WAY OF REVELATION BY ^WILFRID EWART 1 Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 1 r%^- WAY OF REVELATION WAY OF REVELATION A NOVEL OF FIVE TEARS By WILFRID EWART LONDON AND NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS The characters in this novel are fictitious and have no connection with any fer softs, living or deceased. The war experiences are, in many cases, based on actuality but are not to he attributed to atiy par- ticular unit of the British Army. First Published November, 1921. Reprinted January, 1922. Reprinted January, 1922. Reprinted March, 1922. CONTENTS PART THE FIRST: ILLUSION PACE I. Pageant of a London Night ... 7 II. HUMORESKE 21 III. At the Races 37 IV. Alarms and Excursions 45 V. The House of Arden 59 VI. Incidents . 68 VII. Adrian and Rosemary 79 VIII. GiNA Maryon's Bedroom 87 IX. A Summer's Day — and After 100 X. The Voice of London . 107 XI. A Telegram and Two Lei TERS . 112 PART THE SECOND : DISILLUSION I. The Baptism of Fire 121 II. Adrian and Eric 142 III. Fortune's Wheel 149 IV. The Baptism of Pain 155 V. A Duel a Trois 166 VI. The Triumph 181 VII. The Dream 192 VIII. The Awakening. . 20c IX. Last Day. . 20; 1CG6' CONTENTS PART THE THIRD : TRAVAIL I. Winter in Northern France II. Christmas, 1915. III. Anticipation IV. Nightfall. V. God-forgotten VI. Underworld VII. Love and Death VIII. The Road IX. A Battlefield PART THE FOURTH: DAWN I. Another Winter Passes 345 II. Faith and Eric. • 361 HI. Their Dream . 368 IV. Their Awakening 384 V. Their Morrow . 387 VI. Intimation 405 VII. Time and Tide Roll on 409 VIII. Adrian and Faith 425 IX. A Vision of Paris 441 X. Rencontre. 457 XI. The Last Fight 46s PARI' THE FIFTH : PEACE I. Converging Courses . II. Reunion III. The Grand Victory Ball IV. The Three Hills 485 496 509 530 PART THE FIRST ILLUSION Behold, I c»me as a thief. Blessed, is be that watcbeth, and keepeth bis garments, lest he walk nakedy and they see his shame. And he gathered them together into a plae4 called in the Hebrew tongue Armageddon. Revelation XVI, 15-16. WAY OF REVELATION CHAPTER I Pageant of a London Night. §1 A MIDSUMMER night in the year nineteen hundred and fourteen lay heary upon London. The West End of the city oflFered no suggestion of rest. Its streets were brilliant with electric light, a-whir with motor-cars and taxicabs, crowded with those returning homeward from the theatres, or, by way of restaurants, supper-clubs and ball-rooms, beginning the night hfe of the town. The roar of the omnibuses and of the lesser motor traffic made a background for the hurrying crowds, for the cries of the newspaper-sellers, for the cab whistles, the insistent hooters, and the scarcely-heard chimes of the clocks. Nor was there lacking a quieter, kinder note, when fitfully from alley-ways and side-streets came faint sounds of piano and viohn where street musicians played, or where in some upstairs- room gay people danced. Over all brooded the summer night. Something of the careless, ephemeral quality of mankind seemed to linger here. Those who passed, chattering and laughing, were possessed by the moment, none knowing whence the other came or whither went. All were alike, in that all were actors in this drama of London : in that it was possible to weave around their figures pulsing, grim, and romantic fantasies of life. The past too rose up from among these crowds ; and out 7 8 WAT OF REVELATION of a dim vista of bygone days appeared the countless men and women who had trod these paving-stones, these streets. The tears that had wetted them, the laughter that had rung back from them, seemed at moments to hover stiD. Time had wrought changes, the unknown future held many more ; but no change had ever altered the face of the fluttering crowd. It is true that all had passed out in their turn — with their generation : the newsboys, the Jilles de joie, the common- place ones, the strange-looking men. Many had passed out before their turn : nobody knew ; nobody cared. Indivi- duality does not count here. It is sufficient that the crowd remains, that the winged archer poised above his fountains in the heart of Piccadilly Circus remarks no pause in the ebb and flow, no dimming of his brilliant halo, no foreboding of an impending judgment upon humanity. Two young men attired for the evening were strolling from the direction of the Empire Music Hall towards Piccadilly. They were due to meet a party of friends at a ball at 11.15 precisely ; and were late. Not that it mattered to be late for a ball ; the friends would probably be late, too. It was altogether fashionable to be late ; it was fatal to be punctual. At the portals of the great Hotel Astoria, in the heart of Piccadilly, a long line of motor-cars disclosed successive pairs of lamps stretching down that thoroughfare towards Hyde Park Corner. Each, as it drove up, discharged its four, five, OT six occupants, and, amid the exhortations of enormous uniformed porters and policemen, passed on. The two young men pushed through a circular moving doorway into a brilliantly lighted foyer, mirrored almost the whole way round and leading to a large, less brilliantly lighted winter-garden or palm court, beyond which steps led up to a kind of dais whereon tables and chairs were set. This outer hall was crowded with people — gentlemen taking off their hats and coats, ladies in opera cloaks and gowns of shimmering material. WAT OF REVELATION 9 All the while the doors kept revolving as fresh parties arrived. The two friends having handed their hats and sticks over a counter to a rather ostentatiously grand lacquey — with whom they seemed to cultivate something more than a hat-and- stick acquaintance — proceeded to draw on normally difficult white gloves. Let us look at them. Both are about the same age, twenty- one, both belong to a class obviously — even to a type. That is to say, you would not single them out as individuals in a crowd but would recognise that they belonged to one category in the crowd. The taller of the two stands rather below six feet in height, is narrowly but proportionately built, and wears his dress-suit with an air of custom. At a first glance his face, a clear-cut oval, appears to signify no more than a conventional amiability. His features are regular and his complexion that almost swarthy brown which so frequently accompanies Enghsh youth. The hair is a dark chestnut, the eyes brown ; and it is these eyes, Hquid and large, rather than a suggestion of weakness about the c)ean-shaven mouth, which imply to the whole face an expressiveness, a capacity for experience above the ordinary. An Irish strain might have been predicted — and it was so. Such is Adrian Charles Knoyle. Of his companion, Eric Quentin Sinclair, it may simply be remarked that he is a good deal the shorter of the two, slightly, even delicately made, with blue eyes, a pink-and-white com- plexion, and the faintest hint of the fairest moustache. A more conventional sort altogether, in whom neatness may be said to a-nount to fastidiousness and fastidiousness to the verge of effeminacy, the effect being pleasing if somewhat commonplace. And to what category, to what order of beings do these young gentlemen belong ? They may be described as " London young men " ; by which description is meant those mortals, favoured or otherwise, who after a laudably undistinguished career at a sufficiently expensive private school, at a sufficiently 10 WAT OF REVELATION expensive public school, and afterwards at some pe?ision abroad, or at a University, have at length launched themselves upon the " gay world." Adrian Knoyle is the only son of a reputedly impecunious baronet, a retired Army gentleman, possessed of a " town house " and an estate in the West of England which is " always let " ; his mother was a Culhnan of County Down. Eric Sinclair, too, has a mother — vaguely — his male parent having joined the majority ; however, there's money here, and the young fellow is next heir but one to a barony. With regard to the future, neither has the remotest idea what he means to do in life. Knoyle lives at home — which is at least economical — and draws a modest allowance from a prudent father. Sinclair has rooms adjacent to St. James' Street and frequents front rows, first nights, and stage doors. Both euphemistically are " looking round." One of them at any rate knew — whenever he reflected on the matter at all — that this state of affairs could not last indefinitely, but that at the end of this exciting summer he would have to " do something." " Sufficient unto the day," he would quote upon these occasions, " is the evil thereof. If worst comes to worst one must marry." So the couple had settled themselves comfortably to " having a good time " — which for young male persons of presentable antecedents, manners and appearance, was not difficult in those days. §2 The party of friends at length arrived. It consisted of Mrs. Rivington (of Rivington) and an elderly gentleman — not Mr. Rivington who had long since retired to a quieter world — but a certain suave Mr. Heathcote ; of three young women ; and of what is commonly known as a " tame " young man. Mrs. Rivington was immense, short and florid — " stout ;" WJr OF REFELJTION ii she was exceptionally ugly, very rich, and full of good nature. She was, indeed, one of those beings perennially useful, who are accepted by the world as a fully-established fact which there is no desire to deny or to decry, but of which, on the con- trary, everyone is anxious to take the utmost possible advantage — she was an " act of God," somebody had said. Of two of the young women, Eric Sinclair's opinion may be quoted, for, having surveyed the party, he turned to his friend, saying in a tragic aside : " Oh ! my Gawd, not both the Miss Kenelms ! " Knoyle laughed. The ladies named were two nieces of Mrs. Rivington, penniless and motherless, whom she kindly had taken under her wing, ostensibly as a measure of charity, but really on account of her own entertainment. For she was a lady who though often bemoaning her sleepless lot, loved society. The Misses Kenelm were indeed plain, solid, stolid and execrably though most expensively dressed. Like Mrs. Rivington herself they wore quantities of ornaments. The third damsel of the party formed a contrast to the rest, and winked at Knoyle immediately upon arrival. She was tall and slim, vnth. golden hair of a remarkably luminous quaHty, held back by a narrow royal blue ribbon. Her gown was of white and silver satin. She wore a string of pearls. Her features gave promise of a rare, an even seigneurial beauty when character should ripen in the childish face and maturity assert itself in the slender limbs. There was, at present, piquancy rather than a classic contour, young vitality rather than defined expression — or was it that expression chased itself ? Her complexion was of a delicate carmine tint, the eyes change- able, of no certain colour — wilful as a kitten's. Having discarded their cloaks, the four ladies reappv^ared by way of one of the numerous mirrored doors, and the whole party proceeded to descend a red-carpeted winding •taircase that promised to lead nowhere in particular. At the first turn, however, strains of ragtime music greeted their ears ; and at the foot they perceived the giver of the 12 WJr OF REVELATION entertainment attended by an obvious daughter and conrersing very ably with a large number of people at the same time, while shaking hands with a number of others whose names were being successively announced. At this stage, as though by a common impulse, Mrs. Rivington might have been ob- served to adjust her manner, two of the three young ladies to stiffen slightly as between self-consciousness and anticipation, and each of the three young men to put both hands to his white tie, his features taking on a bland if somewhat strained ex- pression. They then went forward, the names being bawled out in turn by a patronising varlet in silk stockings, white breeches, blue dress-coat and powdered head. " Mrs. Rivington (of Rivington)." " How d'you do ! So glad you've been able to come and have brought your nieces." " Yes, here we all are — just come on from the play." The ball-giver is a mass of smiles and gushes ; the daughter well-meaning but horribly shy, inadequate quite to the splendour of the scene and her own magnificence. " Miss Kenelm." *' How d'you do ? " " Miss Lettice Kenelm." " How d'you do ? " " Lady Rosemary Meynell." " How d'you do ? " " Mr. Eric Sinclair." " Mr. Adrian Knoyle." " Mr. Pemberton." All pass, as it were, the jumping-oflt place, Adrian Knoyle remembering with curiosity, but without alarm, that he has no idea of his entertainer's name or of her daughter's. From his friend he learns that that most ambitious and most efficient-looking lady (with the most reluctant and most inadequate-looking daughter) is the whilom wife of a somewhat mysterious South American— but all South Americans are WAT OF REVELATION 13 mysterious ! — of whom she rid herself at the expense of a small though rather painful paragraph in the newspapers ; that she has a large (and vulgar) mansion in Grosvenor Square, and that a few evening entertainments, at the cost of a thousand pounds or so a time, are as a dip in the ocean so she can marry the newly-hatched daughter to the (preferably eldest) son of a peer. " How are the mighty fallen ! " murmurs Mr. Sinclair, looking round as they all pass on into a throng of people. " And why arc the rich always so damned uninteresting ! " §3 Both young men — as was to be expected of their age and kind — had a favourable opinion of themselves which did not, however, necessarily appear except in uncongenial society, when they were apt to lose patience and even indulge their sense of humour. Knoyle may have been spoilt, he was indubitably vain, but he never had lacked a certain critical intelligence. And he was rather too emphatically aware of that. Both held a very definite set of ideas about things and people — standards which they applied with all the rigour and self-confidence of their twenty-one years. These ideas were the innate or imbued traditions of the Victorian hierarchy, of an English public school, and of a small world which they imagined to be a big one. To the onlooker such standards might appear ridiculous; they did not to those who v\erc steeped in them. Narrow, arbitrary, and on the whole meaning- less, they nevertheless represented the full force of the class tradition in England. The Ten Commandments had long since given place to a more rigorous code. " Thou shalt not say this." " Thou shalt not say that." " Such-and-such a word shall be pronounced in such-and-such a way and none other " or — excommunication. 1 o steal is bad and so is to 14 WJr OF REVELATION dishonour one's father and mother, but to abbrcTiate one's bicycle, one's photographs, or one's telephone means a black mark at the Day of Judgment — or worse. Sir Charles Knoyle preached minor vulgarity as original sin ; Lady Knoyle hardly got a look-in with the tenets of her Christianity. So it was that Adrian Knoyle had grown up. Those were the standards — those and certain sartorial distinctions, certain facts about tie-pins, hats, and the stuff a man's clothes were made of, certain excommunications of fish-knives, cake-stands, and other aspects of gentility — by which he was brought up to value, to discriminate between his fellow-creatures. And with such ideas at the back of their minds, the two young fellows went forward, gibing together, in train of the four ladies. It seemed almost certain that the hospitable woman with whom they had just shaken hands said the " wrong " things ; she was so obviously " not quite " or even " very nearly." Somebody else — Mrs. Rivington, for one — had kindly asked all the people to her dance. Mr. Pemberton followed slightly in rear. " Uncouth " was the mental note the two friends made of him. He had untidy hair and a " good plain " face — a quiet, amiable creature who looked rather out of place in a baU-room. And he wore black-striped kid gloves. That was enough to finish Pemberton. They now passed through a kind of lobby wliich opened upon the ball-room. The lobby was full of grand-looking people who sat about in couples on brocade chairs and sofas, by their united chatter making a continuous murmuring as of starlings. A dance was just over and a crowd of gay folk came swarming out of the ball-room. Gowns, jewels, colours, white arms and necks ! The whole effect was un- doubtedly attractive — the blue carpet of the salon^ the pale blue chairs and French tables, the great round white ball-room supported by pillars and panelled with mirrors, garlanded with festoons of flowers, the facets of electric light gleaming here from huge crystal chandeliers, there from clusters cunningly WAT OF REVELATION 15 concealed in cornices, and at the far end a wide flower-banked dais upon which was grouped the Blue Hungarian band. After chairs had been found for the four ladies, and each of the younger ones had been invited to dance, the three gentlemen were left standing surveying the scene. They quickly espied acquaintances. " Well, Adrian, how are you to-night ? " " Oh ! Going strong. Shall we have a dance ? " " The next ? " " No, I'm dancing it and the two after. What about missing three ? " " Wretch ! But anything to keep the boy amused. All right — three from now." That sort of thing went on in all directions. Knoyle with undeniable cynicism felt that he must do his duty by the Misses Kenelm and had better get it over quickly. Then he would dance with Rosemary Meynell, for whose sake alone — the fact must be recognised — he had come. She was young — only just " out " indeed — but she had scored a palpable hit in the best market ; and she possessed a combination of qualities deeply attractive to Adrian. Her father, an Earl of Cranford, had not " appeared " for many years — there was a " queer " streak in the family — and since his retirement (nobody quite knew whither), her mother, an admired and intelHgent woman, had managed the Yorkshire estates almost single-handed and with uncommon skill. To the best of his abiHty and amiability, Adrian Knoyle polished off the Misses Kenelm in turn. All three comported themselves strictly according to the rules, A repeating to C the same profound amenities as he or she had already perpetrated to B, B and C replying in a corresponding strain. Knoyle : " My goodness, it's hot to-night, isn't it ? There's going to be an awful squash, too." Miss Kenelm (or Miss Lettice Kenelm) : " Yes, it's i6 WJr OF RErELATION frightfully hot, isn't it ? And there's going to be lota more people. Whose band is it ? " Well, the thing was obvious ! From their chairs within the lobby, both could perceive the one and only Hirsch with his pale conceited face, his mincing mannerisms and rapid sensual mouth, conducting the orchestra — he who had been made such a fuss of that, it was commonly reported, he'd once asked a duchess for a dance ! But it was something to say. Ten minutes' conversation are allotted on these occasions. Miss Kenelm (or Miss Lettice Kenelm) : " I alway* like this place to dance at. The roof garden's lovely." Knoyle : " Yes, it's cool out there. And one gets such a nice breeze." Miss Kenelm (or Miss Lettice Kenelm ) : " The pillars are rather in the way though when you're dancing." " Rot ! " shrieked Adrian inwardly. " Confound it ! Can't she or won't she say anything sensible ? " And Miss Kenelm (whichever it happened to be) was com- muning with herself : " How am I to amuse gentlemen ? He seems a nice young man. I'd better agree with erery- thing he says. There's nobody else here who is likely to ask me for a dance. I shall have to sit out the whole evening." That was the trouble — she always agreed ; whether it was dances, whether it was races, whether it was people's clothes or their faces — she echoed, she agreed. An old-fashioned valse had been succeeded by a maxixgy the eccentric gyrations of which caused some food for comment, as did the varying expressions of self-consciousness of the new arrivals. The crowd swept round and around — some in a frenzy of enjoyment, leaping, darting forward or backward, doing the oddest things, others ambhng through the various move- ments as though performing one of hfe's more solemn duties. Along the sides of the ball-room on golden chairs and brocaded settees, were established, Hke faded goddesses, the mammas, aunts, and grandmothers, together with a sprinkling of elderly JFJr OF REVELATION 17 male persons, the majority of whom, to judge by their appear- ance, were retired colonels, or country gentlemen bi-annually galvanised into life. Near the doorway, standing in one large group, was a bevy of fairs — a dozen or twenty perhaps — who had so far failed to find partners for the dance or for any dance. Not far off some young gallants, too blase or too lazy to take part, lounged against pillars, chatting and laughing, Eric Sinclair was to be seen talking to a thin, dark, good-looking man — a soldier obviously. Adrian Knoyle had engaged young Mr. Pemberton in conversation, who smiled continually, but whose shyness only permitted him to announce that he didn't often come to dances. He was studying for the Bar and liked to go to bed early. The chief fear in the minds of most of the gilded youths was that one of the unpartnered should be intro- duced to them ; they simply dreaded being " landed with a stumer." The thing of course was not " done," and yet well- meaning people — people's relations, and other people's relations — persistently did it. They were a study in themselves, these debonair fellows — chaffing, joking, merry. They were full of jokes of a daring nature appertaining to mutual friends or enemies, or ex- tracted from the sayings of comedians or from the sporting papers. They had their own code of ethics, their own particular code of ideas — for them life portended a huge pretence. Those who felt the keenest emotions or the keenest curiosities, religiously overlaid the fact with a coverlet of half- ingenuous, half-cynical wit. For such, existence contained two main interests — feminine and sporting. And their business in the world ? Had they any ? They were subalterns in regiments, they were in the Foreign Office, about to enter the Diplomatic Service, or commercially engaged, or like Knoyle and Sinclair just " looking round." Nor could there be denied to them a certain flair, even though the curious might be disappointed by their cut-to-pattern notions bied of a i8 WAT OF REVELATION common upbringing, and future, and by their unvarying similarity in outlook and appearance born of your Englishman*8 terror of differing from his neighbour. Their foibles were amazing, but by creating fashion they appeared illogically correct. . . . A young man had turned up one night in a delicately tinted evening waistcoat. The offence was heinous and talked about for wee''s as if the unfortunate youth had committed a pubHc act of impropriety. People's moral sense was indescribably shocked. A young officer was seen somewhere in a short evening coat and white waistcoat. Next morning he appeared before his Adjutant and received condign punishment, everj-- body joining in pointing out the enormity of the crime — which was, however, mercifully ascribed to the extremest youth. If the same young gentleman had met his Colonel while spending the week-end companionably at Brighton the affair would have been chuckled over for days — his enterprise univers- ally applauded. One night a provincial lady with more ambition than know- ledge of the world she aspired to enter, gave an extremely expensive party and invited a large number of people (very few of whom she knew by sight). Thoughtfully but still pro- vincially she introduced programmes for the convenience of the guests. What is more, they were convenient. However, the thing was a perfect scandal and the ball a failure from start to finish. Everybody said " Programmes ! How per- fectly awful ! Who are these people ? Did you ever see such a show ? Let's flee ! " And they did. The young ladies who stood together in a group near the doorway were the very antithesis of light-heartedness Most of them were plain, some proud, some frankly depressed WAT OF REVELATION 19 On this face, thoughtful, full of character but not of beauty, was written the look of one who says to herself " Oh ! to be out of this — to fall through the floor — to hide in an empty room — to be in the dark — to escape somehow from the noise, the people, and this pitiless isolation. I've only danced once the whole evening. And there's Angela and Phyllis, and Betty — they've never missed a dance. Everybody's looking at me too." A beaming damsel — probably her particular friend — passing hand-in-hand with a partner as they step out of the dance, remarks brightly, " Well, Edith, how are you enjoying yourself ? Isn't it fun ? Why aren't you dancing, my dear ? " Now and again a good-natured female brings up to her one of the gilded youths, who eyes the young creature rather as an expert eyes a heifer in the cattle market. " He didn't even ask me for a dance ! What's the matter with me ? What's wrong ? My clothes ? . . . No. Young men don't like me." At this moment a gallant, who has lately been introduced to her, slowly and deliberately walks along the row of " wall- flowers " obviously thinking to himself : " Is there anything here one could possibly dance with ? There's that little Winsom girl, but she's hopeless. Oh ! my Lor', what a collection ! " Meanwhile little Miss Winsom is feverishly trying to con- ceal her agitation, thus communing within herself : " Will he see me, will he — will he — ask me ? I mustn't catch his eye, I mustn't look his way. He sees me — this is too awful ! " Never- theless, hope rises for a moment to be succeeded by a sort of quivering despair. " He's passed on ! Another dance to stand through. I feel famished and almost faint. I'd give worlds for some supper. But who's going to take me in except mother, and that would be too degrading. Oh ! We must get away soon ; but Marjorie's enjoying herself, and of course she'll want to stay till any hour. I shall absolutely break down in a minute, and if anybody asks me to dance I shall look as if I'm going to cry. How proud and beastly they 20 WJr OF REVELATION all are ! Oh ! for my little bed at home and nerer to come near this awful, noisy, sordid world again." A voice whispers, " As if it mattered. . . ." But it does matter ! Rosemary Meynell, on the other hand, is having her usual success- Three or four admirers are asking for dances at the same moment, and she may be heard saying four, five, or even six from now. Only the " particular friends " are so favoured, and these may be numbered on the fingers of one hand. Knoyle secures his second dance with the promise of another and longer one later on. Rosemary dances well ; she does most things well. Adrian has great fun for a quarter-of-an-hour, and begins to think he is falling in love. They have plenty of things in common, these two ; they criticise their acquaintance from the same standpoint — than which there is no readier bond of human sympathy — and generally make each other happy. With a sense of keen anticipation they agree to meet again later in the night. Knoyle makes up his mind that there is nobody else worth dancing with, and decides to go on for an hour or two to the Doncasters' — if that's boring, somewhere else. For the fellow has no fewer than five invitations, generally in the shape of large, oblong printed cards, for the evening. Blithely accepting aU, he intends to partake of those which are likely to amuse him only. " Come along, Eric ! " he calls to his friend whom he finds at the buffet ; " let's sample Doncaster House.'