to the roadway, 
 thinking perhaps. 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 It was the challenge of a sentry that one was 
 not expecting. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 77 
 
 "Who are you?" 
 
 "Officer commanding number six platoon." 
 
 "Advance and be recognized." 
 
 One went forward a few paces. 
 
 "Halt!" And there was a bayonet at one's 
 breast. 
 
 "Flash your lamp so's I can see you." 
 
 One obeyed, and the bayonet was withdrawn. 
 
 "Pass, friend. All's well." 
 
 And one went on, perhaps thinking again. 
 "Pass, friend. All's well." It was almost the 
 very words a message of peace and good-will to 
 all men. The spirit of Christmas was in the air; 
 one could not escape from it; one felt as if the 
 village was two thousand years away from the 
 war. 
 
 There was a fog next morning, but by midday 
 it had lifted and a pale but friendly sunlight fell 
 upon the white walls of the mairie and the busy 
 little street. Church parade was over; duty men 
 were cleaning themselves; dinners would be 
 served at one o'clock, and half of the kind inhab- 
 itants had in one way or another lent a hand in 
 getting things ready. 
 
 Truly the Tenth Battalion had done it in style, 
 each company vying with another, and the results 
 
78 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 surpassed belief. Unnumbered turkeys, obtained 
 from England, had been cooked at the quarter- 
 master's stores ; sausages also, together with pork 
 from Doullens; the whole regimental transport 
 had been employed to move the beer from 
 railhead ; the day's ration beef would smoke upon 
 the boards ; and there had been a benevolent issue 
 of plum pudding from a great London newspaper. 
 Beyond this solid fare there were incalculable 
 delicacies purchased by officers, and the outlay on 
 decorations had been lavish. 
 
 The scene of yesterday's juvenile party was 
 now D Company's banqueting hall. Tables had 
 been laid out to seat the whole company; they 
 creaked under the good things, they glittered with 
 colored ornaments. When one came in at the 
 door one had the genuine illusion the stage was 
 set for a true English Christmas dinner one was 
 in England. Burly sergeants marched up and 
 down by the tables, counting the places, surveying 
 the long perspectives of glass, cutlery and piled 
 fruit dishes. Such potentates as company 
 quartermaster sergeants stood proud and immov- 
 able, giving directions to subordinates busy with 
 final touches. Quick-handed, neatly-dressed 
 French girls bustled in and out, assisting, exactly 
 as if they had been the sisters and cousins of the 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 79 
 
 battalion; and the non-commissioned officers 
 spoke to them quite in this spirit: "Here, my 
 lass, put those oranges down here. . . . What 
 ye got there, Nellie? More nuts? Very good. 
 Carry on." 
 
 The other companies, including headquarters, 
 were as happily accommodated. Between twelve- 
 thirty and one the colonel made a tour of inspec- 
 tion with his second-in-command. All this sort 
 of unusual exertion, coming under the head of 
 what is called domestic economy, naturally 
 belonged to the second-in-command; and the 
 major modestly explained it all as they went from 
 point to point. When the men had finished their 
 dinner and the wine had been put on the table, 
 the colonel should come round again, look in at 
 each dinner, and say a very few words. Then 
 after his speech the men would probably drink 
 his health, and quite possibly sing He's a Jolly 
 Good Fellow. Then after they had smoked and 
 drunk for some time, they would all go out, the 
 rooms would be rearranged, and they would have 
 informal sing-songs, and no doubt more speeches 
 for the rest of the evening. Everybody would get 
 his dinner comfortably; by a system of reliefs 
 indispensable duty men would be given their turn ; 
 nothing had been forgotten. Really it was a 
 
80' LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 triumph of organization. But what about guards ? 
 Well, a special dinner for headquarters guard 
 would be served in the main guard room. Other 
 guards would be feasted by company arrangement. 
 
 "Upon my word," said the colonel genially, 
 "you are top-hole at this sort of thing. Does you 
 the greatest possible credit, my dear old boy." 
 
 At five minutes to one the men began to fill the 
 street and all the open space at the cross-roads 
 by the mairie. They looked splendid, so smart and 
 clean; their faces shining from extra soap, their 
 buttons glittering like jewelry, their boots so 
 well blacked that they seemed to be made of 
 patent leather. They stood about waiting, alert, 
 soldierlike, and very quiet; although there were 
 so many of them that their mingled voices made 
 a pleasant music. Then, at a word, they began 
 to file off to their respective rendezvous. D Com- 
 pany went up the steps of the schoolhouse, 
 smartly saluting their colonel as they passed. In 
 three minutes they had disappeared, and the 
 street was empty. The colonel and headquarters 
 officers still stood in a little group talking, and 
 except for them there was not an English soldier 
 in sight. For a moment, in accordance with the 
 custom of the Tenth, they congratulated ons 
 another on belonging to such a battalion. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 81 
 
 "What a battalion it is !" said the colonel ; and 
 the adjutant, the intelligence officer, the transport 
 officer, the medical officer heartily agreed. 
 
 Indeed, you could not command such men 
 without being proud of them and loving them. 
 One could not think of them without tenderness ; 
 and one felt this now, as a tremendous noise inside 
 the schoolhouse told one that D Company was 
 sitting down to dinner. Poor chaps one felt 
 quite soft and sentimental as one thought of their 
 having a good square meal in real comfort, a few 
 hours' complete respite, a little gaiety to make 
 them forget their ugly task. 
 
 "What's that?" said the colonel. "Listen!" 
 
 In the now silent street one heard the light 
 patter of approaching footsteps, and next moment 
 a child came running round the corner from the 
 forked road. It was Antoinette. She ran to the 
 colonel and stood breathless, panting, with a hand 
 pressed to her side. 
 
 "Bless me," said the colonel, smiling, "you 
 seem in a hurry to-day, Antoinette." 
 
 "My Colonel," she gasped. "The Germans! The 
 Germans have broken through." 
 
 "What's that, Antoinette?" 
 
 "They are there," and she pointed with her little 
 
82 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 hand in the direction of the line. "Not two kilo- 
 meters from here." 
 
 "But how do you know that, Antoinette?" 
 
 "I have seen them myself." 
 
 "You have, have you ?" The colonel was looking 
 down at her, with a kindly but serious smile. The 
 others had gathered close round her, and all 
 watched her. "How came you up there, Antoi- 
 nette? Were you alone?" 
 
 "Yes. I went there to watch for the battalion, 
 because it is Christmas and you are all at dinner." 
 
 "How many Germans did you see?" 
 
 "Six or seven. I think it was the head of a 
 column. They were in the sunk road, perhaps 
 three hundred meters from the crossing that leads 
 to La Sainte ruins." 
 
 "Did they see you?" 
 
 "No. As soon as I had seen them I ran to bring 
 you the alarm." 
 
 "Thank you, Antoinette. You are a little 
 angel." 
 
 These questions and answers took less than no 
 time, and while listening one thought. It seemed 
 incredible, and yet it must be true. You could not 
 look at the child's face and doubt her sagacity or 
 truthfulness. Except that she was out of breath, 
 she was as calm and collected as the colonel him- 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 83 
 
 self. Indeed, from her businesslike manner she 
 might have been another battalion commander or 
 a staff officer quietly imparting a necessary piece 
 of information. But, nevertheless, was she 
 mistaken? No. She had once been in the hands 
 of the Germans. She knew a German when she 
 saw him. Then how could it have happened? The 
 night and the morning had been profoundly quiet, 
 scarcely any shooting at all, because of the fog. 
 Yes, the fog? One thought of the small river and 
 the ravines at the extreme left of the divisional 
 front, the point of junction between us and the 
 French division, the point covered by the guns of 
 both divisions. Could they have possibly filtered 
 through there in the fog? One thought very 
 rapidly. But the colonel thought more rapidly 
 than the others because he thought so method- 
 ically. 
 
 "Thank you, Antoinette." He shrugged his 
 shoulders, and the brisk concise orders began to 
 rattle out of him. 
 
 "Yes, sir ... Yes, sir ... Yes, sir ... 
 Yes, sir." 
 
 One after another his officers had gone. 
 Immediately after the first officer vanished there 
 came a shuffling of feet in the schoolroom. D 
 Company was in the street, going to its billets. 
 
84 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 The other companies were out; the whole village 
 was full of hurrying soldiers. To the villagers 
 these three or four minutes were like a fantastic 
 dream. Clotilde, bringing the last plate of 
 walnuts and meaning to hand it to a non-commis- 
 sioned officer, found the crowded room empty. 
 Louise, coming with another knife and fork, met 
 a surging mob that said, "Excuse me, miss," and 
 slipped past her. Madame Binet, with other good 
 souls, pulling turkeys out of the ovens and looking 
 round for help, saw the quartermaster's staff 
 packing up the butchers' tools, carrying heavy 
 boxes and dumping them in the archway. She 
 went to the front door and looked down the road 
 at Rosine's farm. Officers' horses, fully capari- 
 soned, were coming out of the gate. The transport 
 men were running about like ants; ammunition 
 boxes were being handed out of a loft door and 
 dropped into wagons; the machine-gun limbers 
 went round the corner to Madame Boutroux's at 
 a gallop. And it was the same everywhere all 
 over the village. The inhabitants found them- 
 selves suddenly unnoticed, alone with all the food 
 and crockery, in the midst of a quiet, preoccupied, 
 busy crowd. The orderly room was packing up 
 while it talked to the brigade on the telephone. 
 The signals office was doing astounding things 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 85 
 
 with its wires. Then they heard tramp, tramp, 
 tramp. People at the top of the village saw the 
 bayonets flashing in the pale sunlight. It was a 
 platoon of A Company marching up the slope. 
 Tramp, tramp on the two other forward roads a 
 platoon of B Company, a platoon of C Company; 
 each of the three platoons going to its appointed 
 spot on its own road. And tramp, tramp, tramp 
 at the mairie and the schoolhouse the whole of 
 D Company, under arms, formed up outside its 
 empty dining-room, right-dressing, numbering, 
 and all the rest of it. Already, some little while 
 ago, as it seemed, the colonel, with his intelligence 
 officer and an orderly, had been seen cantering out 
 of the top of the village, by the crucifix and the 
 fir trees. Following him in the same direction 
 came signalers with flags and lamps. The puzzled 
 villagers rubbed their eyes and looked at their 
 clocks. It was four minutes past one. 
 
 There had been no noise, no confusion. Every- 
 thing was of course cut and dried. The brigade 
 had been informed, and no doubt was talking 
 about it to all concerned. Those three platoons 
 had now spread out and were lining the outskirts 
 of the village, according to plan. The remainder 
 of their companies were in billets quietly waiting. 
 D Company was here at the disposal of the colonel. 
 
86 LIFE CAN NEVER, BE THE SAME 
 
 Having said that the intelligence -officer was to go 
 out and reconnoiter and the secohd-in-command 
 was to go, too, he changed his mind and went 
 himself instead of the major. This was only 
 because temperamentally he always wanted to do 
 everything himself, and not because he took a 
 gloomy view of the situation. While waiting for 
 the horses he continued to discuss things with 
 Antoinette, getting all information out of her. 
 The Germans were not heading this way. No, 
 they were working south, say two kilometers 
 behind our front and parallel to it; that is, fol- 
 lowing the sunk road and the tracks toward La 
 Sainte. 
 
 The colonel had gone, and things were dull in 
 the village. The battalion was ready to move 
 forward to the attack, to move sidewise as a 
 reinforcement, to move any way but backward. 
 Time passed slowly. D Company took off its 
 equipment and sat down. One smoked one's pipe 
 and waited for orders. 
 
 Out on the waste, where the colonel and the 
 intelligence officer were cantering along a mud 
 track, all seemed normal and peaceful. Straight 
 ahead one saw leafless trees on the edge of ruins 
 that had been villages like Sainte Chose, unduly 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 87 
 
 \ 
 
 tions of ground with seams of white chalk running 
 across them, roadways raised on embankments 
 above the marshy flats and all that was the line 
 itself. Far away to the left there were higher 
 ridges, hummocks with firs, and woods and that 
 was where the unseen river crept sluggishly 
 through the ravines from the German position to 
 ours. Every now and then one saw a puff of 
 white smoke, and after a time one heard the sound 
 of a gun. With lulls of silence, there was the 
 usual meaningless rifle fire and the irritating 
 tap-tap of machine guns. Our batteries lay 
 dozing placidly; observation balloons hung with 
 lazy lurches in the quiet atmosphere. For those 
 who knew it, the scene could not have had an 
 aspect more restful to the eye. Out here it was 
 inconceivable that anything had gone wrong. The 
 notion of a serious break-through was simply 
 untenable. Of course on this dull, drab-toned 
 heath there might be a considerable force of men, 
 either in field-gray or khaki, without one's imme- 
 diately spotting them; but the colonel did not 
 expect that his reconnaissance would disclose the 
 enemy in force. 
 
 "All moonshine, Richards," he said genially. 
 "But what else can one do? War is war." 
 
 "You don't believe Antoinette saw; them?" 
 
88 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "I don't know what to think. We'll see for 
 ourselves." 
 
 They went first to the exact spot indicated by 
 Antoinette ; and between this and the village there 
 had not been a sign of anything. They worked 
 up to the spot from the left, and when they looked 
 down into the sunk track there was nothing there. 
 Then they rode slowly southward, keeping on top 
 of the bank. At a point two or three hundred 
 yards short of the main road they dismounted and 
 gave their horses to the orderly, who followed 
 slowly with the three horses. The sunk track 
 went deep before it rose to the surface at the 
 crossing over the main road ; and the colonel and 
 Richards, with their revolvers in their hands, 
 crept very cautiously to the edge of the high bank. 
 They had heard something, and they were both 
 excited. Distinctly, unmistakably, men lay con- 
 cealed down there German men, talking 
 gutturally in their own hateful language. Another 
 moment, and they peeped over at them. There 
 they were Germans all right; seven of them; a 
 non-commissioned officer with a red band to his 
 cap and six privates; no helmets, no rifles, no 
 nothing; recognizable at a glance as prisoners of 
 war escaped from some neighboring camp or cage. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 89 
 
 The colonel stood up, almost apoplectic with 
 anger, and spoke to them in faultless German. 
 
 "You damned rascals, what do you think you 
 are doing here?" 
 
 "Your excellency," and the N. C. 0. raised his 
 hand to his red cap in a most correct salute. "We 
 left Alaincourt last evening, and have thought to 
 get through the line before dawn. But it is light 
 when we arrived here ; so we have thought to wait 
 and try to get through when it becomes dark." 
 
 "Oh, you have, have you ?" 
 
 The anger of the colonel and the stolid polite- 
 ness of the Germans rendered the interview a 
 strange one. Their stolidity made the politeness 
 as exasperating as impertinence. In the circum- 
 stances it was impertinence. 
 
 "Scramble up that bank, you blackguards 
 double quick." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 And cumbrously they climbed up to the high 
 ground, and stood to attention while the colonel 
 got upon his horse. On the road the foremost 
 signaler with his flag had just arrived perspiring, 
 and thus established communication with the 
 village. The colonel sent a message saying every- 
 thing was a wash-out. Then he put the prisoners 
 in charge of the signaler and the orderly, who 
 
90 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 looked at them as though they would torture them 
 for a while and afterward slaughter them. 
 
 "Pardon, your excellency," said the German 
 N. C. 0. "You are doubtless sending us to your 
 headquarters, but we have left Alaincourt yester- 
 day without rations and are grievously hungry. 
 Will your excellency give an order that we may be 
 given some food before we are handed back to 
 the military police?" 
 
 "No," said the colonel, almost bursting, "I'll see 
 you damned first;" and he turned his horse and 
 cantered away. 
 
 In the village it had been tramp, tramp, tramp. 
 "Halt . . . Left . . . Right dress . . . Number 
 one platoon. Dis-miss ;" "D Company. Dis-miss ;" 
 and so on. Equipment was taken off or put away ; 
 billets emptied. The broken thread was picked 
 up as best they could. Clotilde and Louise got to 
 work again; Madame Binet and the others put 
 the turkeys back in the ovens; company cooks 
 recovered their joints of beef; the whole village 
 lent a hand. And soon the word went round that 
 dinners would be served at three P. M. 
 
 The men stood about waiting, and talking rathes 
 ominously. "What ab'aht these prisoners eh, old 
 pal?" There was a strong feeling that now or 
 never was the time for the Tenth Battalion tp 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 91 
 
 begin killing their prisoners. The true tale of the 
 alarm, too, was now known to all ; and poor little 
 Antoinette was anything but a popular favorite 
 this afternoon. There was talk of deputations on 
 Aunt Eosine, with petitions that a hair-brush 
 might be applied to Antoinette. 
 
 But when the transport section came from their 
 lines, they spoke up for Antoinette, and people 
 listened to them. After all, they had suffered 
 most every animal harnessed, every wagon 
 packed with its mobilization stores and they 
 really knew Antoinette. So gradually public 
 opinion swung round; the officers defended her; 
 she had upset everybody, but she had meant so 
 well. One thought of her, such a pathetic little 
 figure ; so fearless and so faithful ; going up there 
 all alone in the fog to guard the battalion from 
 surprise. No two ways about it, Antoinette was 
 the stuff heroines are made of. 
 
 And it was all quite all right by three P. M., 
 when the battalion sat down to dinner. Nothing 
 had been spoilt; everything tasted better for 
 having been kept waiting so long. All was gaiety 
 and laughter. At four-thirty the colonel went 
 round the dinners, and he took Antoinette with 
 him. At each dinner he made his little speech, 
 the men chanted He's a* Jolly Good Fellow, and 
 
92 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Antoinette sang The Marseillaise. And the cheer- 
 ing was loud enough to be heard in the German 
 front trenches. 
 
 The colonel did not miss a single gathering. 
 After leaving Antoinette, he remembered the 
 special dinner for the main guard. But he only 
 took a glance in there, and came away hurriedly. 
 
 Then he went to the orderly room, where he 
 found the adjutant talking to the brigade. 
 
 "Sir, the brigade says the corps A.P.M. is on 
 the line, and would you care to speak to him 
 direct?" 
 
 "Yes, I would," said the colonel, springing 
 fiercely at the telephone; and he told the assistant 
 provost marshal at army corps headquarters 
 exactly what he thought of him, in good old- 
 fashioned English. 
 
 "I'm sure I'm very sorry," said the A.P.M. 
 "I don't know how it happened." 
 
 "I'll tell you how it happened," said the colonel. 
 "It happened through infernal carelessness 
 nothing else." 
 
 "Where are they now?" asked the A.P.M. 
 
 "In my guard-room." 
 
 "I'll send an escort for them." 
 
 "Yes, I should jolly well think you would." 
 
 Then they laughed and made it up over the wire. 
 
CHRISTMAS IS CHRISTMAS 93 
 
 "I say," said the A.P.M. "I hardly like to ask 
 it. But of course they have had no food since 
 yesterday. Could you let 'em have some biscuits, 
 or something?" 
 
 "Well as a matter of fact it seems that my 
 chaps have given them a share of their dinner." 
 
 "Oh, that wasn't necessary." 
 
 "I know it wasn't. It's very wrong. It made 
 me very angry when I saw it. But it had gone 
 so far that I didn't know how to stop it." 
 
 The A.P.M. was laughing at the other end of 
 the wire. 
 
 "They haven't given them turkey and sausages 
 and all that?" 
 
 "I'm afraid they have," said the colonel 
 reluctantly. "What can one do? There's the 
 British soldier all over always a damned fool. 
 The only possible excuse for my chaps is, I sup- 
 pose they thought, in their addle-pated way, that 
 after all, don't you know, Christinas is Christmas." 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 
 
 WHEN the war broke out he was spend- 
 ing his summer holiday at Eastbourne 
 a naturally attractive place rendered to him 
 abnormally beautiful and romantic by the pres- 
 ence of Miss Kate Richardson. 
 
 Katie was stirred profoundly by the great 
 upheaval. It seemed at once to change her into 
 another girl. She cancelled the engagement to 
 go on the motor 'bus to Pevensey Castle; she 
 cared no more for tea and sweets at the Arcade; 
 all she seemed to enjoy was standing in the crowd 
 round the band of an evening, hearing God Save 
 the King, The Marseillaise and the other national 
 tunes. 
 
 "Hurrah! Hurrah P" she cheered shrilly with 
 the crowd. "George" and she gripped his arm 
 convulsively "go and ask the conductor to play 
 the Belgian hymn again." 
 
 "His instinctive shyness made him demur. "It'll 
 look funny, me pushing right to the front, won't it 
 I mean, conspicuous? Besides, they've played 
 it twice a'ready." 
 
 94 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 95 
 
 "Go on. I want it again," and she gave him an 
 eager thrust, speaking to him as he slowly moved 
 away. "They won't mind nothing matters now. 
 They'll understand." 
 
 He moved slowly, he thought rather slowly. He 
 worked his way through the crowd as best he 
 could, composing his apologetic little speech as he 
 went; but by the time he reached the blazing 
 circle of lights round the balustrade, somebody 
 else had done the trick for him. 
 
 "By request," said the gallant, uniformed con- 
 ductor: "Encore line fois;" and, after a wave of 
 his baton, the band struck into the glorious tune 
 again. 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss Richardson, when 
 George Hooper got back to her side. 
 
 "Well, as a matter of fact, somebody else " 
 
 "Hush ! I want to listen. This is the Russian 
 one. Doesn't it go through and through you?" 
 
 She was all on wires, pressing his arm, throb- 
 bing, vibrating. When the Russian anthem 
 ended she cheered, waved her handkerchief, tried 
 to get on a chair and nearly fell. 
 
 "Hold up," said George. "That might have 
 been a nasty accident." 
 
 Then the conductor made another announce- 
 ment. "Eh bien! By request. Pour la derniere 
 
96 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 fois." And the band played the Belgian thing 
 once more. 
 
 When, it ceased Katie went on anyhow, not a bit 
 like what she used to be really making herself 
 conspicuous, if people had noticed her. 
 
 She was all right when the band had stopped 
 for good, and you got her away from the crowd, 
 down on the sands among the boats in the moon- 
 light. George arranged her with her back to a 
 large sailing-boat, and kissed her affectionately, 
 as usual. She would let you kiss her just the 
 same only somehow it wasn't the same. Mys- 
 teriously, something had gone right out of it. She 
 was limp and careless; her face was cold, and 
 sometimes slightly wet with tears. Also she made 
 abrupt, disconcerting movements, catching you on 
 the bridge of the nose with the rim of her straw 
 hat. 
 
 "Hark! What was that?" She had disengaged 
 herself forcibly, and she held up her hand with a 
 dramatic gesture. 
 
 It was a feeble echo of that Belgian thing, 
 floating to them from the region of the Arcade 
 a faint music made by a harp and a piano. 
 
 "I'm thinking of the moonlight," said Katie. 
 *'It's the same out there the Germans are march- 
 ing through Belgium under the moonlight." 
 
 "Well, they haven't marched through, not yet." 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 97 
 
 "Who's going to stop them?" 
 
 "Well " 
 
 "P'raps they'll be unkind to the inhabitants 
 innocent men and women who aren't fightin'. You 
 never can tell." And she began to cry, clinging 
 to him, asking him to hold her tight. "It's shaking 
 me to pieces," she sobbed. "I I'm only a poor 
 weak girl. You're strong you're a man. Tell 
 me not to be silly. Hit me, if you like. But make 
 me believe. Comfort me, George, by saying that 
 we're going to smash them, and punish them, and 
 drive them back." 
 
 And he comforted her to the very best of his 
 ability. 
 
 "From all I read in the papers," he said 
 earnestly, "you can rest assured a very complete 
 punishment will soon be meted out to the aggres- 
 sors in this war perhaps a good deal sooner than 
 what is expected, and very much to their surprise, 
 too." 
 
 He himself had been stirred by the outbreak of 
 war. He thought of the varied chances of life. 
 Quite conceivably he might have been a soldier, 
 instead of being a warehouse clerk. In that event, 
 he, George Hooper, would now be going out to the 
 war or have gone already in the ordinary way 
 of business, taking it as a matter of course, 
 thinking it just as natural to risk death in Flan- 
 
98 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 ders as to write out an invoice in St. Paul's 
 Churchyard. And he would have done that job 
 just as efficiently, no doubt, as he was doing his 
 own job. Why not? He was strong, powerfully 
 built, every inch a man as Katie had been good 
 enough to say. Of course, to make a soldier, you 
 have to catch him young. It's a trade, soldiering, 
 to which you have to be apprenticed like any other 
 trade, but there is no insurmountable difficulty 
 about it. What makes it seem so wonderful and 
 remote is merely the glamour of the unusual 
 and also the queer sort of emotional confusion 
 produced in the mind by the blare of trumpets, 
 the roll of drums, the singing of these national 
 anthems, and the rest of it. And another thought 
 confirmed his judgment. He thought of those 
 Territorials. That there is no real mystery in a 
 soldier's work has been proved by the fact that it 
 is possible to acquire a smattering of it rapidly. 
 If one had had the means, and could have afforded 
 the time, one might have been a kind of sort of a 
 soldier as a Territorial. . 
 
 He was conscious of the glamour that appears 
 to surround the commonest military matters 
 more especially in war time as he stood watch- 
 ing some loaded artillery wagons pass through 
 the main street on their way to the railway 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 99 
 
 station. Having nothing else to do, he followed 
 them as far as the station yard. They belonged 
 to the Territorial Force, somebody told him ; and 
 then almost immediately he recognized an old 
 acquaintance in a driver who had just dismounted 
 from his horse. 
 
 It was the bathing-machine man from Brown's 
 machines over there on the sands; but really, 
 dressed up like this in khaki, hung round with 
 equipment, handling the horses so determinedly, 
 he appeared something quite grand, instead of 
 a humble, shambling person who gave you a pair 
 of towels in exchange for twopence. George 
 Hooper made sure it was no one else by speaking 
 to him. 
 
 "Where are you bound for?" 
 
 "Canterbury." 
 
 "For long?" 
 
 "Can't say. Dessay it'll be some time before we 
 get acrost." 
 
 Then a sergeant gave a loud-voiced order, and 
 the bathing-machine man unhooked his horses and 
 led them from the wagon. George would have 
 liked to give him a parting tip, but no opportunity 
 arose. In fact, next minute, a policeman, acting 
 on the direction of an officer, turned George and 
 all the other sight-seers out of the station yard. 
 
100 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Everything comes to an end. Soon now his 
 pleasant holiday was over. On the last night he 
 had a heart-to-heart talk with Miss Richardson, 
 after the band program was finished. She her- 
 self was returning to London in a few days; so 
 there was no painful sensation of bidding her a 
 long adieu. She was in the mantle department 
 of a West-End draper's, easily accessible. 
 
 "I shall call for you, Katie, at closing time on 
 the Thursday, and see you home. As you know, I 
 want to be presented to Mrs. Richardson." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose I shall have to go back to old 
 Rudge and Bryce's again, worse luck," and she 
 sighed. 
 
 "How d'you mean?" 
 
 "I'd like to go and be a Red Cross nurse." 
 
 "Never?" 
 
 "I would. But of course they wouldn't take 
 me. That's reserved for the swells girls with 
 handles to their names, and all that. There was 
 a photograph in the Mirror of one of our cus- 
 tomers Lady Edith Bramshaw in the nurse's 
 uniform. You never saw anything so fetching 
 in your life." 
 
 "You'd look fetching, dressed however you 
 were. But don't talk such wild ideas." 
 
 "Is it wild 2 George, I feel I must do some- 
 
THE STfeAIN OF IT 101 
 
 thing. I can't go on just the same. Oh, how I 
 wish I was a man." 
 
 "I'm very glad you're not," said George 
 gallantly. 
 
 "Are you? Oh, come on. I'm tired. I must 
 get back to the lodgings." 
 
 "Stop a minute." The girl's abrupt, almost 
 curt tone wounded him. This was his last night 
 at Eastbourne. If there had come some misunder- 
 standing between them, he would settle it then and 
 there. He asked her to explain why she seemed 
 to care less for him now than she cared a little 
 while ago. "If I have offended you, say so right 
 out" 
 
 She said, "No." 
 
 "Then what is it?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose it's the war. I am upset by it." 
 
 "So am I. So is everybody. But I should have 
 thought" and his voice showed real feeling . 
 "I should have thought, if ever a girl wanted the 
 love and the affection of a man to cheer her up 
 to sustain her it would be in such upsetting 
 times as these. You've said so, yourself." 
 
 "And so I do," said Katie, melting. "Yes, I do 
 want you, George. I'm all on strings, if left by 
 myself. Only " 
 
 "Only let me know exactly how I stand," said 
 
102 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 George, with firmness. "Are we regularly en- 
 gaged or not?" 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "That's how I've understood things, Katie; and 
 meant to tell your mother so. But I am not the 
 sort that likes to feel himself drifting into a false 
 position. Now, are we formally engaged to be 
 married? Do you look at it in that light or not?" 
 
 "Yes, of course I do," said Katie. "Now let me 
 go, please. It's late." 
 
 Within a week he saw his fiancee in London. 
 He had been introduced to Mrs. Richardson, an 
 extraordinarily genteel widow, and had spent the 
 evening at her modest but comfortable little house 
 near Clapham Common. 
 
 Now he was there again, sitting in the front 
 parlor alone with Katie, and once more he had 
 the feeling that things were not absolutely all 
 right between them. She drew her hand away, 
 she sprang up from the sofa, sat down again with 
 a jerk; she was nervous, like a person with some- 
 thing on her mind. When taxed with it, she said 
 she was merely excited by thoughts of the new 
 English Army; and she explained that from the 
 mantle department of Rudge and Bryce's she had 
 seen more than a thousand of them march by with 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 103 
 
 a Guards band playing them along. She sprang 
 up from the sofa, to describe it. 
 
 "They looked such splendid young fellows with 
 the sunlight on their faces as they stared up at 
 us girls. We were waving our handkerchiefs like 
 mad, and they kissed their hands to us." 
 
 "They aren't all of them so young, mind you," 
 said George. "I have seen some precious old ones 
 going into the recruiting office opposite our place 
 in St. Paul's Churchyard." 
 
 "Shall I tell you what I call them?" said Katie, 
 with an odd tone in her voice. "The old ones and 
 the young ones ?" 
 
 "Yes, what do you call them? Kitchener's 
 Lads?" 
 
 "I call them heroes" said Katie, with intensity. 
 
 And in the same intense manner she went on to 
 say explicitly that she had no use for any one but 
 heroes just now. 
 
 George got up from the sofa, and he looked hard 
 at her. 
 
 "Katie. There's something behind this 
 something I can't for the life of me understand. 
 Katie!" And it seemed as if a sudden inspiration 
 had come to him. "Do you mean that you think 
 / ought to go to the war?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
104 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "You do?" 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 He enlisted next morning. Really and truly- 
 incredible as it may seem he had never once 
 thought of doing so till now. He would, of course, 
 have come to it in time, but he thought things out 
 very slowly. 
 
 England awoke slowly one knows that phrase ; 
 and never was so cruel a slander uttered. England 
 awoke quickly enough; but the authorities told 
 her to go on sleeping. And George Hooper was 
 a typical Englishman in this, that he had always 
 done exactly what he was told to do. His mother 
 and father had made him a warehouse clerk, and 
 told him to attend to business. The manager at 
 the warehouse told him to come to business early 
 and stick to business all day. On the outbreak 
 of war the newspapers told him that business was 
 to be carried on as usual. Even when that great 
 leader, Lord Kitchener, issued his appeal for men 
 to fight for England, there immediately appeared 
 amendments or belittlements telling one that not 
 many men were wanted, and only men who could 
 be spared, certainly no men whose coming would 
 dislocate business. Heavy leading articles warned 
 one to do one's duty in that sphere of life to which 
 it had pleased God to call one, and not from a self- 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 105 
 
 ish love of adventure rush to the colors. Thus 
 it had never occurred to him for a moment that 
 he, George Hooper, might with perfect propriety 
 desert St. Paul's Churchyard and take an active 
 part in that other tremendous business of beating 
 the Germans. 
 
 He was a little dazzled or bewildered when Miss 
 Richardson opened his eyes and let the light in 
 upon him ; but a few hours afterward he had got 
 everything in its correct perspective. It seemed 
 to him that from the very first he had been pining 
 to go. He blessed her for telling him that he 
 ought to go. She was a girl in a million. She 
 was a wife worth winning, worth fighting for, 
 worth dying for. He wrote to tell her so f rom 
 a camp at Colchester. 
 
 It was eighteen months later, a winter evening, 
 when George Hooper, on his first leave from 
 France, turned up unexpectedly at the little house 
 near Clapham Common. 
 
 "Katie," he bellowed from the tiny hall, as soon 
 as the maidservant had opened the door. 
 
 "George!" Miss Richardson uttered a little 
 gasping cry, when she came out of the parlor and 
 saw him. 
 
 He looked enormous in his military overcoat, 
 
106 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and when he took her in his arms and gave her a 
 bearlike hug, she really screamed. 
 
 "George! You almost killed me." 
 
