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