* WAT OF REVELATION 21 CHAPTER II Humoreske. Having reinforced their spirits v/ith champagne, Adrian Knoyle and Eric Sinclair called for a taxicab and were whirled to Bryanston Square, which they found hvely with lighted yehicles, and with the brilliant windows of the noble House of Doncastei thrown open to the night. Couples in evening dress, betraying a faint glimmer of jewels in the lamplight, promenaded the pavement, seeking any cool breeze that might be abroad ; there were people, too, on the awninged balcony, while through the windows- came the fitful cadences of a valse, which floated out on the heavy air and lost themselves in the night murmur of London. " What is that thing ? " asked Adrian of his friend as he paid off the cabman. " Never heard it before." The two young men dashed into the somewhat bleak hall, where several couples were sitting out like stray worshippers in a temple, and sought Lady Doncaster — a shrivelled-up little old woman who shot out a claw at you, and snatched it back as though afraid you might want to keep it for good. Altogether the atmosphere, even on so hot a night, was chilly. What Eric Sinclair called the " cold shade of aristocracy " pervaded the stately mansion, which could so easily have accommodated twice the number of people present. All were on their best behaviour, the very servants were mournful. A toy royalty was present, not to mention an upstart Balkan prince and a downtrodden Grand Duke, supported by members of the 22 WAT OF REVELATION diplomatic corps in ornaments and ribbons : those who possessed them wore miniature medals and orders on their dress-coats. Supper was just beginning, the royal personages leading the way downstairs. Lord Doncaster — who is known to have been mistaken for his butler more frequently than any other living nobleman — followed, talking in a loud staccato to a stagey duchess. A Court party of some kind that evening gave to a limited number of elderly gentlemen the prescriptive right to air their handsome legs in knee-breeches and silk-stockings, and to tell their acquaintances what a bore it had been. Mounting the staircase the two arrivals came face to face with a stooping, middle-aged man whose iron-grey hair and moustache set oif the half-wistful expression of his un- laughing eyes. His shirt-front was slashed with a black-and- gold ribbon, while upon his arm descended a tall woman with a magnificent tiara sparkling from reddish-golden hair. The figure was familiar to them both. It w^as that of Lichknowsky, the German Ambassador. . . . From the ball-room came quivering fragments of the elusive valse accompanied by a thin patter of dancing feet. Victorian grandes dames, loaded with tiaras and other ammunition of their sex, occupied the settees and chairs, staring at everyone who appeared in the doorway, audibly and shamelessly in- quiring of one another his or her name. The younger people seemed stiffly conscious of the formality of the affair ; the mode of dancing was sedate in the extreme, " Is there anybody here one could pick the leg of a chicken with ? " demanded Sinclair, eyeing the somewhat sparse couples with a cold eye of appraisal ; " or must we depart in peace without even tasting the champagne ? " " Come along ! " said Knoyle, pulling at his friend's sleeve. " It's the sort of show where you're expected to ask the mother's permission before you speak to the daughter." Sinclair always followed his friend's lead in such matters. frjr OF REVELATION 23 But just then they espied Lady Arden and her daughter, and proceeding to pay their respects, all four agreed to go down to supper together. Lady Arden, a scion of the house of Doncaster — for she had been a Wardour — was a youngish middle-aged woman with a vague dignity and prettiness of her own. Faith Daventry had inherited her mother's charm with an additional freshness that bespoke something pleasant — an English spring perhaps or a Constable landscape. Hers was a beauty that belongs peculiarly to England — not original or uncommon, but perennially charming — a beauty of fair hair, regular features, and a country-bred complexion : of large blue eyes that looked out upon the world with a serenity unusual in her then sur- roundings ; a face memorable, Knoyle thought, for a certain courage and honesty. It was not the first time he had met Lady Arden, but it was the first time he had met Miss Daventry. She was Eric's friend. The conversation began as usual with a recital of forth- coming events, of balls lately given, of balls about to be given — more especially of the Ascot Races that were due the weei following. " How glad I shall be when it's all over ! " sighed Lady Arden. " And how tired this child will be ! I shall send her to bed for a week. How delightful to look forward to a quiet life for another year " Unlike Mrs. Rivington, she meant it. " Mother ! " protested Miss Daventry, " you don't expect me to look after the vegetables for a year on end without a soul to talk to except the garden boy ? Or perhaps you do ! " The gentlemen laughed — lightly, suitably. " And you young men ? " inquired her mother. " What do you do when the summer's over ? Go to bed, I suppose. ... By the way, Faith, didn't we say we wanted somebody to come and stay with us for that dreadful Bank HoHday ? " 24 ffjr OF REVELATION " Yes," said Faith, promptly ; " ask them ! . . . Both." Lady Arden turned to the couple with her comprehensive smile. " I'd like to come very much," was Sinclair's unhesitating reply. " I know it's ages off," said Lady Arden, addressing Knoyle. " But isn't there something on then i ** (" Cowes ! " inter- jected Faith.) " Ah, Cowes ! I can't tell you who's coming except Lady Cranford and Rosemary Meynell. I think we've asked them, haven't we, my dear i " " Of course, mother. You wrote the note this morning." For some reason the three young people looked at each other and laughed. Knoyle had hesitated a moment ; it was against his princi- ples to stay with people he didn't know well. Perhaps the name last-mentioned decided him. At any rate, Knoyle, too, accepted. Faith said : " Splendid ! You can take it in turns to punt me and Rosie on our majestic river. Do you understand rivers ? " Only the Thames, ma'm," Eric bowed. " Except the Thames," said Adrian. " I quite agree," pursued Miss Daventry. " Boulter's Lock on Ascot Sunday . . . ! " She made a face. " What's the name of your river. Miss Daventry ? '* " The Rushwater. Isn't it a pretty name ? And it's a pretty little river flowing out of a pretty little lake. And there are all sorts of queer birds nesting beside it. And you can go on and on to where it's very deep and quiet and you get lost. Isn't that the sort of river you like, Mr. Knoyle ? " " I do," the young man replied. " I've a queer hankering sometimes for getting lost." " Oh, really ! . . ." laughed Eric. " Sounds like Earl's Court." WA2' OF REVELATION 25 They rose from the supper table and Knoyle took his lecTe. Faith Daventry and Eric Sinclair went up to dance. Of his friend's friend, trivial as the exchanges had been, Adrian Knoyle felt that he had made a friend — with a certainty that one rarely feels on meeting a person for the first time. § 2 It was to a small party given by an uncommon young woman called Gina Maryon that he now repaired, directing his cab- iriver to one of those miniature houses which, unknown to the majority, lurk in the corners of Berkeley and other great squares. This Gina Maryon occupied a conspicuous position. She had pretensions to advanced Hterary and artistic tastes, " adored " the Vorticists, " worshipped " at the altar of Matisse ; a little later no doubt she became a devotee of Mr. Wyndham Lewis. Poetry — and people — were her par- ticular obsessions (or possessions). Of the former she wrote quantities in a hectic, exotic and not insignificant strain, though people complained that it was overloaded with im- propriety ; most of her friends wrote poetry, too. She had also a fenchant for extravaganza in clothes and in house decoration. Knoyle walked straight into the Berkeley Square " maison- ette," for the door stood open. There was nowhere to put one's hat so he hid his behind the front door. The narrow staircase, painted green and without a carpet, was so choc-a-bloc with people that he had the greatest difficulty in reaching the first floor. Miss Maryon at the top of the stairs was engaged in having her hand kissed by a young man who was evidently on the point of departing. This young man was perhaps typical of the breed affected by this young woman, which collectively had come to be known as the " Clan Maryon." He had a pale, rather unwhole- some face, large dark eyes of the sort called " soulful," heayily- 26 WJT OF REVELATION oiled hair brushed straight back from the forehead and an elaborate manner. As he bent down he said : " Ah, m J- Gina ! What an evening — what an evening ! One of your best. The maisonette reborn and your exquisite liqueurs and your still more exquisite self — my Gina, I see Ufe through the perfumed haze of your personality." (Knoyle had noticed a queer musky scent on entering the house.) " And after all that you leave my house at the preposterous hour of two," was Miss Maryon's reply. " What ingratitude, what mauvais ion ! But, ah ! out of the way, Harry — out of my sight, monster ! A guest ! . . , Do you know this silly fellow, Mr, Knoyle — Harry Upton ? " The two men nodded. Adrian had met Miss Maryon only two or three times before, and had been surprised at receiving an invitation — scribbled in pencil on the back of an advertisement of hats — to her " teeny party, very mixed." For these were essentially Clan Maryon affairs and he was in no sense of the sacred hierarchy. Why had he come ? Im- pelled by curiosity, stimulated by the unexpectedness of the thing, intrigued by what he had heard of the Maryon orgies — intrigued and on the whole flattered. And Miss Maryon herself ? There was something bird-like about her. Like a bird, she seemed to live and move on springs. She never walked, she hopped or darted. She chattered away like a willow-wren in a high-pitched treble. She often sang. . . . She was very small too. Her features were small and sharp, extraordinarily animated and mobile, half- a-dozen quick expressions flitting across them in as many seconds. Easily-pleased people called her " fascinating " — and really she was. Her violet eyes were fascinating when they flashed sideways up at you : she fascinated deliberately, especi- ally when she thought her victim resented the effect. And there was the unusual offset of her wavy auburn hair. Her WAT OF REVELATION vj quick bird-like intelligence was attractive too — her rersatility — her sympathy, simulated or otherwise, her retaliatory wit — all these people found magnetic. " Sit down and talk to me ! " she said. But Miss Maryon did all the talking — mainly about nothing. Adrian, for his part, was too much interested in the doings around him to take particular heed of what she said. All the same, he became subtly aware that she was out to dazzle, that sex-consciously she was sizing him up, that all the while she was asking him questions out of the side-glance of her violet eyes. The room was an extraordinary one. It had — as Miss Maryon assured him in requesting his opinion of it — been newly " done up.'* (This happened on an average once a year according to fashion.) The walls were of peacock green, the ceiling yellow and in one corner stood a sort of shrine half-hidden by black and gold striped hangings. The furni- ture was of ebony inlaid with triangular ivory patterns and looked as if it might have come from Munich via Paris ; the enormous sofa upon which they sat and which occupied the whole of one end of the smallish drawing-room was black, httcred with rainbow cushions. Instead of pictures on the walls, one found white marble bas-reliefs of archaic men and women, while upon the mantelpiece reposed curious dis- proportioned wooden figures, egg-shaped heads cast in bronze, and white china bowls filled with fruit carved in cream- coloured stone. In this curious apartment with its waxed floor — and on the landing outside and on the stairs — the whole of the Clan Maryon was congregated. At either end of it was set a green baize table around which were gathered groups of men and women. Laughter, but also a certain intensity of expression was written on their faces, and such remarks as " Banquo ! " or " I pass," or " Your ante, "came out of silences ; while from the other table came the perpetual whir of a spinning-top, and there " little horses " could be seen careering rery fast round a 28 WAT OF REVELATION squared and coloured board. Money gleamed in the electric- light, momentary pauses were broken by the " chink " of it. The peculiar scent of the room may well have derived from the cigarette-smoke which hung about like a heavy perfume until Kaoyle began to feel queer in his head. It appeared to surprise nobody that a couple had dropped off to sleep on a divan. At the piano, a trio sang to the accompaniment of drum and baajoline. Now and then another couple would rise from the floor, on which a fair proportion of the company disposed itself, dance a few steps, then squat down again. From below-stairs came the " pop " of champagne corks. Laughter came from the upstairs direction. . . . Gina Maryon though by birth a " perfect lady " (as she was wont to describe herself) — and even a Mrs. Maryon was hidden away somewhere, invalidish — Gina Maryon made a speciality of, apart from her own little mutual admiration society, gathering together the oddest people, or, as she said, " anybody with talent, anybody with character." The men were certainly unusual-looking : one, with hair as long as a girl's, was attired in a suit of green velvet, another affected a D'Orsay bow with a soft-fronted evening shirt ; the majority, to Knoyle's critical gaze, appeared none too well shaved. As to the women, they included musical comedy actresses and " real " actresses, professional singers, and clever little comics who killed you outright on the variety stage. There was " Chips " who plays " any old part you like to name " and Trixie of the peroxide hair. There were the daughters of peers and the sisters and first cousins of peers. There were no chaperons. Downstairs in the passage was to be found an amazing array of cocktails and Hqueurs of rainbow hue and a man in a white coat mixing them — but not much to eat. Although Society (with a big S) smiled or frowned, said the Clan Maryon was " extraordinary," " impossible " or " not nice," while its avowed enemies called Gina " second-rate " — WAT OF REVELATION 29 its doings were the source of the most enjoyable scandal. And Society respected, feared, and even rather adored the Mary- onites ; for Society loves to be despised. They were derer after all, you couldn't get away from that — they were clever. And — original ! . . . And what did young Mr. Knoyle think as he descended the stairs (for there was no particular reason to stay, he didn't know anybody except Gina) ? He couldn't forget that dusky, musky cloud. There it was hanging over you, hanging over the house and all the people in it. He knew these people — or thought he did. At the last — they were sensualists. They hungered for a full and changing life. Their life was a cinematograph. They were actors and actresses, every one of them. All the same, he did feel flattered — it wasn't everybody who could float into the maisonette Maryoa or be encouraged thereto by the genie herself. No. . . . Yet a more imperious magnet drew him back to the Astoria. Everything was still going full swing in the mirrored pillared ball-room. Here Knoyle felt himself back in an atmosphere of normality. The Blue Hungarians were sawing away at their violins, the multi-coloured frocks were whirling round and round, the gallant young men, each of whom had by now drunk his bottle of champagne, were uplifted on a pinnacle of gaiety ; only the " wallflowers " with their mammas and chaperons had faded away. The first person Adrian's glance discovered on his entrance was Rosemary Meynell. He stood for some time watching her : he was held by the grace of her movements, the facility of her steps — by elderly sporting gentlemen such as she had been com- pared to a thoroughbred filly. A warmer flush had risen in her cheeks now, a spark of devilry had come into her eyes, and these corresponded to his own heightened impressionability. She was graceful and she was naive. . . . And then ua- 30 WAT OF REVELATION accountably his mind went back to Gina Maryon. But it was not until he had been watching Rosemary for some minutes that he realised with whom she was dancing. Her partner was the young man to whom he had so lately been introduced. His name ? — he could not remember. The music stopped and the various couples passed out of the ball-room. Rosemary and her partner sat down at a table in the outer salon^ and during the brief interval Knoyle found himself studying them in the opposite mirror — the man's declamatory conversation accompanied by smiles and a play of hands like a foreigner, the girl's animated response. Mr. What's-his-name evidently chose to make himself agreeable outside his own circle J But what was he doing here — this palpable Maryonite ? The riolins quavered. He went to claim his dance with Rosemary, saluting her partner with a brief nod. Then they were gliding together over the comparatively empty floor. It was not until they had made a full circuit of the room that the rhythm of the music impressed itself upon him, and he recognised the air whose fitful cadences had floated out through the open windows of Doncaster House. " What a queer, lovely thing ! " said Rosemary. Their eyes met. " Yes, it's haunting — and gay and sad," he replied, hghtly " all in one. Hirsch always gives you value for your money." Somehow his little finger twined round hers. " By the bye, I simply must go somewhere and have a lesson in reversing." " What's it called ? " she asked, ignoring his last remark. " We'U ask." He had caught Hirsch's fishy eye, and when they passed close to the great man he called out : " What's this thing, Hirsch ? " " * Humoreske,' Meester Knoyle ... of Dvorak." ^' Ah, thanks." She bent her head to catch the word and he was suddenly WAT OF REVELATION 31 aware of the graceful curve of her neck and of her ear with its little pearl, which reminded him of some transparently delicate sea-shell. " ' Humoreske 1 ' " she repeated. " I must remember it." §4 Neither he nor she perhaps ever forgot that dance : how it stopped ; how they applauded ; how it stopped again, and how they — and the other remaining couples — insisted that it should go on yet again. And it went on. Lost as he was in the pleasure of steering his partner, their joint movement seemed to synchronise without effort ; in the first moment of dancing they felt drawn to each other by an impalpable sympathy. An electric thrill sent them turning, turning in long sweeps round and across the room, talking the while, and laughing. Their hands gripped and pressed. At last they fell silent. They seemed to dance as one person. Their thoughts : Hers : " A nice boy. He dances well. He's interesting — and quite good-looking. I w^onder . . . what's he Hke really ? " His : " Something must come of this. She's not a girl, she's a dream. I wish this would go on — and on. . . . No, I don't. I want to talk to her, to be alone with her, to know her." The dance over, they climbed up to the famous roof-garden and sat down on a seat in the darkest corner. They were alone. This roof-garden looks out over the Green Park and down Piccadilly westward. The London night was already paling towards dawn. Except for the occasional whir of a taxicab, rumble of a market cart or swish of the hose-driven water sousing Piccadilly, no sound came up to the ears of the two, seated close together. They were intensely aware of each other. Adrian said : " How wonderfully you dance. Lady Rosemary ! " 32 WAT OF REVELATION " Do I? Well — it rather depends on whom I'm dancing with." A glow of pleasure suffused him. He became sensible, power- fully sensible, of the gentle, musical, almost caressing timbre of her voice. " I find that, too," he said. " With some people one can dance — endlessly without an effort. And with some people — the Miss Kenelms for instance — it's the very devil to get round the room once." " Yes — it depends." " Don't you think it's like people one meets for the first time — sometimes you've got to make conversation for half- an-hour before you say anytliing, and sometimes you get on with them Hke a house-on-fire straightaway." " Are you still thinking of the Miss Kenelms ? " she laughed. " No — of life in general." " I really know so little of life in general. So I can't say." ** You don't expect me to believe that ? " ** I know nothing of life at all." He had an idea she was laughing at him : all the same her hand lay very temptingly near to his. " Mamma's always been so strict, you see. I've only been outside the front door about twice without a maid or somebody. It's frightfully annoying when lots of emanci- pated young females have such a good time." " I think you ought to take the law into your own hands." His fingers touched hers. " There's nothing like being a law unto oneself in this world." " What — how do you mean ? " " Why — having a good time." " You — you'll have to lead the way, then." " I will — Rosemary." He held all of her hand now and she made no attempt to withdraw it. " By the by . . . who told you you could call me by mj Christian name ? " " Not your mamma, my dear." Both laughed. She said: WAT OF REVELA7I0N 32 ** What a very go-ahead young man ! . . . Please ! " She attempted to withdraw her hand. " Oh, no ! No, my child. Not so easy. I donU think "— and he squeezed her hand as tight as he could. In the gloom, he could just discern the outline of a shapely head on a slender neck. " Are you in the habit of — of doing this sort of thing, Mr. ? " "Adrian," he put in. " Yes— no." " Which do you mean ? " *' No — you're the first." *' I'm flattered." His arm was around her. " Don't Mr. — Whatever-your-name-is — please ! Leare me — leave me, alone ! " " Mamma wouldn't like it — eh r " " 1 don't like it. It's— silly." " Is it ? I'm teaching you .... a thing or two — see ? " " Behave yourself then ! " " Not a gentleman, am I ? " " No, by Jove ! " she laughed. " You're a — ass.