 He laughed, pulled off his big coat, and went 
 with her to the sitting-room. He was indescrib- 
 ably changed from what he used to be. It was 
 not only that he seemed so much taller and bigger, 
 that he was so much more alive and alert, but in 
 his eyes there was the look of people, who, like 
 sailors, are accustomed to open spaces and distant 
 horizons, and his voice had the unconsciously firm 
 tone of men who have been in command of other 
 men. For the moment he was noisy and exuber- 
 ant, and he seemed to take everything for granted. 
 It was nearly supper time, and he took it for 
 granted that he was going to stay to supper. 
 
 Miss Eichardson ran out of the room to tell her 
 mother this. 
 
 "It's rather awkward," she whispered. 
 
 "Now," said George, when she returned, "let's 
 have a good look at you." 
 
 She was ten times finer in attire than she used 
 to be; also much grander, or more like a lady of 
 fashion, in her manner. To one freshly arrived 
 from trenches and muddy French villages, she 
 appeared to be dressed as richly as a princess. 
 George looked at her with smiling attention; 
 
THE STRAIN OP IT 107 
 
 noticed the nicely waved hair of her head, her 
 open-work stockings, the marvelous high-heeled, 
 buckled shoes, her blue eyes, her little sharp nose, 
 the restless mouth, the pearl earrings, the move- 
 ment of her absurdly slender arms emerging from 
 the delicate fabric of the loose sleeves. And, 
 icuriously enough, he had the same impression of 
 surprise that had been made by everything he had 
 'seen since he jumped out of the leave train. He 
 had expected to be struck by the great size of 
 things the immense height of the buildings, the 
 width of the streets, the extent of the traffic 
 and, far from this happening, things seemed small 
 to him, even insignificant when compared with the 
 mental pictures of them that he had been carry- 
 ing about with him in France. Katie in this small 
 room seemed small. 
 
 But the room was very smart, with many new 
 ornaments and decorations. He mentioned the 
 decorations in complimentary terms to genteel 
 Mrs. Richardson when she came in. 
 
 "Yes, weliave brightened up the house a little ;" 
 and in the most genteel manner she gave him to 
 understand that they could have done more 
 brightening, had not feelings of good taste and 
 delicacy with regard to the war precluded them 
 from making further outlay. Probably, before 
 
108 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 very long, they would be moving into a larger 
 house in a better neighborhood. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said George heartily. "You've been 
 going up in the world, of course. I understand 
 that Katie is a terrific swell nowadays." 
 
 "She is head of the department/' said Mrs. 
 Richardson, with motherly pride. "Messrs. 
 Rudge and Bryce have put her in sole charge." 
 
 "Splendid!" 
 
 "I can tell you it isn't child's play, George," 
 said Katie, with animation. "We have expanded 
 into two floors. We are fairly booming. Our 
 turn-over last three months knocked all records 
 into cocked hats. And not made out of munition 
 girls' trade, mind you. Not much. Our custo- 
 mers are ten per cent, of 'em with handles to their 
 names." 
 
 "They work her to death," said Mrs. Richard- 
 son. "The firm rely on her so. However " 
 
 And she gave a well-bred sigh, from which one 
 might infer that the firm behaved all right in the 
 matter of remuneration. 
 
 Then there was a ring at the bell, and the 
 servant announced, "Mr. Fordham." 
 
 He was a thin young man of about thirty, 
 dressed in civilian clothes- 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 109 
 
 "I hope I'm not late. But you must forgive 
 me if I am." 
 
 "We know your time is not your own/' said 
 Mrs. Richardson. "Let me introduce Mr. 
 Hooper." 
 
 George had greatly embarrassed Katie by 
 taking the diversion caused by the new arrival 
 as an opportunity for putting his arm round her 
 waist and giving her another squeeze. Mr. Ford- 
 ham stared and raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "An old friend of the family?" 
 
 "Almost a member of the family," said 
 George. 
 
 "Really?" 
 
 "This is George," said Miss Richardson hur- 
 riedly, as she set herself free, "of whom you have 
 heard me speak so often." 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "How did you leave the regiment?" asked Mrs. 
 Richardson politely, filling a gap in the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Seven hundred strong and all in the pink." 
 
 "That is pleasant to hear. But, Mr. Hooper, 
 all said and done, this war is a weary, weary 
 business." 
 
 "Yes, it seems to drag a bit sometimes even 
 out there." 
 
110 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "But then you do have distractions, excitement. 
 You are not compelled to sit all day in a chair, 
 staring at the fire, and asking yourself when it 
 is going to end." 
 
 "No, they don't make us do that ;" and George 
 laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 Then supper was announced, and they went 
 into the other room. 
 
 "By Jove," said George, when they had taken 
 their seats at the table. "This is topping. If you 
 knew what it means. England. A meal at Clap- 
 ham here. After what I have been seeing. 
 Katie, I simply don't know where to begin. I've 
 so much to tell you." 
 
 "Tell me, to begin: What's the meaning of 
 those stripes on your arm ?" 
 
 "Sergeant! I am a full corporal, but acting 
 sergeant. The third stripe is only acting rank. 
 Don't suppose I shall ever have to take it off, 
 though." 
 
 "Oh! Then they haven't made you an officer 
 yet?" 
 
 "Officer? No, I am quite contented, thank 
 you. I have all the responsibility I want, as it is." 
 
 "Not ambitious, eh?" said Mr. Fordham. 
 
 "I should have thought," said Katie, "you'd 
 be keen to see yourself in the Tom Brown belt." 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 111 
 
 "Sam/* corrected Hooper. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 "All right. Go on talking, my dear." 
 
 "On the whole," said Mr. Fordham, "I take 
 it, the life is very jolly over there." 
 
 "Jolly? Oh, yes, you bet." 
 
 "So I have always imagined." 
 
 "Bertie," said Miss Richardson, "Mary is 
 offering you some cold partridge." 
 
 "There are hot cutlets, Bertie," said Mrs. 
 Richardson. "I know you ought to have some- 
 thing warm after your long day." 
 
 It was all very nice, but perhaps a shade too 
 genteel for perfect comfort; and George wished 
 that he could have had them to himself, without 
 this stranger. He glanced at Mr. Fordham, and 
 wished him at Jericho. Mr. Fordham seemed to 
 make Katie nervous and fussy. Yet why? Mr. 
 Fordham, like everything else, produced that 
 strange impression of smallness and insignifi- 
 cance. He was beautifully dressed, of course, in 
 his queer civilian clothes; with broad lapels to 
 his jacket, a colored shirt, and a jeweled pin in 
 his tie. George thought, good-humoredly, "Those 
 were what we used to worry about choosing 
 them with care, spending our wages on them, 
 thinking they made us nuts. Comic, simply 
 
112 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 comic. And lots of chaps talked like this little 
 fellow, drawling, and trying to look important, 
 and flushing and stammering if you spoke short 
 to them. Comic/' 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Fordham, picking up the thread 
 of his talk, "that is what I have imagined. Out 
 there you have hardships, of course. But you 
 have also the stir and bustle, the goodfellowship, 
 the camaraderie." 
 
 "Yes, we've all that." 
 
 "In a sense, it must be a great relief to get away 
 from the wear and tear, the incessant interrup- 
 tions, the ennuies of city life." 
 
 "Quite a change." 
 
 "Like every one else, I have often felt the 
 immense attraction of it." 
 
 "You haven't thought of giving it a trial?" said 
 George, none too tactfully. "I mean by joining 
 up?" 
 
 "He can't be spared," said Miss Richardson 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "No," said Mr. Fordham languidly. "I am one 
 of those unfortunate persons who have been 
 labeled by the powers that be as 'indispensable.' " 
 
 "He is in the Pamphlets Ministry," said Miss 
 Richardson. 
 
 "Head of one of the biggest departments in 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 113 
 
 the Ministry/' said Mrs. Richardson, in a confi- 
 dential whisper. "They work him to death, 
 because they lean on him so. Bertie, how many 
 did you say you have under you?" 
 
 "A thousand. Or, to be absolutely precise, one 
 thousand and seven." 
 
 "Full strength, eh?" said George. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 "Bertie used to be at Rudge and Bryce's," said 
 Miss Richardson, "in the old days. He was chief 
 in hosiery." 
 
 "Yes, I had that honor." 
 
 "You taught me pretty near all I know, Bertie." 
 
 "The firm must miss you a lot," said George. 
 
 "They said some very nice things when they 
 were good enough to release me to go to the 
 Pamphlets; and I must confess it was a great 
 wrench at first the breaking off of old associa- 
 tions. But then the wider scope of government 
 work began to appeal to me. I threw myself into 
 the organizing part of it." 
 
 "And now you like pamphlets better than un- 
 derwear?" said George abruptly. 
 
 Mr. Fordham flushed and stammered. 
 
 "I ah don't follow." 
 
 "All right. Carry on. You were saying?" 
 
 But Katie's eyes flashed, her thin little arms 
 
114 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 moved restlessly, and she turned her shoulder to 
 George. She seemed to think that he had been 
 rude to the other guest. 
 
 The conversation went on ; but it was all about 
 home politics, the strange vagaries of home trade, 
 the drift of home fashions, and George felt rather 
 out of it. He ate heartily while the others talked ; 
 and when not eating, he glanced thoughtfully at 
 Katie and Mr. Fordham. 
 
 "You're not going, Bertie ?" 
 
 They had come to the oranges, and Mr. Ford- 
 ham looked at his gold watch. 
 
 "Yes, I fear so. I am bound to look in at the 
 office." 
 
 "Just what I said," whispered Mrs. Richardson. 
 "They work him to death." 
 
 "Have you got a car, Bertie ?" 
 
 "No, not to-night." 
 
 "Then I'll send Mary for a taxi." 
 
 "No, I'll walk to the end of the street, and pick 
 one up. Good night. A thousand thanks. So 
 glad to have met you, Mr. er Hooper." 
 
 "Don't forget your scarf. It's bitterly cold." 
 Katie had risen, and she went out into the hall 
 with Mr. Fordham. 
 
 "Won't you pass through to the drawing- 
 room?" said Mrs. Richardson. "I must ask you 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 115 
 
 to excuse me ;" and when she heard the hall door 
 close she left the room. 
 
 "Now for it," whispered Katie, in the hall. 
 
 "It had to come sooner or later," said Mrs. 
 Richardson, going up-stairs. 
 
 "Well, young lady?" said George, rather grimly. 
 He took her by the shoulders and seated her on 
 the sofa, but he did not begin any more hugging. 
 
 "Well, George?" 
 
 "Now that Cuthbert has gone " 
 
 "That's not his name," said Katie angrily. "His 
 name is Herbert." 
 
 "Herbert then Bertie. So Bertie is indis- 
 pensable?" 
 
 "George, I warn you, if you think you can make 
 things better by abusing him, you make the great- 
 est mistake of your life." 
 
 "Who's abusing him? He said himself that he 
 was indispensable. And he is, isn't he ? I mean, 
 to you, as well as to the State?" 
 
 Katie brought out a handkerchief and put it to 
 her eyes. 
 
 "Well, my dear, all I have to say is, if that's 
 the case, I think you've treated me pretty meanly." 
 
 "You've no right to say that it's ungenerous, 
 it's unmanly." She had jumped up from the sofa, 
 
116 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and she faced him, with her blue eyes flashing. 
 "Whatever's happened, you brought it on your- 
 self. You deserted me." 
 
 "Deserted you?" 
 
 "Well, you know you did. When I wanted you 
 most when I simply couldn't get on by myself 
 you threw me on my own devices. Oh, I don't 
 say it was wrong to go." She was talking very 
 rapidly, almost hysterically. "You thought it was 
 your duty the right thing to do and the rest 
 of it; and you went. That was all right for you. 
 But how about me? No, George, if it comes to 
 speaking of meanness, I I think it would be 
 pretty mean of you to reproach me." 
 
 And she suddenly sat down, hid her face, and 
 sobbed hysterically. 
 
 "There, there," said George, patting her 
 shoulder. "Don't cry. Don't make a fuss about 
 it." 
 
 "But I can't help making a fuss. You're so 
 horribly unkind to me. You don't know, you 
 can't know what the strain of the war has been 
 on us girls and women. It's unbearable. I've 
 been on strings, if left alone a minute. I couldn't 
 go on without support without some one to cheer 
 me up and keep me going. I've thrown myself 
 into it Heaven knows I've worked. And the 
 
THE STRAIN OF IT 117 
 
 crushing responsibility! At night I dream that 
 I'm carrying the whole of Rudge and Bryce's on 
 my shoulders. They rely on me. Mother relied 
 on me." 
 
 "/ relied on you." 
 
 "And so you could have if you'd stayed at 
 home. I was lost without you. Then when I 
 began to rely on Bertie when I began to admire 
 him seeing how magnificently he was doing 
 seeming to carry the whole ministry on his 
 shoulders " 
 
 "Yes, yes. Don't go on. I understand." 
 
 "You do understand?" 
 
 "Yes. But what I wonder is why you didn't 
 mention it in any of your letters." 
 
 "Because I was thinking of you, not of myself. 
 I wanted to tell you, but then I thought you might 
 be disappointed. And it would be easier if we 
 just talked it put like this." 
 
 "I see." 
 
 "Perhaps, too, I was a bit afraid," and she gave 
 another sob. "George, don't be hard on me. Re- 
 member, I'm only a poor, weak girl, after all." 
 
 As he walked away, down the insignificant little 
 street, he said to himself: "A bit thick, that. 
 I must say, a bit thick." 
 
 Then, as he walked briskly along, he fell to 
 
118 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 thinking of vast spaces and far-off horizons, such 
 as one would find in the colonies of Great Britain ; 
 and the simple yet big life that people led there. 
 Then he thought of a nurse he knew at a casualty 
 clearing station near the Arras road, a girl from 
 Australia, with large dark eyes and firm white 
 forearms. She had left home and comfort six 
 thousand miles behind her, in order to tend the 
 sick and wounded, under shell-fire sometimes. He 
 thought of his talk with her in the lane by the 
 poplar trees and the river. 
 
 And he heaved a sigh of relief, and walked still 
 more briskly. He had no use for any one but 
 heroines just now. 
 
A 
 
 THE CHATEAU 
 
 THE chateau at Mariecourt was the typically 
 charming French country house that modern 
 French novelists have described so often; and, 
 although in the war zone, it remained for a con- 
 siderable time quite untouched by the ugly marks 
 of war. Passing it in the early summer of 1915, 
 one saw it just as it ought to be, still unaltered. 
 The village lay at the bottom of a little hill; and 
 near the troughs, where one halted on the march 
 to water the horses, there were gates that dis- 
 closed an avenue of lime trees, an archway, court- 
 yard of stables, the roofs of farm-buildings. This 
 was the business or workaday entrance to the 
 chateau. On the left, as one went up the hill, 
 there was an immense buttressed wall, surmount- 
 ed by stone balustrades that showed the levels of 
 the chateau grounds high above the roadway ; and 
 French 'servants, men in livery and women in 
 white caps, came to the balustrade and leaned over 
 it, laughing and talking, as they looked down at 
 the column of troops. At the top of the hill there 
 were gates much more ornate than the others, of 
 wrought iron, with coats of arms gilded and 
 
 119 
 
120 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 painted in the proper heraldic colors. This was 
 the entrance of honor; and, as one looked back, 
 one had a rapid glimpse of the chateau itself and 
 all its pleasant, prosperous, dignified Frenchness 
 a large, circular lawn surrounded by the smooth 
 gravel drive; white walls, innumerable windows 
 with green shutters and sun-blinds, high slate 
 roof; lower-roofed wings, turrets, gilded vane; 
 and a glass veranda or winter garden in front of 
 the ground floor a place full of palms and 
 flowers, comfortable chairs and sofas, where the 
 family sat in doubtful weather. 
 
 Perhaps, too, one caught sight of its owners, 
 the Count and Countess of Beauregard a digni- 
 fied, white-haired old couple, with a lot of little 
 children that they have brought to the gates to 
 watch the English soldiers pass by. Seeing them 
 thus, one could easily imagine all the rest. Their 
 sons and even their grandsons are fighting for 
 France, and more than ever has the chateau be- 
 come the family home, the fortress of the race; 
 to which are sent these children of the next 
 generation, to which come the anxious daughters- 
 in-law, where will be found the warriors 
 themselves during their periods of leave. And 
 the grand old heads of the house, although so 
 white, so old, so frail, carry themselves with pride 
 and courage in the midst of their country's agony, 
 
THE CHATEAU 121 
 
 taking care of the children and the mothers and 
 the governesses and the servants and the farm 
 people, maintaining a modest economical state, 
 guarding and protecting everybody ; always when 
 things are darkest showing the greatest fortitude ; 
 making hope seem easy because they are so hope- 
 ful; never for a moment allowing the home 
 atmosphere to be tainted with a doubt that the 
 cause of France will triumph in the end. 
 
 Also, with a slight effort of imagination, one 
 could mentally see the joyous, peaceful life of the 
 place in the days before the abominable war began 
 say in the autumn, when a large house-party 
 assembled for the opening of the shooting season. 
 Every one of the forty bedrooms would be occu- 
 pied by the family, the guests, and their servants ; 
 the stables would be full of saddle and harness 
 horses ; motor-cars accepted but not liked by the 
 old count would come spinning out of the stable 
 courtyard. The gentlemen, gorgeously dressed, 
 would be banging away in the woods all the 
 morning; the ladies, in marvelous sporting cos- 
 tumes, would drive out in carriages to meet them 
 and see the trophies of slain game; they would 
 probably all come back to the house for an 
 immense luncheon, and only the hardiest of the 
 young men would sally forth to burn more 
 cartridges in the afternoon. But there would be 
 
122 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 rides on horseback through the woods, along the 
 river, and over the hills, in which the ladies would 
 take part; much lawn tennis; much talk and 
 laughter, and graceful, gracious compliments. At 
 night, with all the electric lights blazing, the 
 chateau would seem at its very best, and doubtless 
 the ladies looked lovely in their Parisian frocks; 
 after the tremendous dinner, couples would be 
 seen walking through the moonlit grounds, stand- 
 ing by the balustrades, carrying on graceful little 
 flirtations; other couples would play ecarte and 
 piquet in the winter garden ; other couples would 
 dance in the big ballroom ; the old count would be 
 extraordinarily courteous and attentive to men 
 and women alike, telling them perhaps a few 
 stories that they had heard before about the war 
 of 1870; the old countess, with her favorite 
 daughter-in-law, would go up-stairs after dinner 
 to see the dear children safe asleep in their cots ; 
 and when it came to say good night at the end of 
 the evening there would be a great deal of kissing. 
 It would all be much more intimate and domestic 
 than a smart house-party in England; nearly all 
 of it the family, and the other guests such old- 
 established friends that everybody had forgotten 
 they were not really relatives. 
 It was in the summer of 1915 that general 
 
THE CHATEAU 123 
 
 officers of the British Army began to be billeted 
 at the chateau. Troops were always passing up 
 the hill ; the khaki flood was rolling into this part 
 of France; and generals commanding divisions 
 dropped in for a day or two with their aides-de- 
 camp, and were given the best spare bedrooms 
 and taken into the bosom of the family. The 
 count ordered up from the cellar his choicest 
 claret ; he was absolutely charming in the welcome 
 he gave to these red-hatted guests, and there used 
 to be contests of politeness about the dinner hour. 
 
 "My General, what time will it suit you to dine 
 to-night ?" 
 
 "Whatever time suits you, my dear Count. If 
 I should be a few minutes late, I know you and 
 madame will forgive me. And of course you will 
 not dream of waiting for us/' 
 
 "Oh, but indeed, we shall wait for you, my 
 General. We shall excuse you also;" and the 
 count had a superbly benevolent gesture with his 
 gouty right hand. "This is war. I myself have 
 made the war of 1870 with the rest and I well 
 remember that while campaigning one is not one's 
 own master. Nevertheless, to live one must eat. 
 Therefore at your leisure you will decide what 
 hour will suit you for dinner, and then you will let 
 us know," 
 
124 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "You really are too kind. Shall we say eight- 
 thirty then ? If you are sure it's all the same to 
 you." 
 
 The old count had winced on hearing the 
 lateness of the hour, but he pulled himself to- 
 gether, bowed, and smiled. 
 
 "Half past eight! Delightful. Be it so, my 
 General. And you are to understand that in all 
 things while you stay here " 
 
 "Oh, I shall be off again to-morrow." 
 
 "So much the worse for us. We lose a pleasure. 
 But as long as you stay, you will understand, I 
 beg, that the house is yours, not mine." 
 
 The khaki flood continued to roll in, in bigger 
 and bigger waves. Generals arriving for billets 
 brought more and more staff officers witH them, 
 and required more and more accommodation. 
 They took the salon for their mess-room, and the 
 custom of dining with the family was abandoned ; 
 then they took the drawing-room, dancing-room, 
 library for their offices, and the family, pushed out 
 of the ground floor altogether, narrowed their life 
 as much as possible and hid it on the first floor. 
 
 The old count was as charming as ever, not 
 uttering the slightest complaint, still acting the 
 kindly host if he chanced to meet staff officers on 
 the stairs. 
 
THE CHATEAU 125 
 
 "Monsieur is the aide-de-camp? I hope your 
 general is well here. If we can do anything to 
 render his visit agreeable, you will tell me, will 
 you not?" 
 
 "Ah, monsieur is the aide-de-camp who acts as 
 camp commandant? Very good indeed. Spare 
 me one minute of your time;" and he led the 
 young officer through the kitchen a lofty noble 
 room past sculleries and pantries, into a very 
 small, walled garden at the back of the house. "It 
 is nearer, this way. Now see. This is my wife's 
 little private retreat, but she has thought your 
 general might like the use of it. You see, it is 
 just under the windows of his room. He has that 
 private door there, opening upon the terrace. He 
 can come in here at any time with his papers, and 
 be quiet and happy or have his coffee brought 
 here after luncheon." 
 
 "Thanks awfully." 
 
 It was a jolly little place, with its high walls, 
 roses, creepers, mown grass, and in the middle of 
 it a tiny square fish-pond, with a marble pedestal 
 rising from the water lilies and a poised cupid on 
 top. 
 
 "Yes, ripping," said the A.D.C. "Now, sir, I 
 am ashamed to ask crowding you up like this; 
 but our artillery general and his intelligence 
 
126 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 officer are coming this afternoon. Could you let 
 us have two more bedrooms? As a great favor?" 
 
 The count winced and pulled himself together. 
 "From the moment you ask it, the thing is done. 
 I will speak to my wife." Then he smiled 
 benevolently. "And in exchange, you shall do 
 me a favor, too. All those horses standing in the 
 orchards. Can you tell your men so to attach 
 them that they will not eat the bark of the fruit- 
 trees? I must explain why I appear so trouble- 
 some" and he supplemented his explanation with 
 gestures. "Experience tells that when the bark 
 of a fruit-tree is stripped off in a circle, the tree 
 perishes. You forgive my importunity?" 
 
 "Oh, rather. I'll see to it at once. They know 
 jolly well it's strictly against orders. I'll go and 
 drop on 'em like a thousand of bricks. They have 
 been warned again and again." 
 
 "You are always so considerate." 
 
 But it was no good. Two more bedrooms, 
 three more bedrooms nothing sufficed. The 
 countess had put the children in the attics and the 
 servants in the lofts; but the French authorities 
 wrote to the count saying that the English Army 
 had definitely taken over the whole of this zone, 
 and that room positively must be found for them. 
 Then the count with his entire family and house- 
 
THE CHATEAU 127 
 
 hold disappeared, leaving behind them only a man 
 and wife as caretakers. 
 
 "Gone to Paris," said the woman, sitting in the 
 kitchen. She answered curtly, and did not trouble 
 to rise when officers entered. "What do you 
 want? I speak for the countess henceforth. And 
 my husband there speaks for the count/' 
 
 "That is true," said the man, none too civilly. 
 "Oh, I see. I wanted to borrow a toast-rack/' 
 "Such an article is not available as a loan." 
 The chateau had passed into another phase now. 
 It was a regular divisional headquarters, used by 
 divisions in reserve, and a jolly good one at that. 
 When you passed by in 1916 you saw at once that 
 it was completely organized. By night it an- 
 nounced itself with colored lamps. By day the 
 flag told you. Nearly all the paint and gold of 
 the heraldic coats had peeled off the gate, and the 
 iron had gone rusty; but there was a drab-toned 
 sentry box and a smart sentry, who clicked his 
 heels and presented arms as cars dashed in and 
 out. The circular piece of grass was built over 
 with huts. ' The winter garden was full of busy 
 clerks; wooden tables ran from end to end of it, 
 not a palm or flower-pot remained. The drawing- 
 room was labeled "G Office," the library, 
 "G.C.O.," the ballroom "A. & Q." A lorry 
 
128 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 working the electric light throbbed and shook near 
 the archway by the stable yard; the signals office 
 was just inside the archway; and telephone wires 
 were liberally festooned across the faade of the 
 house. The dairy belonged to the military police, 
 with guard-room and so forth. All those huts in 
 front were offices with labels officer in charge of 
 the Royal Engineers, officer in charge of A.S.C. 
 artillery, chaplain, French mission, A.P.M., what 
 not an inextricable jumble to the untutored, but 
 all in apple-pie order if you had the key to the 
 puzzle. There were wagons in the grassless 
 orchards, and horses stood tail to tail all down 
 the back avenue. Every loft up here and in the 
 village was a sleeping place for troops. Principal 
 officers slept at the chateau, and juniors in cot- 
 tages and huts. And wherever you turned your 
 eyes, you saw activity and movement the motor- 
 cars buzzing, saddle horses being led about, 
 red-hatted officers jogging at the double, orderlies 
 swarming, fatigue men sweeping the gravel or 
 cleaning the windows. The whole place was alive 
 with this different sort of life; all very clean, 
 well kept in its peculiar way, army-like, British. 
 Then in the winter after the fighting on the 
 Ancre, when the Germans had been pushed back 
 and the line had shifted a little farther away, the 
 
THE CHATEAU 129 
 
 chateau passed into still another phase. The 
 neighborhood became what is called a staging 
 area. Divisions moved through it incessantly; 
 tired divisions going up north, rested divisions 
 coming south, new divisions just arrived from 
 England. Of a morning all the wagons, lorries, 
 cars, horses, red hats and troops would roll away 
 from the chateau ; and in the afternoon or evening 
 they all came rolling back again. Only it was not 
 they really; it was another lot, just the same. 
 General after general slept in the room over the 
 little garden, rarely more than a night at a time, 
 till all the divisional commanders in France 
 seemed to have been through again and again. 
 And the chateau showed the wear and tear of it ; 
 the strain and fatigue of entertaining these hurry- 
 ing guests told on it heavily. From without it 
 looked shabby and forlorn. Inside, the wall-paper 
 was peeling, the cornices were tumbling, panels 
 of doors were broken and their handles missing; 
 the balusters on the stairs had fallen out ; the top 
 floor and the attics were almost knocked to pieces. 
 It should be noted that all damage was paid for 
 twice or thrice. The extraordinarily high rates 
 allowed for billeting by the English in France 
 mounted to a formidable sum as rent paid for the 
 use of the chateau. A French liaison officer and 
 
130 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 five or six subordinates traveled with every divi- 
 sional headquarters ; and these made out billeting 
 certificates, completed all formalities with the 
 mayor of the village, and were careful that not a 
 horse stood in the stable, not a man slept on the 
 floor without handsome payment. 
 
 It should be noted also that the Count and 
 Countess of Beauregard in truth had such fine 
 and patriotic feelings that they hated this billet 
 money, and would have preferred not to take a sou 
 of it. On leaving their chateau, they had given 
 orders to the caretakers that everything possible 
 was to be done for the English Army; any fruit 
 that ripened should be given to the general's mess, 
 vegetables too, and wood for the fires ; and, above 
 all, the little garden was to be kept neat and tidy 
 for the enjoyment of generals. 
 
 But Monsieur and Madame Sellier, like bad 
 servants, released from supervision and control, 
 obeyed none of their kind master's orders. On 
 the contrary, they exploited the situation to the 
 uttermost. They sold the garden produce to the 
 guests at exorbitant prices ; they cadged for tips ; 
 they extracted a noble revenue for the use of the 
 mess-room and the kitchen. The British Govern- 
 ment does not allow any billeting money for 
 officers' messes ; but as officers fighting in France 
 
THE CHATEAU 131 
 
 / 
 
 find they can not do without a place to eat their 
 food in, they pay for it themselves. It would 
 have broken the heart of the old count to charge 
 extra rent for this accommodation; so his care- 
 takers could safely put it into their own pockets, 
 and they did so. 
 
 As time passed they grew more impudent. The 
 man exchanged logs of wood with the cooks for 
 bully beef, Machonochie's rations, and tins of 
 tobacco. He levied tribute in the stables for use 
 of ladders. The woman took the countess's bed- 
 room for her own, putting a reserved notice on 
 that and other doors. She reserved for her own 
 use the little garden with the basin and cupid, 
 hung up clothes lines for her washing, and could 
 be heard there under the windows screaming at 
 her husband. They charged now five francs a 
 day for the dining-room and three francs for the 
 kitchen. And they wished that the war would go 
 on forever. 
 
 "See," said the husband, after everybody had 
 cleared out of a morning. "They have left this 
 behind. It isn't worth mentioning, is it? They 
 can't want it." 
 
 "No. Put it in there ;" and she pointed to one 
 of her cupboards. 
 
 The man had a special cupboard of his own ; and 
 
132 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 into that he put the little finds or leavings that 
 appealed specially to his own almost insane form 
 of acquisitiveness. He had been a gamekeeper 
 in the woods once, and everything connected with 
 shooting fascinated him. He handled the men's 
 rifles, looked at their ammunition pouches, and 
 watched the servants cleaning their officers' 
 revolvers. He was not quite so bad as madame. 
 
 Once when a harassed camp commandant ar- 
 rived with his people, they found that madame 
 had locked up the dining-room and was sitting on 
 guard in the kitchen. She said she had with- 
 drawn the privilege of using these rooms 
 altogether. 
 
 "Then where is my general to have his meals? 
 Where are we to cook for him ?" 
 
 The woman shrugged her shoulders and spoke 
 with drawling insolence. "It is a conundrum for 
 which I am not called on to provide an answer. 
 That is your affair, not mine." 
 
 "But, oh, I say. Really, you know," said the 
 poor young officer. 
 
 Madame laid her hand, with a firm gesture, on 
 the dresser by which she was seated. 
 
 "One's patience and good nature become ex- 
 hausted," she said firmly. "This invasion has 
 continued too long. I have said to my husband, 
 
THE CHATEAU 133 
 
 when the officer made trouble yesterday about 
 payment for the privilege : Til have no more of it.' " 
 "Yes," said the husband, "Madame has said so." 
 The camp commandant was in a hideous 
 dilemma. The men were waiting to get to work 
 with the mess boxes and prepare tea. The general 
 was due in an hour ; and he liked to find his mess- 
 room all comfortable, the tea nicely laid out, 
 everything reminding him of home. If this did 
 not happen, he was apt to think he had got an ass 
 for a camp commandant; and if hard pushed, he 
 would say so in the presence of witnesses. Of 
 course the camp commandant agreed to anything, 
 however iniquitous. After some bargaining 
 madame unlocked the mess-room, and let the sol- 
 diers enter her kitchen. She ordered the soldiers 
 about as though they had been her servants ; but, 
 the rent being now fixed to her satisfaction, she 
 became affable enough to the officer. 
 
 She was a woman of thirty-five, not ill-favored, 
 with large dark eyes, a neatly dressed mop of 
 greasy black hair and a sallow complexion. When 
 she smiled and assumed a pleasant, friendly 
 manner, as she was doing now, she showed large, 
 white, even teeth ; and her voice, which rose to a 
 scream in moments of anger, grew soft and 
 musical as the voices of other French women. 
 
134 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Now that our little difference has been settled 
 amicably," she said, smiling; "I can sell you a dish 
 of pears for your general, if you wish. My pears 
 are beauties. I am proud of my pears." 
 
 Then the French liaison officer arrived. He 
 looked very smart and trim in his pretty uniform, 
 with the blue band on his arm and the velvet and 
 gold on his cap. When he heard what had been 
 arranged he was indignant, telling the camp 
 commandant he had done wrong, and roundly 
 rebuking the woman. 
 
 "What is it to do with you?" said madame, 
 raising her voice. "Mix yourself with your own 
 affairs. This gentleman and I have settled the 
 matter. At a glance I have seen that he was a 
 gentleman, and therefore I consented to treat with 
 him. You I utterly defy." 
 
 If she could be insolent to officers of the Allied 
 forces, her insolence to officers of her own army 
 was infinitely greater. 
 
 "You can not keep us out of this kitchen," cried 
 the Captain Aubry. "We have the right of access 
 to the family cooking fire. It is the law of 
 France." 
 
 "I maintain no family fire here," yelled Madame 
 Sellier. "If there is no fire, the right falls to the 
 ground. So much for your law," 
 
THE CHATEAU 135 
 
 "That is what we shall see. I go now, on the 
 instant, to the mayor, to make requisition in form. 
 I telephone, I telegraph, and I return here under 
 brief delay with the gendarmes." 
 
 "I mock myself of you and the mayor, too," 
 screamed Madame Sellier. 
 