** " ' By Jove ! ' Who taught you that expression ? How in the name of girlhood ! " She looked up at him. She deliberately provoked. Their lips were near. " I want — to know you better." " I daresay you do, but you won't ever know me better unless you let go of my hand at once, and take your arm away from — where it's no business to be." Instead, he drew her quite firmly towards him. " No, really — be good ! I ask you . . . Adrian ! " she protested — yielding. Gently he kissed her on the lips. They remained enclasped for several moments, the dawa breaking opaquely above them. 34 f^^r OF REVELATION " Hark ! " A chord of familiar music came faintly to their ears through the glass doors and up the iron stairway. It was the first bar of " God save the King." The ball was over. . . . " Great Scott ! " she exclaimed. " We must run for our lives." " Yes, but we shall often meet again ? " He said this pleadingly as they hurried down the stairway to the ball-room ; " at Ascot next week and — at dances ? " " Not after Ascot." She was suddenly and irritatingly de- mure. " We go away after Ascot. Mamma wants to pay visits." " You're coming to the Ardens' later on though, for the week-end ? " She did not answer at once. She laughed — unexpectedly. They had reached the outer hall, " That depends." Her glance challenged his. " We may go to Cowes. . . . Good night ! " §5 Adrian Knoyle walked home. The many clocks of London were striking four, and a clear pearly-blue light reigned in the streets, deserted now except for twittering sparrows and scavenging cats. Once or twice a taxicab or market-lorry rattled down Piccadilly. But of the city's myriad human population the only visible signs were an occasional pohceman and the haggard uncivilised-looking waifs who nightly take such rest as they can get on the bare wooden seats of Piccadilly, or against its inhospitable raihngs. Something fresh, clean, and even beautiful, nevertheless, seemed to come to the familiar thoroughfares in this, their unfamiliar, guise. And it was difficult to beheve that half- a-dozen hours earlier they had pulsed beneath the moving mystery of the London night ; that six hours hence they 'ould again be the vortex of the everyday whirl. WAT OF REVELATION 35 The pavement forsook the young gentleman. He trod on air. It had been a memorable night — perhaps the most memorable of his life so far. Was he " in love ? " Had he that very night set foot on the unknown road ? . . . The fact is he wasn't quite sure. How could he be sure ? There had of course been mild experiments in different notes and keys — indifferent experiments. These, it is true, he had not sought ; they had been made for him. Lily, for instance — Miss Truss. How at last he had come to detest this young woman who threw a leg at the Hippodrome, an eye at the stalls, and her womanly virtue at the highest bidder ! How he had come to detest her, with her " Haven't you got a present for me, dear ? " — her " boys in the Guards," her ubiquitous " girl friend," her censorious allusions to " commonness " in all who were less common than she. Eric and he had quarrelled about Lily. For it was Eric who insisted on Lily — as a sort of diet — Eric who insisted that Miss Truss must be " made up to " — that he, Adrian, was " slow off the mark " — and " unenter- prising " — that Miss Truss regarded him as " one of the sweetest boys she had ever known," and that in return for this unearned compliment Miss Truss must be regaled with supper and champagne. At length, after a little enterprise and much expense, his inveterate repulsion to Miss Truss had got the better of him : he had struck, not indeed Miss Truss, but his friend — very nearly. And there was Miss Pearl Stucley. Pearl, it is true, came into a different category, but she likewise had been introduced by Eric under the label " hellish hot-stuff." Not that he disliked Miss Stucley : she was provocative and she was amusing. She was a lady. But he disliked making love to Miss Stucley — still more he disliked Miss Stucley making love to him. To the one or the other there seemed no alternative — in gallantry (and yet unaccountably) he became an accessory after the fact. What a relief it was when Miss Stucley came to the decision that he was " hopeless," — and so informed her friends ! With wha^* 36 WAT OF REVELATION pleasure lie turned to less exacting pursuits after Eric had affably called him a " bloody fool " ! As to " love " then — a word he detested — it was an un- imagined — and in any conscious sense, an undesired — thing. Its only concrete expression for him were Eric's bi-weekly occupa- tions with chorus-girls. And of these he grew weary ; the details were always the same. If, therefore, he had ever thought about the matter at aU, it was to look up at the sky and see a child's vision of Heaven — some ultimate vision of perfection, but one without any sort of comprehensible reality. . . . Then Rosemary sprang into the picture. " A girl-and-a-half," he muttered to himself : he wasn't a poet — yet. There she was with her saucy way, her beauty and her dashing grace. No wonder London raved about her. . . . There she was, beckoning to him, laughing at him, then eluding him, then being a darling again. The night had been a rapture. What would come of it ? More nights like this before the summer ended, nights when one saw aU people and all tilings — even Mrs. Rivington having supper — in a pearly, rainbow-tinted mist ; a series of nights culminating in — a week-end. Was that " love ? " The vulgarity of the interpretation struck him — it sounded like a joke at a music-hall ; he didn't laugh. She dominated him — there was no doubt about that. She possessed him altogether. Life without her — unthinkable. But — life at that moment sparkled like the dew on the Green Park. WAT OF REVELATION 37 CHAPTER III At the Races The fashionable and famous Ascot Races duly took place in the week following the Rodriguez ball. Glorious weather com- bined with first-class racing. " ' Everybody ' in London," as the halfpenny newspapers paradoxically said, " was to be seen in the Royal Enclosure." The first and second days of the meeting, Rosemary Meynell and Adrian Knoyle spent together — Faith Daventry and Eric Sinclair also pairing off — running up and down stands, Adrian struggling to the railings of Tattersall's and offering Rosemary's shillings to unwilling bookmakers, darting to the telegraph office, rushing back again, walking about in the Paddock, and having long-drawn-out teas and luncheons d quatre. It was a merry time. . . . Perhaps my lady of Cranford came to the discreet conclusion that her admired daughter — as to whose future she soared a good deal higher than Mr. Adrian Knoyle — had been seeing enough of this young gentle- man. Anyhow on the third day, that of the Gold Cup, the ladies were nowhere to be seen when the bell ran? for the first race. This was a heavy blow to their respective admirers, who spent some time wandering disconsolately between the luncheon-tent and the stands. Adrian, for his part, was surprised at the force of his inward disturbance and appre- hension : would Rosemary finally turn up ? Then he lost Eric (who went off to make a bet) and found himself high up in the stand awaiting, like everybody else, the Royal Pro- cession, which presently appeared at the Golden Gates and 38 WAr OF REVELATION came bowling up the lawn-like sward of the Straight Mile, its scarlet outriders bobbing up and down against the dark green of the pine-woods. Its approach was heralded by the faint cheers of the crowds in the further rings which floated up the course, swelling to a roar as the procession passed, and all the hats went off. The polite crowd then began moving towards the paddock. Adrian's attention was held by the varied movement, though he searched for one figure only and for one face. What a conundrum it was, he reflected, this world of fashion, what a conundrum and what an illusion ! He saw, upon the one hand, those who, standing upon the verge of the Court and par- taking of its Conservatism, represented that which was best in the old order of England : the landowners, the feudal title- holders, the aristocracy of sport and of tradition, men of prin- ciple, men who lived by a strict code of ethics for the established order, their class, and their dependents. He saw, upon the other hand — and they were unmistakable — those who, freely endowed with this world's goods, recked neither of yesterday nor of to-morrow, but lived for to-day, remaining themselves insensible to the democratic trend of the hour, because they ignored it. Of the women, England seemed to him to produce a class which no Continental country has produced, and of which the United States has served up only an imitation (unless by absorption) ; this class lacking the chic of the Frenchwoman or any parade of up-to-dateness, yet excelling in an elegance of manner and of disposition, in a kind of personality not to be engrafted, but by its very unself consciousness instinct with the dignity of a Romney portrait. Not that vulgarity was absent. It everywhere jostled with good breeding and correctness, in the mere unimaginativeness of conventionalised people, in the flaunting class-consciousness of the occasion. It everywhere presented itself. Even at times a touch of crudity crept in, of the music-hall, something bizarre, a rather blatant sex-vanity. WJr OF REVELATION 39 The unreality of the scene and its composite glamour were not lost upon Knoyle any more than the stirring movement of the midnight crowd in Piccadilly Circus had been. But did he reflect upon its potentiaHties, upon the substantial quality beneath these masks of men and women who had pursued the same round as their forefathers for a century or more — and would continue so to do ? The bubble pricked, the bubble of manners and ancestry and fine clothes ? But was it a bubble ? . . . What then would the catastrophic act reveal ? A bubble burst, a conscience and a character behind, a mask torn from the face of mere pretence, a fine and noble human spirit, emptiness only — or what ? Knoyle did not in fact debate these abstruse questions — why should he ? In the brilliance of the June afternoon, in the strong whitish glare, in the crowd and colour and move- ment, he looked only for one face. In the brilliance of the June afternoon the parasols made a variegated screen, and there was needed no other to hide the thunder-clouds gathering 'lowly above the Swinley Woods. It was not until after the race for the Gold Cup that he ran into Rosemary Meynell. He had previously met Gina Maryon, marvellously attired in black and gold, tortuously embroidered, and crested with Bird of Paradise feathers. She flashed upon him a " brilliant " glance — which annoyed him — and, not having been previously acquainted with her daylight aspect, he was struck by the bright auburn of her hair in contrast with the violet eyes and the vivid scarlet lips. " Mr. Knoyle, assist a woman in distress ! My friends avoid me. Even my Harry has left me in the lurch. He went to back a horse . . ." " I hope you had a good race over the Cup." " Me — a good race ? Aleppo ' My dear man, I never win. 40 WAT OF REVELATION I bet to make money. But the only people who make money are the people who don't try to — and don't need to. Come ! Let us find our friends, let us find these base people who hare deserted us." They walked round the paddock, and every other minute -Gina stopped to talk to somebody she knew, her tinkling J.augh sounding high above the general hum. She talked in a curiously random manner, darting from one subject to another with disconcerting freedom. " My God, isn't it hot ? Don't you long to take all your clothes oflf ? Why are the most energetic days of the year always the hottest ? And why isn't it fashionable to wear bathing dresses at Ascot ? " " Some people wouldn't be much cooler if they did," he answered. A diaphanous frock had just passed. He was wondering why Gina had selected him to accompany her on ^er quest. Then — it was singular — they came upon Rosemary, talking to a pale-faced young man who wore a bow-tie, a hat with a curly brim, and was altogether rather untidy. Gina cried out : " The guilty couple ! Harry — where have you been ? I waited for you — and no you. If there is anything more inconstant than a modern husband, it's a young man at a race meeting." " My apologies, dear friend." He bowed and turned deprecatingly to Rosemary. " I found Lady Rosemary — in -distress. We made a little bet together. We returned to the stand. We looked for you. You were gone — hke a beau- ti-ful butterfly." Rosemary and Adrian had exchanged no greeting, but a new thing had crept into their faces, into their whole demeanour. Gina's violet eyes watched them from under half-closed lids, though they did not know it. Adrian thereupon introduced Rosemary to Gina, the two WAT OF REVELATION 41 girls looking at each other with frank interest — the one already a fixed star in the social firmament, the other as ret a planet of uncertain magnitude. In her grey muslin frock and hat, Rosemary (thought Adrian) looked like a fragile piece of Dresden china. The contrast between the two couples was indeed unmistakable, the one representing some- thing actual and mature, the other. Youth on the threshold of Experience. Then the saddling-bell rang and Gina announced that she wanted to go and see the race for the St. James's Palace Stakes. Adrian, turning to Rosemary, said : " What about tea — and strawberries ? " So together they strolled across the course, through the gipsies, through the scrambling children who begged for pennies, the " outside " bookmakers, the ice-cream and sherbet vendors, the cocoanut-shy men, until they found refuge in a club marquee comparatively cool and yet not too full of people. Their world had become interesting again. §3 " Who's that friend of Gina Maryon's you were talking to ? " he inquired, after he had called for strawberries-and- cream and iced coffee. " I met him at that dance of hers the other night, and for the life of me I can't remember the blighter's name." " That ? Oh, that's a man called Upton. He's private secretary to somebody in the Home Office — or some sort of office. He's quite too appallingly clever, and also rich, and also — oh ! well, funny." " Where did you meet him ? " " In the street, I think — no, I mean Mrs. Clinton's tea-party, or somewhere. He's a poet." '* I should think so. He's very much ot a Maryonite, isn't he ? And what did ycu think of the inimitable Gina I " 42 WAT OF REVELATION " Oh, attractive, Adrian — very ! Different from what I expected, too. I thought all the women had dead-white faces, large liquid eyes, and looked at you for five minutes before they spoke. But, Gina — I should like to meet her again." " She's like that sometimes, too. It just depends. It depends on the people she's with, the sort of frock she's got on, how she's feeling, and perhaps the kind of light she's Standing in." Rosemary laughed. " I'd like to meet her again, though. I like meeting funny sorts of people — different sorts." " Do you call me a funny sort of person — or a different sort ? " " Oh ! you ? You're neither. You're just — you.'* *' A fixture ? " ■'^ Just so, sir." " A bit of furniture." ** That's it." *' A chiffonier — or a bedstead ? " ' *' I dunno . . . something pretty substantial, I should think." " Not a brand-new thing from Maple's, all rawness and shine, but a good, solid, handsome, worthy bit of mahogany — eh ? Something you'd like to have about the home and keep by you — to last ? " " Yes, I like sometliing that'll last — that won't break if you sit on it or knock up against it or kick it — something that'll go on for ever. And I'm rather violent sometimes, you know." They watched each other's eyes, forgetting all about the strawberries. " You get tired of things and want to scrap 'em, eh ? " " Perhaps," she answered briefly. " Not old friends, though." " But you like constantly meeting new people — odd people ? I wonder where you get that from." JFJT OF REFELAJION 43 ** I like being amused. . . . And then I like having — one — or two — pals I can come back to. That's me. That's Rosemary." Under the table her small foot was held prisoner between his big ones. And in the subdued light of the tent she appeared puzzling, evasive, cluldlike, and in a sense unreal. But he was perfectly clear now as to what she meant to him. They did not speak for several moments. *' We must make up our minds," he said suddenly. " Apropos of what ? " " That week-end . . .'* " But you've made up your mind — you've accepted." " I shall get out of it then — unless you go." " I don't think we shall go. Mamma's let us in for the Doncasters' yacht — practically." She said this teasingly. " You leave London next week ? " "Alas! yes." " Then vi'e shan't see each other again till — God knows when ? " There was an injured note in his voice. ■' I suppose not," she answered with the politest show of regret. " You've definitely decided against going to Arden ? " She detected chagrin — she smiled. " Well, I couldn't possibly decide without consulting mamma, you know . . ." " Oh — mamma ! " he groaned. A cool, quiet voice intervened behind them. " What are you two being so earnest about ? " It was Faith Daventry. " Oh ! the racing — the heat — the pretty people — never you mind ! " Rosemary answered flippantly. " Come and sit down, both of you. Make yourselves at home." " Well, there's a storm coming," said Faith ; " we'd better " 44 ff^r OF REVELATION " They don't seem to care about strawberries-and-cream, do they r " remarked Eric. " Shall we eat theirs for them, Faith r " " Come on, Rosemary — eat ! " urged Adrian. " Let 'em order their own." The four spent a merry half-hour, dallying with their strawberries and with each other. And Eric, who was an adept at such performances, showed them a new trick whereby you dip a strawberry in cream and drop it neatly into your mouth minus the stalk. Rosemary declared it was rude and Faith told him to behave himself. When they rose to go Faith said : " By the way, Rosemary, are you and Lady Cranford coming down to Arden for August Bank Holiday, or are you not ? Mother — at least mother's me — simply demands an answer. Eric's coming, Mr. Knoyle's coming, we're all coming, so chuck windy old Cowes and come too." There was a momentary silence, broken by Eric. " Give the pooi gal a minute to think. She wants to say no and doesn't know how to ! " " Don't be a fool, Eric ! " Rosemary's eyes challenged Adrian's, and he read mockery in them. " Thank you very much, Faith." The words almost slid from her lips. " I think . . . yes." Adrian desired to embrace her. At this moment the thunderstorm broke. Great drops of rain fell on the roof of the marquee, making a queer drumming sound, while sheets of blue and green lightning were succeeded by peal after peal of thunder that sounded like batteries of guns. The storm had an oddly depressing effect upon their spirits, and when, a quarter of an hour later, they emerged from the tent, it was a somewhat subdued party that travelled back to London. WA7' OF REVELATION 45 CHAFI^ER IV Alarms and Excursions The London summer as recognised by civilised society had drawn to a glorious close when Friday, July 31st, found Adrian packing a suit-case and kit-bag for his visit to Arden. As usual he found the greatest difficulty in compressing within the prescribed space articles of equipment and attire appropriate to every conceivable situation. He was very particular. He was particular about taking two, if not three, of everything. In fact he could hardly imagine a disaster more appalling than to arrive at a house-party minus any essential, be it a lawn tennis-racquet or a pearl stud. Lady Knoyle attempted to assist in these proceedings, knocking tentatively at his bedroom door and calling out in gentle tones : " Can I help, darling ? Is there anything I can do ? Don't forget your white silk handkerchiefs again ! " To which her son would reply : " No, mother, it's all right. Please don't bother." Once Lady Knoyle did penetrate into the sacred chamber with a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. " I just brought this, darling." She had a passion for making her son small gifts whenever he went away and for however short a time. Every few minutes Sir Charles' voice would be heard from below : " Now then, my boy, hurry up ! Your cab's at the door. What the devil are you doing ? " Sir Charles always prowled in the hall when his son went 46 WAT OF REVELATION away. He enjoyed girding at the servants, keeping his boy " up to the mark " and " waking things up " generally. He was a white-haired, spirited old gentleman. " Silly young ass ! What do you want to run it so fine for ? Come ! Bustle along ! Put the suit-case in first, Albert ! I suppose you've left half-a-dozen things behind as it is." " Oh ! it's all right, father. There's plenty of time." His fond parents never could remember that he was'nt a boy going back to school. " Darling ! " crooned Lady Knoyle, embracing him. " Take care of yourself and have a good time ! You'll be passing through again on Tuesday, won't you ? Give my love to dear Mary Arden, and Edward too, if he remembers me ; and many messages to Helena Cranford ! " At last he was off, thrilled at the prospect that lay before him. Nobody shared his secret. Rosemary really was going to be there — was already there, in fact, for she and Lady Cranford had come on from another visit — and he had not seen her for a month. What an endless month, and how bereft of — vitality ! They had only exchanged letters — long ones. In the interval he had got to know Faith Daventry, Rosemary's particular friend, so well that she had become a common posses- sion almost between himself and Eric. Everything, in fact, promised a glorious week-end. At the Waterloo bookstall (by assignation) he met Sinclair, who had already secured opposite corners in a crowded carriage, and who in a straw hat and flannel suit looked almost indecently cool, exhaling a scent of eau-de-Cologne and fresh soap. " I got her," :raid ti>e latLcr. Adrian, whose mind at the moment was adjusted to one individual only, thought he meant Rosemary. " W^hat ! You've seen her ? " " Yes. Last night. The one with the long legs." When he realised that these cryptic remarks referred merely to one of his friend's " amusements," he felt — well, injured. WAT OF REVELATION 47 " In God's name, who ? " " Why, Joyce ! Little Joyce," " Not that awful wench in the second row ? . . . Great heavens ! " " Of course. Haven't I waited long enough ? I took her to the Savoy Grill " " Oh, dry up ! I know all about it. Who's going to be at this party besides Rosemary and Mamma Cranford ? Have you seen anybody ? " Eric laughed. " Only a certain Orde whom I know slightly. That's the chap. He's going." A tall, dark, finely-built man in a grey suit and straw hat passed them and nodded. He was followed by a servant carrying various articles of luggage. Adrian recognised him as the individual to whom he had seen Eric talking at the Rodriguez' ball and whose face had attracted him. It was a good-looking and a strong face. They took their seats. Whistles blew. Guards and porters began to shout. Ladies embraced. The engine gave a shrill scream. Newsboys yelled their loudest. At this exciting moment — inseparable even from the briefest journey — a whirl- wind apparition projected itself into their vision, to the amazement of the onlookers and the amusement of the friends. The apparition consisted of Gina Maryon in a red, green, and black striped garment that scintillated like an insect's body, without a hat but with green gauze streaming from her brilliant hair — a jewel-box in one hand, a Pekinese dog on the other arm — Gina Maryon, laughing, panting and crying out, " Come on ! Come on ! Run, run ! We'll miss it ! Here you are — no you aren't, it's full up. Hold the dog ; give me the coat. Run for your life, Mathilde ! Oh, Harry, I shall die ! " A French maid in a hobble-skirt cannot as a rule run — even for her life. Mathilde was no exception. 