 The camp commandant drew the liaison officer 
 aside. He said they were moving on to-morrow ; 
 it did not matter. Moreover, the English authori- 
 ties disapproved of requisitions ; they wished the 
 army to respect the susceptibilities of the French 
 population, to keep on good terms with them, to 
 do everything in a friendly way. 
 
 "Quiet her somehow, old chap. If she goes on 
 making this noise the general will have a fit." 
 And the camp commandant hurried off. He had 
 plenty of other matters demanding attention. 
 
 "It is the principle I fight for," said Captain 
 Aubry ; and, left alone, he and madame had a tre- 
 mendous nagging match. Before it was over he 
 had worked himself into the state of furious 
 excitement that Frenchmen only reach when 
 feelings of patriotism mingle with their other 
 emotions. 
 
 "You make me blush for you." 
 
 "Blush for yourself. You speak so to a lady?" 
 
 "I look round in all directions, but I see no 
 
136 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 here. I see a personage who forgets her duty to 
 the glorious land of her birth." 
 
 "That land and all its joys and comforts have 
 been spoilt by these English, who march through 
 our kitchens and homes night and day. It is an 
 intolerable invasion." 
 
 "OhP* And Captain Aubry almost burst. 
 "You dare to permit yourself to use such a word ! 
 It is unworthy of a French woman. These are our 
 friends, and you call them invaders. Suppose it 
 was the enemy in their place?" 
 
 "I don't know that it would be worse," said 
 madame. 
 
 "Oh!" With gestures and words of horror, 
 fury and disgust, Captain Aubry rushed from the 
 kitchen. 
 
 He was absolutely calm again by dinner time, 
 peeling a pear with his special silver pocket-knife, 
 and shrugging his shoulders as he spoke of the 
 affair. 
 
 "The woman is low class not a typical example 
 without heart, and probably without moral vir- 
 tue either. The mayor tells me that there is 
 suspicion against the man for a thief. There has 
 been a plaint lodged at one time by a certain 
 division, concerning the loss of a revolver in this 
 house; but the mayor has forgot* the numeral of 
 the division.'* 
 
THE CHATEAU 137 
 
 These caretakers gave the chateau a bad name. 
 Camp commandants, speaking to their "opposite 
 numbers," passed the warning up and down 
 France. 
 
 "If you go to Mariecourt, it's a topping chateau," 
 said one, "but they'll do you in the eye if they 
 can." 
 
 "It belongs to an old pincher in Paris," said 
 another; "and he's on the make all the time. He 
 does it through two stewards, who simply skin 
 you alive. And they're so damned rude about it, 
 too." 
 
 Every division had some tale about the harpy 
 count and his odious representatives. Really they 
 were the only two objectionable French people 
 that one ever met in France. 
 
 So things went on, always the same, until the 
 spring of 1918, and the German advance. 
 
 Then for two days English troops were march- 
 ing by without stopping. They passed down the 
 road beneath the great buttressed wall and the 
 stone balustrades, in an endless stream, artillery, 
 engineers, infantry; and the roar of the guns 
 seemed to draw nearer and nearer. The chateau 
 stood empty. There had been some confusion in 
 the village when all the military lorries came to 
 
138 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 fetch away the inhabitants. People brought 
 out their horses and harnessed them to every 
 farm-wagon and cart, piling up their furniture, 
 bedding, chickens, and children. The mayor ran 
 in at the front entrance of the chateau to ask if 
 the Selliers were going with the convoy. He said 
 the authorities had proclaimed danger in delaying. 
 The battle was not prosperous. 
 
 "Are you going yourself?" asked madame. 
 
 "No, I stay," he said proudly; "because I am 
 the mayor. I stay, whatever happens." 
 
 "And I stay, because I am Madame Sellier," she 
 replied obstinately. "Nothing will happen." 
 
 The mayor trotted away. 
 
 "Therese," said Sellier, biting his fingers and 
 looking in the direction from which came all the 
 noise, "I ask myself if we are wise." 
 
 Just then a shell burst with an appalling crash 
 among the huts on the circular lawn, and the 
 Selliers ran cowering back into the chateau. 
 
 There were good solid cellars, with vaulted 
 roofs, and they spent most of the day down there, 
 under an intermittent bombardment. Once or 
 twice a gigantic explosion made them think that 
 the chateau was tumbling about their ears; the 
 whole fabric seemed to totter. The rattle of rifle 
 fire and machine-gun fire never stopped; it ap- 
 
THE CHATEAU 139 
 
 peared to be all round them; they fancied, too, 
 that they heard shouting. But late in the after- 
 noon all the noise moved farther off; and then 
 there fell complete silence. Monsieur and madame 
 came up from the cellar, crept into the garden, 
 gazed, and listened. They saw huge shell-holes 
 on the terrace and the lower lawns, but the 
 chateau was untouched. And in the queer silence 
 after all the racket, they heard the footsteps of 
 troops still marching by. They looked down into 
 the roadway, and drew back terrified. Germans! 
 
 Five minutes afterward there were German 
 officers in the front hall, and a divisional head- 
 quarters came rolling in. 
 
 It was exactly the same only Germans. Sig- 
 nalers, orderlies, clerks, and all the rest of it. 
 These men in gray, with their ugly helmets and 
 large boots, took possession of the kitchen. They 
 brought in their heavy, metal-clamped mess boxes, 
 dumped them, and grunted. The officers in their 
 long overcoats passed to and fro. They talked 
 French better, but, if possible, with a worse accent 
 than the English. 
 
 The Selliers cringed to these newcomers, and 
 yet madame had the temerity to ask for payment 
 of some sort. 
 
 "Silence yourself!" whispered her husband. 
 
140 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 The Germans laughed. 
 
 Madame exhibited her white teeth in a, forced 
 smile. "I am sure," she said, "that you will show 
 us consideration." 
 
 "Oh, yes. If you behave yourself you have 
 nothing to fear. If you play the fool you will be 
 shot." 
 
 A bullet-headed elderly officer was obviously the 
 camp commandant -but, oh, so different from the 
 silly-billies of the past. Not a gentleman, one 
 saw at a glance. 
 
 "Get that fire going," he said to the husband; 
 and Sellier went on his knees at the range, and 
 hastily set to work. 
 
 "Much wood will be wanted or coal, if you 
 have it for the rooms. Show these men where 
 it is." 
 
 Sellier conducted them, and presently the sol- 
 diers came tramping back with immense logs. 
 
 Then the camp commandant said, "Now, my 
 woman, your larder. Show me." 
 
 "My larder?" 
 
 "Yes. You have heard." 
 
 And reluctantly she opened her cupboards. 
 
 The officer and his sergeant examined the stores 
 and a private soldier brought out all the eatables, 
 fresh or preserved, and stacked them on the 
 
THE CHATEAU 141 
 
 dresser. They reminded madame of custom- 
 house officials that she had met with once years 
 ago. 
 
 "Have you nothing else to declare?" 
 
 They used the very words. 
 
 "No papers left by the English?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "No arms, no maps, no secret hidings ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What is there?" and he pointed to a closed 
 cupboard. 
 
 "That is my husband's only odds and ends." 
 
 "Yes," said the man. He was fanning the fire 
 that he had kindled in the range; and he got up 
 from his knees, looking anxious. 
 
 "Open it. Well, have you anything to declare ?" 
 
 The man twisted his hands. It was his little 
 magpie hoard, the treasure in which he delighted. 
 
 "Oh, no, sir. All private property." 
 
 "Then why do you hesitate to open it?" 
 
 "I have not the key." 
 
 The camp commandant made a sign to two of 
 the men, who were carrying a vast log. They 
 advanced methodically, balanced the log and 
 swung it against the cupboard door. When they 
 had smashed the door they laid down the log and 
 opened up the place, disclosing all that it con- 
 tained. 
 
142 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 There was every kind of rubbish; and on an 
 upper shelf five service rifles, a revolver, two 
 leather bandoliers and a lot of ammunition. 
 
 "Ach! Good. That is very good. Now what 
 have you to say?" 
 
 "I will confess the truth." And the wretched 
 man told the absolute truth; saying how, foolishly 
 and wrongly, he had stolen the things from the 
 careless English and stored them there out of 
 sight. 
 
 "Yes, you have stored them against such a day 
 as this. You are not a soldier; but you have 
 thought, With these and the assistance of vil- 
 lagers whom I will admit during the night, as 
 arranged, I will murder the German general in his 
 bed, and thus rid France of one enemy. 
 . Sergeant, make out your sheet." 
 
 The sergeant had seated himself at the kitchen 
 table. He produced a stylographic pen, some 
 ruled paper with printed headings; and he sol- 
 emnly asked his questions. Names in full, age, 
 profession, and so on. 
 
 "Therese Hortense Sellier. Age thirty-six./ 
 Wife of Cesar Leon " 
 
 The names bothered him. 
 
 "Make them write them themselves," said the 
 camp commandant. And the terror-stricken pair 
 
THE CHATEAU 143 
 
 were made to write their names, write them in 
 capital letters. 
 
 "Search them/' 
 
 And this was done. 
 
 Madame was forced to help in cooking the din- 
 ner, and her husband in washing the vessels ; and 
 after dinner, about ten o'clock, they were both 
 taken through the stable yard to the dairy, which 
 was now being used as an office, and brought 
 before another officer. The mayor and three or 
 four trembling villagers were there. 
 
 The officer asked the mayor about these two. 
 
 But it was all unintelligible to monsieur and 
 madame all vague and confused as a nightmare 
 dream. Something was said about making an 
 example. If people behaved themselves, they had 
 nothing to fear. If they played the fool, an 
 example must be made of them. 
 
 In the morning, very early, one heard her 
 screaming in the little reserved garden under the 
 general's windows. It did not disturb the German 
 general. He had heard the sound of women's 
 screams so often that he could sleep through it 
 quite comfortably nowadays. They were binding 
 madame, because she struggled ; and as she would 
 not stand up, they tied her to one of the staples 
 
144 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 that she herself had fixed to the wall for her 
 clothes line. The man stood by her side, un- 
 bound. 
 
 The statue of the cupid was in the way ; and at 
 an order of the officer two of the firing-party put 
 down their rifles, went to the basin and pushed the 
 little statue off its pedestal. It fell with a splash, 
 and the water went high into the air. 
 
 "Now is that all right? Have you a clear field 
 of fire?" 
 
 And the non-commissioned officer said yes. It 
 was all right now. 
 
 "Load I" and the soldiers put the cartridges into 
 the magazines of their rifles. 
 
 "Assassins !" shrieked the bound woman. "You 
 can not do it. Oh, say this is a cruel joke. Let 
 me loose, and I will laugh and forgive you." She 
 was half mad. "Assassins ! You dare not ! The 
 English will punish you. I warn you, they will 
 make " 
 
 "Ready," said the officer. "Present!" 
 
 The man's face was white, the features dis- 
 torted, and the mean mouth twitching. He knew 
 it was hopeless. He made no appeal for mercy; 
 and as the soldiers lifted their rifles some old 
 instinct stirred in him, so that he raised a husky 
 shout: "Vive la France!" 
 
THE CHATEAU 145 
 
 "Two rounds. Fire!" 
 
 The report of the rifles made as much noise in 
 this confined space as a shell bursting. And as 
 the smoke floated away, one saw the man lying at 
 the foot of the wall and the woman still erect, her 
 head fallen forward from the shoulders, her face 
 hidden, her black hair like a mop, greasily lus- 
 trous in the faint sunshine. 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 
 
 THE long summer's day was drawing to a 
 close. Dusk crept into the room, hiding some 
 of its ugliness and filling its blank spaces with 
 gray shadow, while Lizzie Wade moved to and fro 
 and tidied up for the night. The most important 
 task of the evening was accomplished she had 
 put her baby to bed in his commodious cradle ; and 
 she murmured to him cajolingly as she straight- 
 ened out materials on the work-table, closed the 
 work-box, and restored the tea-things to their 
 proper place in the cupboard. 
 
 "Mother isn't gone, darling. Mother has got 
 the newspaper so she won't have to run and get 
 it and leave you alone, you angel. Go 
 to sleep. Hush-a-by, baby . . . Oh, drat 
 those children." 
 
 Mrs. Wade's room was on the second floor of 
 a London tenement house, a populous but respect- 
 able and well-behaved house, where one might 
 expect quiet and consideration from neighbors 
 who are aware that babies must not be kept awake 
 after nine P. M. The older children of the house, 
 however, had been playing at soldiers down below 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 147 
 
 in the small courtyard, drilling with paper hats 
 and wooden swords. No harm in that; but now 
 commanding officers from every floor had with- 
 drawn all troops from this training area, and were 
 bringing them back to billets. They made a 
 terrible clatter on the stone staircase and Master 
 Wade highly resented the disturbance. In a 
 moment he was wide awake and squalling. 
 
 It took poor Lizzie a long time and many bland- 
 ishments to resettle him. "There," she whispered 
 coaxingly. "Be good mummy's so tired." After 
 the success of her efforts, she had seated herself 
 again by the cradle, and she was rocking it while 
 she looked at the evening paper, and strained her 
 nice blue eyes in the gathering darkness. 
 
 "Go to sleep go to sleep, my darling, an' dream 
 of dear, brave father far away fighting for his 
 country." Then for an instant, forgetting to 
 whisper soothingly, she stared straight in front 
 of her and spoke with sudden intensity. "Dream 
 the war's over and father is coming home/' 
 
 Father's son stirred uneasily, and uttered a 
 fretful sound. 
 
 "There there there," she whispered. "Go 
 to sleep and le' me read the paper. Oh, I suppose 
 you want the paper read out to you as usual" 
 and she recited a few scraps of information in 
 
148 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and droning tones. . . . " 'Spite of repeated 
 counter-attacks, all positions captured yesterday 
 remained in our hands/ . . . Yes, captured 
 by daddy and the dear lads." 
 
 Presently she rose and looked into the cradle. 
 He was "off." The child had this great merit: 
 once fairly asleep, he slept solidly. He took after 
 his father in that. She went to the work-table, 
 lit and regulated the oil lamp. The room was bet- 
 ter by lamplight than by daylight one could not 
 see the patches on the screen that concealed the 
 bed, or the blistered paint on the common deal 
 cupboard, or the smoke stains on the plaster 
 ceiling. In the lamplight, too, young Mrs. Wade 
 looked still younger, less care-worn, almost pretty, 
 with darker-colored eyes and hair, and some added 
 refinement of curves and modeling about her 
 chin and lips. 
 
 "Bother!" Somebody at the door. 
 
 "Good evenin'." 
 
 A neighbor had come in for a few moments' 
 chat. 
 
 "Good evening, Mrs. Jones." 
 
 Mrs. Jones was middle-aged, a big jolly sort of 
 woman, with habitual fondness of jokes and oc- 
 casional lapses to lugubriousness. 
 
 "How's young two-and-six?" she asked politely. 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 149 
 
 "Don't wake him," said Mrs. Wade. "He's only 
 just off." 
 
 "May I 'ave a peep at him?" and in a knowledg- 
 able, matronly fashion Mrs. Jones investigated the; 
 cradle. 
 
 "To think," said Lizzie Wade, "that his father 
 has never seen him wouldn't recognize his own 
 child." 
 
 "Never mind," said Mrs. Jones, with jovial 
 playfulness, "so long as he really is his own 
 child." 
 
 "Oh, he's his all right," and Mrs. Wade laughed, 
 and tossed her head. 
 
 Mrs. Jones sighed. "Well, I've much to be 
 thankful for. I thank Providence that Mr. Jones 
 was too old for it, and could keep outside these 
 dreadful times. Not but what he does his bit 
 in a way." 
 
 "What way?" 
 
 "Knocks off work Wednesday afternoon as well 
 as Saturday." 
 
 "Oh," said Lizzie blankly. 
 
 "Holds himself free for any service he might 
 be called on." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Lizzie sympathetically. "And 
 is he ever called on ?" 
 
 "Not that I know of. It's very inconvenient 
 
150 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 for me. But lor' " and Mrs. Jones became quite 
 cheerful again "what's the use of grumbling? 
 The inconvenience those inhuman fiends have 
 caused everybody ! D'you think we're goin' to beat 
 'em in the end?" 
 
 "Of course we are that is, if we've enough 
 men like my husband." 
 
 "My word, you are proud of him." 
 "And haven't I the right?" said Lizzie. "It's 
 my pride in him that sustains me. He was among 
 the first to volunteer. He's a full corporal 
 already." There was something really fine in her 
 aspect as she spoke thus enthusiastically. She 
 held herself erect ; her eyes, her whole face, shone. 
 She went on eagerly. "Corporal B Company! 
 Perhaps you don't know the ranks ? He was made 
 lance-corporal first then they raised him. Above 
 that is sergeant." 
 
 "Where does the colonel come in?" 
 "Oh, he's over them all. I believe the colonel 
 thinks highly of Jim they all do." 
 
 "I'm sure they do," said Mrs. Jones cordially, 
 "an* you're to be congrat'lated on him. How was 
 he when he last wrote?" 
 
 "In the pink. Those were his own words." 
 "Ah, they all say it's a healthy life in a sense. 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 151 
 
 Not in others, of course/' and Mrs. Jones laughed. 
 "What part did he write from?" 
 
 "They mayn't say where. But it was a part 
 they'd just re-conquered. I'll read what he said. 
 Shall I?" 
 
 Mrs. Jones courteously repressed an inclina-< 
 tion to yawn. "Cert'nly. By all means." 
 
 "Here it is," said Lizzie Wade eagerly. She 
 had brought the letter from her work-box, where 
 it lay treasured more than needles and thread. "I 
 tell you your blood will boil. This is the bit," and 
 she read aloud. " 'When we took the village there 
 were only a few old men and women left in it. 
 Ten days before, the rest were marched off by 
 Germans. They paraded all the girls over thir- 
 teen and the women under thirty-five in one 
 company in the street, and marched them away 
 separate. They passed their mothers and rela- 
 tions in the open street, and the German soldiers 
 were hitting them with their fists and the butts of 
 their rifles when they tried to get one last kiss 
 and hug/ . . . There! What do you say 
 to that?" 
 
 Mrs. Jones said: "Well, upon my word. What 
 next?" And both women sat for a few moments 
 silent, thinking of the significance and the infamy 
 of the episode that Corporal Wade described. 
 
152 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Then his wife went on reading the letter. 
 " 'You bet it makes our lads half mad. I feel 
 myself if I had twenty lives, I'd give them to 
 punish such cruel hounds/ " 
 
 Mrs. Jones heaved another sigh. "Yes, and he'll 
 want twenty lives before he has done." 
 
 "What do you mean?" asked Lizzie, putting 
 away the letter with fingers that shook a little. 
 
 "Well, I mean the the danger. He's bound 
 to take risks. Sooner it's over fewer risks." 
 
 "Oh, why do you say that to frighten me with 
 what I'm always thinking myself?" Her lips 
 trembled, her eyes filled with tears, and in piteous 
 tones she confessed how greatly she longed for her 
 husband's society, how intolerable life seemed 
 without him. 
 
 "Oh, don't take on," said Mrs. Jones. 
 
 "I can't help it. It's you you've started me" 
 and Lizzie stretched her arms across the table, 
 buried her face on them, and wept bitterly. "The 
 war is too long," she moaned. "It isn't fair that 
 the same men should be kept fighting. The strain 
 is more than women can bear. I want him back. 
 Oh, I want him back." 
 
 "'Ush!" said Mrs. Jones. "We ain't alone/' 
 
 Indeed another visitor had appeared at the door. 
 
 ."May I come in?" 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 153 
 
 It was Mr. Jardine, the curate of St. Savior's. 
 He was old, white-haired, shabby of raiment. He 
 carried a brown paper parcel, which he deposited 
 on a chair by the door. Then he advanced diffi- 
 dently to the table. 
 
 "I wanted to ask you but I have come at an 
 inopportune moment. You are in distress. No 
 bad news, I hope?" 
 
 "Oh, no," said Mrs. Jones. "She's only upset 
 herself talking about her husband. I tell her she 
 ought to be very proud of 'im." 
 
 "So I am," said Lizzie, raising her tear-stained 
 face. "But I can't get on without him. I want 
 him." 
 
 Mr. Jardine spoke gently. "His country wants 
 him." 
 
 "There's others," sobbed Lizzie. 
 
 "They are all wanted;" and Mr. Jardine 
 continued very gently and kindly. "Compare your 
 fate with that of the people of the invaded coun- 
 tries. The advantages " 
 
 "She has her separation allowance," said Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I didn't mean that." 
 
 "And a half-crown for every child," said Mrs. 
 Jones, offering a further suggestion of comfort. 
 
 "Oh, please," said the curate; and he addressed 
 
154 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Lizzie Wade solely, laying his hand on her 
 shoulder. "I know it is weary waiting/' 
 
 "It's too long too long. It isn't fair to us 
 women." 
 
 "Think of the women of Belgium, the women 
 of Serbia." 
 
 "Let their own men fight for them," cried 
 Lizzie, with unanticipated fierceness; "not my 
 man. They've nothing to do with me," and her 
 voice became piteous again. "I'm all alone month 
 after month- and he'll be killed and I shall be 
 alone for ever. He oughtn't to have gone. I've 
 the right to him, yes, I have. We were made one 
 in the church. I oughtn't to have let him go. 
 He oughtn't to have left me." 
 
 "It was his duty." 
 
 "He might have dodged it. Many have;" and 
 Lizzie bowed her head upon her arms once more. 
 
 "Ah, no," said the clergyman. "You are over- 
 wrought. Those are not your real thoughts. You 
 spoke of your pride. That's the right thought. I 
 honor him. The world honors him. Suppose you 
 had kept him here, you would have been ashamed, 
 miserable." 
 
 "Of course she would," said Mrs. Jones cheerily. 
 
 "Suppose he dies. God forbid but still, better 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 155 
 
 so than that he should have shirked. Think, later, 
 when you tell the story to your little girl." 
 
 "It's a boy," said Lizzie, without looking up. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Jones, "it's a boy. Only 
 child so far/' 
 
 "Well and good," said Mr. Jardine, for the 
 moment disconcerted. "A dear little boy. A man 
 child to inherit his father's courage <and vigor," 
 and he patted Mrs. Wade's shoulder, and continued 
 earnestly: "Believe me I say it with all rever- 
 ence and with absolute conviction. If God gave 
 you the choice, to have him here by your side, safe 
 but idle while there are still blows to be struck, or 
 put there in peril and toil, you would not hesitate." 
 
 Lizzie Wade stopped crying and began to dry 
 her eyes. "They don't even give him leave," she 
 said sadly. "They promised it* and they put 
 him off." 
 
 "No doubt it's difficult with these operations." 
 
 "There's always operations." 
 
 "And they will be crowned with victory. 
 . . . Believe me," and Mr. Jardine's smile 
 was very kind. "Now be yourself. Be very proud. 
 And remember: he is fighting for your sake, for 
 his child's sake, for the honor of the Empire." 
 
 Lizzie Wade stood up, pulled herself together, 
 
156 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and spoke with calmness. "You wished to say 
 something to me, sir, about some work?" 
 
 "Yes, but ' 
 
 "I am all right now, sir quite all right." 
 
 "Yes/* said Mrs. Jones, "she's all right now, 
 sir," and, with apologies for withdrawing, she 
 moved toward the door. "I tell her she ought to 
 be thankful. I've no pride to sustain me with 
 my 'usband. Not but what he'd have done his bit 
 if the war 'appened twenty years ago. Oh, noth- 
 ing would have kep' Mr. Jones out of it. Good 
 night, dear." 
 
 Mr. Jardine untied his brown paper parcel and 
 showed Mrs. Wade a gray flannel jacket and 
 trousers. 
 
 "I had an accident at the children's fete on 
 Whit-Monday. Do you think you could take the 
 stains out?" 
 
 Mrs. Wade examined the rather threadbare gar- 
 ments, and answered confidently : "Yes, sir, I can 
 easily get the stains out, and I'll press them as I 
 did the others." 
 
 "Thank you. But not to-night, you know. 
 Any time ! You look very tired." 
 
 "I am tired. Good night, sir." 
 
 Left alone, she stretched herself wearily, looked 
 at the baby, sat beside the cradle, and picked up 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 157 
 
 ' 
 
 tHe newspaper. Before a minute had passed the 
 
 newspaper rustled and slowly descended with her 
 hands upon her lap. She had fallen asleep. 
 
 It seemed to her that the door was being slowly 
 opened. Very, very slowly it opened until there 
 was an aperture wide enough to admit a man. 
 The man entered the room cautiously, closed the 
 door softly, and locked it. The man was in uni- 
 form, with his rifle and service equipment. The 
 man was her husband. 
 
 "Jim!" 
 
 She gave a cry of delight, rushed to him, and 
 embraced him. "Oh, it's too good to be true. 
 Then they gave you leave after all I" 
 
 "I'll tell you all about it," said Jim heavily. 
 
 "Come and look at your son ;" and she dragged 
 him toward the cradle. 
 
 "Yes," and he went reluctantly. "For goodness' 
 sake don't rouse him and speak low. I don't 
 want no noise in here." He glanced at the baby 
 in a perfunctory manner, and then released him- 
 self from his wife's embrace. "Let me get these 
 things off." 
 
 She watched his every movement with greedy 
 eyes, as he slowly took off his equipment and 
 softly put it on the floor. He looked well, very big 
 
158 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and sunburnt; but there was something dull, 
 heavy, strange about him. 
 
 He pointed to a chair at the table. "Sit down." 
 
 She obeyed him. He sat by the table himself, 
 at a little distance from her; but she moved her 
 chair to his side and put her arm round his neck. 
 
 "Now, let us talk quietly/' 
 
 "Aren't I going to get you some supper?" 
 
 "No. I have no appetite. I had all I wanted 
 on the way." As he spoke he had unlinked her 
 arm from his neck, and he took her hand between 
 his hands on the table, caressing it clumsily. 
 "Now I'm not on leave. I'm home for good." 
 
 She gave a gasp of rapture. "Jim! Trans- 
 ferred to home service ?" 
 
 "Yes, you may put it that way if you like," and 
 he paused. "No. I'm out of it altogether." 
 
 She tried to embrace him. "But however have 
 you managed it they valuing you as they did?" 
 
 "I'll tell you. ... I'd bin meaning it a 
 long time. Fed up. Had my bellyful. And in 
 a secondary manner wanting to be home with you. 
 . I took first chance. In charge of pris- 
 oners escorting them down to the 'cage.' When 
 I got down, I made pretense to twist my ankle 
 unable to walk and by so doing got into the 
 Dressing Station and on again to the Field Am- 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION > 159 
 
 bulance. Out of that I legged it and at last 
 found myself in the train." 
 
 "But but without permission without so 
 much as a railway ticket?" 
 
 "Not so fast. I'd provided myself with all 
 that." 
 
 "You had?" 
 
 "The warrant book lies on the table in the bat- 
 talion orderly room. A fortnight ago I contrived 
 to provide myself with a blank warrant out of the 
 bottom of the book. That warrant I duly made 
 out, and took the liberty of signing a pretended 
 officer's name to it. It wasn't such pretty nigglin' 
 handwritin' as our adjutant's, but it carried me 
 home safe enough." 
 
 Lizzie's face was dead white, her lips trembled, 
 she could scarcely speak. "But, Jim, they'll miss 
 you!" 
 
 "Oh, they'll miss me all right. But I wasn't 
 such a fool as to put my own name on the warrant. 
 No, Corporal Wade of the 50th Battalion Loyal 
 Londoners is missing from 3921 Field-Ambulance, 
 and Corporal James Wheeler of the 71st Battalion 
 has traveled home to England. He don't exist 
 so they'll have a job to trace him. For the moment 
 you see him before you. To-night he subsides into 
 civilian life under name Number 3. Twig?" 
 
160 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Appalled, she had drawn her hand away and 
 shrunk from him. Her voice was almost inaudible 
 as she asked a question. 'Then you you've 
 deserted?" 
 
 "Call it that if you like!" 
 
 "But if they catch you?" 
 
 "They won't catch me." 
 
 "What would they do?" 
 
 "Can't you guess?" 
 
 "Shoot you?" 
 
 He nodded affirmatively. "Make an example of 
 me. They said I was an example to the regiment ; 
 so I should end as I begun an example to the 
 last." 
 
 Lizzie covered her face with her hands. She 
 was shivering and shaking. "Oh," she gasped, 
 "it's too horrible." 
 
 Jim spoke with feeling. "Liz!" and he 
 stretched out his hand toward her. "You're not 
 going to turn against me? Don't say you won't 
 stand by me." 
 
 "Jim!" She gave a gasping cry, sank to the 
 ground by his side, and flung her arms round his 
 knees. "No, I don't care what you are, or what 
 you've done. You're my man my own man !" 
 
 Hastily he put his hand over her mouth, to stifle 
 her wild outburst, "Don't make such a damned 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 161 
 
 noise. You've got to help, not talk. Stop blubber- 
 ing." 
 
 "Yes, yes." 
 
 "And listen. No one saw me come in. No one's 
 to see me go out. No one on earth's to know that 
 I've been here." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "First thing. I want some clothes to disguise 
 myself. You'll have to buy me a suit of slops." 
 
 "Yes. I have the money." 
 
 "Good. Then set about it." 
 
 He rose, and as he moved from the table his 
 eye fell upon the gray flannel garments lying on 
 the chair. He picked them up at once, and began 
 to examine the size of the jacket and the length 
 of the trousers. 
 
 "Whose are these?" 
 
 "Mr. Jardine's." 
 
 "Who's he?" 
 
 "A clergyman. He left them for me to take 
 out the stains." 
 
 "They'll do," said Jim decisively. "I don't 
 mind the stains." 
 
 "But if you take them, what can I say? It will 
 lead to discovery." 
 
 "No. I'll send them to you by post." 
 
 She watched him in silence while he took off 
 
162 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 his putties, rolled them again, and put them in the 
 cupboard. He laid his rifle on one of the cupboard 
 shelves, and placed his equipment on the rifle, 
 after taking a civilian cap and muffler from his 
 haversack. He told her that she must somehow 
 obtain a box large enough to hold the rifle, and 
 that she must send it and the equipment to the 
 address that he would give her by letter. 
 
 "A strong box one that won't break in transit 
 and send me the whole bag of tricks. Then I'll 
 bury the lot or burn 'em. I'll attend to that. 
 Understand? If they're seen I'm a dead man." 
 
 Then he divested himself of his uniform, be- 
 stowed it in the cupboard, and put on the gray 
 jacket and trousers. Dressed thus, with the 
 muffler round his throat and the cap pulled low 
 over his eyes, he looked a mean and sorry kind 
 of cadger. Yet he felt well contented. 
 
 "Oof!" And he blew out breath. "The relief 
 of it ! I'm free. Nobody's slave. My own master. 
 It's a long, long way to Tipperary; but I've got 
 there at last. . . . Now attend to me. Don't 
 be wool-gathering. I am Jim Walton. I shall 
 tramp out into the country Essex way to find 
 a new home for both of us. You begin your 
 preparations at once. Say you've got employment 
 put of London say Scotland. Wind up your 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 163 
 
 affairs here. Pay your rent. Destroy all evidence 
 of your name and the rest of it, and be ready to 
 join me as Mrs. Walton. I'll send you these togs, 
 and you give 'em back to the parson. And you 
 pack me those traps and send them to me as I'll 
 direct" and there came a touch of emotion to 
 his hitherto businesslike tone: "I'll soon get 
 work. I'm strong, an* brave, an* absolutely 
 'ealthy. I'll work for both of us. The separation 
 allowance is a loss, but you shan't regret it. You 
 and I, lassie" as he said this he looked at her very 
 tenderly, "you and I, side by side, against all the 
 world. An' we'll be happy as birds, little girl 
 you and me and the kid. Nothin' won't come be- 
 tween us. No doubt they'll want to recruit me 
 again. P'raps they'll do it. But trust me to do 
 silly Billy." He grinned and shook his head. 
 "Yes, in spite of his previous experience, it'll take 
 them a long time to drill Jimmy Walton. The 
 war'll be finished before they're finished. So 
 cheero, sweetheart," and he kissed her. "Now 
 peep out and see if any one's about." 
 
 She unlocked and opened the door. 
 
 "All quiet?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You were asleep when I came in. Go back and 
 sit as you was then." 
 
164 LIFE CAN NEVEE BE THE SAME 
 
 She obeyed him, going to the chair by the table 
 and sitting there with the newspaper on her lap. 
 
 "Understand," he whispered. "You are asleep. 
 If any one opens the door or asks questions, you 
 know nothing. Nothing whatever has occurred. 
 By-by. So long." 
 
 And he stole out of the room. 
 
 It seemed to her that the walls of the room were 
 fading, and that light began to shine through 
 them. The light came stronger; everything 
 opened and widened till she saw a broad tract of 
 country; with the sun shining on ruined build- 
 ings, broken wire, and shattered trenches. It 
 was as real as what had happened just now. The 
 chalky torn ground, the pathway over loose 
 stones, the pile where walls had fallen all was 
 solid in the bright sunlight. Soldiers were walk- 
 ing ; soldiers were lying down -not moving, lying 
 in all attitudes, quite still, dead. And suddenly 
 she knew that her man would be among them, 
 somewhere among the motionless figures, not 
 among the soldiers who moved. 
 
 Every moment the vision became clearer and 
 stronger. And she understood everything. This 
 was a village just captured by our troops, at great 
 cost the dead men in khaki seemed so many. The 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 165 
 
 dead men in gray were Germans. They had 
 fought hard, but we had beaten them again. Two 
 English officers with an orderly were looking at 
 the dead. She watched them ; she could hear their 
 voices. 
 
 "This was where B Company caught it, sir," 
 said one of the officers. "Good old B Company. 
 They weren't to be denied/' 
 
 "They never are," said the other officer; and 
 she knew that they must be the colonel and the 
 adjutant. 
 
 Ah! They had found him. The younger officer 
 stooped and raised the heavy head, looked into the 
 sightless eyes. It was her man. 
 
 "Wade. Corporal Wade, sir." 
 
 "Bad luck," said the colonel. "There wasn't a 
 truer-hearted man in the battalion." 
 
 The adjutant had picked up something and was 
 looking at it. They both looked at it. "He must 
 have brought this out after he was hit, and died 
 with it in his hands." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "A photograph, I suspect, sir." 
 
 She knew well what it was the little leather 
 case with her picture that she had given him such 
 a long time ago. He had promised to carry it 
 always. 
 
166 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME' 
 
 They opened the case, looked inside, and read 
 the inscription : 
 
 "Lizzie, 1915!" 
 
 "His wife," said the colonel. "Poor woman! 
 Write to her for me write to her very nicely, and 
 say he was beloved by all. Tell her he died as he 
 would have wished, leading his section to the 
 attack. Say he did not die in vain." 
 
 Instantaneously the vision faded. All was 
 darkness, blankness; then the walls of the room 
 showed again in the dull lamplight. 
 
 She had been leaning forward in her chair with 
 outstretched arms. Now she sank upon her knees 
 and raised her arms above her head. 
 
 "0 God," she cried, "merciful God, give me 
 the choice. Make the other only a dream. Make 
 it like this. Let him have died for his wife's 
 sake, for his child's sake, for the honor of the 
 Empire." 
 
 She staggered to her feet, rubbing her eyes 
 and sobbing convulsively. 
 
 The baby was awake, too, and she went to the 
 cradle to quiet him. "Oh, dear, oh, dear. Mother's 
 had such dreams such cruel dreams. Ssh ! There 
 there there." 
 
 Suddenly she started, rushed to the cupboard 
 
THE WOMAN'S PORTION 167 
 
 and opened it. The shelves were empty, except 
 for the tea-things and groceries that had been 
 there hours before. Then she went to the chair 
 by the table, and looked at Mr. Jardine's flannel 
 jacket and trousers. They lay on the chair just 
 as she had folded them. They had not been 
 touched. 
 
 A man's voice sounded from the court down 
 below a man's voice shouting "Lizzie!" There 
 came a noise of people in the stone entrance hall 
 and on the stone stairs. The man's voice was 
 singing on the stairs : It 9 8 a Long, Long Way to 
 Tipperary. 
 
 She stood in the middle of the room with her 
 hand upon her heart, staring at the door. 
 
 "Lizzie ! Lizzie !" 
 
 The door opened, and he burst into the room 
 her man. He was in full equipment, excited, 
 happy, gay. He put his rifle against the wall and 
 took her in his arms. 
 
 "Liz, my darling/' 
 
 "You've come back? You you're alive?" 
 
 "Alive ! Can't you see me ? Can't you feel me?" 
 And he hugged and kissed her. "Alive? Lor' 
 lumme. Wild with life! In the pink!" 
 
 "But how have you come? Why have you 
 come?" 
 
168 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "What d'ye mean? I've come for Liz an* the 
 boy. Where's my son? Show me my son." 
 
 But she had got between him and the cradle; 
 she was holding him, struggling with him wildly. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she gasped, "but tell me." 
 
 "Don't keep me from my son." 
 
 Still she detained him. "You've not come back 
 for good an' all?" 
 
 "For good an' all ! Peace hasn't been declared 
 not as I've heard." 
 
 "And you're going to return to the battalion 
 I mean soon?" 
 
 "I'm going in ten days not before." 
 
 "They've given you ten days' leave?" 
 
 "Yes," and he took her by the shoulders, held 
 her at arm's length, and looked hard at her. "Liz, 
 this isn't the welcome I expected. What's up? 
 What's wrong?" 
 
 "Nothing. It's all right ;" and she writhed and 
 clung to him. "Oh, kiss me again. I've had such 
 dreams of you. But this is true. No dreams. 
 Ten days of heaven. You and I." 
 
 "Yes, you and I." 
 
 "Oh, Jim, my brave dear husband! There," 
 and she stood aside, raised her head high, and 
 spoke very proudly: "Come and see your son." 
 
A WIDOW 
 
 HER looking-glass told Mrs. Burt that she 
 was still a very attractive woman; and 
 her heart told her that, being a good deal nearer 
 forty than thirty, she was more than ready for 
 a third husband. 
 
 She thought of the awful slaughter of men 
 during the war, and the consequent diminution 
 of the chances of any woman's getting a mate. 
 And when you had had two already, and were 
 not so young as you used to be! Such thoughts 
 made her feel almost desperate. All the young 
 blooming girls who had lost their sweethearts 
 were now to be counted against one. She thought 
 of the chances that she had thrown away in 1913 
 and 1914 one at Harrogate, one at Southend, 
 and half a one here in Brighton. 
 
 With a growing indignation she read of young 
 war-widows marrying again, and studied their 
 photographs in the illustrated newspapers. Inde- 
 cent. If she had been married to a lad who gave 
 his life during the war, she would have remained 
 a widow to the end of it. But she had been 
 single throughout the conflict. At the rate these 
 
 169 
 
170 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 little hussies were devouring survivors, the men 
 simply wouldn't go round. The authorities 
 would have to license Mormonism. 
 
 And her thoughts drifted off into the realm of 
 speculation. Would it come to that at last one 
 man having five or six wives? As the papers 
 said, the world was now being driven by the iron 
 force of circumstances, the whole fabric of 
 society was in the melting-pot; more unlikely 
 things might happen. She fell to musing on the 
 feminine mind. Could one ever bring one's self to 
 be satisfied with only a share in the devotion and 
 care provided by a husband? Perhaps a certain 
 type of man might fulfill the obligations of so 
 difficult a task but he would have to be a real 
 lord and master, somebody quite different from 
 the late Mr. Burt and the earlier Mr. Hopkins. 
 
 Mr. Hopkins, her first, was a coal merchant, 
 and Mr. Burt, her second, had been sometime 
 borough surveyor of a moderate-sized town; but 
 neither of them No. What was the Latin quo- 
 tation? Nil bonus mortuary? Let bygones be 
 bygones. Whatever their faults, between them 
 they had left her about eight hundred a year and 
 some quite valuable, if old-fashioned, jewelry. 
 
 She went about the world with her maid, 
 Jenner, staying in hotels, or boarding-houses; 
 
A WIDOW 171 
 
 and, thus escaping the burden and expense of a 
 private establishment, she was really very well- 
 off. Indeed Jenner used to say she was too 
 well-off to be so eager to change her condition. 
 Jenner had a tea-making apparatus and made 
 afternoon tea in the bedroom; and if Mrs. Burt 
 felt low of an evening, or at any other time, 
 Jenner was always capable of serving a confiden- 
 tial whisky and soda without troubling the hotel 
 management. By these little arts Jenner kept 
 down the bills and made life more pleasant. Old 
 Jenner was a treasure there was no other word 
 for it and because of her long and faithful 
 service she was allowed considerable freedom of 
 speech ; so that when she and her mistress chatted 
 together they were rather like the heroine and the 
 confidante in one of those old comedies. 
 
 "There you are again," said Jenner; "always 
 at it. I do believe you never see a pair of trousers 
 but what you think there's a husband inside 'em 
 coming your way." 
 
 "Nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Burt. "No, 
 you wrong me, Jenner. My taste is much too 
 fastidious. I should be woefully hard to please, 
 if I ever did make up my mind to another venture." 
 
 "Oh," said Jenner, shaking her gray head, 
 "you're top romantic altogether," 
 
172 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 But she was not really romantic. Although 
 very fond of show and fashion, she had sharp 
 business instincts, and was by no means of a 
 naturally trustful disposition. After spending a 
 frivolous hour at an Oxford Street milliner's, 
 choosing the sort of hat that she fancied would 
 best suit her, she would go to the bank in 
 Chancery Lane and methodically clip off the ripe 
 coupons from her bearer bonds. She kept them 
 in a locked box, and did not care for the notion of 
 the manager playing with them. Also she was 
 quick to think herself imposed on at railway 
 booking-offices. 
 
 "You've given me short change." 
 
 "No, I haven't." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, you have ; and if you don't 
 refund this instant, I'll go straight to the station- 
 master." 
 
 "Why don't you look at your ticket? It's 
 marked plain enough. One-and-three." 
 
 "Oh!" The fare had been raised again. 
 "Shameful!" She went away repeating the 
 word. 
 
 Well, then, having been dressed by Jenner after 
 tea one day, she came down the stairs at 
 Versailles, Regency Square, Brighton, looking 
 very grand indeed. She was a large lady, with 
 
A WIDOW 173 
 
 nut-brown hair and a florid complexion ; her satin 
 blouse had the richest embroidery, and was 
 further decorated by her big diamond crescent and 
 a ruby locket; her skirts had the rustle that can 
 only be made by the best silk, though so often 
 imitated with inferior materials. She passed 
 through the lounge-hall, and stood for a moment 
 on the steps outside the front door. It was a 
 glorious August afternoon. People were sitting 
 on the steps of boarding-houses on the other side 
 of the square ; a gay crowd filled the King's Road, 
 and from the pier there came sounds of music; 
 now and then a motor-car slipped by with 
 wounded soldiers in blue. One saw soldiers in 
 khaki everywhere, and hundreds of flaunting girls 
 munition workers, as she judged following 
 them, or hanging on to them, or impudently 
 making their acquaintance without formal 
 introduction. The sea, the asphalt, the glass 
 shelters, all glittered and flashed in the warm 
 sunlight. 
 
 Mrs. Burt came back to the lounge, sat down, 
 picked up a copy of that admirably illustrated 
 daily, The Glass of Fashion, and sighed softly. 
 
 Next moment she became aware of the officer. 
 He was in uniform a big bold man of about 
 thirty-five; handsome, too, except for the mark 
 
174 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 of the saber cut on his nose. And that is a merit, 
 rather than a disfigurement, nowadays. He carried 
 a swagger cane, and he slapped his leg with it 
 now and then. He moved about, and stared at 
 the few people sitting in the lounge in a way that 
 made you lower your eyes or look at your paper. 
 He had put Mrs. Burt in something of a flutter 
 even before he took an empty chair near her and 
 opened a conversation. 
 
 He told her his name at once Captain 
 Shelley. 
 
 "There is a poet of that name," said Mrs. Burt, 
 with her finest manner. "Any relation?" 
 
 "Yes but distant. I've never met him." 
 
 "Poetry hasn't come out in you?" 
 
 "Oh, no, I'm not a poet;" and he had a devil- 
 may-care laugh. "I like reality something solid 
 that I can grapple with," and he looked hard at 
 her. "Not airy fairy nonsense." 
 
 Mrs. Burt dropped her eyes, and then spoke 
 with an assumption of casual politeness. 
 
 "On leave?" 
 
 "No, light duty." 
 
 "I dare say you've earned a little repose by 
 ;what you've gone through." 
 
 "Well, I've been in it from the beginning;" and 
 he told her about the saber cut done by Uhlans 
 
A WIDOW 175 
 
 in the retreat from Mons. Three of them, how- 
 ever, had bit the dust for doing it. 
 
 Mrs. Burt shivered. "I think you are all of 
 you too splendid for words. But, oh, it is so 
 dreadful." 
 
 "Don't you worry about that;" and he laughed 
 again. s 
 
 They sat talking; and some of the things he 
 oaid and his manner of saying them filled her 
 with a delicious confusion. Presently one of the 
 beribboned maids came and beat the gong, and 
 the captain started at the noise. 
 
 "What the dickens is it?" 
 
 "Only dressing gong. Not dinner. Personally, 
 I am already dressed." 
 
 "Yes, so I should imagine. You could hardly 
 make yourself more gorgeous, could you?" 
 
 "Oh, please " 
 
 Then he told her about shell-shock. He had 
 had that, too, for a little while. It still rendered 
 him a bit jumpy. 
 
 "What they make you go through ! We simply 
 can't visualize it, sitting here safe at home." 
 
 They were alone in the lounge now; the other 
 people had obeyed the warning of the gong. But 
 their tete-a-tete, was suddenly interrupted by a 
 new arrival. 
 
176 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 4 
 
 It was a young man dressed in a blue serge 
 suit; he came sauntering through the front door 
 and looked round the lounge. 
 
 "Oh, blow!" said Captain Shelley, under his 
 breath. 
 
 "Hullo. There you are/' said the young man. 
 "I've been hunting for you all over Brighton. I 
 want to settle up, you know." Then he saw that 
 his friend was in the company of a lady. "Beg 
 pardon. Can I have a few words?" 
 
 Mrs. Burt half rose from her cane armchair, 
 but Captain Shelley smilingly put his hand on her 
 arm and detained her. 
 
 "Don't go," he said. "It's no secrets. Jack 
 and I have nothing to be ashamed of." And he 
 made a formal introduction. "The Honorable 
 Mr. John Pierpont Mrs. Burt. ... . :. Now, 
 Jack, what's your hurry?" 
 
 Mrs. Burt resumed her scrutiny of The Glass 
 of Fashion; but she heard all that they said, and 
 die was enormously interested. It appeared that 
 the two friends had been at a card party on the 
 previous evening, and Mr. Pierpont, having lost, 
 was now come to pay his debt. Captain Shelley, 
 for his part, did not wish to be paid so promptly, 
 saying it could stand over for revenge, and the 
 money, if he took it, would only burn a hole in his 
 
A WIDOW 177 
 
 pocket. At this, however, the younger man 
 seemed to get slightly nettled; for he said, "You 
 seem to forget it is a debt of honor." On which 
 Captain Shelley said, with curtness, "Very well. 
 Have it your own way." Then, when the amount 
 was mentioned, Mrs. Burt nearly jumped out of 
 her cane chair; and, as it were automatically, she 
 came back into the conversation. 
 
 "Do you mean to say that you two gentlemen 
 play cards for such high stakes that the sum of 
 six hundred and fifty pounds passes in a single 
 evening?" 
 
 They both laughed. 
 
 "Does that shock you?" 
 
 "Indeed it does. You remarked just now that 
 you had nothing to be ashamed of. But I think 
 you ought to be thoroughly ashamed of your- 
 selves." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing," said Mr. Pierpont, laughing. 
 "He knows it's only lent. I'll have it all back, 
 and more, before I've done with him." He had 
 handed Captain Shelley a packet of big notes, and 
 he told the captain to count them. 
 
 "I'll take 'em for granted, Jack." 
 
 "Thank you," said Jack, with dignity, "I prefer 
 you to count them." 
 
 "What a stickler for etiquette you are." Captain 
 
178 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Shelley verified the correctness of the notes by 
 twirling their corners, and put the packet in the 
 breast pocket of his tunic. "Well, that's all, 
 Jack." 
 
 "Excuse me," said Jack. "You have had youi? 
 money. I'll trouble you for my LO.U." 
 
 "By Jove, yes." The captain laughed. "I 
 forgot. No one will ever make a business man of 
 me." And he brought a bulging letter case from 
 the skirt pocket of his tunic, extracted a small bit 
 of paper, and handed it to his friend. 
 
 "Kighto," said Jack. "Good evening, madam;" 
 and he bowed and withdrew. 
 
 In the next few minutes Mrs. Burt talked very 
 seriously to her new acquaintance. "You may 
 think it strange that I should take the liberty of 
 offering advice to a stranger; but this war has 
 turned the world so topsy-turvy that one does 
 things now that one wouldn't have dreamed of 
 doing." 
 
 "Fire ahead." 
 
 And she said how wrong it was for gentlemen 
 to gamble at games of hazard especially officers 
 in war-time. "Believe me, it isn't right." She 
 said this very charmingly, smiling, and yet in an 
 earnest tone. "And, if I may say it, I don't like 
 your friend, the Honorable Mr. Pierpont." 
 
A WIDOW 179 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with Jack?" 
 
 "I've no quarrel with his manners which are 
 just what one would expect in a person of his 
 birth but I don't think he's a good friend for 
 you." 
 
 "Don't you?" Captain Shelley got up, stretched 
 himself, and stood looking down at her. "Perhaps 
 you're right. I want a friend. Well, any more 
 advice?" 
 
 "Now you are offended. You think I have taken 
 a liberty?" 
 
 "Don't you know that a pretty woman can't 
 take a liberty?" 
 
 "Oh, please " 
 
 "I shall think you have lost interest in me if 
 you don't go on." 
 
 "Then I will." And Mrs. Burt spoke to him 
 about his winnings at cards. "Being alone in the 
 world, I am forced to be worldly-wise. Put that 
 money in the bank. You said yourself it would 
 burn a hole in your pocket." 
 
 "And so it will." 
 
 "That's not right in war-time or any other 
 time. Take my advice. Get a large registered 
 envelope, put those notes inside, and send it to 
 your bank for the credit of your account. It'll 
 
180 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 be safe there, and it won't be leading you into 
 temptation." 
 
 "How you lecture one." 
 
 "No, I don't. I simply ask you to do something 
 wise and proper for your own good. Brighton's 
 not the place to go carrying about valuable bank- 
 notes in your pocket." 
 
 With an impulsive gesture, he pulled out the 
 bundle of notes, and offered them to her. 
 
 "You take charge of them for me. Then you'll 
 know I'm out of temptation, and I shall know they 
 are safe." 
 
 "No, that's out of the question quite impos- 
 sible." And Mrs. Burt smiled. "How do you know 
 they'd be safe with me?" she added archly. "I 
 might run away with them. You are taking my 
 financial position very much on credit." 
 
 "Bosh! I trust you all right. Keep them for 
 me." 
 
 "No. But do what I have said. Promise me 
 that you'll send them straight to the bank." 
 
 He put the notes back in his pocket, and stood 
 looking at her with bold searching eyes. 
 
 "Is that just business advice?" he said, in a low 
 Voice. "Or do you ask it as a favor?" 
 
 Mrs. Burt had" to look another way. His eyes 
 seemed to be burning her. She was so troubled 
 
A WIDOW 181 
 
 that she stammered ; and the words that she said 
 fell strangely on her ear, as if they were different 
 words from those that she expected, or as if he 
 was making her say just what he pleased. "If 
 if you insist then promise as a favor to me." 
 
 "I promise. Now I must be off." 
 
 "What? Aren't you staying here, in this estab- 
 lishment?" 
 
 "Oh, no." 
 
 "Then what are you doing here ?" 
 
 "I was passing, and I saw you come out on the 
 steps and, well, I suppose you bowled me over. 
 By-by." 
 
 He was gone, and he had left her breathless. 
 
 Throughout the table d'hote dinner she was 
 silent and dreamy. She could only think of him. 
 It is curious how you may know people a long time 
 and yet really know very little about them; and 
 how, on the other hand, there are occasions when 
 chance brings about a complete disclosure of a 
 person's character and circumstances in a very 
 brief space. During that one conversation she 
 seemed to have learned everything about Captain 
 Shelley. He belonged to a good family, had 
 aristocratic friends, was rich but extravagant. He 
 was in the A.S.C. Regiment. By temperament bold 
 to a fault, reckless, generous in an offhand style, 
 
182 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 With regard to women he was desperately cool in 
 his manners, and, if the truth must be faced, 
 probably very dangerous. 
 
 She was touched, in retrospect, by what he had 
 said to his friend about there being no hurry to 
 collect that awful card debt; and she was very 
 much touched indeed by his anxiety to confide the 
 money to her care. What an idea! Above all, 
 she was deeply stirred by that final reckless 
 speech. Bowled over! What an expression! 
 
 He turned up again about nine o'clock. She 
 was seated with other ladies in chairs outside the 
 front door, watching the pier lamps ; and her heart 
 leapt in her ample bosom when he spoke to her. 
 
 "Come for a stroll on the pier. ., . . Never 
 mind about a hat. Throw that lace thing over 
 your head. That's what the Spanish dames do" 
 and as they walked off side by side, he whispered 
 to her: "My word, you do look fetching by 
 night." 
 
 "Please. I really beg." 
 
 There was a crowd on the pier, and it all seemed 
 like fairyland. It seemed to her that her gallant, 
 dashing companion excited feminine curiosity in 
 every direction. The band program was over 
 too soon. When they played God Save the King 
 he stood to attention, saluting all the time, and 
 
A WIDOW 183 
 
 she thought he was the handsomest warrior that 
 had ever worn the king's uniform. She came off 
 the pier, among the surging crowd, with her hand 
 on his muscular arm, scarcely knowing where she 
 was, content to be guided and controlled by him. 
 Beyond the turnstiles he changed direction left, 
 took her down the flight of steps to that asphalt 
 path which is used by the children on donkeys in 
 day-time, past the funny little arches, by the 
 boats, over the shingle, anywhere away from the 
 crowd ; and somewhere in a vague wild whirlwind, 
 as it seemed, he made bold and terrific love to her. 
 When he kissed her she nearly tumbled back- 
 ward; but he recovered her, and did it again. 
 Her "Oh, pleases," were like the bleats of a sheep 
 caught by a raging lion; at the gentlest, his 
 endearments were more like prize-fighting than 
 ordinary love-making; and even in the midst of 
 it, while struggling to keep her balance, she men- 
 tally recalled the timid caresses of Mr. Burt and 
 the almost brotherly embrace of Mr. Hopkins. It 
 was all over extraordinarily quickly really only 
 a kiss or two and a torrent of impassioned words 
 but while it lasted it was stupendous. 
 
 After this the affair went at lightning speed. 
 It seemed incredible that until thirty-six hours 
 
184 LIFE CAN NEVER BE 'THE SAME 
 
 ago she had never set eyes on him, and yet they 
 were practically engaged to be married. It was 
 madness; but, as they both confessed, they had 
 fallen crazily in love with each other. 
 
 He called her "Little Woman"; and that she 
 certainly was not, whatever she might be. She 
 called him "Boy," and told him why she had so 
 named him. "Because you are nothing but a 
 great, big, overgrown boy, and I tell myself that's 
 your excuse when you go on in a way that would 
 otherwise make me angry." 
 
 Jenner, the maid, shook her head, and said, 
 "Well, this is a case, with a vengeance." 
 
 "Oh, Jenner," said her mistress; "he has sim- 
 ply swept me off my feet. I am carried away by 
 it." 
 
 "So I understand," said Jenner dryly. 
 
 "But am I wise to do it?" In these confidences 
 Mrs. Burt was nervous and trembling, even tear- 
 ful. "Jenner, he's so strong, so masterful. He 
 may be an awful tyrant later on." 
 
 "You'll find that a bit of a change," said Jenner 
 very dryly. 
 
 "It would break his heart if I tried to back out. 
 His violence frightens me, even as it is. I 
 shouldn't dare. No, I could only escape by flight. 
 Sometimes I've half a mind to run away from 
 
A WIDOW 185 
 
 him," and Mrs. Burt began to cry. "Am I silly? 
 I should die if he took to bullying me. I am older 
 than he is a little. Oh, Jenner I" 
 
 "Have a whisky and soda," said Jenner. 
 
 "You can't counsel me, how can you? But, 
 Jenner, tell me frankly; you've nothing in your 
 mind against him ? Thanks." 
 
 "What should I have against him ! I'll say this 
 much in his favor. He seems to be pretty fluent 
 with his money. He gave me a sovereign this 
 morning." 
 
 "Did he? Not to bribe you?" 
 
 "/ don't know." 
 
 "What did he say exactly?" 
 
 "Oh, he spoke laughing like. Says I was to 
 take care of you, and perhaps I'd have somebody 
 to help me take care of you before long," and then 
 slaps his leg with his stick. 
 
 "Yes, he does that," said Mrs. Burt ecstatically. 
 "I know just what you mean. It's a little trick 
 of his. I have seen him do it often 
 You have made this rather stiff." 
 
 Thirty-six hours, forty-eight hours, seventy- 
 two hours such a lot was happening that it 
 might have been a year. They went about 
 together in the afternoons to Shoreham, to 
 Rottingdean and in the evening they went on 
 
186 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 the pier. He had tried to make her his banker 
 in one sense, and now he made her his banker in 
 another, borrowing a fiver from her to pay for 
 these little excursions and treats. He had kept 
 the promise about sending the money to his bank, 
 and had told them to send him a fresh check book, 
 as he had exhausted his old one. For the moment 
 he had to draw on her. 
 
 He gave her his photograph, but reluctantly. 
 
 "Little Woman, I haven't one that does me 
 justice." 
 
 "Then come and let's both be photographed." 
 
 "Oh, no. Your photograph is printed here," 
 and he touched his tunic in front. "And as you 
 are going to have my old mug opposite to you for 
 the rest of your days, you can't want a picture 
 of me." 
 
 "But I do, Boy. Little Woman wants it dread- 
 fully. For her to take out and look at when Boy 
 isn't with her." 
 
 So then he produced a photograph from his 
 bulgy pocketbook. It was only carte-de-visite 
 size, just the head; but a good likeness, with eyes 
 staring as in life, and the saber cut showing 
 plainly. He said she was to keep it to herself 
 and not let anybody see it. "It's for you, Little 
 Woman, and no one else." 
 
A WIDOW 187 
 
 The things he said sometimes were like the 
 speeches that make you quiver when you read 
 them in books, and thrill when you hear them 
 spoken on the stage. He said he would make her 
 his plaything one minute and his queen the next. 
 'I'll tame your proud beauty, and then I'll set it 
 on a pedestal and worship it on my knees." He 
 said she dressed "too old," and that after their 
 marriage he would have her dress as quite a young 
 girl, in the brightest colors, "like a bird of para- 
 dise." He admired her jewelry, but objected to 
 the antiquated setting. He said he would have all 
 the diamonds and other gems taken out of the 
 gold and reset as a butterfly or tiara, buying more 
 diamonds to make up the quantity required. To 
 this he would add three ropes of pearls, left to 
 him by an old aunt, of the name of Lady Eliza- 
 beth. And then with these ornaments, in a ball 
 dress from Paris, his little woman would "fairly 
 knock them." 
 
 But, like lightning from a summer sky, came 
 a violent outburst, and he would really frighten 
 her for a moment or two. At a word he could 
 set himself on fire with jealousy. 
 
 "Understand, you have fascinated me, and you 
 must bear all the consequences. I don't believe 
 you have ever met a real man before and you've 
 
188 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 conquered him, but, mark you, my lady, he means 
 to conquer you too. By heaven, if you ever 
 looked at anybody else, if you ever tried to play 
 me false " 
 
 "Oh, Boy!" 
 
 "Do you know what I'd do with you? First, 
 I'd give you a dashed good hiding," and he slapped 
 his leg ferociously. 
 
 "Boy! You you couldn't be so cruel." 
 
 "Yes, I could. Then next, I'd wring the neck 
 of the man who'd come between us. There. I 
 can't pretend. If you don't like it, say so. That's 
 the sort of man I am. Take me or leave me." 
 
 She decided irrevocably to take him. His 
 violence alarmed, but his charms allured. Never 
 had she tasted such emotion as his rapid changes 
 of tone evoked. She thought of the insipidity of 
 Mr. Burt and Mr. Hopkins. After a tiff Mr. Burt 
 used to say, "I hope I didn't wound your feelings 
 yesterday ;" and Mr. Hopkins would knock at her 
 door, and say, "May I come in, dear?" in his 
 own house, and to his own wife. How could she 
 doubt or hesitate? It was a brilliant, a dazzlingly 
 brilliant match. An officer, a swell, a hero ! "Yes, 
 my aunt by marriage, Lady Elizabeth. Yes, these 
 pearls are family jewels. Boy hung them round 
 my neck the morning we were made one." 
 
A WIDOW 189 
 
 Monday that was the day he came Into the 
 lounge. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. This 
 Thursday afternoon and evening were dreamlike, 
 tempestuous, fantastic. As she said, she was 
 whirled away. He would wait no longer. To- 
 morrow morning he was rushing off to London to 
 get a special license; and on Saturday, without a 
 word to anybody, they would be united. To-mor- 
 row he would do an immense amount of business 
 in London. He was taking up all her jewelry to 
 put it into the hands of Messrs. Tiffany, for them 
 tc prepare an estimate of the resetting. He would 
 get out the pearls from the safe at his chambers 
 in the Albany; he would buy the wedding ring; 
 arid he wanted to pay off a few bachelor bills. 
 For this purpose he made her change checks with 
 him. That is, he gave her a check out of his 
 new check book for six hundred and fifty pounds, 
 and she gave him one of her checks for a like 
 amount. This, he explained, would save him a 
 lot of time and trouble. On his way from London 
 Bridge he would cash her check at the Chancery 
 Lane Bank, and hand in his. It would be a double- 
 entry transaction, and provide him with the cash 
 in the quickest possible way. She scarcely under- 
 stood or tried to understand. She did whatever 
 he told her to do. 
 
190 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 All these matters were settled on Thursday 
 evening, which they spent in the reading-room of 
 the boarding-house instead of on the pier. She 
 was painfully fluttered, and she thought chiefly of 
 her guilty secret. She had done something that 
 he might not approve of, and she trembled at the 
 Idea of his possible anger. He had told her not 
 to show his photograph, and he spoke now of their 
 being married without a word to anybody. 
 
 But she had sent his photograph and her own 
 photograph to the editor of The Glass of Fashion, 
 with compliments and a suggestion that they 
 should be inserted as pictures of a newly-engaged 
 couple. She could not resist doing it. She had 
 waited so long; she had seen so many such 
 pictures: "Viscountess Saltash, who will wed 
 Major Loftus Jones on the 18th"; "War widow 
 weds brother officer of first husband," and so on. 
 Now it was her turn, and she could not refrain 
 from taking it. 
 
 Would Boy be angry? No, he must forgive 
 Little Woman for a tiny touch of pardonable 
 vanity. She might truly plead that she was so 
 proud of him she could not agree to conceal him. 
 
 "You look thoughtful. Anything on your 
 mind?" He had risen; and, with the parcel in 
 his hand, was about to tear himself away. 
 
A WIDOW 191 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 "All right. I'll be back by the six o'clock train. 
 You meet me at the station. Ta, ta, Little 
 Woman/' 
 
 Friday seemed endless, even before six o'clock. 
 She was at once sustained and agitated by the 
 day's issue of The Glass of Fashion. They were 
 in side by side. "Mrs. Burt and Captain Shelley 
 to be wed shortly." The captain was better 
 printed than the lady. He came out splendidly, 
 staring eyes, saber cut, all complete ; so that you 
 could recognize him right across the room, with 
 the open newspaper propped up on top of the chest 
 of drawers. 
 
 She received congratulations from all the 
 
 
 
 boarding-house guests. In peace-time they would 
 have been wildly excited. Even now they 
 displayed considerable interest. 
 
 He did not return by the six o'clock train ; nor 
 by the six-forty; nor the seven-fifteen. The 
 waiting at the station was terrible to her. By 
 half past eight she was almost demented. She 
 thought of all the ghastly accidents that might 
 have happened to him run over by an omnibus, 
 crushed by a falling house, killed in the shaft of 
 a lift. After the arrival of the eight-forty she 
 
192 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 became a little calmer. The station officials 
 suggested that perhaps a brother officer might 
 have brought him back in a motor-car; or he 
 might be flying back in an aeroplane; or, more 
 likely still, he might have sent a telegram saying 
 why he was delayed. They advised her to go 
 home and see if there was a telegram or telephone 
 message waiting for her there. She jumped into 
 a taxi-cab, and went, trembling and gasping, to 
 Regency Square. 
 
 The lounge was in a state of agitation. There 
 were police officers in it ordinary police and mili- 
 tary police. 
 
 "Oh, great heavens, what is it ?" 
 
 They had come for Boy. They, too, were 
 anxiously waiting for Boy. 
 
 They led her into the manager's little room, and 
 closed the door on a bevy of inquisitive guests. 
 And the chief policeman laid out on the table a 
 copy of the day's Glass of Fashion, and showed 
 her Boy's picture. 
 
 "Yes, that is he, of course." 
 
 Then the policeman laid out another Glass of 
 Fashion, of a date three months ago, and showed 
 her just the same picture of him. But, oh, the 
 wording under this earlier picture ! 
 
 "DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?/' in capitals; 
 
A WIDOW 193 
 
 and in smaller type, "If so, help the police to trace 
 him. He is a professional bigamist and also a 
 deserter from the Army. Has victimized many 
 foolish women during the course of the war." 
 And they gave his description. "Injury to nose 
 from the kick of a horse," and so on. 
 