48 fFJr OF REVELATION Hariy, the pale-faced young man, pursued resentfully. The rear was brought up by three porters loaded with queer little cases, hampers, satchels, baskets, cardboard-boxes — running their ytrj hardest. Eric whistled. Adrian muttered " She would ! " and thought to himself, " Can she be bound for Arden ? " As the train moved off, it seemed that the whole party, porters and all, precipitated itself into a carriage. § 2 Adrian rarely read a newspaper. But in the train there is seldom anything better to do. And before they reached Woking, this sunny 31st of July, he had begun to realise that something (rather odd) was happening in the world. He drew his friend's attention to the matter. Something about a war. . . . In fact, the Daily Mail was full of the new idea. " Oh ! Ireland, I suppose," growled Sinclair. Sinclair was sick of Ireland. Old men in arm-chairs had been mumbling of nothing else for months. Moreover, he was tired, and in the suffocating heat simply wanted to go to sleep. " No, not Ireland. War — a real one." " Yes, the blasted civil war we've been hearing about for years. I wish all politicians would go and drown themselves. They're more unreliable than women, and not half so amusing." " Wake up, you fool. I tell you it's not Ireland. It's a real war. My dear chap, do you never take any interest in any- thing except chorus-girls and cocktails ? Oh ! sit up, do, and show a bit of intelligence about the thing ! We're going to fight the Germans, I tell you." But his friend had already fallen asleep. Adrian for his part was now very much awake. Why, the WAT OF REVELATION 49 iiewspapers were full of it ! The Times had staring headlines •o-n its main news page : " Fate of Europe in the Balance. " Can War be Averted ? " And The Times at least could not lie ! But why did the newspapers spring this sort of thing apon one ? How was it he hadn't heard of this business before ? Then he remembered Sir Charles reading an extract from some leading article two or three weeks earlier — some- tiiing about the consequences of an Austrian Archduke being murdered (though how in heaven's name they could afreet his papa passed the young man's comprehension) ; something, too, about the Balkans being in a ferment, and the possibility of another Balkan war. But what did that signify ? It had happened at breakfast, and Sir Charles was always reading extracts from the newspaper at breakfast, uttering false predictions on the strength of them — had done so for years. And it wasn't the extract that had impressed itself upon Adrian's memory, but the fact that he had been down to breakfast on the occasion. What the " old man " might be driving at he didn't know or care at the time — probably some hare that had been started at the Travellers'. A much more serious war had intervened when the " old man " found his coffee cold. " Ring the bell, Adrian ! Shout for that damned Albert ! " The Balkans were soon forgotten. But now (rather impudently) the Balkans had reappeared. They even drove a face, a voice, a dream, a personality from his mind for nearly five minutes ! And Russia, Germany, Austria, France — England were involved. Well, it was a change from Ireland, an}'way. But what was at the bottom of it ? That was the sort of safe general question you asked your neighbour. There must be something afoot — in spite of the Daily Mail. He lit a cigarette. That was a non-committal act. He read a few lines of the 50 WAT OF REVELATION leader . . . looked up and thought of waking his friend, but the friend was sleeping off a dissipated summer — and Adrian knew better. Two men in the carriage began to talk, bearded, prosperous- looking men who would no doubt be well up in this thing. " City men," to use the vulgar phrase. . . . Anyway, it was less trouble to listen to their conversation than to try and puzzle out the contents of a leading article. " I'm hanged if I can see how we're to keep out of it," one was saying. " Germany seems bent on war. Austria's the tool of Germany. I fail to see how a rupture with Russia can be prevented if this mobilisation report is true. Then France is bound to come in. And if France comes in, even Asquith can't keep us out of it for long. To put it on the lowest ground, we can't affo'-d to let France or Belgium be smashed. If either is involved we ought to declare war at once." " There's just about one chance in a thousand," agreed the other. " The Conference proposal seems to have failed. Grey may put somebody up in the House on Monday to rattle the sabre and trumpet the Big Fleet. It worked at Agadir. There's a chance in a thousand " — he leaned forward, speaking slowly and beating out his words on the other man's knee — " there's a chance in a thousand that it might work this time. But only about one chance. That's my opinion. Personally, I think the fat's in the fire. It seems to me too late for any of them to draw back now." § 3 The express drew up at Basingstoke. They changed and, feeling unequal to Miss Maryon (who took some time to extricate herself, dog, and packages), hastened to seat themselves in the forefront of a local train that stood waiting at the opposite platform. WJT OF REVELATION 51 Eric Sinclair glanced at the Tatter and Sketch, mumbled something, and fell asleep again. Adrian, impressed by the conversation he had just heard, felt no longer in a mood to talk. His thoughts of Rosemary and of all that this week-end implied to them both were momentarily obscured by the apparition of an Event. As the train rattled along the branch line he gazed out of window at the pleasantly undulating Hampshire country- side. He saw a land of tossing woodland and hedgerow, of long winding valleys, leaf-tufted copses and nestling villages, of wide distances fading towards hill and sea. The harvest was being carried, the deep gold of the fields was tinted by the deeper gold of the setting sun. . . . Above the jolt and rattle of the train there rose a shrill laugh and a snatch of some song. It was Gina Maryon's laugh and Gina Maryon's song. At that moment he hated the girl. She embodied his very enemy at that moment. He hated her aggressive modernity, her pose, her complete incapacity for repose, her violet eyes, her everlasting fluttering about the fringes of life, her sex-dallying, her " poetry," her " art," her " originality," her — " wonderfulness." That laugh — how it jarred against the reflective landscape, these immemorial, elemental things — the garnering of fruit of sun and earth ! Abruptly, inconsequently he thought of his home. He thought of his home that lay fifty miles away at the foot of the Plain, with a sharp, inexplicable longing, a curious, half-melancholy yearning which used often to take him unawares, but which he had not known for months now or even years. Perhaps he, too, was caught up already in this high-power dynamo of existence ! . . . Stane Deverill ! It was his birth-place. There in the shadow of the Three Hills he had spent his earliest and many of his happiest days. He thought of it as he remembered it — its walled gardens, its courtyard wherein sunlight lingered upon mossy damp, through hours of which 52 WAT OF REVELATION an archaic sun-dial and chiming stable clock alone took count ; of the westward-looking terrace where reigned a changeless order of flowers and scents and birds ; of the swelling downs behind where lay in barrows-deep mysteries of his boyhood's recollection. Strangers dwelt there now. . . . The train pulled up with a jerk, and the mood was gone — a mere shade across his reflections. Eric awoke and swore. They tumbled out upon the wayside platform. They fell into the arms of Miss Maryon. " You unsociable couple ! You don't mean to say you've trarelled all the way from London in the same train ? " She threw a brilliant glance at each of them. " Make good your lack of manners by holding the dog and the book. I'll stand over Mathilde and the baggage. " Upton joined them and made a sort of bow. He and Eric were introduced. A footman appeared and led the way to a car which stood purring in the station-yard. Nobody had noticed the taU, good-looking individual who now appeared smoking a cigarette, attended by his servant bearing the suit-case and the tennis-racquet. He flourished his hat and inquired whether they were going by chance to Arden Park. Eric introduced him as " Captain Orde." In the car Gina insisted on having a young man on eack side of her ; and this privilege fell to Adrian and Upton. Every time they turned a corner she leant against one or the other, and once, when the car pulled up short behind a harvest wagon, her hand pressed Adrian's — he thought — unnecessarily. She talked. She talked every moment of the way to Arden, interrupted only by polite monosyllables and by Upton's occasional repartee. " What sort of welcome shall I get ? You see, I've not been invited ; I've invited myself. And, what's more, I've invited this young man, who doesn't know a soul. W^r OF REVELATION S3 But he always travels with me — don't you, Harry ? — he carries the dog and the book. (And mind you don't let that animal commit suicide out of window, Harry !) . . . Well, the fact is we were going to the Gerard Romanes for the week-end, Harry and me {sic) — it was all arranged weeks ago — and then that preposterous old woman, Mrs. Christopher Romane, Venetia's mother-in-law, thought fit to expire suddenly, thereby annihilating what would have been an amusing party. Not that one can regret it in the present charming company, of course ! But it was tactless, to say the least. Well, I immediately wired to Edward Arden — who, by the way, is the only hospitable cousin I've ever had — and announced my arrival (Harry in hand) for this very hour." The implication of these remarks, addressed mainly to Adrian, was that Miss Maryon was patronising a society to which she did not profess to belong. " Harry " was presumably included on her side of the implication. The stranger, Orde, said nothing, but his dark face, with its crisp little moustache — he looked about thirty-five — wore a faintly sardonic smile. §4 They flashed through iron gates, and some distance further on came in sight of a long, low, grey stone house representing an eighteenth-century style of architecture very frequently met with in this part of England. It stood on a sHght rise amid flower gardens and shrubberies, on the reverse side of which shady lawns sloped down to a large lake, wooded to the edge, which wound away, narrowing into the distances of the Park. As they drew near and passed through secondary iron gates into the drive leading up to the house they perceived that a cricket match was in progress. White figures could be seen against the green grass, and beneath a group of ahady 54 WAT OF REVELATION chestnuts was gathered a group of people watching the game. Eric exclaimed " Help ! We're not expected to play cricket, are we ? " Adrian's eyes were only concerned to single out one figure in the group ; and though they failed in this, he became keenly aware of the serene and spacious beauty of the scene, of the soft greens and greying brackens in the distance, of the placid lake and a few browsing deer, and of the light of the westering sun that gilded the tops of elms, beeches, and oaks. Immediately the car stopped he heard shrill cries of water- fowl coming from the direction of the lake. The butler proposed to lead them forthwith to the cricket- field where, he said, the company was assembled at tea. Lord Arden, in grey flannels and a panama hat, met them half-way across the lawn. He was a short, square, middle-aged man with a heavy fair moustache, merry blue eyes — his daughter's — and a countenance of mulberry hue. His manner was cordial to the point of heartiness. " Dehghted to see you all ! " He led them across to the tea-table, " And have any of you brought an evening paper ? We were almost afraid these tremendous events might have upset the trains." Adrian wondered what he meant. " It's an age since we met, Edward," cried Gina, taking his arm, " You're grey-haired and respectable, otherwise not changed." At this moment Adrian espied Rosemary, who was sitting at an angle to their approach. There was a general uprising. She gave him the faintest of smiles, the carmine warmed in her cheeks — it was enough. Gina Maryon embraced Lady Arden, exclaiming, " My dear ! " in a peculiar, emphatic tone of voice as if she was announcing some mysterious but conclusive fact. Faith she addressed as " darling " in the manner of an actress uttering the last word of a melodrama. Lady Arden with an indefinite WJr OF REFELJTION 55 gesture said , " You all know each other, don't you ? " But they didn't, so Faith repeated their names. " Sir Walter and Lady Freeman — Miss Ingleby — Mr. Heathcote." Adrian heard them vaguely and without interest. For him there was only one person present. Lady Cranford greeted him with studied affability and asked after his mother as though bestowing a minor honour upon the family. She was a tall, handsome woman with white hair and very brilliant dark eyes, the combination making her conspicuous in any gathering. Her reputation as confidante of various powerful constellations lent her personahty a dis- tinction which her unbending manner had made up its mind to support. Her period was Victorian, but now and then she made the mistake of being up-to-date. Mr. Ralph Heathcote had bows and smiles for every- body. He was dressy and elderly, with a beautifully- brushed moustache. The paragraphists called him a " society man " — a description which he did not in the least resent when his friends said it meant oiling the wheels of tea-parties. However, he knew — more or less — everybody worth knowing ; ladies (above the age of forty-five) were very partial to his company. For the rest he was an authority on Crown Derby, never revoked at bridge, and knew Debrett better than his own soul. Miss Ingleby, a robin-like person, hovered in the background, coping with the Arden children, who shrieked with laughter and wept bitterly with versatility. And what were the Freemans doing there ? They seemed a trifle incongruous. But no, Sir Walter was a rising Unionist, bound to rise, people said, because you couldn't sit on him ; and Arden dabbled in pohtics. Sir Walter was a suc- cessful business man from the Midlands, and he was large and corpulent, with big, strong features and a bald head. Financially he was useful to the leaders of his party, but they S6 WAT OF REVELA7I0N liked to feel he was some distance behind them. And Lad_v Freeman ? She was the kind of woman every self-made man takes to his bosom. Adrian thought her vulgarly handsome with her bold, straight features, her large pearl ear-rings, and her down-to-date clothes, which might have come from Pari? or New York, but were more appropriate to either than to Arden Park, Where Sir Walter went Lady Freeman went as a matter of course. As a joke she was so carefully cultivated that she never knew it. Arden plunged hot-headedly with Orde and Sir Walter into the question of war — to be or not to be. The former was evidently an old friend. The latter had an echo of the House of Commons in his voice and the same institution stamped alike on his manner and his clothes. The ladies sat round in a suitably awed suspense, except Lady Cranford, who occasionally interjected remarks in the form of questions. Meanwhile the cricket match went on merrily, and the strong man with the one pad — the village grocer, Miss Daventry informed the company — was bowled out by the policeman from the next village in blue serge trousers and white boots. The " young people " (as Mr. Heathcote liked to call them), sitting in a small circle apart, took no interest in the war talk, having heard the same sort of thing from their elders times out of number before — and it never came to anything. Ireland, for instance. . . . " Did any of you creatures go to the Warringtons' ? " demanded Faith, " No," replied Rosemary, " we were away. Mamma thought sea-air would improve her coiffure.''^ " I went," said Eric. "It was brilliant, but dreadfully duU." " Look at Heathcote ! " whispered Rosemary maliciously. " He's been telling Miss What's-her-name that mamma was a friend of the late king and a daughter of dear old Lord Laver- stock — who died. He loves mamma — especially when she treats WAT OF REVELATION 57 him like a footman. Why the devil doesn't he call her ' m'ladj * and have done with it ! " They all laughed. " Poor old boy," said Faith. " It doesn't matter. They get like that sometimes. . . ." " ' Poor ! ' — not a bit. He likes it," her friend retorted. " Whenever she's particularly rude to him he turns round and tells somebody what a regular grande dame she is." " Old-fashioned manners ! " murmured Eric. They laughed again, except Adrian, who was lost in the complete suitability of his friend's saffron-coloured frock and coarse-straw hat of cunning shape. He was watching the constantly changing expressions on her face while she talked — by turns naive and childish, sparkling and insouciante, puzzling, with a kitten's playful uncertainty. Once or twice, glancing up, he found Faith's eyes bent upon him ; she had so looked at him before in the course of their acquaintance, always averting her gaze without self-consciousness and without haste. His serious mood was quite a thing of the past. It had been shattered by Gina in the motor. It had vanished completely the moment he caught sight of Rosemary. Eric was doing something elaborate — nobody quite knew what — with Faith's necklace of green jade which she had been induced to part with. Harold Upton, a little aloof, was awaiting his opportunity to edge across and talk to Gina about Life. It was a pleasant hour. A cock-pheasant crowed from surrounding woods ; they could hear the shrill whistle of a gamekeeper as he called up his young birds for the evening feed ; they could hear a man's voice calling cows. Play ended. The match was won and lost. Stumps were drawn. The players walked in amid hand-clapping. Lady Arden, breaking in upon the political discussion, said, " Well, I suppose it's time to dress." 58 WAT OF REVELATION Lady Cranford said, " What a divine evening ! " Miss Ingleby said, " Yes, it's dreadful to think they'll soon be shortening, though." Gina Maryon said, " Everything looks like V^^ilson Steer." But already the shadows were closing round. WA2' OF REVELATION 59 CHAPTER V The House of Arden " PosT-impressionism," remarked Gina Maryon at dinner, " is the truest form of art because it depicts you or me at the moment of tensest expression — at a crisis. I mean at the moment when ' all is discovered,' or war is declared, or something's gone wrong in the kitchen. ... It brings into a person's face a person's soul. What do you think, Edward : " " My dear cousin " — Lord Arden looked round appre- hensively, trusting that the servants were out of the room — " your art, like your conversation, is always beyond me. You not only speak of things I don't understand, but, what is more ill-bred, you speak of them in parables. What do I think about post-impressionism ? What do I know of it ? . . . Only that le bon Dieu has given me a countenance of normal dimensions, and that I'm content with it, and that you want to re-fashion it as a cube or a lozenge or a dot or a dash — or something it isn't. You want to depict it at a * moment of crisis ' — take me at a disadvantage — seize upon my suffering physiognomy when Alary and I are going over the house-books, for instance, and make it a thing out of the Chamber of Horrors. Can you expect an elderly noble- man to submit to a modern idiosyncracy, r" " But people are so much more interesting in a crisis, my dear Eddie ! " " That's an idea for an artist, eh ? " put in Upton, who was sitting next to Gina. " The man \vho specialised in 6o WAT OF REFELJTION painting every circumstance and kind and form of domestic crisis " " From ' The Fall ' " interrupted Gina. " To * The Confession,' " continued Upton, " would make his fortune. The middle-classes love ' scenes.' There is nothing the British middle-class enjoys so much as seeing its loftiest passions depicted in bad paint." Arden leant back and laughed with his head on one side. The four young people in the centre were keeping up a lirelj flow across the table, mainly around the substantial figures of Mrs. Rivington and the Misses Kenelm. " They always remind me of a hen and two chickens," said Rosemary. " Why not ducklings ? " suggested Eric. " They're very nice in their way, though," protested Faith, " only a bit on the heavy side, like many 'nice' people." " Say ' good-natured,' Faith," contributed Adrian. " Or * worthy,' " from Eric. " It's the prerogative of all ' nice people ' to be one or the other you know," said Adrian. " It lets 'em down lightly — and doesn't mean anything." " Don't be clever, young man.'