 Mrs. Burt stared despairingly at the newspaper. 
 She saw everything clearly now; she understood 
 everything. He was the logical product of these 
 dreadful times; he was the forerunner of that 
 authorized Mormonism, about which she had 
 vaguely speculated; he was the masterful man 
 with several wives. She did not give a thought 
 to her lost jewelry or her emptied banking 
 account. She was so pitiably in love with him 
 still that she asked herself: Would not a fifth or 
 sixth share of Boy have been better than this 
 total blank, this unmitigated misery? 
 
THE SHORT CUT 
 
 FUNNY things happened to one in the war- 
 coincidences, lucky chances, totally inexpli- 
 cable events. One used to wonder about them and 
 then forget them. So much was happening that 
 nothing could hold its place in one's mind for 
 long. 
 
 To young Mr. Brown, the regimental transport 
 officer of a battalion newly arrived in France, 
 there was such a delightful freshness and glamour 
 about the war that he must be pardoned if he 
 childishly wished that it would not be over quite 
 so soon as the experts predicted. On these 
 pleasant October afternoons when he first rode up 
 to the trenches at the head of his limbered wagons, 
 he could not refrain from hoping that the war 
 would last over Christmas and till the early spring 
 of 1916. 
 
 Like thousands of other young officers of the 
 new armies, he felt so very proud of being in it at 
 last. He was proud of belonging to a splendid 
 battalion, proud of the cap-badge that signified 
 a gloriously famous regiment; proud of his well- 
 
 194 
 
THE SHORT CUT ' 195 
 
 groomed horses, his keen, resolute drivers, his 
 nicely turned out brakesmen, his glittering 
 harness buckles and shining trace chains. The 
 battalion had been given a really nice bit of the 
 line just in front of the ruined village of La 
 Prunelle; the communication trenches ran down 
 into the ruins of the village street; and, by what 
 was a tremendous piece of luck for a transport 
 officer, the lie of the ground enabled you to come 
 up in daylight almost as safely as under the cover 
 of night. 
 
 A good high road took you across the three 
 miles of waste ground that intervened between 
 La Prunelle and the last of the inhabited villages ; 
 and shells, aimed at nothing in particular, came 
 sailing over the slight ridge that hid the enemy's 
 position, and burst here and there with innocent 
 noisiness. Then you came to leafless trees, cross- 
 roads, sand-bagged barriers, and a blue metal 
 signboard that told you it was straight on to 
 Maison Rouge Farm, half right to Martincourt, 
 half left to Bretel-des-Pres, and short to the left 
 into La Prunelle. But at present you could not 
 go in any direction except sharp to the left, 
 because all the other places mentioned on the 
 signboard were still in the hands of the Germans. 
 Going the correct way, then, Lieutenant Brown 
 
196 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME ' 
 
 led his little procession of wagons through the 
 ruins. There had been much fighting here in 
 1914, the village being lost and retaken several 
 times, and the damage caused by repeated bom- 
 bardments was heavy. Not a roof remained in 
 position; more than half the houses were just 
 heaps of bricks and stone, and the rest were 
 merely torn carcases; the church tower was still 
 standing; and there were some good cellars unin- 
 jured. Some of the cellars were used as billets 
 for the company in support; a few of the lower 
 stories of buildings had been fitted up as cook- 
 houses; and there were plenty of respectable 
 dug-outs that had been made by the French 
 before they handed over the estate to their allies. 
 The church tower was a mark long since carefully 
 registered by the German artillery, so that shells 
 often burst in its vicinity, and a little way beyond 
 it the street could be swept by machine-gun fire 
 dropping into it from no one knew where. When 
 this occurred, as it had more than once already, 
 every sign of life instantly vanished from the 
 street, and the regimental transport found itself 
 all alone in its glory. You can not put horses and 
 wagons down into dug-outs, or send them for 
 shelter along communication trenches ; the barri- 
 cades and impediments of the street prevented 
 
THE SHORT CUT 197 
 
 your hurrying on at a trot or gallop; there was 
 nothing to do but continue your slow progress in 
 a dignified manner. 
 
 Lieutenant Brown looked Napoleonically dig- 
 nified as he rode through the barricades, with the 
 bullets pattering on all that was left of garden 
 walls and villa front doors. He and his men liked 
 it, in these early days. It was business, what they 
 had come out for; and they wished that, without 
 risk, those at home could be here to see them doing 
 it. The crump of an incoming shell is pleasanter 
 by daylight than in the dark, and machine-gun 
 fire is quite inspiriting until its novelty has worn 
 off. 
 
 Arrived at their destination the rations wagons 
 were off-loaded by the company quartermaster- 
 sergeants ; somebody else took charge of the fuel 
 wagon; any wagons with ammunition or trench 
 stores were handed over to the regimental ser- 
 geant-major, and for a little while Mr. Brown 
 was free of them. It was his duty now to go down 
 into the orderly room dug-out, report there, and 
 obtain any further orders. His next job might 
 be to go to brigade headquarters at Graviercourt 
 to fetch more ammunition, bombs, fireworks, what 
 not; or perhaps there were hurdles and heavy 
 .material to be brought from the R. E. dump; or 
 
198 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 the battalion suddenly remembered that it wanted 
 something else. Whatever might be wanted, it 
 was his duty to fetch and carry it; but if nothing 
 at all was wanted he could go quietly home to 
 St. Fernand, the village where he lived with his 
 horses, and he and everybody else could be safely 
 snoring by nine-fifteen P. M. Of course they 
 might be turned out again by nine-sixteen, or at 
 any time during the night; because the whole 
 brigade area was beautifully linked up with wires, 
 and telegrams were punctually delivered at all 
 hours. 
 
 To-day there was a red hat in the orderly room 
 dug-out, and Mr. Brown modestly waited until 
 the wearer of the hat had done talking to his 
 adjutant. It was the principal staff officer of the 
 brigade, what is called the brigade-major, and in 
 this case a splendid fellow. 
 
 "Well, Brown," said the adjutant presently. 
 "Nothing for you to-day, I think." 
 
 "Hello, Brown," said the brigade-major 
 jovially. "How are your old skins ?" 
 
 "Very well, thank you, sir." 
 
 "Let's have a look at 'em ;" and he led the way 
 up the dug-out steps. 
 
 Up in the street he looked at a wagon and 
 horses, and told Mr. Brown that if they were all 
 
THE SHORT CUT 199 
 
 as good as that they did him credit. And Mr. 
 Brown blushed with pleasure. The kindness and 
 affability of the staff almost overwhelmed him. 
 
 "By the way, Brown, when you come from here 
 to the brigade for stores, what's your road?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I have to go right back to St. Fernand 
 and then up the other road to Graviercourt." 
 
 "No, you don't have to," said the brigade-major 
 rather severely. "You may do it for your own 
 amusement, but there's a short cut straight across. 
 And that's the proper way to come, if you want 
 to save useless work for your horses and men as 
 you ought to be wanting all the time." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said Mr. Brown. 
 
 The seriousness and decisive tone of the staff 
 quite overwhelmed him. 
 
 "You should reconnoiter, you know." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I meant to ; but we haven't been here 
 very long." 
 
 "I know. But there are such things as maps. 
 You should study your maps;" and the brigade- 
 major brought a mud-stained map out of his 
 pocket. "See here." 
 
 "I did know of the track, sir. It's plainly 
 marked. But I thought it was under observa- 
 tion." 
 
 "No, it's all right, and it saves you six miles 
 
200 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 each way. Here we are. La Prunelle ;" and with 
 his thumb he measured the distance to Gravier- 
 court. "A mile and a half, as the crow flies." 
 Then he refolded the map and pointed up the 
 street. "Turn short before the Gendarmerie, go 
 down through the orchards, past the R.E. You'll 
 come to some graves on your left hand, and then 
 it's straight on to the windmill. Here's the 
 general. Come along with us, and I'll show 
 you." 
 
 Next moment Lieutenant Brown was absolutely 
 walking up the street with the general right by 
 the signals office, B Company's headquarters and 
 cook-house, by the medical aid post, by everything, 
 with the whole world watching him. It made him 
 hot and breathless going off like this for a walk 
 with the general and the brigade-major. Officers 
 saluted, men stood to attention. 
 
 "I have told him he can bring his wagons by 
 our short cut," said the brigade-major. 
 
 "Oh, yes," said the general. "I wonder you 
 hadn't tumbled to that already, Brown." 
 
 "I thought it wasn't safe, sir." 
 
 "Well, you needn't come if the sun's shining. 
 But this time of the clock or on misty days and 
 at night, of course." 
 
 Every one in the brigade adored the general. 
 
THE SHORT CUT 201 
 
 It was not only that he was a clinking fine soldier, 
 he was such a tip-topper all round. He was tall 
 and big, with a pleasant laugh, and a jolly, chaffing 
 manner; yet he could make you tremble in your 
 boots if things weren't just so. He wore the 
 ribbons of many medals, and these, together with 
 the red band on his cap and the gold and red tabs 
 on his tunic, made him look very magnificent. 
 Those useful but disfiguring steel hats had not 
 yet been issued to troops. 
 
 "How old are you, Brown?" he asked, as they 
 turned out of the street and dived down a narrow 
 lane through the apple orchards. 
 
 "Twenty-three, sir." 
 
 "Do you like the war?" 
 
 "I love it, sir." 
 
 "Do you ?" The general laughed, and he went 
 on in his jolly, chaffing way: 
 
 "Got any sisters, Brown ?" 
 
 "Two, sir." 
 
 "I should think," said the general, speaking to 
 the brigade-major, "that Brown's sisters must be 
 very nice-looking. It runs in families like that 
 sometimes. But perhaps not so clever as you, 
 Brown, eh?" 
 
 "I shouldn't like to say, sir," and Mr. Brown 
 tittered shyly. 
 
202 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Well, you give your sisters my compliments, 
 when you write, and say I said you're doing very 
 well out here, and they'll be proud of you before 
 you're done." 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 "Got a sweetheart, Brown?" 
 
 "Oh, really, sir!" Mr. Brown tittered again, 
 and blushed. He was delighted with, but almost 
 prostrated by, the general's chaff. 
 
 "That would be telling, eh?" And the general 
 laughed once more. "And still keep something 
 to yourself you will not tell to any." 
 
 They were now out on the open ground, a vast 
 undulating plain that looked indescribably deso- 
 late in the fading daylight. On each side of the 
 track there were disused trenches, all weed-grown 
 and tumbling in; rusty wire entanglements 
 stretched away on both sides, with hummocks of 
 earth and deep holes that had been dug as breast- 
 works and gun pits ; and about two hundred yards 
 to the right, running parallel to the track, there 
 was a roadway built up high on an embankment, 
 with rows of torn and shredded trees and disman- 
 tled telegraph posts. When the track rose a little 
 one could see across this roadway and make out 
 the position of our front line trenches, which 
 showed as yellowish stripes on the dull brown 
 
THE SHORT CUT 203 
 
 surface of sloping ground. The German trenches 
 were just over the crest of the low ridge, and 
 really one wanted the word of a general or his 
 principal staff officer to make one believe that the 
 Germans could be so close without being able to 
 spot one. 
 
 As they walked on, the general spoke quite 
 seriously of the fighting that had taken place here 
 last year. He said that Mr. Brown ought to feel 
 he was on hallowed ground, because his own 
 regiment had been engaged in the final struggles 
 before the line settled down. 
 
 "The Royal Fusiliers, sir?" 
 
 "Yes, your second battalion." And the general 
 was good enough to say that, as always, the 
 regiment had distinguished itself. But it had 
 lost heavily. One whole company was cut to 
 pieces. 
 
 "You'll see some of the graves farther on," said 
 the brigade-major. "But now look here, Brown, 
 my boy, you needn't come as far as that. You can 
 see exactly where you are;" and he showed 
 Lieutenant Brown his bearings, so that he could 
 not possibly make a mistake. The track bore 
 away to the left, leaving the roadway more and 
 more to the right. That excrescence about a mile 
 ahead was all that remained of the windmill. 
 
204 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 You passed it close on your left. Those trees 
 were the outskirts of Graviercourt ; and the track 
 became a road again there and took you through 
 orchards, as it had done at La Prunelle, right into 
 the village. 
 
 "And you may see something among those 
 trees," said the general, "that you needn't men- 
 tion to anybody. They are putting in some 
 howitzers, but their voices won't be heard for a 
 long while. Remember, Brown, gun positions are 
 like sweethearts to be kept quiet to one's self." 
 
 "Yes, sir, thank you, sir," and Lieutenant 
 Brown saluted. 
 
 "Good night, old chap," said the general, just 
 exactly as if he had been another subaltern. 
 
 The general with the brigade-major went on, 
 and Mr. Brown went back toward La Prunelle 
 and his wagons. When he looked round over his 
 shoulder the red hats had disappeared, swallowed 
 already in the grayness and vagueness of the 
 waste. He stepped out briskly, with a sudden 
 feeling that he was more utterly alone than he had 
 ever been in all his life. He thought of the order 
 forbidding officers to move about unaccompanied. 
 Although the Germans could not see one, they 
 could shoot one. All bullets aimed at our front 
 line and passing over it came drifting down this 
 
THE SHORT CUT 205 
 
 way. He had heard some of them just now 
 whistling above his head. If one were hit, one 
 would bleed to death before anybody came along 
 the track to find one. Or one might lie half 
 through the night and get stifled in the mud, or 
 be run over by an artillery limber while still 
 unconscious. He was not in the least afraid, but 
 never till now had he experienced the sensation 
 of helplessness that can be created in a moment 
 by unusual solitude. 
 
 And never till now had he seen how sinister an 
 aspect the jolly old war could unexpectedly 
 assume. The light was nearly gone, everything 
 was gray and shapeless, and yet one could see a 
 long way in all directions. But nowhere did one 
 see a sign of life; everywhere one saw signs of 
 death and destruction. This tangled wire, the 
 ugly cavernous trenches, the mounds and holes, 
 all meant blood and wounds and dying groans. 
 Not a movement, not even the sound of a voice 
 the place was so completely dead that one ceased 
 to remember all the live men hidden in the ground, 
 only a few hundred yards away, friends and foes 
 eagerly watching and waiting to do some more 
 killing; the desultory rifle fire, the machine-gun 
 fire, the occasional artillery fire seemed no longer 
 to be an evidence of human agency; one had a 
 
206 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 superstitious fancy that one was dead one's self, 
 and that the dead men who had fought last year 
 would emerge from among the weeds and the wire 
 to greet one as a new companion. 
 
 It was quite a relief to come upon some sappers 
 outside their dug-outs near the orchards; and 
 the cook-houses and the men and the wagons made 
 the devastated village of La Prunelle seem as jolly 
 and gay as Bond Street in the season. 
 
 Mr. Brown rode back with the empty wagons 
 to his own village of St. Fernand feeling as merry 
 and light-hearted as possible. This wonderful 
 short cut to brigade headquarters crowned his 
 felicity. He counted the immense gains of it. 
 Instead of going three miles to St. Fernand and 
 four miles on to Graviercourt, one mile and a 
 half straight across; three miles for the return 
 journey, instead of fourteen; no change of horses 
 now required hours saved, labor saved, every- 
 thing saved. 
 
 He had occasion to avail himself of the short 
 cut no later than the next day. When he arrived 
 with the rations he found that a job was waiting 
 for him. 
 
 "Hullo, Brown," said the adjutant, coming up 
 from the signals dug-out with a telegram in his 
 
THE SHORT CUT 207 
 
 hand; "eighty thousand rounds of small arms 
 ammunition for you to draw from brigade." 
 
 Mr. Brown considered the case with Napoleonic 
 thoroughness and decision. He had seven wagons 
 here. He would send two wagons home in charge 
 of his sergeant and use five wagons for the ammu- 
 nition. That would mean sixteen boxes to each 
 wagon, a nice light load; it was advisable to go 
 light, because the muddy parts of the track would 
 be a stiff pull for the horses. He gave his orders 
 accordingly, and as soon as the five wagons were 
 empty he set forth. 
 
 Dusk was falling, and it seemed already almost 
 dark as the small convoy passed between the trees 
 in the lane by the ruins of the old Gendarmerie; 
 but as soon as they reached the open it was com- 
 paratively light again, the whole plain visible yet 
 colorless, all ghost-like and gray. Mr. Brown rode 
 on, watching the roadway on his right. One 
 seemed to be so big on horseback that it was more 
 than ever difficult to remember that the enemy 
 could not see one. Now and then he looked back 
 over his shoulder to make sure that all was right 
 behind him. The wagon wheels and horses' hoofs 
 made no sound on the soft ground. He had 
 allowed the brakesmen to ride in the rear portions 
 
208 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 of the limbers, and, looking back, he counted them 
 five drivers, five brakesmen ; all correct. 
 
 Glancing back like this, when they had reached 
 a point farther than the limit of his reconnoitering 
 walk of yesterday, he was surprised by seeing the 
 foremost driver turn his head and make a solemn 
 salute with his whip. 
 
 "What are you doing that for?" 
 
 "Only those graves, sir," said the driver, point- 
 ing with his whip. 
 
 "Quite right," said Mr. Brown. "Yes, by 
 Jove our own regiment." And in a loud voice 
 he gave the order, "Ride at attention ;" and then 
 "Eyes left!" himself solemnly saluting, as he 
 rode past the two poor lonely graves. 
 
 They were side by side, twenty yards to the 
 left of the track, grown over by the rank weeds, 
 but with the two wooden crosses intact; and, 
 looking straight at them, each driver and brakes- 
 man solemnly saluted as he passed by. 
 
 "Eyes front;" said Mr. Brown, and they all 
 went noiselessly on their way. 
 
 He had gone a little farther when two soldiers 
 stepped into the track ahead of him and signaled 
 to him to stop. He halted the wagons and rode 
 forward, expecting to find that the men were 
 gunners and that they had something to do with 
 
THE SHORT CUT 209 
 
 the new howitzer installation; but they were 
 infantrymen, and he guessed even before they 
 spoke to him that they were orderlies from the 
 brigade office. 
 
 "We are to tell you to turn back, sir/' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Not safe, sir." 
 
 "But my orders," said Mr. Brown, rather 
 petulantly, "are that it is safe. The brigade told 
 me to come this way." 
 
 "Not safe to-day, sir. We are to stop you." 
 
 "Oh, curse!" said Mr. Brown, turning to his 
 horse ; and he bellowed the order for the wagons 
 to reverse. 
 
 They all came round, and he trotted to the head 
 of his convoy, and they began to plod back 
 toward La Prunelle. Then, like a young officer, 
 he doubted; thinking that perhaps he had been 
 wrong to take such a direction without further 
 inquiry. Those chaps were sent from the brigade, 
 but he ought to have made sure of it he ought 
 to have made sure that the message was really 
 for him, and not for somebody else. He halted 
 his wagons and looked round; but the men had 
 disappeared. They had no doubt gone along the 
 track toward the brigade, and he thought he 
 would ride after them and question them further. 
 
210 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Then he changed his mind again, gave the order, 
 "Walk march!" and rode moodily, feeling much 
 aggrieved. 
 
 Two extra miles added to fourteen make sixteen 
 miles. "Oh, curse !" 
 
 Three minutes later the enemy's guns opened, 
 and he and his drivers heard for the first time the 
 noise of a brisk bombardment. It seemed to them 
 quite terrific; and, although the shell-bursts were 
 a mile away, they seemed to be close behind them. 
 They were sending over high explosives, real big 
 stuff. Already it was so dark that one saw the 
 gun flashes lighting up the sky over there; then 
 you heard the bang of the guns, and at the same 
 time, as it seemed, there came the appalling crump 
 of the exploded shell over here. Crump and crump 
 again. Crash after crash they must be hitting 
 the track, they must be knocking Graviercourt to 
 smithereens. Mr. Brown wondered if he would 
 see flames behind him when he reached higher 
 ground; he wondered if this was what is termed 
 "drum fire"; he wondered if the enemy was 
 searching for those howitzers in the Graviercourt 
 orchards; he wondered if the search would pres- 
 ently shift this way. Both he and his drivers 
 were using their legs conscientiously, and all the 
 horses were walking up to their bits. 
 
THE SHORT CUT 211 
 
 The noise continued until they had gone 
 through La Prunelle and were on the high road 
 back to St. Fernand, and then all fell silent. It 
 became as dark as pitch ; one could hardly see the 
 toad after they had changed horses and were out 
 again on their way to Graviercourt. The journey 
 seemed interminable, but Mr. Brown did not mind 
 the length or the fatigue of it; he remembered 
 that proverb about the longest way round being 
 sometimes the shortest cut ; and he thought with 
 a glow of kindly feeling what luck it is to have a 
 topping brigade staff. They were always taking 
 care of one ; they never forgot one. But for their 
 warning, he and his whole bag of tricks would 
 have been caught. 
 
 After the darkness of the roads the candle-light 
 in the brigade office dazzled one and made one 
 blink. The office, although it was only a superior 
 sort of outhouse at a farm, seemed very snug and 
 comfortable, with its chairs and tables, the long 
 counter for maps, the two red-hatted officers and 
 the other plain-hatted officers, busy at work, but 
 smoking their pipes. 
 
 Lieutenant Brown went to the staff captain's 
 table and reported himself. 
 
212 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "I'm to draw eighty thousand rounds S.A.A.," 
 and he put down his copy of the telegram. 
 
 "Hullo, Brown," said the brigade-major, looking 
 up from his work and speaking cheerily. "Then 
 here you are, all right! I was getting quite 
 nervous about you. Do you happen to know that 
 those dogs put down a barrage on our track this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but I got your message." 
 
 "What message?" 
 
 "Not to come that way." 
 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 "Your two orderlies, sir." 
 
 "What orderlies?" 
 
 The brigade-major got up smiling, went and 
 stood warming himself at the stove, and asked 
 more questions. 
 
 "Which of our orderlies?" 
 
 "I can't say, sir. I didn't know them. They 
 were both of them Fusiliers." 
 
 "Fusiliers ! Two of your own fellows ?" 
 
 "No, sir, they didn't belong to our battalion, 
 because they were wearing the old equipment." 
 
 "How did you know they were Fusiliers ?" 
 
 "I saw their cap badges." 
 
 "Then they must have been your own lot. We 
 have no Fusiliers here. Yours are the only 
 
THE SHORT CUT 213 
 
 Fusiliers in the brigade. Did they say they came 
 from here ?" 
 
 "No, sir but I took it for granted, when they 
 gave the message." 
 
 "You say the message was to stop you coming 
 across ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir to-day. They said it wasn't safe 
 to-day." 
 
 The brigade-major laughed heartily ; everybody 
 in the office was looking at Mr. Brown and smiling. 
 
 "Look here, Brown, you must come into the 
 mess and have a whisky and soda. I think you 
 have taken a nap in your saddle and been dream- 
 ing. . . . You young fellows are really 
 wonderful. Don't you see? How the devil could 
 the brigade send such a message? No one but 
 the Germans were in a position to send such a 
 message. We didn't know that the blighters were 
 going to shell the place." 
 
 Lieutenant Brown said no more. He recalled 
 the general's quotation: "And still keep some- 
 thing to yourself you will not tell to any." 
 
 His mind had suddenly been invaded by a 
 strange thought. He thought of two unknown 
 comrades, awakening from their sleep and rising 
 at the sound of his voice as he passed by. He 
 believed that it was the two dead men in those 
 
214 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 graves who had come out to warn them because 
 they had saluted, because they belonged to the 
 regiment, because they were newcomers whose 
 lives must not be thrown away uselessly, but saved 
 for the great cause. 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 
 
 ALTHOUGH it seemed to go so slowly out 
 JrY. there, the war became more and more of 
 a rush for people over here in England. You 
 could see it in their faces. They were trying to 
 do too much. Many of them were getting rattled 
 especially some of the girls. 
 
 Her aunt used to plead with Edie to slacken 
 the pace. 
 
 "How can IT 9 said Edie, shrugging her pretty 
 shoulders. "It'll be time enough to rest when 
 peace is declared." 
 
 "You'll be dead before then, if you aren't care- 
 ful ;" and Mrs. Parkes languidly buttoned her 
 gloves, yawned, and looked at the set of her hat 
 in the glass. "Take the evening off, anyhow." 
 
 "Impossible. There's the meeting at the 
 Broughtons'. They can't get on without me." 
 
 "Well, I hope next week will be quieter." 
 
 "No, it'll be worse than ever. Flag days every 
 day except Saturday and Saturday's the 
 Masque." 
 
 Mrs. Parkes sighed, "Oh, well, I know I'm worn 
 jpiut for one. I doubt if I shall even be up to a 
 
 215 
 
216 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 game of bridge after dinner yet nothing rests 
 me more than that/' 
 
 And Mrs. Parkes went off to her club. She 
 and her favorite niece, Edie, ran a joint house- 
 hold in a small flat close to Earl's Court Station. 
 When you are actively engaged on war work of 
 a multiform character your strategical position 
 is of great importance; you must be somewhere 
 from which you can strike in any direction where 
 effort may be required. Earl's Court was an ideal 
 jumping-off place. Edie could throw herself into 
 a District train and bob up at Westminster, all 
 among the Government offices, House of Commons, 
 and so on; she could snatch her basket of flags, 
 dive deeper for the Tube, and in less than no time 
 be outside the Ritz Hotel, saying, "No, I really 
 can't let you off. You must have one ;" there was 
 nothing that she could not do from Earl's Court. 
 
 She could even go to East Putney, to keep in 
 touch with Mrs. Grange, Jack's mother. And she 
 thought now, with a sigh that was like a graceful 
 little echo of auntie's plaintive gasping, how 
 remiss she might seem in not having gone of late. 
 Somehow or other she must make time to do it. 
 It was wrong to neglect her future mother-in- 
 law. 
 
 She ran a slender hand across her fair hair, 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 217 
 
 puckered her white forehead with a frown, and 
 allowed her large blue eyes to take the soft wistful 
 vagueness of expression that is caused by momen- 
 tary regret. Then she shook herself, making her 
 bangles tinkle, and in a fussy, agitated manner 
 sat down at the imitation Sheraton writing-desk. 
 But before attacking work she looked again at a 
 letter from her sweetheart. It was addressed to 
 his mother, not to her; and Mrs. Grange had 
 kindly sent it on this morning for her perusal, 
 with the marginal note: "Can you understand 
 Jack's hint?" 
 
 "Do not be surprised," wrote Jack to his mother, 
 "if I give you a little surprise. I will say no more 
 now, because there is many a slip between the cup 
 and the lip/' 
 
 Edie had guessed what he meant, and she 
 hoped that her guess would prove correct. The 
 military cross! They were going to give him 
 the cross. Bless his brave heart she knew how 
 well he deserved it. 
 
 The clock outside in the hall struck six, and Edie 
 started guiltily, as though feeling that she had 
 wasted one or two precious moments. This July 
 day had been hot and airless, and now it was the 
 sort of evening on which even the scrawling of a 
 note seems an immense labor. She stared 
 
218 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 despairingly at her desk, which was in an inde- 
 scribable state of confusion, and with nervous 
 fingers rummaged among the mass of documents 
 tradesmen's bills, ball programs, leaflets of 
 wholesome propaganda, what not. Here was the 
 agenda paper of the Broughtons' meeting. That, 
 at least, must be firmly tackled. When you are 
 going to a meeting, your position is so much 
 stronger if you know what the meeting is about. 
 But a strange reluctance prevented her for 
 a little from studying the dull sheet, and she sat 
 musing about her lover and herself. Judging 
 merely by her outward aspect as she sat thus, 
 if one had not known, one might easily have 
 mistaken her for a rather feather-headed young 
 lady who was fonder of fuss and chatter than 
 real work; but inwardly all her thoughts were 
 grand and fine. She thought of how the war 
 had not only turned the world upside down, but 
 had changed people's characters, drawing forth 
 from their depths unexpected powers, undreamed 
 of qualities. Her own case as an example. 
 Looking back at herself as she was before the war, 
 she could not recognize that old self. She had 
 been frivolous, fond of pleasure, shallow or, at 
 any rate, without high aims and the ability to 
 concentrate her attention on them. [Then, 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 219 
 
 profoundly stirred, she had thrown herself into 
 the war, had given herself to the great cause. 
 She had wanted to do anything, however humble, 
 for the cause; and she had found that there was 
 scarcely anything that she could not do. She did 
 research work in books of reference like Who's 
 Who, making out lists of people to whom circulars 
 should be sent; she addressed envelopes by the 
 thousand ; she visited the dear Tommies* canteens 
 at the railway stations; she belonged to leagues; 
 she rode remounts sometimes in Hyde Park; she 
 sat on committees. Everybody turned to her for 
 advice and support. "Miss Parkes is so helpful" 
 it had almost become a proverb. No charity 
 matinee was complete without her. She did not 
 act, or sing, or dance; but she sold programs, 
 was helpful, took an interest. If any one had told 
 her before the tragic test began that she had these 
 latent powers in her, she simply would not have 
 believed it. But truly we have all been put 
 through the furnace, the fires have searched us, 
 the bad metal is fast falling away from the good. 
 Her eyes grew moist as this fine thought came 
 to her the thought about the vast war-furnace. 
 She brushed away what might have been tears, 
 had they been allowed to mature; and she thought 
 gf her great love for Jack, Perhaps that had been 
 
220 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 largely instrumental in steadying her, lifting her, 
 sustaining her on the higher plane. And she 
 thought of how completely the terrific facts of 
 the war had killed the shams and pretenses of 
 modern life. Snobbishness, for instance. Thank 
 heavens, that has been blown from our midst for 
 ever. 
 
 She thought of Jack's military cross. How 
 proud she would feel, going about with him when 
 he was wearing the blue and white ribbon. Dur- 
 ing his last leave she herself had felt the want of 
 it. At restaurants, when other girls came in with 
 young men whose tunics sported this decoration, 
 she had felt that poor old Jack looked only half 
 dressed ; and it seemed to her that the other girls 
 gave themselves airs and carried their heads 
 defiantly because of the deficiency in Jack's 
 costume. She thought there was nothing on 
 earth that she would like so much as for Jack to 
 get the military cross except, of course, the red 
 tabs and red hat of a staff officer. How that little 
 bit of red lights up a uniform, what a style it 
 gives to all who carry it to all who go to restau- 
 rants with it! Such a little thing, and yet it 
 conveys so much; recognized social position, 
 influence, membership of the ruling class. 
 
 The electric bell rang noisily, the maid went to 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 221 
 
 the outer door of the flat ; and Miss Parkes sprang 
 from her chair and leaped into the tiny hall, 
 Incredible as it seemed, she had heard the soun<J 
 of the loved voice. 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 "Edie!" 
 
 They came back into the drawing-room embrac- 
 ing each other ; and the maid shut the door behind 
 them, smiling sympathetically. 
 
 "Let me look at you." 
 
 "Yes, but let me look at you." 
 
 And for a moment they unlinked themselves, 
 and then began again. He was splendid in his 
 war-stained uniform, at once such a boy and such 
 a man; so sunburnt, strong, alive and alert, so 
 everything he ought to be. She had glanced 
 instinctively at the space above the left breast 
 pocket of his tunic. It was not there ; so she said 
 nothing about it for the moment. 
 
 "How long have you got?" 
 
 "Only eight days. Worse luck." 
 
 She turned to the big calendar by the telephone 
 on the writing-table. 
 
 "That means you go back on the Sunday ?" 
 
 "Yes, first thing in the morning." 
 
 "When did you arrive?" 
 
 "Now, this minute. I have come straight here. 
 
222 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Edie, don't say you're engaged. You'll give me 
 the evening?" 
 
 "My dear boy, of course I must. It means 
 chucking over an important meeting and upsetting 
 a lot of friends. But everything must stand aside 
 for the man from the trenches;" and she went 
 over to the telephone, and called for the 
 Broughtons' number. 
 
 "I see you have had that moved in here," he 
 said, fondly following her. 
 
 "Yes, I get busier every day. It meant dancing 
 out into the hall every two minutes. Some days 
 I do half my work on the telephone." 
 
 When she had given her apologetic message to 
 the Broughtons' butler she decided how the 
 evening was to be passed. 
 
 "This is what we'll do, Jack dine quietly at the 
 Baveno " 
 
 "But, I say, could I go out to dinner like this ?" 
 
 "Of course. You can go about just how you 
 please there are no rules for heroes. Besides, 
 nobody who matters ever goes to the Baveno. 
 It's absolutely quiet and humdrum. Then after 
 dinner we'll do a play. Now, while I get my hat, 
 you ring up a theater and book the seats dress 
 circle." 
 
 "Which theater?" said Jack doubtfully. 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 223 
 
 Edie thought deeply. "His Majesty's. Chu 
 Chin Chow." 
 
 "What, again? We have been to that every 
 leave. Isn't there anything new?" 
 
 "You wouldn't get seats for the new things. 
 Remember, last time, you liked Chu Chin Chow 
 better than you used to. And to me it's always 
 so restful it takes one's mind off. And they 
 have introduced some wonderful oriental cos- 
 tumes." 
 
 "Edie." Jack spoke hesitatingly. "I haven't 
 been home yet. I came straight here." 
 
 "So you said. Are you thinking whether your 
 mother will be huffy if I take possession of you 
 for your first evening?" 
 
 "Well, what I was really thinking till you 
 mapped it out was that I rather hoped to get you 
 to tempt you to come back with me to Putney 
 and dine there." 
 