-" " Not clever, only young," corrected Rosemary. Adrian smiled. " Mrs. Rivington and Co. will be at Sheringham in full force," said Faith. " That I know for certain." " Oh, joy ! " commented Eric. " I hope you'll run straight into the bosom of them. When do you go ? " " We've got the house from the fifteenth. Rosle, when are you coming ? " " As soon as I can drag mamma away from Auu* Kitty's, I suppose. What fun it will be, won't it ? I shan't wear clothes, only bits of things. I hope our lodging is close to your mansion." ** Our public-house overlooks the golf-links. Eric — Adria* WAT OF REVELATION 6i — can't you join the merry party ? We can't put you up be- cause there won't be room — unless you sleep with the children," " Mixed bathing, golf, tennis, and Us," said Rosemary. " What more do you want ? " The young men thrilled at the prospect. *' It shall be managed," they said jointly. " Even if we have to sleep with Mrs. R.," added Eric. *' Or toss for beds with the Miss " " Tush ! " said Faith. It was an animated scene in the Arden dining-room, with its panelled white walls and shaded electric lights gently illuminating portraits of bygone Daventrys by Lawrence, Raeburn, and Sir Joshua Reynolds. The table, lighted by candles in silver candelabra, appeared as an illuminated ellipse in the centre of the room, the rest of it being in shadow. The menservants flitted silently to and fro across the thick carpet. All the windows were open, and the scent of flowers, of dew, of the country sleeping after a day of great heat crept into the room. . . . Lady Freeman was discussing with Mr. Heathcote the subject of a Royal marriage. In view of the fact that the eldest scion of the blood royal had barely reached the age of twenty, the matter might not have appeared pressing — but it did to Lady Freeman. And they discussed — with an avidity which Eric at the other end described as indecent — first one party, then another, first this Princess of the Blood, then that. They damned Italy on religious grounds ; they barely skimmed the house of Karageorgevitch of Serbia (in their anxiety to please), they even went so far as to discuss the chances of certain humble British subjects. A German lady they did not want (but feared). A Scandinavian princess was in the running, could a suitable one be found. Finally they decided (con- ditionally) on the House of Romanoff. Hardly anybody noticed Miss Ingleby, who had been carrying on a mouse-like conversation with Captain Orde. 62 WAT OF REVELATION "I am a shamefully idle and useless person," she was saying fiercely. " I have a tiny house at Windsor, and beyond a little local organisation work for the Girls' Friendly I do nothing that is useful. I have, of course, my garden and my sketching — but what are these ? What can a woman do — that is, of use — nowadays ? The position of women like myself in England is deplorable. Captain Orde. We have no vocation. We are useless." Orde politely murmured a flat denial. " The world could not get along for half-an-hour without you," he contended. " Men are really very helpless creatures, you know, Miss Ingleby — at any rate, the moment they become helpless women have to run the show, soothe the fevered brow, and make things comfortable. That's the one thing of all others every man is a hopeless duffer at — making himself comfortable." " But how often do women — in our class of life — get this opportunity ? " Miss Ingleby pursued. " What is our sphere — our raison cfetre ? " She responded readily to Orde's quiet and attentive manner, though here, indeed, he was somewhat out of his depth. With Miss Ingleby it was a sort of obsession that she was of no use to anyone, never had been, and never would be. All her life — she was about forty — she had never done a single thing — that mattered. Yet it was curious that if any one of her innumerable friends — Lady Arden, for instance — had been consulted, it would have transpired that the little lady spent her life playing nurse to their children, playing doctor to their parrots or their dogs, playing mentor to their cooks — that in the houses where she stayed she could never stay quite long enough. Still she persisted in her mania — women such as she had no vocation. At the far end of the table Lady Cranford sat in full-dress debate with Sir Walter Freeman on the Irish question. She was a woman with a firm grasp of politics and affairs ; and she WJr OF REVELATION 63 had a forceful sympathy and attraction for inteUigent men. Lady Arden, as it were, browsed on the discussion, inter- jecting a large phrase or two here and there. After surveying the chances of war and after Lady Cranford — who had once stayed at Ischl — had related one or two stock stories of Francis Ferdinand's amour propre, the talk had drifted back to the subject of the Buckingham Palace Conference. " Ireland," Sir Walter laid down, " is one of the tragedies of the human race. Her past is a tragedy, her present is a tragedy, her future can be but the culmination of a tragedy. Even her leaders, you see, her potential kings and presidents, are tragic figures, makers of tragedy. Parnell, O'Donovan Rossa, Devoy ! She has attained the anti-climax of a nation or of a human being — she has no future, only a past. I say ' no future,' She is a dwindling race, a played-out race, a member of the sisterhood of nations who never acquired the art of government, and has even lost the gift of common-sense. She is an unbalanced aristocrat with a bee in her bonnet." " What a pessimist ! " sighed Lady Cranford. " Possibly I know the Irish better than you do, Sir Walter. I spent much of my early life in Ireland. George Wyndham's Land Act gave them hope. Sir Horace Plunket's co-operative agricultural scheme has given them opportunity, method. Now they want a stimulus, a raison d'etre. They want to feel that the future of their own country lies in their own hands — and that it's a future of their ow^n shaping. They want to feel that they are working for themselves and the generations of Irish- men to come — not for EngHshmen with Irish names or Irish- men with Scotch names, who merely calculate how much they can get out of the peasantry and how little they can live amongst them. You say they haven't a future. I say, give them a future." " Forgive me, Lady Cranford — but you're confusing the local and the national issue — the Land Question and the National Question " 64 WAT OF REVELATION § 2 At this point Lady Arden rose, and all the ladies mth her. Mr. Heathcote insisted on running to the telephone to try and obtain the latest London news from his club. He had been very tiresome in this respect all the evening, repeatedly fussing off, saying he had told a friend — who was, or was the friend of, such and such an important person, et cetera and so forth — that he would ring up for news at such and such a time. He presently came back and announced, with a poor attempt at nonchalance, that, according to London, war had already been declared between Germany and Russia and that a French ultimatum was only a question of hours. There was no doubt about the sensation produced. All drew their chairs together, Arden, very flushed, began talking rapidly. Freeman poured himself out another glass of port with a shaking hand. lieathcote himself could not sit still for excite- ment. Upton's face lost some of its pallid cynicism. Even Adrian and Eric paused in a conversation of their own and looked along the table. Only Orde continued pufiing im- movably at a cigarette. " By Jove, you know ! " exclaimed Arden. " I've been expecting this for years, but now it's come one can't realise it . . . one can't realise it. If all this is true we're bound to be drawn into the damned thing, and then — oh ! well, one can't think of it. . . . Cyril — send the port round. Do you think we're prepared, my dear chap — or what ? " Orde took time to consider. " We-ell," he said very deliberately, " I suppo'^e we could put across half-a-dozen divisions pretty quickly — within a fortnight, say. They're good troops, of course, but whether they can make much difference where millions are concerned I shouldn't like to say. Personally I've always thought that with our little army we should only begin to make our- selves felt on land when the whole thing was practically over." WAT OF REVELATION 6s Mj dear Cyril, I entirely agree with you. That's what I've always said. I always said Roberts was the only man in the country who knew what he was talking about. If we'd had the sense to adopt national service, as we ought to have done years ago, we should now be able to throw a large Territorial force across to France as well as the whole of the regular army, and hold the fort with half-trained troops. Instead we're — impotent. What do you sav. Free- man ? " " If Heathcote's news is true, and in any case war seems practically inevitable, I think we shall have to rely almost entirely on the Navy as our fighting arm. Of course, we shall be dragged in sooner or later if France is, but, mark my words, it won't last long. Modern war will be terrible — too terrible to endure. Don't you agree, Orde ? " " I give it six months." " And who do you think will win ? " *' It'U be a draw. They'll fight themselves to a standstill." Upton, who was in the Home Office, observed that if the situation were developed as far as announced, he was surprised general mobihsation had not been ordered and that he himself had been allowed to leave London. " It may be going out now." So the talk went on, the news completely preoccupying the minds of the older men. Not so the two youngest of the party, who, after listening for a while as in duty bound had resumed their own con- versation. This was concerned with the prospect lately dangled before them by Faith. How could it be reaUsed ? Could they " cadge " an invitation to stay with some of their numerous friends who repaired to Sheringham in Auo-ust and September ? The name of the worthy, good-natured (and useful) Mrs. Rivington had suggested itself. She gave large parties every year. Of course, the Misses Kenelm would be a trial, bat one had to put up with something. The 66 WAT OF REVELATION conspirators began to deliberate upon a plan for bringing themselves and their desire before the good lady's notice. §3 The gentlemen sat on late. Ten o'clock had struck when thej rose and went out into the hall where, rugs having been removed, Gina Maryon and Rosemary were practising the steps of the maxixe to the strains of a gramophone. Miss Ingleby, Orde, and Sir Walter and Lady Freeman im- mediately went off to the drawing-room to play bridge, Lady Arden consented to play the piano, while Lady Cranford and Mr. Heathcote estabhshed themselves on a sofa and gossiped. Arden led Gina of? to another sofa, where, to judge by frequent exclamations and shouts of laughter, they were " telling stories " — a pastime Arden delighted in. The indefatigable creature, however, presently reheved Lady Arden at the piano and treated the company to a selection of her favourite ditties, including " 'Arry and 'Arriet," "She hasn't done her hair up yet," and " Who were you wdth last n ght ? " Gina prided herself on these rare specimens and rendered them with an accent not unworthy of their titles. Adrian turned over the music ; a sheet fluttered to the floor. Both stooped to pick it up, their fingers meeting and touching — a fraction of a second longer than (to him) seemed necessary. Lady Cranford enjoyed this form of entertainment as much as anybody, laughed heartily, and broke in unsparingly on Mr. Heathcote's discourse upon whether the first husband of old Lady B. was a Jekyll or a Hyde, also whether the noted affairs of Lord and Lady K. were likely to come into court at last, together with a further true history of the alleged dis- graceful connection between young Lord Charlie and Mrs. Fitz. Then Gina insisted that everybody should sing — everybody, WAT OF REVELATION 67 that is, except Lady Cranford (who declared her singing days were over) and the bridge players. Lady Arden, who had a pleasant, untrained voice, sang the " Requiem," with words by Robert Louis Stevenson, Eric followed with " Snooty Ookums." Faith gave " Songs of Araby," and Mr. Heathcote, in a high, thin tenor " rendered " " Home, Sweet Home " to the accompaniment of suppressed laughter and loud applause. Then it was Rosemary's turn. Both she and Adrian declared that they had never sung a line or a note, but, put to shame or inspired by the Arden champagne, the latter made rough weather with something out of " Our Miss Gibbs." Rosemary was at length persuaded to sing a verse of an Apache song she had picked up in Paris. She stood beside Faith at the piano, the candlelight casting vague shadows upon her face and gown. " C'est la valse brune Des chevaliers de la lune. Que la lumiere importune, Et qui recherchent un coin noir." The minor key of the little air suited the slender timbre of her voice. Everybody said the thing was charming ; Adrian for his part was so haunted by its wistful quality that it came back to him in after-years with the power of a presentiment. Arden brought the concert to a close with *' D'ye ken John Peel," which he roared out with great heartiness and his head on one side, insisting upon everyone joining in the chorus. And so, laughing, they all trooped off to bed. 68 W/ir OF REFELATION CHAPTER VI Incidents § I The building at Arden Park was not architecturally remarkable. The exterior was plain, but the interior expressed a degree of elegance and comfort — falling short of luxury — that is seldom found outside your English country house. The hall, with its blackened oak-panelling, great fireplace, comfortable arm- chairs, and red-carpeted staircase mounting broadly from it ; the saloon and drawing-room with their red and yellow brocades and flowered chintzes ; a few quite fine pictures here, and in the dining-room ; a smoking-room peopled with Morlands ; a library sombre with shelvesful of books and diamond-paned windows admitting mellowed rays of ecclesiastical light — all these bespoke a cultivated, if not a cultured taste. And Lord and Lady Arden were certainly " cultivated." And Lord and Lady Arden might have been selected from their native county of Hampshire as fairly representative of the dutiful order to which they belonged — Arden, with his rather erratic interests in sport, agriculture, and politics, his disposition towards an uneventful and leisurely existence ; Lady Arden, who, amiable and a little aloof, never shirked the duties of her position, opening impartially bazaars, sales of work, and guild entertainments, patronising everything that asked to be patronised, looking at her garden with a correctly amateurish enthusiasm, reading a little, thinking a little, looking out upon the world with a quiet, fastidious and secluded mind. Their daughter, Faith, followed in these footsteps. That it was an ambitionless, aimless, and indolent existence rrJT OF REVELATION 69 must perhaps be admitted. Arden had to liIs credit, it is true, nine years' service in the Foot Guards and had been acquitted as co-respondent in a cause celebre before espousing the hand of Lady Mary Wardour and becoming domesticated. But he was not lacking in a sense of duty. He was not lacking in a proper sense of responsibility in the approved sequence of democracy. Once a v^^eek (on an average) he went up to the House of Lords when Parhament was sitting ; he never spoke. He was subject to manias about things. §2 Adrian Knoyle awoke early on the morning following his arrival and saw from his window the Arden lawns and gardens bathed in dew, the sun peeping through walls of blue-grey mist. Pheasants and peacocks were pecking about the grass and gravel walks, the cries of the foreign water-fowl came from the mist-enshrouded lake. That sound, indeed, had already come to be associated in Adrian's mind with Arden. But it was to Rosemary that his waking thoughts turned. Was she awake and was she, too, gazing out upon this enchanting prospect ? To that she belonged ; something of her fragrance, of her beauty and personality, seemed to exhale from it. He frankly resented the fact that he had as yet obtained no private word with her : they had, after all, been in the house only a dozen hours. Would their opportunity come to-day — to-morrow ? Lady Cranford was watchful ; that she was on the look-out to prevent just such a meeting he felt certain. If the opportunity did not present itself — well, it would have to be created. Interspersed with these thoughts of Rosemary were side- glances at Gina Maryon. Her active eyes followed him, but with an interest indifferently reciprocated. Faith's eyes, too, followed him : here were clarity, steadfastness — 70 WAT OF REVELATION something maternal almost. Well, she was Eric's friend, and so was he. . . . He descended to breakfast in a cheerful frame of mind. Of the feminine members of the party only Lady Arden and Mi-^s Ingleby had so far appeared ; of the men, only Sir Walter Freeman, who announced with urbane apologies that a tele- phone message from London had summoned him to a meeting of his Party in connection with the crisis, but that with Lady Arden's permission he would motor down again the same evening, bringing the latest news. '' Women at breakfast," Eric had once laid down, " are a contradiction in terms. They're out of place — hke colours at a funeral. Their bedroom doors ought to be locked till lo a.m." Rosemary and Faith were, of course, exceptions — and they appeared last ; except Gina, who had her breakfast in bed and might be heard singing in her bath. A little later she shrieked observations from her bedroom window to whomsoever happened to be beneath. Lady Freeman was unforgivably punctual and talked about the weather. After breakfast there was a rush for the newspapers which lay in the smoking-room ; and it was not until the middle of the morning that the younger members of the party fore- gathered on the terrace. Faith proposed that they should walk round the garden ; Gina appeared just as they were setting off. Eric was walking with Faith, and Upton had appropriated Rosemary. It fell to Adrian, therefore, to wait for Gina, who, attired in a brief, transparent frock, literally sparkled in the sunlight. This brilliance of sunshine emphasised the peculiar pearly hue of her complexion with its vivid heightenings of colour which, one suspected, were hardly of Nature's doing. She wore no hat. She exhaled scent. Standing on the threshold of the French window, she made a gesture of admiration. " How it reminds me of mornings in Florence ! Venetia and I — Venetia Romane has a villa there, you know — used WAT OF REVELATION 71 to sit every morning in the Boboli gardens, read poetry, and analyse each other. The dark greens, the formal ilexes and acacias — seraphic, my dear — amazing ! But — Mary has taste. Don't you adore the place, Mr. — Adrian, I shall call you ? " He assented. They had fallen some distance behind the others. They came presently to a shrubbery in the midst of which a stone pergola supported clustering late roses. Here Gina stopped, saying that, come what might, she would have a creamy tea-rose which depended high overhead — she adored them also. He picked it for her and, as she stood breathing the scent, became aware that her curious violet eyes were watching him, inviting or questioning, above its petals. They were alone, the formal shrubs enclosing them entirely. Then she held out the rose to him. " For you — Adrian ! " His eyes rose — unwillingly, and as though impelled by some force that was too strong for him— to the level of hers. For a second they stood facing each other, her smiling face upturned in the sunlight. It was a moment of expectation on her part, of diffidence and difficulty on his. . . . He took the rose and put it in his button-hole. " Thank you, Gina. Now I must give you one." He picked another big creamy tea-rose and offered it to her with the most matter-of-fact air he could summon. A look of pique crossed her face — then she smiled. She took the flower without a word and led the way out of the garden singing. §3 There was little at Arden of that polite yet rather futile hanging around, that admiring of pictures which are not admired, that lounging about the hall or the terrace or the billiard-room, making desultory conversation — " waiting for the house-party to begin," as some wit has described it — which 72 WAT OF REVELATION characterises gatherings where people do not begin to know each other until they are going away. Everybody did as they liked — hterally. Arden himself did no appear tiU luncheon, having been busy with his agent. Near to the luncheon-hour Adrian and Eric joined Orde under the trees where, with an iced whisky-and-soda at his elbow and his feet cocked up, he was studying the newspapers. " Well, boys," he said in his deep voice, " looks as if there's goin' to be a war, doesn't it ? " In point of fact, it was the first time either of them had thought of the war since dinner the previous evening. Eric said : " Do you think it's really coming off, though, Orde ? The papers talk an awful lo. of rot." " I do." " Well, if it does, we shan't necessarily be dragged into it ? " suggested Adrian. " Shan't we ? I think we shall be. . . . And what's more " — Orde sipped his whisky-and-soda, thoughtfully con- templating the tops of some cedars as though they held the key to the matter — " and what's more, if we are dragged in, I think it'll be a question of every able-bodied chap in the country takin' a gun and shootin' — or tryin' to. . . . Let the damned politicians say what they like, in the long . -n we shall have to back up France and Belgium if they're invaded. Why ? To save our skins, to save our own bloomin' selves from bein' invaded." Adrian and Eric — who hadn't read the papers — were more respectful than impressed. Captain Orde had a reputation as a big-game hunter ; he was said to be a wonderful shot. Still, they felt they really could not take this war-talk too seriously. After finibl/ag his whisky-and-soda and further contemplating the tops of the cedars, Orde inquired abruptly : " Either of you lads ever think of joinin' the Army ? " " Not this one ! " replied Adrian promptly. PFJr OF REFELJTION 73 " Yes, I've thought about it," said Eric, " Well, you may want to think about it again, young feller. In fact, if war does break out, you will. And while you're about it you may as well join a good regiment as a rotten one — eh ? So " — he produced a cigarette and deliberately lit it — " if the worst — or best — happens, just you write or wire me, I'll see what can be done." The afternoon was spent lazily and agreeably. The four " young people " went off in a punt ; Lady Cranford and Mr. Heathcote continued to propound their own version o^ " Who's Who " on the lawn ; Lady Arden and Miss Ingleby amused themselves by amusing the children, and Gins and Upton announced that they proposed to read each other'^ poems in the Italian garden — they were producing a book together. Orde went to sleep over Horse and Hound in the library. Arden, too, slept. After tea a tennis four was formed consisting of Faith and Eric on the one side and Rosemary and Adrian on the other, The remainder of the party were content to sit under a shady cedar and look on. Gina said she didn't play and Upton that he couldn't. " How lovely it all is ! " observed Lady Freeman to Arden, who was sitting beside her. " Adrian Knoyle is such a nice- looking boy, and Lady Rosemary a szoeet girl, don't you think ? As for your daughter, I think she's a dear. We're already the greatest friends." " Yes, They play well, don't they ? " Arden agreed rather drily. A close struggle was goi''g forward. Rosemary and Adrian won the first two games without much difficulty, but by taking the next two Faith and Eric brought the scores level. The fifth game was prolonged by repeated " deuce " and " vantage," but went in the end to Adrian and Rosemar)\ It was agreed to play the best out of three ; fortune swayed first to this side then tlut. Adrian and Faith were th* 74 WA7' OF REVELATION steady players on either side, and the lobbing rallies between them provoked applause. Rosemary played with a certain nonchalant and effortless grace, by turns placing the ball unplayably in the far corner of the court and driving it a few inches below the top of the net. '* That girl's got a beautiful style," Orde remarked to Arden. *' If she took more trouble, she'd win tournaments." Eric was the best player of the four, his agility at the net and smart returns eventually winning the set. After a brief pause a men's double was proposed, Adrian and Eric opposing Arden and Orde. Two hard games followed, Orde revealing a powerful service and volleying-power, but owing to his elderly partner's comparative weakness, the younger pair succeeded in bringing the score to two games all. Orde was about to serve for the second time, and stood poised with his racquet raised, when a footman appeared bearing a salver. Lady Arden called out his name. He lowered his racquet and dropped the balls he held in his hand. '* A telegram for you." He met the footman half-way across the court. A hush fell upon the little group while he tore open the orange-tinted envelope and glanced at its contents. He thought a moment. " What time is the next train to London ? " " Seven-fifteen, sir." No one spoke. Those under the cedar, as by a common impulse, rose from their seats. " Sorry I shan't be able to finish the set," Orde said. " This means mobihsation. If you'll forgive me, I'll go in and change.'* " My dear chap ! " protested Arden, suppressed excite- ment in his voice. " Surely — you can stay to dinner ? " "Thanks. I'm afraid not." A sort of dismay followed Captain Orde's exit from the tennis-court. But it was soon reheved by Lady Freeman : WAT OF REVELATION y^ " Dear nice Capiain Orde ! What a shame he has to go I do hope we shall see something of him in London." §4 Half-an-hour later the whole party was bidding Captain Orde " good-bye." Everybody seemed sensible of the pre- science of the occasion — everybody, that is to say, except Orde himself, who appeared in his grey flannel suit, smoking a cigarette and followed by his servant carrying the suit-case and tennis-racquet. A car purred at the foot of the steps. At this moment Sir Walter Freeman's RoUs-Royce was seen approaching round the bend in the drive. " What news ? " several voices cried as he drove up. Sir Walter, with evening newspapers bulging out of his pockets, looked important. " Bad, I'm afraid ; the situation could hardly be worse. The German Ambassador is leaving Paris. General mobilisation is ordered in France and Germany. Our own Army and Navy are mobihsing. The whole of London is yelling for war. Only the Government wavers." " WeU— I must be off," said Orde. All stood grouped upon the steps while, hat in hand, he made his farewells. " Don't forget what I said this morning," were his parting words to Adrian and Eric. There were hand-wavings, and cries of " Good luck ! " Little Miss Ingleby made no secret of a moist eye. Then Captain Orde was borne swiftly away into the lengthening shadows of the park. The rest of that evening was spent quietly by the house- party. The conversation at dinner was all of the great events now indisputably developing. Even the younger members -jd WAY OF REVELATION appeared serious, even Miss Mar}'-on curbed her tongue. Arden, Sir Walter, and Mr, Heathcote embarked on a long discussion which hinged upon whether Mr. Asquith would be equal to backing up France. Arden said it was a point of honour ; Mr. Heathcote gravely doubted (from rather special information received) ; Sir Walter opined that pressure of events would decide the matter for us, if not at once, at any rate very soon. Sir Edward Grey would make our position clear in the House of Commons on Monday. If Germany invaded France through Belgium — and it appeared likely — we must come in. To put it at the lowest, it was our interest to support France (and Belgium) with every man and with every gun we could command ; and the sooner Grey made it unequivocally clear that we should do so if France were attacked or Belgium invaded, in his (Sir Walter's) opinion the better. Germany was slowly but surely reveahng her hand — she had done so unmistakably in refusing the Foreign Secretary's proposal of a Conference — and it was seen to be the hand of a provocateur. He, for his part, considered that the affair was now practically beyond the control of the statesmen — certainly beyond the control of the diplomats. The only dissenting voice was Upton's, who contended that England's rdle was to wait and see how the opening exchanges developed before involving herself in a European War ; that this course would place her in a position of arbitrary power. His view was so virulently combated by the other men, however, that he soon retired into silence. Lady Cranford, or Lady Arden, or Gina Maryon occasionally put in a remark, the remainder listening or appearing to. Really, perhaps, everybody's thoughts were with Captain Orde travelling Londonwards. . . . After dinner card-games were played in an atmosphere of subdued gaiety. Adrian's hopes of a tete-a-tete with Rosemary had been, of course, completely dashed. There seemed some- WAr OF REVELATION 77 thing unreal about the party that night, and it was barely eleven o'clock when Lady Arden rose and suggested bed. " The best place," said Gina with a yawn. " The only place where there isn't a war." And the ladies swept off up the stairs. Adrian was in no mood for sleep. At a discreet interval he followed them, with the intention of fetching a book from his bedroom. The corridors were very dark, and he presently found himself stumbhng through a baize door into quarters that were unfamihar. A hght gleamed at the end of a passage as of somebody's bedroom-door standing ajar. At the same moment he heard voices. " Good night, Harry ! " " Good night, Rosemary. Dormez-bien ! " A door slammed, footsteps passed away along the corridor^ which he now reahsed was the main one, leading to the stair- case. Upton must have been passing Rosemary's room on. some such errand as his own. That was natural enough. Yet in that moment something stabbed the heart of him. . . . He found the way to his room, turned on the Hght, and sat down on the bed. " Good night, Harry." " Good night, Rosemary. Dormex-bien I " A perfectly ordinary good night spoken in perfectly ordinary tones of voice. Yet — who the devil had given this Upton permission to call her by her christian name ? Who was the fellow, anyway ? So far as he was aware the two hardly knew each other, had danced together once or twice, had met at Ascot. Rosemary — Upton — what could they possibly have in common ? Yet here they were calling each other by christian names at her bedroom door ! He realised quite definitely that he disliked the un- wholesome-looking young man with the " soulful " eyes,, 78 WAT OF REVELATION the faintly affected manner and speech — had, in fact, disliked him from the moment he set eyes on him at the Maryon party. This " Harry " — he was Gina's friend, not Rosemary's. Was he jealous ? . . . Could he be jealous of this — person ? And Rosemary ? What earthly right had he to act the part of censor on her friends ? . . . And, perhaps, it was all very simple. He would ask her about it in the morning. That she liked the man she had declared openly at Ascot. " He was quite too appallingly clever, and in the Home Office — or some kind of office." And he was — " funny," she had added. He wrote poetry ; he was that type of man whom women like and other men never understand why. But the christian names ? Very young ladies were fond of calling young gentle- men by their christian names — it was rather " done " in their current idiotic phrase. Yet that was not Rosemary's kind of affectation, he reflected : rather the other way. . . . Still, there was doubtless some simple explanation. He did not return downstairs that night, however ; he went to bed. WAT OF REVELATION 79 CHAPTER VII Adrian and Rosemary It was not until the afternoon of the following day, Sunday, that Adrian's raison d'etre at Arden was fulfilled. At breakfast news came that France had declared war on Germany and that German troops had actually occupied the capital of Luxembourg. Mr. Heathcote found that he could no longer importune his club by telephone, owing to the telephone wires being engaged ; instead, stories began to arrive via the servants' hall of the train service being dis- organised and of lively movements on the main line. At ten-thirty they all trooped off to church in the customary manner of week-end parties. It was cool and pleasant in the church, though six rubicund Httle boys sang Hke a choir of magpies. Sunlight dimmed by coloured glass fell in pools and patterns upon the flags ; the whispering of ivy-leaves made a sibilant accompaniment to the voice of an archaic vicar who prayed with consuming earnestness that in God's wisdom peace might be preserved. Memorials to the Daventry family, scattered about the walls on marble slabs, couched in quaint phrases and diversely embeUished, occupied Adrian's attention, while in robust tones, and with something of the smack with which he was wont to tell doubtful stories, Edward Arden read the lessons. Adrian for his part took little interest in the service. He and Eric were acutely distressed by what they considered Sir Walter Freeman's unnecessarily hearty accompaniments and responses. During the sermon a queer fancy came to him. «o WAT OF REVELATION Close at hand upon a stone pedestal lay a vizored knight and his lady side by side, as they had probably lain through five centuries. Their hands were clasped, the knight's legs crossed, the expression upon their stony faces was of Time incarnate. Nor could it be said so much as who they were, for the same inscrutable philosopher had chipped and blotted out the Latin inscription upon this, their last earthly bed. Rosemary sat in the seat in front of him. He could see her half-turned profile — a study in tense and quickening life. Gaiety, innocence were written there — ^yet something else ; something, indeed that he had seen before and did not under- stand but that added to the attractiveness of the face. Waywardness, was it ? Something disingenuous ? Fickleness ? Temper ? Not these altogether. ... Or was it a suggestion of sadness about the mouth and eyes ? It was then his strange fancy came to him. He saw this girl and himself centuries hence, lying side by side as this knight and lady lay, their faces carved in stone, their hearts withered to dust, and from their last earthly bed the very names blotted out. §2 When they returned from church Upton found a telephone message summoning him to report to his Ministry at once. " Sorrow ! " he exclaimed. " Oh ! ye sons of Israel, of Isaac, and of Jacob ! What have I done to deserve this ? Gina, ma chire, this is indeed cru-el ! And all the afternoon we were going to dream ' Dreams ' ! And what do they want me for ? I can't stop the war. There is no poetry, I tell you, in Government departments." " My Harry ! " declaimed Gina. " Consider yourself a martyr ! Since you desert me — for your country's cause — I give you leave to kiss my hand." " A smart young man. A clever chap — take my word for it," said Sir Walter Freeman, vvrhen Upton had cieparted. WAT OF REVELATION 8i *' He'll do well when we want the best of them. He'll make a name for himself. In the Office they think the world of that young chap." Early in the afternoon Lady Cranford was unexpectedly removed. She went with Lady Arden, Mr. Heathcote, and Lady Freeman in a motor to visit some neighbours who inhabited an Elizabethan house. There remained Miss Ingleby, who, as usual, engaged herself with the children, and Gina, who, bereft now of her particular young man, was led away between Arden and Sir Walter Freeman to see the home-farm and the young pheasants. Left to themselves, and after an insincere suggestion of tennis, the younger members of the party took to the lake, Faith and Eric disappearing in a row- boat in one direction, Rosemary and Adrian in another, paddling a punt. Thus It came about that in the sultry heat of the August afternoon the couple last-named found themselves gliding along a little river which, branching off from the extreme end of the lake, wound, narrowing, to the heart of the Arden woods. On either hand great coverts of oak and beech made laby- rinths of shade. Overhung by weeping willow and ash, low banks bounded the water's edge. Clumps of alder pressed down almost into the stream. Along its borders the purple loosestrife, the willow herb, the marigold — and pools of sun- light. Tall bulrushes rose out of the stream itself, vast lily- pads lay placidly upon its surface. Here a little peninsula, there a miniature isthmus or island, farther on a deep, cool recess where the bank curved inward. y\t such a place Rosemary and Adrian tied up their punt ; and on cushions piled and spread, half-sat, half-reclined, one beside the other. The stream eddied past. It was that hot hour when deer and all the lesser elves of copse and chase He deep-concealed in fern and bracken. Silence curtained the woodland, that sultry August silence under the spell of which the birds rest, and only the purr of the stock-dove i$ heard 82 ff'^r OF REVELATION as the timepiece of summer. This and a humming of wild bees between hme and river bank made their murmurous background. Nor were the boy and girl themselves oblivious of the magic of the hour. Strange it had been if they, so full of the dawning glamour and curiosity of Youth, were not drawn to one another now. They seemed, indeed, to belong naturally and in- evitably to each other accepting their fortune with simplicity. They were simply, immeasurably drawn to one another, immeasurably of one spirit. Side by side they lay for a very long time, and, dappled by sunbeams piercing the canopy of leaves and boughs, must have looked like children sleeping, so quietly and solemnly happy they. Afterwards, when for the one " Wind and winter hardened In all the loveless land," when for the other life assumed a different shape, Adrian thought of this hour with steadfast gratitude and faith. After all, while it lasted it was the perfect thing without which no human story can be complete. What might it have been ? What might it not have been ! A love-making on a backstairs, a momentary clasping on a terrace or a roof-garden of some London hotel, a hurried embrace in a cab, a snatched instant in a drawing-room, a glimpse, a ghost of romance, an outstanding moment in a multitude of trivial incident — and that memory to carry them through Time ! To him — to them — it had been granted otherwise. Around them the whispering leaves, the trembling sunhght, the washing of the living water, the benediction, the tenderness and cleanHness of Nature's breath. § 3 Thus did Adrian Knoyle and Rosemary Meynell plight their troth. And thus through the hazing afternoon they WAT OF REVELATION 83 rested side by side, but little speaking. Once Rosemary said : " It's a queer thing, this thing they call love ; it's like being part of someone else or someone else being part of oneself. You know what they're thinking before they speak." " Yes," he answered, " that's just how I feel about it. I don't believe there's a thought you could think or a word you could utter that I shouldn't know it before it came." " Do you think it will always be like this, Adrian ? Do — dreams last ? " " For us — yes. But, you see, there is another, a different thing. That's Gina, I think. That only lasts as long as the superficial part of it does. But our love will go on — and on — because we understand each other as — as we said just now." " Gina attracts me though — I don't know why. You don't like her ? " " I don't say I don't like her. But we — well, we must be different." A long silence followed, during which they lay quite still. " I can't imagine how we existed before we met each other," she whispered presently. " It seems so funny — to think of us growing up and living and feeling — and yet knowing nothing about one another ! " " I believe in — what is it ? — predestination. We were bound to meet. We were bound to fall in love. Perhaps Faith and Eric were too. Love like ours — I think — goes beyond Death and Time." " How is it so many people fall out of it then and make a mess of their lives, wise boy ? " " When Fate or circumstance cuts in,I suppose, and obscures their vision or distorts instinct or when mere human laws cut across natural ones. Then people suffer, Rosemary. Nature exacts appalHng penalties. Nature survives and — wins in the end. At least — that's my idea. 84 WAT OF REVELA7I0N " How deep you are, and what a lot you've thought ! I hope we shall never have a quarrel — ever." " We shall. But we shall make it up again." " Why ? " " Because we can't — well, get across one another — you and I. We can only pretend to," " I hope we never, never do have a quarrel, httle fellow," she whispered, nesthng close to him. " I hope you are always my darling, loving Adrian and I am your perfect little Rose- mary. Because ... I am perfect, aren't I ? " §4 It grew late. A fresh coolness crept into the air — very pleasant after the fierce heat. A deeper tint of gold gUnted on the tops of the oaks — ghnted back from her hair. A httle breeze sprang up and stirred the spruce-firs, the lovers unconscious stiU : a new evening life softly began to move around them. Followed by their late broods, moorhens crept silently out from the shelter of the rushes and fed contentedly. Out of holes and rough sedge along the bank water-voles peeped — and sprang and splashed. Above their heads a willow- wren began his song-race, perched on a shoot of alder, and, triUing, twittering, clattering in an undertone, whirled up and down the scale of his incalculable notes. Ever^-where burst forth the choir of blackbird and thrush ; from among the oaks and chestnuts of the deep coverts came the throbbing notes of a wood-pigeon and the murmur of Hfe-pairing doves. Now the Hght began to fail and now the shadows steahng out of the corners of the park grew and hngered — deepened. Still the couple dreamed on, living their swift-flowing lives to the full. . . . Once or twice the foreign waterfowl called from the direction of the lake. It had seemed to Adrian that there was £ometliing dissonant, ill-omened almost in their cries, but WJr OF REVELATION 85 now they merged not harshly in the general harmony of the evening. A great cawing and ca-ing of rooks began as the noisy birds settled to roost in a clump of elms not far away. There were sounds of cows lowing and of a keeper's whistle from the woods. Suddenly a bell tolled briskly from the great house. Rosemary stirred. " What's that ? " " I don't know and I don't care. Let's spend the night here." " But, my dear, what's the time ? My wrist-watch has stopped. It's getting dark. Good heavens, we've missed tea and everything. Mamma will slap me ! " " Your mamma will ask where you've been. You will look her in the face. You will tell her you are engaged to marry the best of boys. You will then thank her sweetly for her consent. No, you'd better not, though — yet. ... All the same, my angehc Rosie, nothing can alter the fact that it's been the most wonderful evening of our hves." " No, Adrian." They embraced. Adrian punted and Rosemary paddled. " We shall be late for dinner, and my hair's like hay. What will they think we've been doing ? Pray Heaven, I don't run straight into the infuriated woman ! " " You certainly will," he laughed. " Why worry ? She's got to know later, if not sooner." " But you don't know what she can be Hke. And I'm — disgraceful ! " She certainly was untidy — she who (lie had long since dis- covered) was so particular about her hair. But she had forgotten about her hair this evening. That was, after all, the supreme distinction between this and every other evening ! Adrian suddenly recollected Upton, and smiled to himself 86 WAT OF REFELATION as he thought of his over-night perturbation, and the fact that he had intended solemnly to tax Rosemary on the subject 1 They raced across the lawn, forgetting to tie up the punt, and fled to their respective rooms. As he turned the corner of the corridor Adrian could hear Lady Cranford's voice as her daughter entered the room, which opened out of the maternal one : " My dear child, where have you been . . . ? " WAT OF REVELATION Sy CHAPTER VIII Gina Maryon's Bedroom § I Adrian felt self-conscious — and looked it — when they gathered in the drawing-room, a somewhat reduced party. But Rosemary carried off the situation, declaring, in response to Lady Arden's gentle inquiry, " And what have you two been doing ? " that they had got lost up a backwater and that that ass Adrian had led her astray. At which there was laughter. Gina remarked en passant how easy it was to get lost when the evenings began to draw in. Arden announced, as they went in to dinner, that he would have sign-posts put up on the lake pointing the way home. L^dy Cranford showed no visible signs of displeasure. As for Eric and Faith, they appeared somewhat piano. At dinner he found himself sitting next Lady Freeman, with Miss Ingleby on the other side and Faith opposite. Rosemary was sitting near Gina down at Arden's end. For some reason or other — perhaps it was a reaction from the previous night — everybody was in high spirits, Gina talking sixty to the dozen, Arden telling facetious stories, and all freely partaking of champagne. Sir Walter Freeman even dropped his House of Commons manner, laughed loudly, and betrayed a hvely flush on his bald brow and expansive face. He was doing himself well, too, feeling perhaps that it was the last excuse for hilarity any of them would have for a long time. Lady Freeman, Adrian found chatty. Some remarks from Gina on the subject of current hterature set her off. " Are you fond of reading, Mr. Knoyle ? I'm sure you are. 88 WAr OF REVELATION I love a nice bright tale with plenty of incident. But modern authors are so unsatisfying, aren't they ? " " Oh ! any old thing does," the young man answered flippantly. " The Winning Post Annual, or Dostoievsky — as long as you haven't read it before." " Oh, dear ! You young men " She wasn't sure whether he had said something smart or something shocking. " Ah ! You prefer a variety," she rallied, steering a middle course. *' Most young people do. And no doubt you're right. It broadens the mind." " I find mine gets broadened without much reading, Lady Freeman." " Yes ? The life of a young man about town ! I know." She was intolerably arch. " Well, Society, in my opinion, is the best education a young man can have. It broadens the mind. And I like to think myself a little broad-minded, you know, Mr. Knoyle. It's my little weakness. I beheve — I may be wrong — in young men sowing their wild oats, not being molly-coddled. Nothing unpleasant, of course. But now I'm talking like a grandmother, and it's not so long " As a matter of fact, he wasn't listening. He had become aware of a pair of violet eyes watching him. They met his return look with a challenge — then .turned away. Gina Maryon had been " chaffing " Arden and Sir Walter Freeman (to the latter's considerable gratification) vigorously. She now transferred her attention to Adrian. " A penny for yer thoughts ! What's he dreaming about ? A young man — do you know this, Sir Walter ? — never looks so interesting as when he's in love." Adrian played with a dessert-spoon and turned his ear to Lady Freeman. " Which is not being personal, because I don't think Adrian's capable of being in love. He's cynical — which means he's young. What do you think. Lady Freeman ? I've noticed young men always grow cynical about the time they come of age. It's WAT OF REVELATION 89 just then, you know, they begin to have a ' past ' — you can't have a ' past ' before you're twenty-one ; you can't with your utmost endeavours accomplish anything more than an * in- discretion.' But what I really meant to ask was, Can a cynic fall in love ? I say not — genuinely. What do you say. Sir Walter ? " " Oh ! Miss Maryon, really, you must not ask me these questions ! " protested the elderly gentleman, flushing with pleasure. " I am not a man of the world, you know — a mere politician ! " " You mean a person who rolls other people's logs and gets four hundred a year for doing it ! Even pohticians, though, are men of affaires ! " There were groans at this, and Gina herself deprecated it as the worst thing she had ever said. " I've never heard of a politician faUing in love," said Arden. " They're all cynics." " Parnell, Edward ! " suggested Lady Cranford unexpectedly. She had not appeared to be aware of the discussion. " Ah, Parnell was a genius. Lady Cranford ! " Gina rapped out. " To genius anything is possible — and permissible. Genius has a soul. Politicians have no souls. Sir Walter, I can see, has a soul." Sir Walter bowed, smiUng all over his crimson countenance. " That's true," Lady Freeman reflected aloud, " what Miss Maryon was saying about genius being able to do anything. I remember hearing Mr. Hall Caine once. . . ." Gina rose precipitately. After dinner games were proposed. Dancing on Sunday, Faith said, was not considered good for the servants' hall. Card games, too, were prohibited. Gina proposed hide- and-seek. Was it possible to do anything more harmless ? For this everybody was pressed into service except Lady Arden, who went to say " good night " to the children, and Arden, who was left conversing with Lady Cranford on the subject of London society in the 'eighties. Miss Maryoi^ deliberately 90 WAT OF REVELATION chose Sir Walter Freeman to '' hide " with, and they were absent so long that the only possible presumption was that they were repeating the adventure of the afternoon, until it was found that she had locked the worthy gentleman and herself in a summer-house, of which they had jointly lost the key. When it came to Rosemary's and Adrian's turn Lady Cranford intervened unexpectedly. " No, Rosemary, I think you'd better not," she said. " I don't want you to catch a chill. Mr. Knoyle won't mind finding somebody else to hide with." A glint of anger so fiercely petulant that it surprised Mr. Knoyle himself leapt into her eyes. She said nothing. Adrian hid Aliss Ingleby instead. § 2 An appreciable time after everybody had retired to rest that night, a somewhat over-excited party of five might have been discovered in IVIiss Ivlaryon's bedroom, which was at some distance from everybody else's. It was what Gina called a " dressing-gown party." At an hour when Lady Cranford imagined her daughter to be sleeping in the adjoining room — they had parted on a note of admonition — that young lady might have been found in a dressing-gown, her golden hair flowing to the waist and bound together only with a ribbon, lying on Miss Maryon's bed, smoking a cigarette. Faith, similarly attired, sat on a sofa. Gina herself was seated on a gold cane chair in front of the looking-glass, robed in big, coloured flowers, and apparently transferring the contents of a number of small pots to her face. Adrian and Eric, also smoking cigarettes, lolled on the edge of the bed. Altogether it was such a scene as must have annihilated the goddess of Convention, had the good woman appeared that night. A scent hung about Gina Maryon's bedchamber, faint but WAT OF REVELATION 91 uncharacteristic of the rest of the house. It was a muskjr scent. Beside the bed, in addition to an elaborately-bound book, stood a little travelling decanter containing brandy or whisky, a syphon of soda-water, and some glasses. » They had talked of every sort of thing ; there had also been pillow-fighting, teUing of stories, and such-hke entertainment. At length. Faith — in her capacity of daughter of the house — thought it had gone on long enough, and Adrian and Eric, taking a hint, left the room together. When they stopped at Eric's door Adrian said : " Congratulate me, old boy, it's fixed ! " Eri: looked at his friend without surprise. He slapped him on the back. " I do congratulate you. My blessings on you both. Rose- mary's a duck, and you're a lucky lad. ... As for me — well, I'm sent empty away." Eric laughed, but there was the faintest note of pain in the laugh. " You too—? " " This afternoon." " No luck ? " " She says try again in six months ! Sounds like an applica- tion for something out of stock, doesn't it ? " " I'm sorry, my dear chap. But it'll be all right. Faith's a slower sort than Rosemary. She takes longer to make up her mind, that's all. You can't — take her by assault." " Six months ! God alone knows what will have happened by then. I may have — married httle Joyce or something ! " " You'll be zpartif instead of a prospective one ! Good night.'