 "My dear boy, I shouldn't get a word with you. 
 The family would swamp you." 
 
 "No, directly after dinner, we could go out for 
 a stroll, all alone. The mater would know we 
 wanted to be together." 
 
 "Oh, I think I do think Mrs. Grange must 
 spare you to me this one evening. Jack, when we 
 get to the Baveno I'll show you my list of en- 
 
224 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 gagements, and you'll see for yourself that it's 
 going to be terribly difficult to fit things in. 
 Telephone to Putney to say you are safe and 
 sound. Where did you leave your kit?" 
 
 "Down-stairs, with the hall porter all I have 
 brought." 
 
 "Very well. You'll see me home here, pick up 
 your things, and be back with the family circle by 
 eleven o'clock." 
 
 It was glorious to be riding in a taxi-cab with 
 her, holding her hand, watching her pretty face, 
 and subconsciously drawing delight from the 
 brightness and gaiety of the London streets. It 
 was rapture to be seated at a little table with her 
 at the restaurant, listening to the band, hearing 
 her voice mingle with it and make the music 
 sweeter. To any one fresh from the line in front 
 of Poperinghe, it really was heaven, all of it. 
 
 "Jack," she said, over their coffee and cigar- 
 ettes, "what was the meaning of the cryptic 
 phrase in your letter to Mrs. Grange, about a 
 surprise ? What was to be the little surprise ?" 
 
 "Why, this, of course. My getting leave." 
 
 "Oh, I see. How stupid of me." 
 
 "I knew I was ripe for it that directly leave 
 opened again my chance would come but I didn't 
 want to say anything definite. It's always so 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 225 
 
 uncertain out there. However, Jenkins he's 
 adjutant now, you know Jenkins said I was third 
 on the list. Then, quite unexpectedly, he called 
 to me from the steps of his dug-out. Edie, I must 
 tell you about it, because it's so funny how things 
 always seem to happen out there. I was thinking 
 just then that " 
 
 "Yes, dear. You must tell me about it at the 
 theater. It's such bad form interrupting and 
 disturbing people. We shall be late if we don't 
 get off at once." 
 
 After this it was Chu Chin Chow for hours and 
 hours; then great luck in securing a taxi, and 
 more rapture of holding hands; and then five 
 minutes of highest heaven up-stairs at the Earl's 
 Court flat. Huggings, vowings, delirious vapor- 
 ings till Mrs. Parkes returned from her club, 
 and broke it up. 
 
 Eight days was an immense time out there, but 
 it went very fast over here. And now on his last 
 afternoon he had the feeling that, short as his 
 leave had seemed to him, it had seemed too long 
 for his friends. He was quite at a loose end, with 
 nothing better to do than walk about the streets 
 alone. People were all working so hard for the 
 
226 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 war that they had no leisure to spend with any one 
 who was taking a holiday from the war. 
 
 Fate had been unkind in depriving him of his 
 sweetheart's company to-day of all days. 
 
 Edie herself had been mentally perturbed and 
 emotionally distressed about it. She had intended 
 for a little while to sacrifice herself, to give up her 
 own treat and have what would have been a treat 
 for him instead; she had considered the case, 
 weighing the for and the against, and in the end 
 she simply could not do it. Thinking of it, forcibly 
 dragged one way by her own natural inclination, 
 feebly pulled the other way by her genuine tender- 
 ness for Jack, she recognized plainly that the 
 charity matinee was in truth a treat, and not just 
 war duty. 
 
 It was a very special affair. It was the 
 hundredth matinee promoted by Edie's favorite 
 league. The main part of it was called The 
 Masque of Many Nations, and in this nearly all 
 the pretty women of London would figure. A 
 certain percentage of the very prettiest women 
 had been wisely reserved for the front of the 
 house, as program sellers, in specially designed 
 costumes; and prominent among them would be 
 Edie. Over and above the Masque there was to be 
 a variety entertainment. A famous music-hall 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 227 
 
 artist was going to sell a pig at auction; royal 
 princesses were to be present; if possible, mem- 
 bers of the war cabinet would attend. Twelve of 
 the program sellers, including Edie, would each 
 be entrusted with a signed photograph of Mr. 
 Lloyd George to dispose of to the best advantage. 
 This created a pleasant rivalry among the 
 twelve. At the dress rehearsal there had been 
 great fun and excitement, and a tremendous 
 discussion concerning the special costumes of the 
 program sellers. Some people said the bodices 
 had been cut too low at the back, for daylight; 
 others said that you couldn't cut bodices too low 
 nowadays ; and the organizing committee decided 
 that anyhow it was too late to attempt modifica- 
 tions. All this added to the flutter of one's nerves, 
 kept one on wires, made one so apprehensive of the 
 slightest failure and so desperately anxious that 
 in the smallest detail the whole thing should be a 
 triumphant success. It had been so largely 
 advertised and loudly talked of; the world was 
 on tiptoe, expecting it to go off with a bang. No, 
 Edie simply could not give it up ; and yet, on the 
 other hand, as she said herself, she felt bad about 
 deserting Jack on his last afternoon. However, 
 they had seen a good lot of each other; and he 
 ysrould soon be here again. Leave is fairly regular. 
 
228 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 He was very nice about it, when she explained 
 everything. This was when he called at the flat 
 on Saturday morning. 
 
 "It would be no use your coming to the show-^ 
 merely waste of money, even if you could get in ; 
 for I shouldn't have a word with you." 
 
 Then she had a bright idea, which seemed a 
 gleam of hope for Jack. The evening? And she 
 made a further explanation. There was to be a 
 dinner after the matinee, in a large, specially 
 retained room of a popular restaurant a sort of 
 informal feast for all connected with the charity, 
 by way of celebrating the success of the league's 
 hundredth effort ; and after dinner there might be, 
 probably, well, almost certainly, a little dancing. 
 
 "Jack, I don't see why you shouldn't come to 
 that. Yes, do." 
 
 Jack's hope faded again. He must spend the 
 evening at home ; his mother had made a point of 
 it; she had hoped that he would bring Edie back 
 with him for dinner. 
 
 "Then this," he said, "means that it is good- 
 by now? I shan't see you again ?" 
 
 "I'm afraid not," said Edie. "What time do 
 you push off to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Oh, very early far too early for you to come 
 to the station." 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 229 
 
 It seemed the longest afternoon of his life. He 
 called at new service clubs to which other young 
 officers of the new armies belonged, but he failed 
 to find any one he knew. Throughout the after- 
 noon he did not meet a single pal. He sat for a 
 considerable time at a tea-shop near Piccadilly 
 Circus, and tried to talk to the tea-girl who waited 
 on him; but she was too busy for conversation. 
 He walked more than half of the way home to 
 Putney, and his spirits sank as he plodded along. 
 Piccadilly was full of people, Hyde Park was 
 crowded, too; the sun shone; everywhere he saw 
 gaiety, brightness, light-heartedness. It was a 
 mistake to suppose that there were no holiday- 
 makers left. And he thought rather morbidly of 
 all the busy war workers, wondering if some of 
 them got their recreation and amusement out of 
 the work itself, not really taking the war seri- 
 ously, but rather making a plaything of it 
 because playthings were all that they had ever 
 understood or desired. 
 
 Such morbid fancies vanished on the morrow. 
 His spirits rose directly he got back to France. 
 He was all right out there, knowing what was 
 what, and who was who. 
 
 He wrote to Edie in quite simple language, but 
 with so much love that she treasured his letter 
 
230 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 greatly; not tearing it up, but putting it in the 
 emptiest drawer of her writing-table. He told 
 her how dreadful that last afternoon was to him; 
 how he wandered about alone, feeling utterly 
 wretched because she was not with him. "Well, 
 now, my darling Edie, this is not grouping; for 
 you were quite right to keep your engagement 
 with your friends. It is only to let you know how 
 dreadfully fond of you I am. When I am with 
 you I never seem able to tell you. You are so 
 much too good for me. I know that. But per- 
 haps one day I may be more worthy of you." 
 
 Not long after the receipt of this letter she was 
 reading a letter from his colonel, addressed to 
 Mrs. Grange. Jack's fourteen-year-old sister 
 Daphne brought it one morning, when Edie was 
 still in bed. 
 
 "I am to wait and take it back," said Daphne, 
 "because mother wants Aunt Loo to see it as soon 
 as possible. Mother fainted when she got the 
 news. Father went to the office as usual, but he 
 will try to come back early." 
 
 Edie sat up in the bed, shivering and sobbing as 
 she read the letter. "He had endeared himself 
 to all " Commanding officers should be for- 
 given if they repeated themselves |n these letters j 
 
WHAT EDIE REGRETTED 231 
 
 they had so many of them to write. "By his 
 unfailing cheerfulness and high sense of duty he 
 never failed in setting a good example, and I can 
 assure you he will be missed by all." 
 
 "Don't cry, Edie," said young Daphne, very 
 
 bravely. "One one oughtn't to re regret " 
 
 and she, poor child, began to sob again herself. 
 
 What Edie regretted was that last afternoon of 
 his leave. She regretted that she had not spent 
 it with him ; she regretted her refusal to dine with 
 him at Putney ; she regretted that she did not go 
 to see him off. All this Edie regretted ;yery bit- 
 terly at first. 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 
 
 /TMIE battalion had been back in the line for 
 JL thirty-six hours, and things had happened all 
 the time. 
 
 An hour after their arrival Private Henderson 
 had gone out as one of a patrolling party, which 
 caught it heavily from machine-gun fire, got three 
 killed and two winged, and came back with one of 
 these missing. Another party was going out to 
 look for him, when the bombardment opened. 
 iVery big and nasty stuff came over, rapidly 
 causing casualties. And off and on the enemy 
 continued to plaster them fire trench, support 
 trench, communication trenches. The dug-out 
 used for company headquarters was blown in, and 
 Private Henderson with others was turned out for 
 necessary digging to extricate people buried alive. 
 Some hours later he himself got buried with four 
 men crouching in a slit for shelter. He was the 
 least buried of this little lot and emerged unin- 
 jured, with mouth, ears, eyes full of earth, but 
 nothing wrong except a pain in the chest. Two of 
 his pals were less fortunate, being for some reason 
 dead. Then the gas shells began to burst, and 
 
 232 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 233 
 
 there were more casualties among the clumsy or 
 the slow. Box respirators were worn without a 
 breather for four hours, and when the order came 
 to take them off many were sick and fainted. But 
 the enemy's artillery showed no real signs of 
 weariness. It was always beginning once more 
 when you thought it had finished. One lost all 
 count of the time, night and day seemed just the 
 same. It was morning again, and a most awful 
 crump wrecked the trench in which a carrying 
 party was bringing up breakfast for Henderson's 
 platoon. Six men were killed, and the platoon 
 missed its hot tea. The front trench danced under 
 the explosions, timbers fell out of the sky, no 
 shelter was possible. So it went on no proper 
 food, no sleep, no nothing for thirty-six hours 
 simply hell. 
 
 You had only to look at the company to see what 
 they had gone through. Private Henderson felt 
 more dead than alive. The only mitigation of 
 their misery was that the weather held fine. They 
 had not suffered from cold or wet; and the kind 
 May sun now shining on their haggard, unshaven, 
 dirty faces seemed like a sympathetic caress. It 
 was half past ten A. M., and a dinner of bully beef 
 and biscuits was served out. Water might be 
 expected shortly. 
 
234 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Lieutenant Ashmore spoke to Henderson in the 
 support trench, and at first Henderson could not 
 understand. He was still so dizzy and rattled. 
 
 Disasters never come singly. It appeared that 
 Lieutenant Ashmore had broken his pince-nez 
 and mislaid his reserve pair. He had this second 
 pair safe and sound a few days ago, and he thought 
 he must have left them in the hut down at St. 
 Gregoire, occupied by him and other officers till 
 the battalion came up. He was saying that he 
 wanted Henderson to go down there and look for 
 them. 
 
 "Yes, sir, I see. I'll do it, sir," said Hender- 
 son. "You trust me, sir." 
 
 Also Henderson was to find out at St. Gregorie 
 if Captain Berkeley had returned. Captain 
 Berkeley was due from leave last night. 
 
 "All right, sir. I'll do it," said Henderson. 
 
 And Lieutenant Ashmore gave him the most 
 exact description of the particular hut the 
 fourth on your right hand as you came into the 
 field from the railway line, and the lieutenant's 
 valise had lain at the far end of the hut. The 
 glasses were in a black leather case. The case 
 might have slipped down between the boards. 
 
 "I'll find 'em if they're there, sir. But didn't I 
 ought to have a pass, sir? or the p'lice may stop 
 
 me." 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 235 
 
 5 
 
 Lieutenant Ashmore brought out his pocket- 
 book, scrawled a few words in pencil, and Private 
 Henderson noticed his hand shaking. Everybody 
 was a bit shaky this morning. Nobody seemed 
 quite to know what he was doing. 
 
 "There you are," and he tore the leaf from his 
 pocketbook. 
 
 "You 'aven't put the date, sir." 
 
 "All right. What is the date? Damn, I don't 
 know what day it is ;" and the lieutenant added a 
 hieroglyphic that might mean anything. 
 
 Henderson went to the crumbling lair that in 
 happier circumstances should have served him as 
 a sleeping bunk, fished out his pack and equipment, 
 and put on everything, murmuring to himself the 
 while. "Lose me kit next. Get that buried too. 
 Best take it, 'eavy or not." Then in another 
 minute he had engaged in the long series of com- 
 municating trenches that led one away from all 
 this danger and beastliness toward places of 
 comparative safety. No one had questioned him ; 
 no one took the slightest notice of him. 
 
 He was a pitiable figure really, as he shambled 
 and stumbled along the boards of the deep trench, 
 round the incessant traverses, and through tunnels 
 that had timbered roofs; with his pack catching 
 against the uprights of the revetment and giving 
 
236 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 him such jolts that he nearly fell; looking small, 
 weak, tired, overburdened, altogether outmatched 
 by the tremendous phenomena of this abominable 
 war. His face was still covered with reddish 
 brown earth, his hair was full of earth, his clothes 
 were earth-stained. Down here, with sunlight, 
 tufts of green grass, and moving air three or four 
 feet above his head, he seemed like a creature of 
 another race, an earthman painfully emerging 
 toward the surface from the depth below. But 
 in truth he felt quite happy, happier every 
 moment; the sense of fatigue passed from him; 
 the pain in his chest had gone. He was getting 
 an unexpected and delightful treat. Just to come 
 out of it for an hour or two, to enjoy a brief 
 respite from the hateful noise and the senseless 
 fury of it, would do him, was doing him, all the 
 good in the world. He dined as he trudged along, 
 and when he had pushed the last bite of tinned 
 beef into his mouth and cracked his last bit of 
 biscuit he whistled. 
 
 "Oh, cuss I" 
 
 Something else had whistled, high over his 
 head, and there came a tremendous crump that 
 seemed straight in front of him, perhaps fifty 
 yards down the trench. He leaned against the 
 side of the trench, trembling violently! w& small 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 237 
 
 fragments of earth fell tinkling on his metal hat. 
 Then there came three more bursts, and he 
 dropped upon all fours on the duck boards. 
 
 "If they're going to shell me between 'ere an' 
 the village," he thought, "that puts the lid on it." 
 Then he got up, pulled himself together. "What 
 I bin through 'as awmost unnerved me;" and he 
 went on a little way, clambered up a bay in the 
 side of the trench, and took a bold survey. 
 
 Some of the ugly smoke was still visible, but 
 incredibly farther off than where he had looked 
 for it; otherwise all was deliciously peaceful and 
 innocent, the rank grass and flowering weeds all 
 bright in the sunshine, here where no man's foot 
 trod, and right ahead the white ruins and the tall 
 blackened trees that were all that remained of the 
 village. 
 
 After about a mile he came out of the trench 
 upon a dusty bit of road. This was the road used 
 by the regimental transport at night when it 
 brought up the rations ; parallel to it there ran a 
 deep railway cutting, with the permanent way all 
 dismantled, even the sleepers gone the telegraph 
 poles down, and the iron signal posts* uprooted and 
 trailing. Thence onward down the road one 
 passed through the customary scene of destruc- 
 tion. The road itself meandered among shell- 
 
238 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 holes, many of them recent ; everything that could 
 be broken had long since been smashed to 
 smithereens; not a leaf had unfolded itself this 
 year on the shattered trees ; and the village, when 
 he came to it, was simply a rubbish heap of bricks, 
 stones and tiles. But through it, constructed of 
 its waste materials, there were excellent good 
 roads, along which lorries, cars, and horse-drawn 
 wagons moved fast or sedately; some fine water 
 troughs with an in and out track had been erected; 
 all among the ruins one saw shelters and huts, 
 such as the divisional canteen, town major's office, 
 salvage officer's store, and so on; and on the far 
 side, in what had once been green fields, there 
 were the permanent wooden huts, camouflaged 
 tents, and brown canvas bivouac sheets which 
 showed that many battalions of infantry were 
 reposing themselves. Still farther off the bare 
 brown valley was full of horse lines of artillery, 
 camps of A.S.C., dumps of Royal Engineers ; and 
 from the distant ridges our bigger guns roared 
 cheerfully, with a flash that was just perceptible 
 now and then, when clouds obscured the sun. 
 Nothing uglier, more unnatural than the whole 
 view could well be imagined; and yet to Private 
 Henderson it was refreshing in its smiling orderli- 
 ness and peaceful organization. By contrast with 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 239 
 
 the front trenches and what he had come from, it 
 had the penetrating charm of an exquisite piece 
 of pastoral verse and it stirred him to his depths. 
 
 "Bit o' luck, this errand. Feel the better for it 
 a'ready." 
 
 Near the water troughs he was pounced upon by 
 a corporal of the military police, who made him 
 show his pass. 
 
 "Tass Private Henderson on duty/" the 
 corporal read out aloud; and he said that the 
 name of unit, regimental number, and a lot more 
 ought to have been written down. "It's made out 
 very irregular." 
 
 "It was written up in the line," said Henderson, 
 with an aggrieved tone. 
 
 "Yes, and I tell you the whole thing's very 
 irregular. Up in the line that's you chaps' 
 proper place, and I don't understand officers send- 
 ing men down out of it on any pretense whatever. 
 You just tell me again what your duty is." 
 
 And Henderson told him. 
 
 "All right, my lad, and you do it then ; and get 
 back to your battalion as fast as you can." 
 
 Henderson trudged on, feeling aggrieved. 
 "Blasted M.P.'s they take jolly good care to keep 
 safe out of it themselves, and tell you to 'urry 
 back there." And he thought of the military 
 
240 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 police, both mounted and on foot, as the 
 infantryman's deadly foes, more treacherous, 
 conscienceless, and more powerful than the 
 Germans; dogging you on the march, lying in 
 ambush to trip you up, entangling you with 
 unpublished regulations. "So many lawyers and 
 magistrates that's what they ought to V bin, 
 not soldiers." 
 
 A strange battalion was occupying the huts in 
 the field where his own lot had lain ; and he made 
 a long and conscientious hunt for Mr. Ashmore's 
 glasses, but without avail. Some good-natured 
 officers helped him, but all their search was 
 fruitless. Nor could he obtain any tidings of 
 Captain Berkeley. On the advice of the kind 
 officers he went to the Armstrong hut labeled 
 "Town Major," and inquired there. But Captain 
 Berkeley had not been heard of. 
 
 "Awright. Then I best go back meself, and 
 so report." 
 
 But the idea came to him that first he would 
 look in at the battalion transport lines, and he did 
 BO. Perhaps the captain or the pince-nez might 
 have turned up there. Henderson had pals among 
 the drivers. 
 
 The transport lines were idyllic in the soft 
 afternoon light, just a perfect picture of restful- 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 241 
 
 ness and ease ; a few barkless trees to which the 
 picket lines were attached, all the animals lazily 
 swishing their tails, the men all sitting or standing 
 by a black ditch hanging the cleaned harness on 
 the wire fence, rubbing their bits and chains on 
 the dry earth to polish them, smoking, whistling, 
 chaffing; the transport sergeant asleep under a 
 wagon sheet that spread like a canopy on sticks 
 over the hay bales and oats bags ; and the limbered 
 wagons and four traveling kitchens parked so as 
 to form a comfortable background to the whole 
 little happy family. 
 
 "Cheerio!" said Henderson, in a confidentially 
 quiet greeting, so as not to disturb the sergeant. 
 
 The transport welcomed him charmingly as 
 soon as they recognized him through his dirt, and 
 promptly he gave himself what he called "the 
 luckserry" of a thorough clean-up. "Don't sim 
 worth it," he said; "but it is such a luckserry." 
 So they lent him a bucket to wash in, helped to 
 brush his clothes and get the earth out of his hair ; 
 he had his shaving tackle in the pack, and after 
 shaving he stepped forth radiant. One could see 
 then exactly what he was a rather silly-looking 
 man of thirty-three, with watery blue eyes, a 
 feeble chin, and a mustache that would have 
 drooped and straggled if it had not been severely 
 
242 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 pruned into the military Charley Chaplin pattern. 
 Before the war he had been a milkman at Norwood 
 and he spoke now precisely as he used to speak on 
 his round to cooks and kitchen-maids, his eyes 
 very wide open, but blinking spasmodically, as he 
 related marvelous events that he had just read in 
 the newspaper. 
 
 "Bad up there, is it, Hendy?" 
 
 "I tell you, lads, it's fairly chronic. 7 never 
 seen anything like it, and I seen a bit in me time. 
 Sergeant Hulk you won't never see him again; 
 no, nor Jack Yates nor Hackett nor Price. Mr. 
 Bevill, he's killed outright. Both Mr. Cooper and 
 Mr. Crane 'as been 'it severe. The losses has 
 been something fearful. I reckon when the lists 
 come to be made out, arf the comp'ny's gone. I 
 don't envy you your trip this evenin' and that's 
 straight." 
 
 They asked him to stay to tea, but he said no, 
 time forbade; he must get back to the battalion. 
 Then he relented. Tea was almost ready; the 
 chimney of one of the traveling kitchens was 
 sending up smoke; men were carrying dixies. 
 Presently he was having a glorious tea. He sat 
 with his back to a wagon wheel, drinking the 
 sweet, strong, boiling hot tea, devouring immense 
 pieces of bread and jam, feeling absolutely happy. 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 243 
 
 "You transport do yourselves all right, what! 
 An' I don't blame you. Eat and drink while you 
 may, for when you can't who shall say?" And 
 he laughed and blinked, glad to have made the 
 others laugh by this witty quotation. 
 
 He ingratiated himself with the transport 
 sergeant by a graceful compliment. 
 
 "If I may venture to say so, Sergeant, your 
 mules look in the prime of their condition. It's 
 a pleasure to regard them." 
 
 And after tea the sergeant did the honors of 
 the lines, taking him up and down behind the 
 animals' tails ; the sergeant patting favorite brutes 
 on their hindquarters, even toying with their 
 tails, while Henderson kept at a respectful dis- 
 tance but went on admiring all through the 
 promenade. 
 
 "But I must be getting back ;" and he began to 
 put on his equipment. 
 
 "Come up with us and the wagons." 
 
 "No, I mustn't wait for that ... So 
 long, boys." And, shouldering his rifle, he set out. 
 
 Soon he had left the happy village behind, ancl 
 he was trudging up the long road, with the rail- 
 way cutting at its side. When he got near the 
 beginning of the communication trench he halted. 
 He looked down the steps into it, and thought of 
 
244 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 all that those infernal duck-boards would lead him 
 to. And suddenly an invisible distaste pos- 
 sessed him. It was not fear; it was not merely 
 fatigue; it was a crisis of overwhelming disgust 
 and disinclination. If he had been marching up 
 with his platoon he would have felt none of it; 
 but because he was utterly alone, with no one to 
 give him an order or set him an example, he could 
 not resist it. 
 
 Next moment he was slithering down the steep 
 bank of the railway cutting. He climbed up the 
 opposite bank, came out on the weedy, shell- 
 marked plain, and stumbled along, with his back 
 to the whole system of trenches. "But this won't 
 do," he muttered feebly. "I want to get back to 
 my battalion." Nevertheless he continued to 
 trudge on, in the wrong direction ; keeping to the 
 high ground, avoiding the valleys, with the low 
 rays of the setting sun on his face, and the gigan- 
 tic, fantastic shadow of a fully equipped infantry- 
 man trailing after him as he crossed each patch 
 of bare ground. 
 
 Not far from a little wood he unharnessed 
 himself from his kit and lay down to sleep. When 
 he woke it was daylight again, and the sun had 
 just risen, a long way off, over the German 
 trenches. He sat up, feeling headachy and 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 245 
 
 stupid, and it took him a little while to get his 
 bearings and to realize that this was to-morrow 
 morning. 
 
 "By gosh/' he thought, "I must get back to the 
 battalion precious quick now, or I shall fairly 
 catch it." 
 
 He stood, shading his eyes with his hand, star- 
 ing eastward at the place of duty and torment. 
 He had drifted an enormous distance from it 
 already. And soon he was drifting on again, still 
 in the wrong direction. 
 
 On all sides he was surrounded by the British 
 Army, but it was the zone of divisions in support, 
 divisions in reserve, departmental troops, and so 
 forth. A mile to his right there was a large camp, 
 and he saw strings of horses passing across the 
 plateau on their way to water. Except for this, 
 nobody seemed yet stirring. Ahead of him lay 
 green grass, wide fields, and little woods in full 
 foliage. Each wood, as he knew, concealed an 
 inhabited village. It all looked delightful in the 
 fresh morning light. This part of the world had 
 become more familiar to him than Norwood, Tulse 
 Hill, or Sydenham had been in the days before the 
 war; and he thought now of the village of Ligny 
 TAbbaye : he thought of the village as one of the 
 most charming spots on earth a little haven 
 
'246 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 where the battalion had lain sheltered and happy 
 during six weeks of rest. He would go there, look 
 up old friends, and get a mouthful of breakfast. 
 An hour or two later, he came down a lane from 
 the hillside under the pleasant trees among French 
 peasants with farm wagons, round the corner by 
 the church, into the main street. The village, as 
 usual, was occupied by a battalion. Platoons 
 were being dismissed from early parade ; the cooks 
 were busy: it was breakfast time. His special 
 friends, Monsieur and Madame Marizot, lived at 
 the small farm at the top of the street, but before 
 he got to them he was pounced upon. It was a 
 slight pounce this time, made by battalion police, 
 not the regular M.P/s. Asked who he was, and 
 where he was going, he told some cock-and-bull 
 tale of how he had been sent by his officer to collect 
 washing that had been left behind when the unit 
 moved. "Marizot that's the name," and he 
 pointed. "Lame old chap that limps. Oh, it's 
 all right, I assure you," he said confidently; and 
 they believed him and let him pass. There was 
 something of a foundation to this little tale, be- 
 cause, in fact, Madame Marizot did wash shirts 
 and collars, and he had arranged with her to do 
 so for Captain Berkeley, when for a little while he 
 >vas acting as servant to that officer. \ 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 247 
 
 Old Marizot, his wife, his daughter Elise, and 
 the children, welcomed Private Henderson with 
 effusion. They made much of him as a valued 
 friend, setting him down to table, and giving him 
 a splendid breakfast in their comfortable kitchen. 
 The farm was overrun by a platoon of the strange 
 battalion, but they did not interfere with the 
 honored guest, and he spent a most restful, happy 
 day there. He could talk no French, and his hosts 
 could talk no English, but nevertheless they 
 seemed to understand each other perfectly, eking 
 out the conversation with gestures, friendly taps 
 and nudges, and much laughter. A little stream 
 divided Marizot's garden from the orchards, and 
 in the warm sunny afternoon Private Henderson 
 had a bath down there, making his toilet very 
 slowly, afterward sitting on the grass with his 
 housewife open at his side, and doing a little 
 stitching and mending. Little Jeanne, aged five, 
 with her brother Eugene, aged four, joined him 
 when he was dressed; and, using his clasp knife 
 with considerable skill, he made a toy boat for the 
 children, which, when launched upon the stream, 
 provided them all three with amusement till 
 supper time. 
 
 Next day he tore himself away. His kindly, 
 generous hosts conveyed to him that they would 
 
248 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 have been glad if he could stay longer, but by 
 energetic signs such as shouldering his rifle, 
 aiming at the invisible foe, and so forth he gave 
 them to understand that he was compelled to leave 
 them and return to the battalion. Then they filled 
 his haversack with provisions for the journey. 
 
 Throughout that day he drifted on, always in 
 the wrong direction, keeping to the fields and open 
 places, picnicking on dry banks among dog roses, 
 and quietly musing. 
 
 He knew his altered position, his new status, 
 perfectly well. He thought of those things that 
 are read out from time to time on parade. 
 Desertion. Nothing else, of course. How would 
 it read in his case? "Private Henderson tried by 
 field general court-martial for desertion in that 
 he absented himself from his battalion when in 
 the line was found at a village in the rear five 
 days subsequently sentenced to death. Sentence 
 of the court was carried out at 6:45 A. M. on the 
 24th inst." Something like that, what? 
 
 Yet he enjoyed it. The quiet, the peace, the 
 sensation of holiday-making soothed and glad- 
 dened him. Above all, he was enjoying the 
 supreme relief after so much effort and strain. 
 It was sufficient for happiness to be here, free, 
 obeying A no orders except the impulse of the 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 249 
 
 moment; eating and drinking when he pleased, 
 sitting down to rest when he pleased, getting up 
 and moving on again when he pleased. 
 
 During the course of this long, rambling day 
 for he rambled purposely, in order to dodge the 
 town of Le Merval, and to keep wide of the large 
 village of Chapelle-aux-Bois he thought lazily of 
 his whole career, passing in review much of his 
 life as a milkman, and nearly all of his life as 
 soldier, taking a meditative retrospect, without 
 any method or brain fag. A hard master, Mr. 
 Garrett at the dairy, saying rude things if 
 incensed ; accusing Henderson of being half-witted 
 when accidents occurred, and vowing he had no 
 more intellect that a boy of eight. It had been 
 much the same story at first, after he enlisted so 
 gallantly in 1914. He was slow in learning the 
 tricks of his new trade, and the authorities had 
 threatened to draft him out of the army alto- 
 gether as "wanting in the upper story." But he 
 had learned it all in time ; he had shown himself as 
 good as the best of 'em. "Simply surprisin' the 
 way I've stuck to it," he thought, with a glow of 
 honest pride. "Three years." And as though 
 he had been seated at a cinema theater, he saw 
 moving pictures of his life during those inter- 
 minable three years. Training, crossing the 
 
250 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Channel at night, marching on the straight 
 French roads, fighting, digging trenches; 
 marching again, drilling and training again, as 
 though it was all to begin once more more 
 fighting, more digging sleeping out in rain, 
 snow, mud, frost digging, fighting, marching. 
 "Considerin' my original constitution, and my 
 chest measurement, it is simply surprisin* 'ow well 
 I've done." He had received compliments and 
 recognition, too. And he thought of how he had 
 been a lance corporal, and of how the stripe had 
 been taken away not for a crime, or any foolish- 
 ness, but simply from his kindness and good 
 nature in dealing with others. "Didn't assert 
 himself sufficiently;" that is what the company 
 sergeant-major said, and vividly, as though it had 
 been yesterday, he recalled the little scene in the 
 orderly room, when he was taken before the 
 colonel. He had spoken up with great dignity on 
 that occasion. "If it's to be said that I have 
 failed in the power of command, I ask it, in justice 
 to myself, to be reverted to the ranks." "If that 
 is your own wish," the colonel had replied, "it 
 shall be done. And, in the circumstances, I think 
 it does you credit." There! That was a 
 compliment from the commanding officer himself, 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 251 
 
 seated in his orderly room. He had not lost his 
 stripe, but had renounced it at his own request. 
 
 His wife, however, couldn't understand it; 
 nagging at him in her letters, when he told her to 
 drop the title and address him for the future as 
 No. 12561, Private Henderson, No. 14 Platoon, D 
 Company. What a hullabaloo she had set up 
 when he patriotically enrolled himself in August, 
 1914. "Don't tell me you've done that, James. 
 If you mean to say you're going to run away from 
 your wife and children, I'll never speak to you 
 again. Don't come back here in your uniform, 
 for you'll find the door shut in yer face!" But 
 she grew reconciled to it, and was proud to walk 
 out with him in his uniform. She had her sepa- 
 ration allowance, and the extra for the kids, and 
 she got on very well without him. She said so in 
 her letters. Those kids were growing up fast 
 older than Jeanne and Eugene. He thought of the 
 pride, the affection, and the anxiety of his 
 relatives in following his fortunes as a soldier. 
 Not too much of these emotions, but enough to 
 make them all take it badly if things happened to 
 go wrong. His sister Sue and her husband a 
 man earning big money in munitions, and 
 consequently rather swollen-headed and uppish 
 
252 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 would be the first to say: "I told you so." They 
 had always belittled him not being so openly 
 rude as Mr. Garrett, the dairyman but 
 conveying the same offensive suggestions. "What 
 do you suppose you're going to do in the army?" 
 said Sue at the very beginning. "It's big strong ' 
 men like Jack what's wanted to make soldiers 
 not little weedy chaps like you." 
 
 "Then if Jack, and all such fine fellows, had 
 gone, perhaps I might have consented to stay 
 behind." Had her there, anyhow 1 But she 
 might get her revenge now. 
 
 And again he thought of it. The ugly word 
 and ugly sound of it. Desertion. He tried to 
 forget it altogether, and walked on, still enjoying 
 himself. He felt like a murderer who tries to 
 forget the rope and he succeeded. 
 
 Toward the evening he was following one of 
 the great main roads, a noble thoroughfare, up 
 and down which mechanical traffic flowed in an 
 almost continuous stream. The character of the 
 country had changed; there were more inhabit- 
 ants, more enclosures, if possible, more camps; 
 and he had been unable to keep to the open. Many 
 troops were on the march ; and he himself looked 
 exactly like a man who had dropped out of the 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 253 
 
 ranks of a battalion moving. He so explained 
 himself when questioned. 
 
 "Hullo, my lad! Where are you going?" 
 
 "Coin'?" he asked innocently. "Why, I'm wiv 
 me own battalion. They gone by here, haven't 
 they?" 
 
 "Then you shove along after them. Don't hang 
 'about" 
 
 These policemen at barriers and cross-roads 
 were regulating the traffic, averting blocks, cau- 
 tioning drivers for excessive speed ; and they did 
 not bother about infantry, except when called upon 
 to clear the road for a column. They knew that 
 the mounted police who ride at the tail of every 
 brigade could be trusted to drop on any strag- 
 glers. "Pass along" that's what they told him; 
 for all the world as if they had been the metro- 
 politan police in dear old England. 
 
 Absolutely unchallenged he passed along 
 through a quiet dignified town that seemed to be 
 army headquarters, or perhaps only headquarters 
 of two or three cavalry divisions. It was full of 
 saddle horses, motor-cars, officers in red hats ; and 
 the military police were so busy saluting here that 
 they did not throw him a word. He came out 
 again through all their barriers, and footed it on 
 
254 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 the broad westward road, with his face to the red 
 fires of the setting sun. 
 
 He found a cozy sleeping-place up against real 
 hay-ricks, and a little after dawn he was chatting 
 with some A.S.C. men in charge of empty lorries. 
 He craved a lift and asked where they were going. 
 
 "Belong." 
 
 "Belong V 9 He gasped. The sea-coast! Then, 
 receiving permission to do so, he climbed up over 
 the tail-board of a lorry, and sat puffing and 
 blowing. The drivers thought he was a man for 
 leave who had somehow missed the train at rail- 
 head. He looked like a leave man in his service 
 cap, with the steel helmet slung at his shoulder, 
 with pack, respirator, side arm, entrenching tool ; 
 and they did not notice that, unlike a leave man, 
 he was without an overcoat. 
 
 At the port his real peril began, and he shook 
 with dread. He felt remorse, too. He was like 
 a dreamer awakened. Such a thing had never 
 happened in the battalion; he would be the very 
 first ; his name would be remembered and detested 
 forever. When, tremblingly, he had worked his 
 way down through the town and reached the 
 sunlit open spaces by the quay and the bridge, the 
 sight of all the police with their red cap bands 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 255 
 
 and their arm badges froze his blood. They 
 guarded each end of the bridge ; they seemed to be 
 here, there, and everywhere. It was a certainty 
 that he would be nabbed. 
 
 He looked about him despairingly. Across the 
 water the town station was like an ugly fortress 
 or prison, and the hotels suggested houses of 
 detention; a black engine and a black sinister 
 train of closed trucks was moving across the road- 
 way to the sound of a melancholy horn; to the 
 right he saw the pier station, trains of ordinary 
 coaches, mail steamers with signal flags flying. 
 Crowds of real leave men were hastening toward 
 the boats ; the sun shone with pitiless brightness ; 
 and the fresh sea breeze came to him along the 
 quay, salt and clean, with wonderful whispers in 
 it whispers of freedom, of home, but never a 
 whisper of hope. 
 
 He shambled away toward the Folkestone 
 Hotel. He dared not face the town again, and yet 
 he knew that down here by the water was the 
 special danger zone. But he could not keep away 
 from it. Presently he was back near the bridge. 
 A lot of leave men were coming along the quay on 
 this side of the river in no formation, or order, 
 without officers to direct them, just straggling 
 down from the rest camp to the boats. Instinc- 
 
256 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 tively, rather than from any plan, Private 
 Henderson hid himself among these men, crossed 
 the bridge with them unchallenged, and went with 
 them down the other quay toward the pier sta- 
 tion and the boats. But his footsteps lagged upon 
 the hard stones. What was he going to do? He 
 had only jumped a little further into the deadly 
 trap. Not a chance of getting safely on the boats, 
 stowing himself away, reaching the other side. 
 Every man's warrant would be examined at the 
 gangway going on, and again when going off. 
 
 Suddenly his hair stood on end. He was face 
 to face with Captain Berkeley. 
 
 "What are you doing? Leave?" 
 
 "Well, sir, I'm looking for you and, thanks be 
 to goodness, I've found you at last." 
 
 "What do you mean? Got a letter for me?" 
 
 "No, sir. I was sent to find you." 
 
 "Who sent you?" 
 
 "Mr. Ashmore." 
 
 "Where from?" 
 
 "The line, sir." 
 
 'The line! Well, what is it? What was his 
 message?" 
 
 In the hurry, sir, he gave me no exact message. 
 He just like sent me off, at the double." 
 
 "To come right down here to meet the boat?'* 
 
THE WRONG DIRECTION 257 
 
 "No, sir, to St. Gregoire first of all. And not 
 seeing you there, I come on bit by bit tracing 
 you like." 
 
 The officer asked a few more questions, and 
 suspected something very fishy. Then the 
 wretched Henderson confessed, asked to be saved, 
 appealed for mercy. "I don't sim to understand 
 how I done it. I sim to have bin 'arf mad like 
 not truthfully knowing what I was doing." And 
 to give poignancy to the appeal, he reminded 
 Captain Berkeley how he had once acted as his 
 servant. "I done my best for you, sir, that night 
 you was hit. I was a good servant to you, sir." 
 
 "No, you were a very bad servant. That's why 
 I sent you back to duty." 
 
 "Well, I tried. I have tried, sir, all along. I 
 ain't very strong and the len'th of my service 
 tells on me. But God knows I've tried. Don't 
 let me be disgraced. Don't let the battalion be 
 disgraced through my cause. Take me back with 
 you." 
 
 And, right or wrong, Captain Berkeley did it. 
 
 Fate, too, was kind to Private Henderson. 
 During his absence the trenches had been knocked 
 about again; Mr. Ashmore had gone, badly 
 wounded; so much had happened that Henderson 
 had been reported as missing only this morning. 
 
258 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 They believed his tale that Lieutenant Ashmoro 
 had improperly sent him away on a tedious errand, 
 and they asked no questions. 
 
 Three weeks later he went over the top among 
 his pals, and was killed with great credit. So it 
 all ended happily, as one may say. 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 
 
 WHEN the war broke out, Mr. Veal looked 
 round his little shop with a despairing 
 glance, and cursed the fools who had made this 
 war to ruin him. He was the Whiteley or Self- 
 ridge of the village, selling all the things that the 
 villagers wanted without the trouble of going to 
 the market towns to fetch them on one side of 
 the door, grocery, stationery, tobacco ; on the other 
 side, ironmongery, hardware, a certain amount of 
 drapery, every kind of odds and ends a good 
 stock, and now, in a moment, half of it, three- 
 quarters of it, changed to waste rubbish on his 
 hands. 
 
 Mentally he measured the full extent of the 
 disaster. The cavalry regiment at the barracks 
 over the hill would of course go to the war; wives 
 of officers and hangers-on in the little houses along 
 the Salisbury Road would disappear ; all the young 
 men from the village would go ; the old men and 
 women who remained would be hard up, and their 
 custom would drop to nothing; taxes would rise, 
 agriculture would languish ; he might just as well 
 put up the shutters and be done with it. 
 
 259 
 
260 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 He was a small, sandy man of forty-five one 
 of those hard little men of quick brain and inex- 
 haustible physical energy, and he had put twenty 
 years of unceasing work into his business ; doing 
 all right, keeping his head above water, but never 
 really thriving never really getting adequate 
 reward for the severe and sustained effort. In the 
 last year or two, perhaps, his prospects had 
 brightened, and now this was the end of it. Curse 
 the fools, calling themselves statesmen, who had 
 ruined him! 
 
 He unfolded the Daily Mail on the counter, 
 looked again at the immense head-lines that 
 heralded the upheaval, and would have wept, had 
 not Miss Hames been looking at him. Then, sud- 
 denly, his thoughts took a new turn ; it was as if 
 a fever that had driven everybody else mad swept 
 from a distance into his veins. As the paper said, 
 this was going to be a tremendous conflict; every 
 man would be wanted for it. Why should he not 
 go himself? And his thoughts worked with 
 astounding rapidity. Business done for; alone in 
 the world, a widower two daughters married 
 no one dependent on him. Leave Miss Hames in 
 charge, to carry on and save what she could out 
 of the wreck ? Strike a blow for England ! 
 
 "What is it?" asked Miss Hames. 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 261 
 
 "Nothing. Go on with your work." 
 
 He had startled Miss Hames by standing up 
 behind the counter and slapping his chest. A 
 burst of patriotic ardor was quite carrying him 
 away. Here goes ! In imagination he saw it all 
 marching, fighting, glory, and death? Well, 
 and he gulped and turned up his eyes, that, too, 
 perhaps; but one need not brood on that. Do it, 
 without a word to anybody, now. 
 
 A few minutes afterward he was on his bicycle, 
 pedaling for all he was worth. He arrived at the 
 barracks in a perspiration very hot, almost burn- 
 ing, both inside and out. 
 
 "Well," he cried jovially. "I have rolled up." 
 And he leaned his bicycle against the iron gates 
 of the barrack square. Nobody took any notice of 
 him. There were rows of wagons being loaded; 
 soldiers with strange-looking equipment were 
 moving in all directions; the whole place was 
 changed, full of queer preparations. 
 
 "I have rolled up." He said it again to a non- 
 commissioned officer who was passing. 
 
 "What say?" 
 
 "I have rolled up. Recruit Number One for 
 the war." 
 
 With some little difficulty he prevailed on them 
 to take him to the busy orderly room for an 
 
262 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 interview with an officer. They did not exactly 
 laugh at him in the orderly room, but they got 
 rid of him without unnecessary delay. The regi- 
 ment was full strength he was absurdly over 
 age not a rider and so forth. He had not 
 thought of these things until then. They advised 
 him to go to Salisbury, and make an application 
 at the recruiting office there. He biked back 
 across the hill to the little railway station on the 
 branch line, and an hour and a half afterward 
 arrived at Salisbury. At the recruiting office he 
 was received as if he had come for the purpose of 
 playing an ill-timed joke. It was soldiers that 
 they wanted for the war, not middle-aged grocers. 
 When he said that he would soon pick up the 
 tricks of soldiering, they told him that he was 
 ridiculously too old to learn. Considerably huffed, 
 he said that he would see what the recruiting 
 officer said about it at Winchester or Andover. 
 But he did not try his luck at these other towns ; 
 he went home disgusted. 
 
 He thought worse of things than ever. If this 
 was the way they started, how could one hope that 
 they would win? You can't fight a war without 
 men; and here, at the very kick-off, they had 
 refused an able-bodied, wiry, well-proportioned 
 man, full of grit and pluck, just because he was 
 a few years over their peace-time age standard. 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OP VIEW 263 
 
 Meeting the vicar outside the yard where he 
 kept his two carts and horses, he could not refrain 
 from expressing his feelings on the subject. 
 
 "Do you mean, Mr. Veal," said the vicar, "that 
 you have really offered your services to the coun- 
 try in this moment of peril?" 
 
 "I do," said Mr. Veal, "and they won't have 
 me." 
 
 "I'd like to shake hands with you," said the 
 vicar. "You have set an example to everybody." 
 
 "Oh, bother that, sir," said Mr. Veal. "I 
 wasn't after compliments. I wanted to do my 
 duty, and it seems they won't let me." 
 
 "Mr. Veal," said the vicar, "it was fine of you. 
 There is no other word for it." 
 
 And the vicar's sympathy did Mr. Veal a lot of 
 good. 
 
 Then, almost immediately, he made the wonder- 
 ful discovery that, far from ruining him, the war 
 was going to make his fortune. He could sell 
 anything. All you had to do was to buy things 
 any sort of things and sell them again at a large 
 profit. 
 
 The regular cavalry regiment had gone, but a 
 large reserve regiment had come in its place. 
 Troops of the new formations were pouring into 
 the neighborhood. The hillside, the downs, the 
 Whole country for miles and miles, s?ere becoming 
 
264 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 one vast camp. Quick to realize possibilities that 
 offered themselves, he threw himself with 
 redoubled energy into the expanding enterprise. 
 He bought stock with Napoleonic boldness; he 
 took the cottages on each side of him at a high 
 rent; he hired sheds, barns, outbuildings, for use 
 as storehouses. In the midst of it, he rubbed his 
 hands and slapped his chest, and said how he 
 would like to go himself. 
 
 "But they won't take me though I dessay I'm 
 as solid as many of the youngsters." He urged 
 every one to go and enlist; acted as amateur re- 
 cruiting sergeant, as he rushed about the country ; 
 sometimes brought in a few recruits in his cart, 
 and saw them off at the station. He saw 
 everybody off, and was full of geniality on the 
 platform ; then hurried back to his shop to put the 
 price up again. He told the shop girl who helped 
 him principally: "Those writers' companions at 
 sixpence, what we used to do at twopence, put 'em 
 at ninepence. I don't know when I shall get any 
 more." And just then, perhaps, a Tommy, 
 coming in, asked for one. 
 
 "I say, ninepence? It was only sixpence yes- 
 terday." 
 
 "Yes, my lad, and likely 'twill be a shilling to- 
 morrow. You are lucky to get one at all." 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 265 
 
 And he used to say, with immense joviality, to 
 the soldiers who caviled at his price : "You seem 
 to forget there's a war on." 
 
 It surpassed all dreams. He was expanding so 
 fast that there seemed no limit to the expansion, 
 unless perhaps the want of labor and transport 
 stopped him. These people would buy anything 
 not only the ignorant soldiers, but the officers, the 
 officers' wives, their servants. Regimental quar- 
 termasters and transport officers almost staggered 
 one by their demands. Three hundred balls of 
 string, miles of tape, chaff-cutting machines at 
 twice the pre-war cost. 
 
 "Could you possibly get me six more machines 
 by Saturday?" 
 
 "I'll do my best, sir. I can't say more." 
 
 At night, as he lay in his lonely but comfortable 
 bed, he wished that the war might go on for ever. 
 
 Miss Hames was a splendid assistant, and she 
 helped him loyally, knocking into shape the un- 
 trained hands that he hastily collected for her, 
 and seeing that they set about it in style. She 
 fretted a little at first, when her sweetheart went, 
 but she was now reconciled. Never did a man 
 have a better right hand, and the thought 
 occurred to him that he would marry her. 
 Couldn't do a wiser thing. Directly he had made 
 
266 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 up his mind that it was good business, he saw the 
 romantic side of it also. She had a nice figure, 
 and the good looks that go with health and youth. 
 She was a pleasant companion. Two years of 
 widowerhood is long enough for mourning, 
 especially when the times are moving fast. 
 
 He proposed to Miss Nellie Hames, and, in 
 speaking of his glorious prospects, he let out his 
 secret thought. He said that there was nothing 
 that he might not attain to, if the war lasted long 
 enough. 
 
 "Oh, heaven forbid !" said the girl. 
 
 "Heaven forbid, too," said Mr. Veal. "Well, 
 you think it over. I don't want to influence you, 
 but I wouldn't let the idea of Dick Harf ord inter- 
 fere. In this awful conflict, what is the chance 
 of his coming back ? That's what I read into this 
 talk about conscription. All the first lot will be 
 wiped out. The government has made up their 
 mind to it, and recognizes the fact." 
 
 They were married. And he became more 
 prosperous than ever. The shop and its exten- 
 sions were crowded with customers all day long, 
 winter and summer. The size of the camps was 
 gigantic; solid huts had been built, and two 
 hospitals had been organized. Wounded soldiers 
 coming in to buy, and hearing the price of things, 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 267 
 
 used to say, "Spare us, kamerad!" and put up their 
 hands facetiously. But he could not spare them 
 war is war and they bought just the same. 
 With his wife there in the shop, he could run 
 about over this vast Tom Tiddler's ground, picking 
 up gold and silver. He supplied people with 
 furniture, either on hire or by purchase ; he sold 
 bicycles, typewriting machines, ready-made 
 clothes, second-hand motor-cars. He just bought 
 and sold again ; it did not matter what. 
 
 A child of the marriage was born to them, but 
 unhappily it soon died. He was a little at sea 
 during his wife's illness, but he ran up to the sick- 
 room from time to time during the course of the 
 day, to cheer his poor invalid with news of rapid 
 and fortunate transactions. 
 
 When he read about raising the military age, he 
 applauded. "Thirty-five. Jolly good job, too. 
 About time some of these slackers were combed 
 out." 
 
 At the second combing, he was as pleased as 
 ever. "Forty. Well, if they're wanted, I say 
 take 'em, and be done with it. But, mind you, it 
 shows how the casualties out there are mounting 
 up, to make it necessary." 
 
 He did not really regret the loss of the child, 
 fond as he was of children. Working night and 
 
268 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 day, doing one's bit to the best of one's ability, 
 one has not leisure for the softer joys of life. A 
 nursery in war-time is a luxury that good patriots 
 should not crave for. 
 
 Nellie felt her sorrow heavily, but the bereave- 
 ment left her free to return to the shop, and he 
 urged her to do so ; it was best for her no good 
 to sit and mope. "Besides, in these cruel times, 
 one has not the right. We are at war." 
 
 At the next come-out and rise of age he became 
 a little anxious. If the war went on long they 
 would get the military age up to, well something 
 ridiculous. And no sense in taking men over 
 forty-five. How can such men be of any real use? 
 Eye-wash. A trick of the politicians to satisfy 
 the public with a paper army, when they feel the 
 strain upon the army in the field. 
 
 One night there was a supper-party at his house 
 his own nephew from the war on leave, and one 
 or two of the lad's friends ; all in uniform, all war 
 veterans; his wife's old sweetheart, Corporal 
 Harford not killed yet was among them. Cor- 
 poral Harford's presence caused no distress to 
 Mrs. Veal, and no uneasiness to her mind. All 
 that old sentiment had been wiped out by the 
 gigantic progress of events ; it belonged to the dim 
 past; and the corporal himself seemed to have 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OP VIEW 269 
 
 forgotten all about it. At any rate, he bore no 
 malice toward anybody, but was as jolly as a 
 sandboy. 
 
 "Now then, Nellie/' said Mr. Veal, "what about 
 a glass of our special port for these heroes ?" and 
 he laughed gaily. He was as cheery as ever, 
 showing to advantage as a host, in this comfort- 
 able, well-furnished dining-room ; able to drop the 
 cares of business or, at least, to seem to do so 
 for an hour's kind fellowship. 
 
 "They feed you all right out there?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. No complaints." 
 
 "Well, I envy you young fellows. Fill your 
 glasses. Here's a health to victory." 
 
 And he went on pleasantly, touching on his own 
 position. "We do our bit in our own way, keeping 
 things together, but there's no glamour, no glory 
 for us." 
 
 And one of them said, "Oh, your turn will come. 
 Every able-bodied man will be out before it's 
 over." 
 
 "So they ought to the able-bodied ones." And 
 Mr. Veal took another glass of his excellent port. 
 "All say it's a wonderful, healthy life." 
 
 "Yes, it'd be healthy enough, if it wasn't for the 
 shells." 
 
 "Oh, well, I suppose you take your chance." 
 
270 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "And a precious poor chance it is. Eh, old pal ?" 
 And they all laughed contentedly. 
 
 These lads explained how, every year, every 
 month, the war grew worse more gas, more 
 artillery fire, more hateful new inventions of 
 bombs and mortars. "But when all's said and 
 done," remarked one of them philosophically, "in 
 the end it comes back to the old weapons the 
 bay'net and the rifle." 
 
 "Yes," said another, "it's the hand-to-hand 
 fightin' that wins war, and proves who is really 
 the best man." 
 
 "I suppose the bayonet fighting is sharp work," 
 said the host, rather feebly. 
 
 "You bet" 
 
 And one of them brought in his rifle and side 
 arm, and gave them a demonstration, while they 
 sat at table and watched. "In out. D'ye see?" 
 Showing them how the bayonet stuck in the 
 enemy's body, if you didn't withdraw it, and 
 giving more and more details how you kicked 
 your adversary to make him double up, if he was 
 holding your weapon, and hit him with the fist; 
 and they imitated the death grunt of the stuck 
 man further explaining how you got stuck 
 yourself, if you tripped or fell, or were wounded. 
 
 "Oh, come," said Mr. Veal, "ladies present." 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 271 
 
 But Mrs. Veal begged them to go on, and said 
 she loved it. She was sitting with her arms on 
 the table and her chin in her hands, her eyes 
 bright, and her cheeks glowing, as she watched. 
 "I'd like to think they had stabbed every German 
 out there, and shown no mercy to those who don't 
 know what mercy is." 
 
 "Nellie! I didn't imagine you were so blood- 
 thirsty." 
 
 "I am thinking of the women and children they 
 have murdered." 
 
 "Just so," said Mr. Veal, rallying himself. 
 "There, I heartily concur." 
 
 It nearly made him sick, this bayonet exercise. 
 He went out into the back yard, feeling all hot 
 and cold, as if he was really going to be ill. 
 
 He became thoughtful after this, and he no 
 longer wanted the war to continue indefinitely. He 
 had done well very well. If necessary, he was 
 ready to retire to-morrow. 
 
 As the combing process continued, he took 
 special steps to confirm his position as indispen- 
 sable and exempt. He obtained testimonials, and 
 a letter to this effect from the general officer 
 commanding a division, saying that, in view of the 
 circumstances, his emporium was absolutely 
 necessary to the comfort of the troops. If the 
 
272 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 army didn't want to upset him, that ought to be 
 the end of it. But he also made great friends with 
 the general's lady, who resided with headquarters 
 at a country house two miles from the village; 
 putting in work for her at half cost, and running 
 round the country in his car, getting chickens and 
 eggs for her. 
 
 He stood extraordinarily well, too, with all 
 local tribunals and courts. He had absolutely 
 established the thesis with them an indispensable 
 business. But friends at court gave him the tip 
 to find substitutes. "You can't go yourself; but 
 show you take the patriotic view, in depleting 
 your business, sparing every available soul no 
 matter how inconvenient." 
 
 He acted quickly on the hint. He sent from the 
 furniture store a good staunch fellow, whose only 
 drawbacks were obesity and defective vision, and 
 got the man's own father to replace him. He sent 
 the man who drove the carts, and entrusted his 
 valuable horses and vehicles to mere boys. He 
 sent the gray-haired foreman of ironmongery; 
 and then, as a last substitute, at very considerable 
 inconvenience, he parted with Logan, who had 
 been with him from the first days of the boom a 
 real worker of the good, old-fashioned sort. 
 
 Old Logan did not want to go, even after an 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OP VIEW 273 
 
 appeal to his patriotism had been made. How 
 could he? he asked with an ailing wife and a 
 family of young children. 
 
 ''They'll be all right/' said Mr. Veal encour- 
 agingly. "The State's not going to let them come 
 to want while you're doing your duty." 
 
 "It isn't fair," said Logan, limping through the 
 yard with a bale of oilcloth on his shoulder. "I 
 ain't up to it." 
 
 "The country is in danger," said Mr. Veal, 
 following him. "The collapse of our principal ally 
 has altered the whole complexion of affairs. If 
 you realized all that's at stake, you wouldn't 
 hesitate." 
 
 "Then why don't you go yourself?" 
 
 "I can't be spared." 
 
 "Who can't spare you ?" 
 
 "The Authorities." Then Mr. Veal lost his 
 temper. "Look here. I'm disgusted with you. 
 Take your week's money and clear out of this. 
 I've kept you so far out of charity, but I'm fed up 
 with it." 
 
 "You've kep' me out of charity?" The 
 man was wounded to the heart. "You say that, 
 after the way I've worked fer you these three 
 years ?" 
 
 Then came the awful advance of fifty fifty- 
 
274 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 five and the announcement of the new comb-out. 
 And that night Mr. Veal did not sleep a wink. 
 Monstrous ! He thought of bayonet fighting ; and 
 the thought of it made him first perspire and then 
 come all over deadly cold. He was so fit. This 
 talk of grading was more than half buncombe ; no 
 one could rely on promises and precautions; the 
 government were reckless now. They would use 
 him as food for cannon. 
 
 In the morning he was all right again. He felt 
 disgusted; but sure, after calm reflection, that 
 they would not touch him. And he boldly spoke 
 of his disgust. "I call it throwing up the sponge. 
 What effect will it have on the enemy? They're 
 cute enough to see through it. How can it help 
 but hearten them an' put fresh courage into 'em? 
 They'll read it as a public admission that we are 
 done to go and call up men of fifty and fifty- 
 five." 
 
 But he had changed his mind about it by the 
 time he met the vicar. He knew he was safe, and 
 he said, "It's right, sir. We're face to face with 
 the biggest proposition in hist'ry. No half 
 measures." 
 
 "I admire your spirit," said the vicar. "I always 
 have. You teach us all a lesson." 
 
 "No, no, sir I can't admit that a moment." 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 275 
 
 "Yet you are willing, at your age, to lay aside 
 everything?" 
 
 And Veal answered, with perfect truth, "I am 
 as ready to go to-day as I was a year ago. . . . 
 Only," he added impressively, "the military have 
 themselves decided that I am more use to them 
 here where I am than I should be over there." 
 
 Then, after a little while, he got another tip 
 from the general or the general's lady. It is all 
 very well to say that his business is indispensable, 
 but is he indispensable to the business ? Some one 
 has said that his wife could run it, that she does, 
 in fact, run it while he is all over the place with 
 his motor-car. 
 
 That evening after supper he had a talk with 
 his wife. They were alone in the comfortable 
 dining-room; although spring was coming on 
 again, the wood fire that crackled and blazed 
 cheerfully could not be considered an extrava- 
 gance, for it was cold out-of-doors. 
 
 "This war is an awful affair," he began, using 
 a leader in the newspaper to set him going. "The 
 more one envisages it, the more overwhelming it 
 appears. I regard it now as a crusade it's the 
 struggle for right against wrong ;" and he looked 
 at her. "Every man, woman, and child who can 
 strike a blow for England is wanted. No consid- 
 
276 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 erations must be allowed to hold one back. If 
 one can help, one must go. This applies to our 
 household, as much as to the humblest cottage. 
 We've no right to put the business on a pinnacle, 
 thinking of what's best for its welfare." 
 
 "No. Does this mean you've made up your 
 mind to go?" 
 
 "No. For me it's out of the question. It's you 
 I'm thinking of. Nell, I know your noble 
 sentiment about it, the things you've said, the fine 
 manner in which you've expressed your ideas of it 
 ever since it began. Well, if you feel restless and 
 unhappy at me holding you back, I I won't stand 
 in your way." 
 
 "But what could I do?" 
 
 And he said there were these W.A.A.C/S, and 
 the other corps, half a dozen corps. "Don't you 
 be afraid that you won't be jumped at, Nellie. 
 You are young and strong. See what you've gone 
 through without flinching in the work of the 
 business. You have got the physique as well as 
 the spirit. You'd never break down." 
 
 She had risen from her chair, and was walking 
 about the room. Her cheeks had flushed and her 
 eyes glowed; he saw that she was taking fire at 
 the notion. 
 
 "Mind you," he went on, "it's pretty rough on 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW" 277 
 
 me. But at the point of crisis we have reached, 
 nothing and nobody is to be allowed to count in the 
 balance." And he told her how "the Authorities" 
 refused to let him go himself. He had had a heart- 
 to-heart talk with the general; and his place is 
 here, helping the troops. He, as the brains of the 
 business, can't be spared. She, as the manager, 
 can. 
 
 She took fire, and went. It was, she felt, what 
 she had always wanted to do. He saw her off at 
 the railway station, just as he had seen off every- 
 body else in these long sad years. 
 
 "Good-by, Nell. Be of good cheer. I seem 
 almost like the poor old camel this is the last 
 straw, parting with you." And he spoke cheerily, 
 patting her shoulder, kissing her, and buying her 
 an illustrated newspaper. She was not yet in 
 uniform. She would go straight to London and 
 enlist there in the corps that most needed recruits, 
 do her training, and qualify herself for service 
 oversea. "Good-by. My word, shan't I be proud 
 of you when all's over and you come back safe and 
 sound?" 
 
 He stood waving his handkerchief as the train 
 carried her away. 
 
 He felt that he must be safe now. Nothing 
 
278 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 could touch him. A little lonely but he scarcely 
 noticed that; he was so busy. The business was 
 going stronger than ever. The profit was almost 
 farcical. You could sell a sixpenny photograph 
 frame for half a sovereign. The amount of his 
 purchases of war bonds seemed fabulous as he ran 
 through private papers late at night, and he con- 
 gratulated himself on having avoided ostentation 
 by buying in a quiet confidential manner, instead 
 of flourishing a check book at public meetings. 
 Yet, in spite of all this, he was not truly easy in 
 his mind. The world had been upside down long 
 enough. It was time it righted itself. Things 
 were too precarious even when feeling secure, 
 you never knew that the solid ground would not 
 fail under your feet. Peace would ruin the busi- 
 ness ; but he had made his pile, and was ready to 
 retire. 
 
 He talked very like a Pacifist sometimes. 
 
 "After all, what are we fighting for? What 
 were our aims, as recited by responsible states- 
 men in the autumn of 1914, and repeated by 
 others, times and often since then? Don't tell me 
 that the Germans haven't had their bellyful of 
 war. They won't want to begin again." 
 
 Then came the catastrophe. A sudden rumor 
 floated round the village, a wild tale that all the 
 
THE CHANGING POINT OF VIEW 279 
 
 troops were leaving, that the camps and hospitals 
 and barracks were to be vacated, that other camps 
 were to be used somewhere else. Mr. Veal sprang 
 into his motor-car and dashed off to the G.O.C.'s 
 headquarters. 
 
 The general was packing; the general's lady had 
 already packed and gone; an aide-de-camp gave 
 him a brief interview. Yes, in confidence, the 
 whole place was to be abandoned. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "Ask me an easier one," said the A.D.C. 
 genially. And he added, as a possible explanation, 
 that perhaps the authorities had some scientific 
 fears about polluted ground. Troops are like 
 poultry: they should not be kept too long on the 
 same bit of ground. 
 
 In ten days they had all vanished the village 
 was exactly what it had been four years ago, and 
 Veal's business had dropped to the original noth- 
 ing. It was impossible now to say that he was 
 indispensable to troops, because there were no 
 troops left within fifteen miles. 
 
 He struggled hard to avoid and evade, but it 
 was useless. They graded him in the top class; 
 and that, as every one said, meant that it was only 
 a question of time before he was pushed out into a 
 place of danger. 
 
280 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAMB 
 
 Nevertheless, he put a good face on it. 
 
 "I must say," said the vicar, "that, everything 
 considered, it is rather rough luck on you." 
 
 "Not a bit," said Mr. Veal jauntily. "I was 
 always ready to go, and I wish they had let me 
 go at first." 
 
 "I always admired your spirit." 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said Veal. 
 
 And he went, seen off by many friends. 
 
 A month later he reappeared in all his glory 
 an officer. He was engaged in the Refreshment 
 Branch of the Army, Home Service, and had just 
 been gazetted as Honorary Temporary Captain 
 while so employed. 
 
JOAN OF ARC 
 
 ADELAIDE, the under housemaid at Belmont, 
 XJL was a very shy, diffident girl; so much To, 
 that, dressing for her evening out, she blushed at 
 the sight of her brilliant new hat. She felt that 
 if she had been pretty, it would have been easy 
 enough to carry off such a hat; but she wasn't 
 pretty, like Edith the parlor-maid, and she knew 
 it. She was not grand and dashing like Mrs. 
 Vaughan, the cook; not elegant and graceful, like 
 Emily, the head housemaid; not even black- 
 haired and pale-faced, or full of fascinating sauce 
 and impudence, like Loo, the kitchen-maid. When 
 chaffed, she never had an answer ready, and if she 
 thought of one afterward she was too timid to 
 go back and say it. 
 
 She looked out of the window of her attic bed- 
 room and wondered if Lyndhurst, the small house 
 on the other side of the road, would ever let again. 
 It was beginning to have a shabby, war-bat- 
 tered aspect, in painful contrast to the general 
 prosperity of Hill Road. Between the side walls 
 of Lyndhurst and the villa next to it she had a 
 fine view of the clustering roofs of the suburb; 
 
 281 
 
282 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 and farther off she could see the open country, 
 and the main line of the South Western Railway, 
 along which the troop trains had already been 
 running for nearly three years. Unseen, at the 
 bottom of Hill Road, was the corner round which 
 you plunged into traffic, gaiety, noise trams and 
 omnibuses passing by; the big public houses, 
 shops, cinema theaters; life. It was at this 
 corner that young men used to hang about, 
 waiting for the young ladies of Hill Road on their 
 evenings out. But no young man had ever waited 
 there f 01; Adelaide. 
 