* §3 " You've not been letting the grass grow under yotir icet then, young Rosemary ! " laughed Gina after the young men had gone. 92 WAT OF REVELATION " I*ve known him a good long time, you know," the girl protested. Rosemary and Gina had been on a christian-names footing almost since their first meeting. That was Gina's way when she liked people. " Well, you're a very beautiful, attractive little puss, aren't you ? " she said, coming across to the bed and looking at her friend attentively. " And I think you'll make Adrian an immaculate wife. I'm sure he's the sort of young man who wants an immaculate wife. He's so very celibate himself — really — isn't he ? Beware of the world, the flesh, and the devil meanwhile ! " Rosemary laughed. " Trust me ! " " By the way, have the Knoyles anything to bless them- selves with ? " Miss Maryon inquired casually, returning to her chair at the dressing-table. *' Goodness knows ! " There was a touch of resentment in the younger girl's voice. " I know nothing about the £ s. d. and don't want to." Gina turned to Faith. " As to you, my dear," she said, " I think, if you ask my opinion, you're a damned fool. Here's a nice young man, plenty of money, and plenty to come. How much more do you want ? . . . What a double event, though ! Fancy ! Two proposals in an afternoon ! " She poured herself out a brandy-and-soda. Faith had been sitting quietly on the sofa. She looked remotely unhappy. " No, Gina, I don't think so. I'm very fond of Eric. He's nice and gay, and dances well and all that, but one wants something more than that — and he's very young. The money part doesn't count with me one little bit." She spoke very seriously. " Well, I ask again — what more can you want ? They're fF^r OF REVELATION 93 much better when they're taken young " — it was a peculiarity of Gina's to speak of the male sex collectively, as of a species — " you can mould them to yourself. Later on they get ' set ' and principled and have their own opinions. That's such a bore, don't you think ? " " But that's just it, Gina," Faith interrupted. " Eric lacks that. He lacks character. He's — finicking. He's a little playboy, and no more. Very much like a dozen other Httle London youths one knows. . . . And he thinks too much of his clothes. I told him so to-day. He's amusing with his tricks and jokes and ways, and he's nice in himself. But I'm not in love with him, and — you can laugh, Gina ! — I want something more than that. Of what use is he ? Will he ever do anything ? Will he ever show what he's made of or that he's got anything in him ? Has he a profession even ? Frankly, I could only marry a man who means to make something more of his life than — just fooling around. And I told him that, too." " Well, if you ask me, I think you're flying too high, judging by the majority of ' nice young men ' one meets." Gina studied herself carefully in the glass. " You're looking for a prospective General Gordon or something." " I don't think so," Faith replied resolutely. " Of course, he's very young, he may develop," put in Rosemary from the bed. " They often do. Adrian'iS come on a lot since I've known him." § 4 At tills same moment, the individual named happened to be searching for his cigarette-case in his bedroom. He had written a letter, and he wanted a cigarette before going to bed. He had looked everywhere — on the dressing-table, in the drawers, in his pockets. Gina's room ! He remembered leaving it on the bed after offering Rosemary one. Could he go and ask for it ? The 94 /^^r OF REVELATION other two would prob;jbly still be there. Besides — with Gina anything was possible. He opened the door. Someone came along the passage. It was Faith. " Not gone to bed yet, naughty boy ? " she whispered. *' Don't make a noise ! " " I was just going along to get my cigarette-case. I left it in Gina's room." " You'll find her visible — more or less. We've just left her. By the way, old Adrian, all my congratulations. Rosie's told me." She pressed his hand. " Thank you, Faith. I value them from her greatest friend." She looked at him — slowly and thoughtfully. Her face was in shadow, but he suddenly realised she was crying. §5 He found Gina's bedroom-door wide open. She was sitting at her dressing-table in front of the looking-glass so that her profile confronted him. He was astonished at what he saw. Instead of the animated expression, they had worn a few minutes earher, the features were wan, relaxed, disillusioned. It wasn't Gina — but it was Gina. Not the mask but the face. Not the child of the twentieth century but the ghost of that child. When he tapped at the door he had an almost guilty feeling, as though he had suddenly come upon something the eye was not meant to see. She called to him to come in. Her voice, too, was changed — the hfe had gone out of it. Having made his apologies and secured his cigarette-case, he would have retired. Gina, how- ever, seemed anxious to talk, anxious for sympathy or for company. Nothing loth, and indeed wishful to penetrate the curious creature's mood, he sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. WAT OF REVELATION 95 He again became sensible of the scent pervading the room, — a scent which vividly recalled the Berkeley Square " maisonette." Nor could he help noticing the profusion of trinkets and articles of toilet on her dressing-table — gold and silver pots and boxes, gold-backed and ivory brushes, bottles of scent in finely cut glass. He particularly remarked a gold snuff-box of the Louis XIV period, beautifully enamelled. He picked it up to examine it. " No ! Be careful ! Give me that, Adrian ! " she cried almost snatching it from him. " It's — it's precious. It belonged to my father and my grandfather." Having re- covered possession of the article, she added more calmly: " It's a lovely little thing, though, isn't it ? I never go any- where without that." She locked the little box awav in a drawer. § 6 That Gina was sensitive to Adrian's opinion of herself there could be no doubt. Her personaHty, her versatiHty, her magnetism, which, one was told, had brought her fifty proposals of marriage, made apparently no impression upon Adrian Knoyle. That struck at the roots of her vanity. She even felt that he despised her, as men despise the vanity of women whom they view sexlessly. She was not even sure — and this genuinely pained her — that Adrian so much as re- cognised the substance, the accompHshment, the real clever- ness and adaptability which she rightly estimated as hers. Actually he did recognise these qualities. But he would under no circumstances concede the fact. For his part, Adrian took another view of the young woman from that night onward. First knowing her, she had alarmed him ; she then alarmed him at intervals ; she now alarmed him no more. By some curious power of discernment he had alway? seen through the scintillation of her social self — even ^ WAT OF kkVELAtibN when he knew her only by sight and reputation. He had sus- pected (without interest) that there might be more under- neath. He had never genuinely admired her. On the other hand, he had only spasmodically disliked her. Now he frankly pitied her. For there she sat before him, huddled together on a gold- caned chair — weariness, reaction, self-pity inscribed upon her face. The appeal for sympathy was so obvious, the self-pity so unmistakable. Yes — he felt sorry for her. He also liked her better than he had ever liked her before. " What's the matter, Gina ? " he said cheerfully. " Over- tired ? " " The matter ? Nothing. Only that I'm overdone and fed up and desperately sick of everytliing," she burst out. " I don't know what's the matter with me. . . . Have you ever felt like that ? . . . I'm on the verge of an abyss. And I don't know what's at the bottom of it. . . ." She gave a queer httle sound that was more like a sob than a laugh. " One leads the Hfe of a maniac. Good God, how hopeless it all is ! How rotten, how empty, how futile ! Just think of what one's been doing all this summer ! One's never been still for a moment, one's never been alone, one's never thought of one damned thing worth thinking of, one's never done a damned thing but amuse oneself. And nothing, absolutely nothing, to show for it. The older one grows the more dis- contented one becomes, and the more one asks of Life the less one gets. . . . Heaven knows, I've had everything I could ever want, and yet I'm never really happy — never, never, never. Why can't one sit down and think, or not think ? Why in God's name can't one sit still ? " She began to do something to her hair — put pins in it or take them out. " What's to be done, Adrian ? Are you happy ? . . . I tuppose you thinl: I'm just fouUv selfish and vain and ali the WAT OF REVELATION 97 rest of it — a sort of glorified joy-girl, what ? Most people think that. . . . You needn't deny it. I can see you do. . . . I tell you the Leicester Square ladies are happier than I am, a hundred thousand times. . . ." She laughed again hysterically. " Oh, God, how fed up I am with it all ! The only thing to do is to marry. And yet I couldn't stick being married. Or could anyone stick me — beyond the honeymoon .? Do you know I've never been in love in my life ? . . . I seem to be full of contradictions. I wish I could be good and go to church and be charitable. I feel like the ' bad girl of the family ' in the last act but one. And it's getting pretty near the last act with me. Do you think one would be any happier, though, if one was like that ? Adrian, how is one to be happy ? " " Don't ask me, Gina. I'm all right — but then I've hardly begun to live yet. I always thought you got more out of life than anybody I knew." " Most people think that. . . . And I get nothing out of life, neither pleasure nor peace nor happiness nor love. I don't beUeve I've even got any friends — not real ones. Look at Harry, for instance ! " Her voice became contemptuous. " I don't tell him so, but I know Harry inside out. I know perfectly well he plays about with every woman who'll let him. And when he's bored with them he comes running back to me. Not that I care that much ! " She crushed a cigarette-end into the carpet. *' As long as I keep the colour of my eyes and my hair, my ' friends ' will do that. Useful sort of friends ! And when that dies I shall die too." " You're suffering from the Age, my dear Gina. You're suffering from having everything you want and nothing to do with it. It's the disease of society just now. The world's been going round too long without anything happening — anything real. One can't get a grip on anything unless one has to. One lives a life of — well, sham, I agree. But there you are, you don't want to take up district visiting ! You don't want to marry. If a war comes it may alter things. . . ." D 98 WAT OF REVELATION She offered him a cigarette. It was scented, sickly, but he could not at o;ice think how to get rid of it. Presently he began to feel dizzy. He knocked the burning end off with his finger and threw the stump under the bed. She stared at herself in the looking-glass, yet, to judge by her expression, saw nothing. But he noticed something he had not noticed before. There was no rouge on her cheeks now. They were of a pearly hue, transparent almost. And they were the exact tinge of Upton's unwholesome complexion, . . . And her eyes. They were not briUiant, exciting as half-an-hour before, but glazed, lack-lustre. The only thing left was the auburn hair — and was that her own f Was there anything genuine about the woman When she spoke again it was in a brighter tone. She began " touching up," smiling at herself mechanically in the glass. He knew what that meant. " Oh, well ! " she sighed presently, " it can't be helped. We must make the best of life, nasty as it is. I don't know why I've poured all this out on your boyish, curly head — except that I don't feel you're spoilt yet, and what you say is perfectly true. Give me another brandy-and-soda and have one yourself ! " She suddenly came and sat on the bed beside him. The " colour " was back in her cheeks, she looked amazingly — her- self. She sat so close to him that her hand touched his. He then understood her. She was herself again. She was deliberately taking advantage of the impression that the only glimpse of nature she had ever revealed had made upon him. She had detected the effect, and she was exploiting it. That was Gina. With all her egotism, all her self-pity, she had been interesting in her brief mood of self-revelation. Now she was aware of having been interesting. Nor could he know that she had been discussing with WAY OF REVELATION 99 Rosemary Meynell the subject of their engagement barely half- an-hour before. " Oh, well, and, in fact, alas ! I suppose I must get into my pathetic little pyjamas. . . . Would you like to see them, all silk and saucy — if you're very good ? " She watched him, smiling, and was somehow pressing his arm. He rose abruptly. " I'm going to bed." Her face changed. She looked like an old, malicious woman. loo JVJr OF REVELATION CHAPTER IX A Summer's Day — and After § I On the morning of that August Bank HoUday Sir Walter and Lady Freeman departed in their car at a quarter-past eleven. Sir Walter desiring to be in his place in the House of Commons for the Foreign Secretary's speech that afternoon, while Lady Freeman no doubt felt her presence also was required in the centre of events. Faith had to walk down to the village to visit her " poor people," in which good office she was accom- panied by Eric. Gina disappeared with Arden. Rosemary and Adrian strolled over to the farm, then sat in the garden until luncheon-time. After luncheon the two couples went off in the boat and punt respectively, armed vnth baskets, kettles, and packages of food, the idea being to picnic in the woods on the opposite shore of the lake. " How delightful to see them all so happy, Helena, my dear ! " remarked Lady Arden to Lady Cranford as she watched them start from her shady chair on the lawn. " Yes, but we could not do that sort of thing in our day, Mary. Well, I suppose one must give them their heads or they'll take to their heels " " The young people enjoy life more than they did then," observed Mr. Heathcote. " Not so much restraint, not so much formaHty. I am undecided whether it is an unmixed blessing." He chuckled rather fooHshly. " I love to see them amusing themselves," said Lady Arden. " You're lucky with Faith, Mary," remarked Lady Cranford. " She's such a sensible young woman. Rosemary one has to be WAT OF REVELATION loi firm with — very. She's so naturally headstrong — like all the Meynells — and she's just reached the age when gals are apt to think they can do what they like. This young Adrian Knoyle she's making such friends with — he seems a nice young man — but of course — there couldn't be anything — really." " Oh ! let them have fun while they can, my dear Helena ! " The four returned just as the dinner-bell was ringing and their elders were beginning to be apprehensive. They were hot, flushed, and in a condition of extreme merriment. After dinner they walked arm-in-arm about the gardens until they were summoned in. Then Eric amused the company with card-tricks, and other tricks with handkerchiefs and glasses of water turned upside down, and boxes of matches, and feats of strength which weren't strength at all, until bed-time, when they separated, happy and tired, vowing that it had been such a perfect day as they would never forget. Nor did any one of them feel that his or her allotted span of careless youth was drawing to a close. Tuesday broke hotter than ever, and at his w^aking Adrian experienced a sense of reaction. He dreaded the return to used-up, washed-out London, where he would have to spend at least a week. Sir Charles and Lady Knoyle had taken a furnished house at Ascot, which would not be available immediately. Then there was the Sheringham business to be squared up with his father. Sir Charles would infallibly resurrect the whole question of a profession. He knew that the last thing Sir Charles would approve of was Sheringham. . . . Was this young man an idle vagabond, or more selfish than idle ? No. He did intend to work (in earnest) somewhere about October, when people begin to come back to London. But until then — well, really he must take leave to amuse himself. He and Eric breakfasted alone together at ten-thirty. No 102 WJr OF REVELATION one else appeared. Both were depressed at the thought that the cheerful house-party was about to disperse. Both envied Miss Ingleby and Mr. Heathcote who were staying a day or two longer in the placid Arden world. Lady Cranford and Rosemary were motoring across-country after luncheon to the house of relations in Oxfordshire. Gina, Eric, and himself were to go up to London by the two-forty-five train, since the earlier one by which they had intended to travel had been cancelled. And when the two friends walked round the gardens together in the hot morning it was not of the future they talked, but of that subject which in the world's crises has never been far removed from the thoughts of men. Eric was the less impulsive, the less emotional of the two. And it was evident that his self-confidence had survived the set-back he had received from Faith. Glancing at his blandly-smiling countenance, it might have been suspected that no surcharge of emotional capacity lay behind it. Eric's conduct was ordered by that large measure of conventionaHty, which in most people takes the place of an original and active mind. So far was his horizon limited. In Adrian, on the other hand, there were always possibihties of revolutionary or of evolutionary change. The nature and quaUty of their affections revealed the difference in temperament between the two. Eric's blood, it might be felt, would never warm beyond the point when he would be likely to exceed the sharply-defined limits of a public-school tradition. One could not conceive of Eric being " carried away " ; nor could one imagine him carrying away anything much more substantial than a good time. Strolling back towards the house, they met the three girls coming arm-in-arm down the garden path, talking and laughing. They joined them, and while all five wandered slowly round the gardens Adrian found his opportunity to have a few last words with Rosemary. The latter went straight to the point. " Mamma's furious about Sunday, Adrian." WAT OF REVELATION 103 " Has she been lecturing you ? " " No, but she kissed me this morning as though she meant it. That's a bad sign." " She was amiable enough to me — almost cordial. In fact, after breakfast we talked about the war as if there really was one." " Fatal, my dear. We're in for a war, I can see that. If she'd been ordinarily, decently rude, all might have been well. . . . Meanwhile, what's to be done ? Shall we tell her we're engaged ? " " No, leave it till Sheringham, when we'll spring it on her as zfait accompli. That's the way to do these things." " I wish she wasn't such a difficult sort of woman. Some girls are so inestimably blessed in their motxiers ! Faith, for instance. Could anyone be more unpractical or more sensible than Lady Arden ? I don't believe she knows she's got a daughter." " It's just the same with father — in a different way. He wants to know the whys and wherefores of everything — and hasn't even the decency to tell you the amount of his bank balance. I always thought there should be perfect confidence between father and son, and that the prerogative of gentility was generosity. With him it's just the other way." " By the by, what are your * prospects,' Adrian ? Not that it matters. But mamma is sure to ask. She always does about every young man who speaks to me under the age of fifty-five." " None — at present. But in October I'm going to be a diplomat — or something." " Mamma's idea, you know, is that I am to retrieve the family fortunes. Now that the best pictures at Stavordale are sold I'm the only marketable asset." " I quite understand. The Knoyles are one of those high-principled old families which show their contempt for the empty lure of meretricious gold by keeping it locked up in the bank." " Hare you anything much of your own f " 104 ^^^ OF REVELATION " About five pounds, darling. But the Leger's run in less than a month, and a friend of Eric's has a horse running." " What are we to do, my dear boy, if we want to be married soon ? " " Compromise each other hopelessly and blackmail our respective parents into giving their consent. There are advantages, you know, even in respectability. . . . Don't worry, my angel ! I'll have it out with the old boy. He always manages these things in the end — has to." When they came to the Italian garden where Adrian had stood with Gina and where the shrubs and high surrounding hedge hid them from view, they stopped. Both knew that the moment of farewell had come. Adrian took Rosemary in his arms and held her so for a long time. Through the hot stillness rasped the cries of