 Thinking of the corner, she felt almost too shy 
 to face it especially in her new hat. But it was 
 her evening out, and she had to go out. Presently 
 she had sidled round the corner, and was in the 
 crowd of the big street. In spite of the hat, 
 nobody took the least notice of her; she might have 
 been invisible; and gradually she became less 
 self-conscious and more capable of enjoying her 
 promenade. By the time she had reached the 
 third picture palace and was standing outside it, 
 looking at the posters and the photographs, she 
 had quite forgotten herself. 
 
 "JOAN OF ARC: The film that aroused a 
 nation." She stood gaping at the highly-colored 
 portrait of a young lady in armor on a white horse. 
 
JOAN OP ARC 283 
 
 "Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. Do not miss it. 
 It has moved young and old, on both sides of the 
 Atlantic. You can not see it and go away just the 
 same as you were before." 
 
 What did that last bit mean? Adelaide raised 
 her gloved hand and felt her hat, with a return of 
 uneasiness. And then the young soldier spoke 
 to her. 
 
 "Going inside?" 
 
 "Beg pardon?" said Adelaide, almost fainting 
 from the suddenness of this surprise attack. 
 
 "I passed the remark whether you were going 
 in to see the show." 
 
 "I wasn't intending," Adelaide gasped. 
 
 "No more was I," said the soldier; "that is, not 
 alone. But I don't mind if you don't. Shall us ?" 
 
 Adelaide was speechless. 
 
 "Come on, then," said the soldier; and he led 
 her through the hall to the pay-box. 
 
 "I got my purse," said Adelaide, finding her 
 voice in the closeness of the danger. 
 
 "I treat." 
 
 "Oh, no please." 
 
 He had done it, paid for both ; and next moment 
 he was holding her firmly by the arm, guiding her 
 through the darkness, keeping her off many toes 
 that she would otherwise have martyrized, pre- 
 
284 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 venting her from sitting on a strange gentleman's 
 lap, and finally depositing her in an unoccupied 
 seat side by side with himself. Her heart was 
 beating wildly, her thoughts were in a whirl. She 
 was out with a soldier, being stood treat to the 
 pictures. Breathing fast, she peered toward the 
 stage. 
 
 It was the end of a prairie sketch. As usual, 
 the sheriff and his posse were arriving at a gallop. 
 They released the men bound to the tree, and the 
 lights went up; and Adelaide saw the closely- 
 packed audience, and stealthily glanced at her 
 soldier. He was sunburnt, young, fair-haired. 
 
 "War nougat," said a brightly-dressed girl at- 
 tendant, coming along the gangway with a small 
 tray of boxes. "War nougat. Nougat bits. 
 Very sweet. Nice nutty flavor." 
 
 "Here, miss," said the soldier. "Give me a box, 
 please. How much ?" 
 
 "Two shillings. Thank you." 
 
 "Do you eat that stuff?" asked Adelaide, 
 determined to make conversation. 
 
 "No, but I expect you do ;" and he handed her 
 the box of war sweets. 
 
 "Oh, no, I couldn't think I can't allow " 
 
 "Gammon. Don't be huffy about it. Why not? 
 I meant no offense," 
 
JOAN OF ARC 285 
 
 And Adelaide, to her indescribable surprise, saw 
 that he was blushing; and a wonderful but very 
 comfortable idea flashed into her mind. Could it 
 be possible that he was almost as shy by nature 
 as she was? 
 
 "I'm not offended," she hastened to assure him. 
 "I think it's very kind of you, only " 
 
 "That's all right, then," and he smiled at her. 
 "I'm on leave, I am. I saved up for it." 
 
 The lights went down, and a brief, exhilarating 
 interlude entitled The Runaway Motor-car was 
 vividly presented. Adelaide sucked her sweets, 
 laughed at the runaway car until she nearly 
 choked. When the lights went up again the 
 soldier was wiping tears from his eyes. 
 
 "I do like a laugh," he explained, as he slowly 
 recovered his composure. "My name's Budd 
 Dick Budd. You haven't told me your name yet." 
 
 "My name's Cross Ad'laide Cross," said Ade- 
 laide, carefully imitating the formula. 
 
 "I'm out in France, with my battalion. The 
 Sixteenth Battalion." 
 
 "It's dreadful out there, isn't it?" 
 
 "No, it's right enough." 
 
 "You say that, but I don't expect you mean it." 
 
 "0' course I do," and he looked hard at her, 
 as though not understanding why she should doubt 
 his word. 
 
286 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Were you always a soldier I mean, before the 
 war?" 
 
 "No, I was in a warehouse." 
 
 Never in her life had Adelaide experienced such 
 a sequence of pleasurable sensations delicious 
 flutter of excitement, laughter, sucking sweets; 
 and now an unforced flow of conversation; a 
 swiftly-evoked, mysterious sympathy that made 
 companionship joy, that destroyed bashfulness. 
 
 "When it's over, what will you do go back into 
 business ?" 
 
 "Not me, Ad'laide. No, I shall go out to the 
 colonies." 
 
 Then the lights went down again, and the piece 
 of the evening began. 
 
 One was introduced to a charming American 
 girl, who had dressed for a fancy ball as Joan 
 of Arc. In this costume she showed herself to her 
 elder brother, a man of considerable position 
 under the government, who expressed admira- 
 tion of the attractive costume by face and gesture, 
 and finally asked her a simple question in large, 
 plain handwriting. 
 
 "Who was Joan of Arc?" 
 
 No question could have been more opportune; 
 for most of the audience, including Adelaide, were 
 anxious for further information on the point. 
 
JOAN OP ARC 287 
 
 The young lady replied to him with a concise 
 written statement ; and, time being permitted for 
 it to soak into the audience, all became duly seized 
 of the historical or traditional facts, with regard 
 to the Maid of Orleans. 
 
 The elder brother immediately changed the con- 
 versation, becoming frowningly serious, and 
 saying to his sister: 
 
 "The war is not going well. There are too 
 many sleepers. I despair of waking them." 
 
 Then, after the ball, the young lady went about 
 America on a white horse, with a banner, and 
 woke the sleepers. Everybody flocked to the 
 banner. The women as well as the men both 
 sexes could help. 
 
 But this was not all. Next one saw her in the 
 war itself. She had traveled the horse, and on 
 its back in France she did remarkable things. The 
 generals trusted her more and more; and when 
 they had given her full powers, she fairly got the 
 Huns on the run. But at length the routed com- 
 mander-in-chief of the enemy by subterfuge, 
 captured her, and shot her as vengeance, while 
 the whole mob were hurrying back to Berlin. Her 
 last words flashed upon the screen. 
 
 '7 do not die in vain. Those I have awakened 
 will not sleep till the work is done.' 9 
 
288 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Of course the unrolling of this drama took a 
 considerable time; the film was a long one; 
 intervals were allowed. During the intervals 
 Adelaide talked volubly to her companion. Her 
 face was flushed, her eyes glowed, her voice shook 
 a little with emotion; she had been carried com- 
 pletely out of herself. She was a different girl. 
 But for the hat, her fellow servants would not 
 have recognized her if they had seen her chatter- 
 ing to the soldier. 
 
 "Dick, is it like that out there?" 
 
 "Well, I can't exactly say I've seen such things 
 myself. I been mostly in Flanders and down by 
 Arras. I don't quite follow how she got up so far 
 like. Mostly the girls you know, the ones in 
 khaki as well as the nurses aren't allowed 
 to come up beyond the principal headquarters. 
 I should have thought the military police would 
 have stopped her." 
 
 "But it was the generals invited her to save 
 the situation." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Dick. Tell me true. Where the girls do get 
 to are they ever under fire?" 
 
 "You bet. They get shelled proper now and 
 again. Why, you'll see the nurses' names in the 
 lists." 
 
JOAN OP ARC 289 
 
 "Then if a girl showed herself what Joan of 
 Arc showed herself!" 
 
 Dick saw her home right up Hill Road to the 
 gate of Belmont, where they lingered, talking 
 confidentially. It was a splendid summer night, 
 and Adelaide looked up at the moonlit sky, 
 wondering if the fine atmospheric conditions 
 would tempt Hun raiders. Instead of thinking 
 about the coal cellar as a refuge, she imagined 
 herself seated in a battle plane high up there, 
 waiting to drive off the intruders. She felt like 
 a sleeper awakened ; great thoughts stirred in her. 
 
 "Ad'laide, you see I like you." 
 
 "I like you too, Dick." 
 
 They promised to write to each other, and 
 moved up the road a little way to exchange postal 
 addresses, that they scribbled in the shaded light 
 by a lamp-post. 
 
 "I shall come straight to see you next leave. I'd 
 come again this leave, if I wasn't booked down 
 home at Poole." 
 
 "You mayn't find me here, Dick. But I'll write 
 and tell you, wherever I go to." 
 
 "Promise and kiss on your promise. I like 
 you, Ad'laide." 
 
 "I like you, Dick. But, Dick, I shan't never 
 marry you unless I feel I'm worthy of you," 
 
290 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Well, I haven't gone so far as to ask you that, 
 have I ?" Then, as if struck by an ungallant turn 
 in these words, or as if suddenly making up his 
 mind, he said with firmness, "But, you know, I 
 want for us to be engaged like." 
 
 Adelaide answered not firmly of tone, for there 
 was a little break in her voice, but with a decision 
 of purpose that was unmistakable. 
 
 "No, Dick, you go away from me free, an* 
 you'll come back to me free. Think of your duty 
 first, an' me afterwards. An', an' remember my 
 words. I shan't never consent to marry you unless 
 I feel in me own self I'm worthy of you." 
 
 As Adelaide said these and other astounding 
 things, trifling with an offer that would have 
 seemed fantastically advantageous a few hours 
 ago, she looked upward to the summer sky. Tears 
 had come to her eyes, and unconsciously she 
 raised her hand, assuming the exact attitude of 
 the film young lady during the delivery of that 
 last speech. "Those I have awakened will not 
 sleep until the work is done/' 
 
 "I shan't change my mind, Ad'laide." 
 
 "Nor mine. Good-by, dear." 
 
 And they hugged and parted. 
 
 With the feel of his lips still on her face and 
 the pressure of his arms still seeming to encircle 
 
JOAN OF ARC 291 
 
 her body, Adelaide stood by the kitchen table at 
 Belmont and talked to her fellow-servants. 
 
 "I don't understand you," said Mrs. Vaughan, 
 the cook, loftily. 
 
 "And I don't understand you' 9 said Adelaide. 
 "But I begin to. There's many things in this 
 house wants understanding. The missis Mrs. 
 Carter she's easily understood. Keep the home 
 fires burning. That's to say, five able-bodied 
 women who might be helping to win the war kep' 
 here to coddle and fuss over one idle woman and 
 her a widow, too. Funny she and the dog would 
 look if they met the enemy advancing round the 
 corner!" 
 
 "Oh, we've heard that tale before," said Edith, 
 the parlor-maid. 
 
 "And much you'd have done to prevent it 
 coming true. You take the dog out regular, don't 
 you, morning and evening, in almost all weathers ? 
 And Mrs. Carter she gives you a blouse one she's 
 tired of wearing for your devotion to Bingo, 
 doesn't she? I understand that part of it. But 
 I tell you, Cook, and you, too, Edith I tell the lot 
 of you, I don't understand how you've the face to 
 carry on with it. And I don't understand how 
 you'll look but precious foolish, I guess when 
 the boys come home an' ask you, some of 'em, 
 what you've done to help the cause/' 
 
292 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 It was not new; but, coming from such a quar- 
 ter, it created a considerable sensation. In the 
 old-fashioned melodramas an immense effect used 
 to be produced when the supposed deaf mute, 
 suddenly abandoning disguise, defied and ha* 
 rangued his oppressors; and the effect of 
 Adelaide's outburst was essentially of the same 
 character. She, the tongue-tied, the down-trodden, 
 had found a voice and disclosed herself as outrage- 
 ously uppish in spirit. Surprise robbed her 
 hearers of all power of repartee; for once it was 
 they and not Adelaide who had no answer ready* 
 No sauce or impudence came from Loo, not a flash 
 from Emily; one after another they drifted away 
 in crestfallen silence, leaving Adelaide seated on a 
 corner of the kitchen table and negligently 
 swinging by its strings the new hat. 
 
 Mrs. Vaughan was the last to go, after bolting 
 doors and locking cupboards. Yesterday she 
 would have ordered Adelaide out of her kitchen 
 before retiring herself. To-night she said, "Turn 
 the lights off, please, when you come up." 
 
 "All right, Cook," said Adelaide. 
 
 Next day she gave notice, announcing as her 
 reason for departure that she felt "a call" to go 
 straight out to the war. 
 
 "Something of this has reached my ears 
 
JOAN OP ARC 293 
 
 already," said Mrs. Carter; "and I think you are 
 talking, and evidently wanting to act, in a foolish 
 manner in a manner rather ungrateful to me, 
 Adelaide, who have tried so hard to keep things 
 together, and make you all comfortable, during 
 this dreadful war, at great sacrifices to myself." 
 
 In fact, this was the first defection in the do- 
 mestic ranks, and Mrs. Carter had considered the 
 matter with care. She did not attach any value 
 to Adelaide's services; if the truth must be 
 confessed, Adelaide, as well as being shy and 
 awkward, had shown herself to be slack and 
 incompetent; so that, in spite of the disgusting 
 difficulties of life caused by this wretched war, 
 Mrs. Carter did not doubt that she could secure a 
 better second housemaid in Adelaide's place. But 
 the danger was that the rest of the household 
 might be upset. Anything to prevent that. When 
 one goes, another follows. Stifling her pride and 
 irritation, therefore, Mrs. Carter spoke to the 
 would-be deserter in a tone of affectionate 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Adelaide, I honor the emotion that moves you, 
 and I'll say no more of my own wishes. But, with 
 the best will in the world, you don't know what 
 you are undertaking. Believe me, you are not 
 strong enough." 
 
294 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Joan of Arc," said Adelaide, "was only a poor 
 weak girl. Yet she drove the English out of 
 France." 
 
 "But you don't want to do that," said Mrs. 
 Carter. "Now you're talking like a pro-German. 
 I don't think you know yourself what you want." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I do," said Adelaide. "I want to fight 
 for the freedom of the world, and not lie snug 
 a-bed and eat regular meals here, when half 
 humanity's starving and bleeding." 
 
 After that there was no more to be said. The 
 only thing was to get rid of her at once. 
 
 "But leaving me, as you do," said Mrs. Carter, 
 "without serving your month, you go, of course, 
 without your money." 
 
 "I prefer to go without my money," said Ade- 
 laide loftily. 
 
 Within an hour she had packed her trunk, and 
 a taxi-cab stood outside the front door of Belmont. 
 
 "Good-by," said Adelaide to her fellow- 
 servants. "You won't never see me again." 
 
 They clustered at the side entrance and on the 
 gravel drive to watch her roll away; and Mrs. 
 Carter came down among them, laying dignity 
 aside for once, and encouraging them to mock and 
 make merry at the deserter's expense. She was 
 most anxious to shatter any dangerous thoughts 
 
JOAN OF ARC 295 
 
 that might have been set working. Nothing is so 
 efficacious as ridicule. 
 
 "Joan of Arc !" said Mrs. Carter, laughing as if 
 hugely amused. "She called herself Joan of Arc. 
 Joan of Arc going to buy a tin sword and a paste- 
 board helmet." And she laughed again. "Oh, 
 dear, how silly people can be !" 
 
 And by the way in which the servants laughed 
 and echoed the name Joan of Arc she felt sure 
 that the danger was averted. 
 
 Adelaide tried to be a W.A.A.C., to be a 
 W.R.E.N., and A.S.C. M.T, a V.A.D. ; she tried for 
 all the letters of the, alphabet ; but everywhere she 
 was rejected. Most unfortunately for her, at this 
 period the Authorities had decided that they did 
 not want any more women for service with the 
 armies in France. People at recruiting offices sent 
 Adelaide on to munitions ; but here again she met 
 with disappointment. None but skilled hands 
 were required. Everywhere she was confronted 
 with lists of printed questions; and when she 
 showed that she had no qualifications for war 
 work, people asked her, orally, even more dis- 
 tressing questions. 
 
 "Can you cook?" 
 
 "Are you a really good housemaid?" 
 
896 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Have you had practise in waiting at table?'' 
 
 There was a chance, possibly, of putting her 
 into a work-girls' canteen; but even this chance 
 soon vanished. Besides, she did not want to wash 
 plates or sweep floors here in England ; she wanted 
 to get across the water and do great deeds in 
 France. The spirit that had been aroused in her 
 still burned brightly, but the sense of failure fell 
 cold upon her. At night she used to weep piteous- 
 ly, thinking of her soldier boy and all the other 
 brave lads out there ; and in imagination she saw 
 the uniformed girls waving their hands to them, 
 calling out "Cheerio," perhaps even blowing kisses 
 to them as they marched by, along the dusty roads 
 up toward the battle front. Why might not she 
 do even so much as that? Why was fate so cruel? 
 
 She had spent nearly all her savings ; she dared 
 not go home to her mother and father in Wilt- 
 shire mother would not understand why she had 
 given up her situation, and father was so old- 
 fashioned a parent that there was no knowing 
 what he might not do to one, if really angry. At 
 last, driven by necessity, she accepted the offer 
 of a domestic servant's place. 
 
 The offer came from a lady that she had met 
 at some employment committee rooms ; a business- 
 like, quick-speaking lady, called Miss Finlayson, 
 
JOAN OP ARC 297 
 
 who led her into the secretary's office and 
 addressed her with confidential briskness. 
 
 "By an accident, it so happens that I am in sore 
 need of a housemaid. Three kept cook, house, 
 and parlor. Happy, comfortable home but 
 mind you, I expect to see the work properly done. 
 Very good. Then I am prepared to take you at 
 once if character from last place proves satis- 
 factory." 
 
 "The lady I was with," said Adelaide, "couldn't 
 but give me a good character but, ma'am, I 
 simply can't apply for it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 Poor Adelaide explained all the circumstances. 
 She had left in order to enroll herself in the army ; 
 she had spoken strongly on the duty of giving 
 your life to your country ; they had attempted to 
 laugh her down. If they learned that all the fine 
 talk had ended in this, they would laugh louder 
 than ever. 
 
 "What was the lady's name and address?" 
 
 'Td rather not tell you even that," said 
 Adelaide. "I don't want no communication of any 
 sort with them." 
 
 Miss Finlayson looked hard at Adelaide, and 
 then came to a prompt decision. 
 
 "Adelaide, I will risk it. You appear honest. 
 
298 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 Your story is corroborated to a certain extent 
 by your applications here and elsewhere. Come 
 early to-morrow morning. It is a thing I would 
 never have done in peace-time. But the times 
 are not normal, there's no getting away from it." 
 
 And she told Adelaide how to find Number 18, 
 Berwick Road, Hammersmith. 
 
 "I am moving from there shortly," she added, 
 with briskness, but in a kind tone. "I have taken 
 a house farther out and you will all be happier 
 there better air, countrified surroundings." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "The house I have taken needs considerable 
 repairs, and I am having great difficulty with the 
 landlord, who is grasping, dilatory and shifty. 
 However, directly I have forced him to fulfill his 
 bargain and render the place habitable, I move in. 
 The war is made an excuse nowadays for repudiat- 
 ing all obligations but we won't discuss that. 
 Good night." 
 
 Adelaide settled down in Berwick Road, and 
 a dull apathy possessed her. It was a relief, 
 perhaps, to have some regular meals again, for 
 she had been going rather short of food lately; 
 but she felt that her heart was almost broken. 
 In spite of every effort to appear cheerful, she 
 wrote dolorous letters to Private Budd, B.E.F. 
 
JOAN OF ARC 299 
 
 Her fellow-servants were easy enough to get on 
 with, and they left her unmolested in her sadness. 
 They were nothing like so fine and ladylike as the 
 maids at Mrs. Carter's. The cook had been 
 married twice, both times unhappily, and she 
 sighed and philosophized over her cooking. 
 "Seems," she said, "all the men's getting killed 
 off, and there'll be fewer fools and more single 
 women next generation." The parlor-maid snored 
 at night, and she liked several glasses of beer 
 during the day. She used to ask plaintively if 
 beer would go back to its proper strength when 
 peace was declared. 
 
 They saw little of their mistress, who was out 
 early and late at her committees and hospitals. 
 She worked hard herself, and she did not like to 
 see others slacking. She blended something of the 
 war spirit into her admonitions, but to Adelaide 
 it did not seem to be the real true flame of 
 patriotism. 
 
 "Now, don't go to sleep over it not in war 
 time," Miss Finlayson would say. "Remember 
 there's a war on. We all have to do our bit. And 
 one can do one's bit here just as usefully as any- 
 where else." 
 
 Nevertheless, on the whole, Adelaide liked her 
 in a dull apathetic way; and she accepted 
 occasional rebukes without murmuring. 
 
300 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 After about a month the household moved. Miss 
 Finlayson carried through the operation as though 
 she had been a regimental transport officer, 
 ordering about the old men as they loaded the two 
 pantechnicon vans, inspecting the rather scraggy 
 horses, and seeing that they were properly fed be- 
 fore she gave the word to move off. She had 
 secured a private omnibus for herself, the three 
 servants, and all the light baggage. There was 
 so much of this light stuff that it seemed as if they 
 would never pack in. But Miss Finlayson 
 managed it somehow ; and off they went, so deeply 
 buried in parcels that they could scarcely see one 
 another. Adelaide sat nursing band-boxes, 
 brooding sadly, and looking with lack-luster eyes 
 at vistas of unknown streets as the omnibus 
 slowly and heavily jogged along. It was a 
 tedious, unending drive. 
 
 "Now, we are not far off," said Miss Finlayson, 
 at last. 
 
 Adelaide had been dreaming. She roused her- 
 self, and, glancing through the window of the 
 omnibus door with faintly awakened interest, 
 gave a little start. She had seen this street 
 before ; that bootshop was an old friend one, two, 
 three cinema palaces, all three familiar to her. 
 At the place where roads meet, among the trams, 
 
JOAN OF ARC 301 
 
 near the corner by the big public houses, the 
 omnibus lurched and began to turn in the direc- 
 tion of Hill Road. 
 
 "Where are we going?" gasped Adelaide. 
 "What's the name of your house ?" 
 
 "Lyndhurst," said Miss Finlayson briskly. "We 
 are close to it now. I recognize the acacia tree." 
 
 In another minute the omnibus stopped outside 
 the newly painted woodwork of Lyndhurst. It 
 was the little unoccupied house immediately- 
 opposite to Belmont, Adelaide's old home. 
 
 She was overwhelmed. 
 
 Her main thought was to escape discovery by 
 the servants at Belmont. She tried also to hide 
 from tradesmen's boys who might recognize her. 
 She never went out except after dark, and then 
 heavily veiled. But it was all no good. One 
 morning the milkman spotted her cleaning the 
 steps of Lyndhurst. 
 
 "Bless me! Miss Cross, isn't it that used to 
 be over the way ?" 
 
 A day or two afterward he addressed her 
 facetiously, and she knew at once that he had 
 betrayed her. 
 
 "Yes, they was surprised across the road. They 
 all sends their compliments. They tell me," and 
 
302 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 he sniggered, "as you've changed your name. Not 
 Adelaide any more, but Jane. Jane of Hark, eh ? 
 Haw, haw!" 
 
 It was bitter to think of how they were all de- 
 riding her. From the windows of Lyndhurst she 
 saw one or other of them many times in the day 
 Edith, elegant and mincing, as she emerged early 
 of a morning with the odious dog Bingo ; the black- 
 haired Loo without her hat, dancing down the 
 road to fetch potted meat from the grocer's ; Mrs. 
 Vaughan, dressed like a duchess, issuing forth to 
 pay the weekly books. Mrs. Carter had kept her 
 command together; all of them -were still there 
 although the milkman said that Loo had some 
 ideas of going on the music-hall stage and earning 
 big money. 
 
 As the months passed Adelaide carried a heart 
 of lead beneath her print and serge dresses. No- 
 where but here would she have suffered so 
 grievously from the sense of failure. She was 
 sustained only by two letters from Private Budd. 
 In one of these he said, "I have not changed my 
 mind ;" in the other he said, "We been through a 
 lot lately;" and at the end of each he set down 
 signs of multiplication that meant kisses. She 
 cried over these letters in secret, but there was 
 bitterness to her even in the affectionate symbols. 
 
JOAN OP ARC 303 
 
 She was not worthy of him, and never likely to be. 
 When she read the war news, and tried to imagine 
 what he and the others were enduring, she felt 
 that she would not be able to look him in the face 
 if he ever returned to her. 
 
 Very dark thoughts came to poor Adelaide now 
 that all the bright ones had gone. She had been 
 ready to give her life to her country, but they 
 would not take it; and she thought sometimes 
 that she would take it herself. 
 
 Then Miss Finlayson's parlor-maid left, and 
 Adelaide took on the parlor-maid's worjc as well as 
 her own. She did not mind the extra labor; 
 indeed, in that it gave her less time for sad rev-r 
 eries, it was welcome. Miss Finlayson praised 
 her highly for thus throwing herself into the 
 breach. 
 
 "I hope to relieve you by the week-end, Ade* 
 laide; and I'm really grateful for the way you've 
 tackled it." 
 
 "Oh, it's nothing," said Adelaide. 
 
 "How do you mean nothing? I think it's a 
 great deal, and you've done it splendidly." 
 
 "It's all child's play," said Adelaide, "compared 
 with what they're doing out in France." 
 
 "Bmvo!" cried Miss Finlayson cordially. 
 "That's the spirit," and she gave Adelaide a pat 
 of approval on the shoulder. 
 
304 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 A little later it was agreed between them that 
 the parlor-maid should not be replaced ; Adelaide 
 would carry on. 
 
 She worked hard now, harder and harder. She 
 had, it must be owned, never really worked before ; 
 but that thought of France and what was hap- 
 pening there made toil seem easy and fatigue one's 
 proper portion. She used to say to herself, "If 
 I'd had my wish and been accepted, I'd never have 
 been off duty ; I'd have had to march fifteen miles 
 on end like those girls in the newspaper ; I'd 'a' bin 
 busy all through the night as well as day." So 
 she took a sort of melancholy pleasure in not 
 sparing herself; she did far more than was 
 necessary ; and soon she began to find in the work 
 almost an anodyne for failure and disappointment. 
 
 "It is no compliment," said Miss Finlayson. 
 "You are making me a good deal more comfort- 
 able than when we had Eliza." 
 
 "Oh, don't mention it, ma'am," said Adelaide. 
 
 During the fogs and frosts of winter the cook's 
 health began to fail, and, unknown to Miss Finlay- 
 son, Adelaide was doing a lot of cook's work also, 
 Adelaide liked it; this learning how to cook 
 brought a new faint interest to her weary life, 
 The cook used to sit in an armchair by the dresser , 
 sighing, and giving directions. 
 
JOAN OF ARC 305 
 
 "Have you buttered your pan? Good. Then 
 J pour in slow and steady. Now keep stirring. Ah, 
 me, I shan't last much longer, Adelaide; I'm 
 breaking up fast. Two bad 'usbands have made 
 an old woman of me before my time. Don't let 
 it boil, whatever you do. Good cooking, Adelaide, 
 is just care and taking pains nothing else." 
 
 Up-stairs in the dining-room Adelaide asked 
 shyly, while she cleared the table, "Did you like 
 the cabinet pudding, ma'am?" 
 
 "Yes. Tell Mrs. Smiles excellent. I must say 
 old Smiles can cook plain fare against anybody. 
 If she ever broke down I don't know what I should 
 do. The war is making existence more difficult 
 every day. Cooks are like diamonds now fetch 
 any money." 
 
 In February the blow that Miss Finlayson 
 dreaded fell upon her: Mrs. Smiles showed 
 symptoms of pleurisy and had to be removed to a 
 hospital. Adelaide carried on. "If you don't 
 mind/' she said, "I'd much prefer you didn't get 
 another. I shall be happier doing it all alone, and 
 I promise you shan't suffer." 
 
 "Adelaide, I admire your pluck and good feel- 
 ing, but you really can't do the work of three. You 
 will simply kill yourself in attempting it." 
 
 "Oh, no, ma'am, that's all right. Give me a 
 trial anyways." 
 
306 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 The trial was made, and Miss Finlayson did not 
 suffer far from it. She had never been so 
 comfortable in her life. Adelaide, always im- 
 proving, by the summer had developed into that 
 greatest of household treasures, a perfect general 
 servant. It was not only that she got through the 
 work of three people, she did it so much better. 
 The brass was always shining, the steps were 
 spotless, the hot water was never cold; and as a 
 tour de force, or crowning proof of energy, 
 Adelaide allotted a day in each week to give one 
 of the rooms a thorough spring cleaning. 
 
 "Oh, my dear girl," said Miss Finlayson one 
 evening in a burst of genuine enthusiasm after 
 her good dinner. "What a wife you will make! 
 What a wife you will make, some day, when the 
 war is over !" 
 
 Adelaide flushed, then turned pale, and her lips 
 trembled. 
 
 "Are you engaged, Adelaide?" 
 
 "No, ma'am. But I have a friend, and I'm very 
 anxious about him;" and Adelaide began to cry. 
 
 It was so long since she had heard from him, 
 and she doubted if her own letters ever reached 
 him. At night she used to have dreadful dreams 
 that he was killed, or taken prisoner, or that he 
 had quite forgotten her. But for the hard work, 
 
JOAN OF ARC' 307 
 
 she would have gone out of her mind from 
 anxiety. Then, when the summer was nearly 
 over, the milkman brought across the road a letter 
 that Dick had addressed to her at Belmont. Her 
 hand sftook so much that the milkman had to carry 
 the milk for her into the kitchen. She waited 
 until he had gone before she opened Dick's letter. 
 
 He was alive, not a prisoner, and he still remem- 
 bered her. He had been transferred to another 
 battalion, which had done a lot of moving about 
 as well as a lot of fighting. But now things were 
 quieter, and he hoped to get a turn of leave before 
 long. He reproached her for not writing, and he 
 put a great number of signs of multiplication or 
 addition after his signature. 
 
 That afternoon she overcame her pride and 
 reluctance, and, going across the road, faced her 
 old fellow-servants at Belmont. It was an ordeal, 
 but it had to be gone through. She was obliged 
 to ask them a favor. She begged that if her 
 soldier turned up there looking for her, he might 
 be sent at once to the correct address. She could 
 not risk the chance of misunderstanding or delay 
 when Dick came round the corner and up Hill 
 Road. 
 
 "A soldier?" said Loo wickedly. "I suppose you 
 mean a brother officer?" 
 
308 LIFE CAN NEVER BE THE SAME 
 
 "Yes, of course," said Mrs. Vaughan, "she's a 
 'General 9 now, and we mustn't forget it." 
 
 And they chaffed her unmercifully. 
 
 "To be sure. When you went into the army 
 we knew you'd do well, but we never thought 
 you'd go up so rapid as to be a 'General' within 
 the year. No one under you, and no one above 
 you you must feel grand. People used to look 
 down on 'Generals' in the old days, counting them 
 as mere drudges; but times are changed, aren't 
 they, Emily?" 
 
 Adelaide bore it all without flinching, or 
 attempting to answer back. She felt the pin- 
 pricks, but they were nothing to what she had 
 experienced from her own thoughts. 
 
 It was in September when he came, still daylight 
 after a warm day; and by providential good 
 fortune Miss Finlayson was dining out and would 
 not be back till late. They went out together, and 
 along unfrequented footpaths between the villas 
 and the fields. At such moments as the paths were 
 quite empty they did a lot of hugging ; and, really, 
 to any tender-hearted person it would have been 
 touching to hear them talk to each other. 
 
 Adelaide told him all about it her high 
 aspirations, her vow to do something great or 
 perish in the attempt, and her total and miserable 
 
JOAN OF ARC 309 
 
 failure. Before she had finished she was sobbing 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "I tried, Dick I did try. An' they, they 
 wouldn't let me. An' I've worked, Dick. I've 
 learnt to cook real well. I do the whole house 
 for her, and she praises me. I'm not the help* 
 less, useless girl I was but when I think of alj 
 I dreamed and hoped, I feel I've nothing to live 
 for, and I want to go straight to the river and 
 commit suicide." 
 
 "No, don't do that," said Dick. "Live for my 
 sake. We'll be married soon's the war's over. 
 And we'll light out for the colonies. All this 
 cooking and housekeeping, what you speak of, will 
 come in very handy out there." 
 
 Then they went to the cinema theater the one 
 where they had first met and sat with clasped 
 hands, except when the lights were up. They saw 
 runaway motor-cars, and jolly Wild West scenes 
 with the sheriff and his posse; and Adelaide felt 
 happy again. 
 
 THE END 
 
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