the foreign water- fowl on the lake. §3 After luncheon, the three went off. Until the last moment the talk was of the forthcoming reunion at Sheringham — not, of course, in Lady Cranford's hearing. The two girls implored Gina to join the party. Gina gave an enthusiastic assent, which Adrian hoped and believed to be insincere. She would assuredly only come if she could be accompanied by a retinue of poets, artistes, and "long-haired, pale-faced young men." That was the safeguard. Rosemary and he shook hands at parting in a suitably formal manner. No ghost of prescience rose between them — only a sense of regret at a good time ended, and of looking-forward to good times to come. His final impression of Arden Park was of Arden himself standing at his massive front door with his head thrown back and a little on one side, laughing, and shouting after them " not to get mixed up in the war." . . . The train was a slow one. Gina read a book, Eric went to sleep, and Adrian studied a newspaper upside down. The WJr OF REFELJTION 105 first-named, entirely her normal self, had betrayed no con- sciousness, by word or sign, of Sunday night's happenings. The only incident of the journey was when they passed a noisy trainload of troops and horses — artillery or cavalry — on their way down the line. At Waterloo they noticed a number of soldiers in unfamiliar khaki, carrying Uttle bags and packages. They left Gina at the miniature green house tucked away in a corner of Berkeley Square. Faded pink geraniums drooped in the window-boxes ; it wore an air of cheerful deshabille. " Good-bye, boys ! " the volatile creature cried. " Be good, and if you can't be good, be careful ! We shan't forget each other, shall we } " §4 Adrian dropped Eric at his rooms oflp St. James's Street, drove home, unpacked, had tea, and wrote some letters. The friends had agreed to dine together at a club and go to a music-hall. Eric had suggested taking certain young ladies to dance and supper at Murray's — a project which, however, Adrian firmly negatived. The house in Eaton Square was empty. Sir Charles and Lady Knoyle having gone down to Ranelagh for the afternoon. Clocks ticked, the glaring sunshine beat into rooms, scarcely mellowed by drawn red blinds. August sounds drifted up from the streets — cries of children, a dusty rumble of traffic, the song of a cage-bird. Soon after seven o'clock Adrian, in evening clothes, set out to walk to St. James's Street. He had barely reached Hyde Park Corner when he became aware of a peculiar and indefinable atmosphere about the streets which even their post-holiday, dead-season effect would hardly account for. Wherever a house was occupied maidservants or care- takers were standing at the area-gates ; at the corners of mews io6 WAY OF REVELA7I0N coachmen and chauffeurs were reading newspapers ; groups of two and three people stood at the street-corners. Hyde Park, it is true, seemed to own its usual population of grimy children, lovers, and tired workers sitting on seats. The usual cross-streams of traffic rattled noisily past Hyde Park Corner. The sense of " aftermath " was strong — but there was a sense of something stronger. Walking up Piccadilly, he began to look closely at the faces of the passers-by, seeking in each what he could not define. They appeared wan, jaded, dusty — it was not there. He sought for it in the aspect of the clubs and shut-up houses - — nor there. In the policemen, the omnibuses, the closed •shops, the Hotel Astoria — everything he was familiar with. He could not identify it. While he was still puz^ng a newsboy rushed out of Dover -Street, yeUing. What he yelled was : " War with Germany to-night ! " A score or more of Londoners rushed upon the youth like a pack of hounds, jostled him and each other, tore the papers from him ; their halfpennies jingled upon the pavement. Men ■who had never met before shared the same paper, looking •over each other's shoulders. People jumped off omnibuses and stopped taxicabs. Groups gathered round individuals who read aloud from the Stop Press news. Adrian thought of Cyril Orde. WJr OF REVELATION 107 CHAPTER X The Voice of London § I Hot darkness covered London like a velvet pall. Adrian Knoyle and Eric Sinclair stood in a crowd outside Buckingham Palace. A kind of hysteria had seized the populace. Cheering crowds paraded the streets ; cheering crowds had waited for hours outside the house of the King, calling for a speech. The Royal Family had graciously appeared upon the balcony ; nothing further happened. But the crowds went on cheering, and groups of people sang " O God, our help in ages past," or " Rule Britannia," or the National Anthem. The majority, as by a conjuring trick, had produced Union Jacks. If they had not Union Jacks, they waved handkerchiefs. " Speech ! Speech ! " " Down with Germany ! " " Down with the Kaiser ! '* " Three cheers for the British Empire ! " " Three cheers for King George ! " As the couple stood there, a strange murmur seemed to rise from all London. It was near midnight, but that low-pitched sound rose from every quarter of the city. It might have proclaimed a mob in revolution, it might have proclaimed the crowning of a monarch. It might have meant the acclamation of a national triumph or the dawn of some great popular reform. It signalised the death-grip of Europe. io8 WAT OF REVELATION § 2 The two young men moved out of the crowd and passed, by way of St. James's Park, to Whitehall. Birdcage Walk was quiet and very dark. On their right the barracks loomed as though asleep. No light showed. They thought that strange. . . . Out of the darkness and quiet they passed into the murmur of a yet larger crowd. They reached Parliament Square, and the giant lighted dial of Big Ben trembled. The giant voice behind struck eleven times. ... A voice sounded the knell of the world. . . . Cheers and echoes of cheers rose from the crowds. Pro- cessions of men and youths drifting from Whitehall into Bridge Street stopped and wildly cheered, throwing up their hats, waving flags. Now an undistinguished group, now a single voice, broke into fragments of " God Save the King," or the " Marseillaise." It was as though a miracle of good fortune had befallen London. Men and women, boys and girls, policemen, the very street-urchins seemed beside themselves with joy. The two friends pursued their way to Whitehall. An occa- sional taxicab whirred past aflutter with Union Jacks, loaded and overloaded with yelling men and girls. Parties of people drifted past — drifted through shadows into glare of electric-light and back into shadows again : — singing, shouting, laughing, like figures in a ballet. Eric Sinclair and Adrian Knoyle turned into Downing Street and crossed the Horse Guards — silent, empty. Out of the dim bulk of the palaces on Carlton House Terrace, the German Embassy loomed, massive and white. Adrian's mind dwelt on that. His fancy depicted the bowed figure of an ageing man with iron-grey hair and moustache, a clever face, a half-wistful, half-sombre expression of un- laughing eyes. He seemed to see echoing rooms and WAT OF REVELATION 109 passages, half-deserted and half-packed-up, and, sitting in a dim-lit study, this man with his tired and now doubly-tired and grave and wistful face. His work done ; his mission ended ; the future of his country pledged. What passed he wondered, in the secret chambers of that mind through the slow hours of the unsleeping night ? Heard he in the privacy of that room, littered with books and papers and things finished with and things torn up, the clamour of the EngHsh mob, the execration of his Emperor and his country ; or saw he before him standing, the million phantoms of doomed yet living men ? Looked he back with triumph and defiance upon the ashes of his embassy — or was there writ upon that face something more sinister and more sad ? §3 Now they came to Trafalgar Square. Carnival. How the crowds roared and shouted, how they sang and cheered, how they lived and laughed ! They cheered the war, they cheered the King, the British Empire, France, Russia, Belgium, Serbia. They cheered the Navy and the Army. They actually sang soldiers' songs of the jingo period and the South African War, and revived the cry " England for ever." Again and again they roared " God save the King," " Rule Britannia," and the " Marseillaise." Tt was the spectacle of a people drunk — drunk with sensationalism, with over-excitement, with lust for war, with the realisation of a menace long-delayed, with — they knew not what. They wanted to glorify, to idolise ; they were out to vent the pent-up feehngs of half-a-century of European peace — of a generation of Germanophobia. In doing this, Knoyle perceived, they cheered their own peril, cheered the triumph of the anti-Christ, cheered the down- fall of the world. . . . The spaces and declivities of Trafalgar Square were lit up »io WAT OF REVELATION this night with an unusual brilliance. The powerful electric arc-lamps had been reinforced by flambeaux which, burning high and bright, threw floods of light around the pedestals whereon the lions crouch, and from which daring spirits yelled to the crowd beneath. The people pressed like night - moths toward the glare. In the angles of the granite pedestals the two friends found place to stand. They watched the throng go surging by. There were parties of young men, arms Hnked and marching four-by-four singing frantically, carrying Chinese lanterns, waving Union Jacks. There were parties of girls. There were soldiers borne upon the shoulders of civilians. National songs were being shouted incoherently in a dozen places at once. A youth, springing onto the parapet of the pedestal immediately above their heads, began to make a speech ; " Men and women," he screamed, " we are at war with Germany. Germany has plotted this war, Germany is the God-damndest country the world has ever seen. Shall we ever give in to Germany .? Remember what Lord Roberts said ! Down with the politicians, three cheers for the Army ! " " Hip ! hip ! hip ! hooray ! " " Three cheers for the Navy ! ** " Hip ! hip ! hip ! hooray ! " " Down with the Kaiser, the man who plotted this war ! " Groans, hisses, jeers from all. The youth grew hoarse ; at last, could no longer make himself heard. They could just see his face above them, lit by the glow of a torch, working maniacally. It was a weak, pale face — the face of a shop-assistant or a solicitor's clerk : an ordinary London face ; no distinction in it, no nobility, character or power, only an overmastering excitement. There he stood in his threadbare office-suit, his arms making vehement gestures, one hand grasping a soft felt hat, cracking his high-pitched voice — for the British Empire. WJr OF REVELATION lu " Now then, boys, ' Rule Britannia ' all together " He waved time with his hands. "Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, Britons never, never, never Shall — be — slaves." Cheering, cheering — a flickering of the flambeaux, white glare of the arc-Hghts — white faces staring up at the puny, gesticu- lating figure perched beside the British Lion — a myriad flags waved, discordant voices raised — frantic, fantastic crowds surging through the summer night. . . . And behind all that, unseen — throb ! throb ! — the steadfast beat c^ the nation's heart. Darkness was in a fair way towards dawn when Adrian and Eric walked homeward along an emptying Piccadilly. As they passed the Hotel Astoria their thoughts turned instinctively to the hours played out within its portals, hours which, if the voice of the crowd spoke true, might never be for them again. They turned into their club, which had kept its doors open long beyond its usual time. A few members were still pressing round the tape-machine. With difficulty they read the news "At II p.m. no reply to the British ultimatum had been received. They bade each other goodnight and, obeying some un- defined impulse, shook hands. ri2 fFJ7' OF REVELATION CHAPTER XI A Telegram and Two Letters Forty-eight hours later — at breakfast — Adrian received a bulky letter in a sprawling handwriting : " WooDCOTE Manor, " OXON. " Thursday. " My darling old Adrian, " I hardly know how to write this letter. The news I have is too awful, and I am so miserable I don't know what to do. Adrian, darling, just as I told you, there's been an awful row, and mamma's been at me ever since we left Arden. She began in the motor almost before we'd got out of the gates. You know — or p'raps you don't — how awful and bitter she can be. Oh ! Adrian, I simply can't tell you what that drive was like. She started by asking me what on earth I meant by going oflF with you on Sunday afternoon and not appearing at tea. She said everybody noticed it and Lady Arden was very shocked — which I think is rot, because I don't think you can shock her — and what could I have been thinking of and so forth. This sort of thing went on for about half-an-hour, until she said she had never interfered with or even mentioned any of my friendships with young men (as if I'd had such a lot !), but she really could not have me behave like this, and how long had I been on such terms with you as to stay away for hours at a time in a boat — it was a punt — and had I taken leave of my senses, etc., and so forth. WAT OF REVELATION 113 " Well, Rosemary hadn't said anything much so far, but when she said that I thought the moment had come to make things plain. So I said she needn't wax so roth (how does one spell that word ?) as, if she wanted to know, we were engaged. I can't tell you what mamma's face was like when I said that. Have you ever seen a large, quiet Persian cat in a passion ? Well, that was her. For several minutes she said nothing ; she gets all cold and funny when she's like that. Then she said, well, what, if she might ask, might your prospects be, because to the best of her knowledge you hadn't got a ha'penny to your name or even a profession. Just as I told you, Adrian. And what did 1 propose to marry on ? Poor little me I Don't you pity me, Adrian ? I felt absolutely helpless and an awful fool, because I really don't know a thing about it. How many ha'pennies have you got, though I don't think it really matters ? Rosemary wants to marry you, even if you haven't got any. " The end of it all was she said our engagement must be broken off at once, and she wouldn't have me see or write to you under any circumstances whatever. You can imagine what I felt, though I thought Rosie thinks otherwise. Hence this letter. She said I must absolutely put out of my head any idea of my ever, ever marrying you, and that if you were a really nice young man (which you aren't, of course !) you would never have asked me which, of course, is absolute rot too, and I told her so. I got in an awful temper too, Adrian, I told the heartless woman the more she went on like that the more determined I was that I zvould. marry you ! Brave of me, wasn't it r " Well, this went on, with pauses for refreshment, till we got to Aunt Kitty's. Mercifully she had no party staying there, so I said I was frightfully tired, and had dinner in bed and afterwards locked the door. But oh ! my eye, Adrian, it was a miserable evening, and I did long for you so. I simplv cried like anything, but, thank goodness, had your photograph 114 WAT OF REVELATION and lace hankies to comfort me a little. I think mamma? must have ralented a bit during the night, or talked it over with Aunt Kitty, or p'raps she sees (which she ought to know by this time) that opposing me only makes me more obstinate. Anyhow, she lured me into the garden after breakfast, and was, I must say, comparatively polite. She said that, as a reasonable young woman, as I had always been so far (sounds Hke a Salvation Army lassie, doesn't it ?) I must see how impossible it was to marry a man without any money or even a profession, and that it would be very wrong in any case for her to encourage such an idea, as she was in the place of papa. Also nineteen was much too young to think of marrying or to decide for myself. Also she did not want to seem harsh — they always say that — so on one condition she might possibly think over the idea, if you could come back with some money (and a profession, I s'pose) in a year's time. The condition is that we do not see each other or write for a year, which she says is all for my own good. " Adrian, damn ! I've been thinking it over all day, and I don't see any way out of it. Do you ? Unless you've got hold of any money and we can be married at once. After all, a year's not so very long really, and it will give you time to make some money and get a profession. (Why don't you go in the Army ?) P'raps we shall be able to meet now and then, with any luck, and anyway, we can always write. Adrian, can you see any way out of it ? The worst of it all is, what mamma says seems so beastly reasonable. Do, do write and tell me what's to be done. I am so utterly miserable and longing for you. How I wish I could get out of this and away somewhere, though Aunt Kitty is a peach really, and means to be very kind, and so does Uncle Arthur, but under the circumstances they fairly shatter the nerves. " Thank you ever so much for your darling note. It really does look as if there's going to be a war, doesn't it ? Don't WAT OF REVELATION 115 get mixed up in it, as old Arden says. But do, do write at once and tell me what's to happen. We shall be here about ten days, then go to the Lynmouths', and then, I s'pose, Sheringam. " Sheringam ! My God ! That makes me more furious than anything, absolutely tigrish, in fact. But I can see it would be absolutely fatal for you to come. I must write and tell dear old Faith about it all, and darling Gina. Gina knows so much about everything. " Now good-bye, my darling old Adrian, and heaps of kisses ! From " Your loving Rosemary. " P.S. — Please be careful about letters after this. Write as often as you can but put them in an envelope inside another one and address the outside one to my maid Bolton, who is alright. " P.P.S.— Love to Eric." § 2 It took Adrian some minutes to realise just what had happened. He felt out of breath. His first decided mood was one of fury against Lady Cranford. A sort of catechism went on in his mind : Q. What right had this steely old devil to interfere ? A. She was Rosemary's mother. Q. Couldn't Rosemary decide for herself whom she wished to marry ? A. She was a minor. Q. Supposing Rosemary and he chose to marry without Lady C.'s consent ? Other people had done so. A. He had not (as Lady Cranford truly said) one halfpenny in the world except a trifling allowance from his father; he was up to his ears in debt, and he had no prospects of making any income whatsoever. ir6 WAT OF REVELATION His mood changed from anger to despair, back to anger and then stuck at despair. It further alternated with spasms of pity — pity for Rosemary, alone, at the mercy of a heartless mother — and, yes, pity for himself. Having rung up Eric on the telephone and put the matter to him, certain facts began to assert themselves uncompromis- ingly. By luncheon-time he was freely blaming himself. Why in the name of heaven had he not thought out these little matters of money and Lady Cranford and Lady Cranford's consent ? How could he have dreamt of marrying under the circumstances ? — not that that made any difference to their being engaged as long as they liked. And then, again, if he had thought it out — however laboriously — what practical diSerence could it have made ? He knew well enough in his own mind that Sir Charles could not, or at any rate would not, give him the wherewithal to marry. He knew well enough Sir Charles would tell him to go and earn it. As to a long engagement, Eric had something to say when they met at their club in the afternoon. He ordered two cocktails. Was it fair, did Adrian think it decent, to keep a girl of Rosemary's age pledged to him indefinitely ? Oughtn't he to give her the option of breaking off the engage- ment during the year's separation ? At first Adrian was dead against the idea — vowed it was unnecessary, that he was perfectly certain Rosemary wouldn't wish it herself. Eric persisted, however. Wouldn't it be fairer to give her the chance ? Finally he came to the conclusion that Eric was rigiit. Whereon a wave of the noblest sentiment suffused him. He would do the right thing, yes, he would, whatever happened. He would take Enc's advice and, cost what it might, do the right thing. . . . A deeper sting had touched the quick. His self-esteem was pierced. He saw himself quite uncomfortably and nakedly, not as he valued himself, but with the appraising, material eye of a parent contemplating the marriage of a daughter. Lady WJT OF REVELATION 117 Cranford's words were, " he hasn't got a halfpenny to his name or even a profession." Well — and what sort of a picture did these words conjure up ? His father had told him to his face more than once that he was an idle, good-for-nothing fellow. He did not care in the least. He didn't particularly care what Lady Cranford thought of him so far as Lady Cranford went. But — would Rosemary, some day, come to view him in this light ? What about Rosemary ? " Without a halfpenny to his name, without even a profession." Of all this he said nothing to Eric. But this, in fact, was the thought that caused him silently to writhe. It was just a little more than he could stand. § 3 His mind made itself up. The so-moving events of the last few days had not been lost upon him. The night of the Fourth of August had been succeeded by a period of quivering suspense. Already the plain duty of every free and able-bodied young Englishman was becoming clear. After tea Eric despatched a telegram in their joint behalf. Returning home at speed, Adrian wrote a letter to Rosemarj' in which he formally accepted Lady Cranford's contract, while firmly renouncing most of its stipulations. He expressed the hope that they might even meet within a month, and this restored to his after-reflections a measure of optimism. Early on the following morning the two young men received a reply to their telegram. It was a request to report at once to the Heutenant-colonel commanding Orde's regiment in London. . . . A fortnight later they were gazetted second lieutenants (on probation). End of Part the First. PART THE SECOND: DISILLUSION . . . and lo, there was a great earthquake ; and the run became black as sackcloth of hair, and the moon became as blood ; And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig-tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind. And the heaven departed as a scroll when it is rolled together ; and every mountain and island were moved out of their ■places. And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains ; For the great day of his wrath is come ; and who shall he able to stand ? Revelation VI, 12-17. fF.4r OF REVELATION mi CHAPTER I The Baptism of Fire § I Nfar daybreak of a March morning, the battalion to which Adrian Knoyle and Eric Sinclair belonged was forming up in the main street of Estaires, a small manufacturing town in the province of Artois, Northern France. Six hundred bayonets were mustering, but in the darkness, through wliich snowflakes lightly fell, little could be seen save the shadowy line into which the column by degrees resolved itself. There could, however, he felt an obscure sound of men moving : there were shouts and words of command, a motor- bicycle panted past, there were the grate of wheels, the stamping of horses' feet where a group of chargers stood, and the jingling of their bits. If a key were required to the character of the scene, it was winter. An icy wind blew down the street. Newly-fallen snow lay upon rooftops and pavements. The troops wore greatcoats. As the light grew and the column with repeated halts began to edge forward, it was possible to discern that the soldiers were khaki-clad and British, that they were men of exceptional physique — burdened with the weight of full marching equipment — that many carried their rifles slung. Limbers loaded with machine-guns, with belts of ammunition, and with big bluish-grey boxes of rifle ammuni- tion followed in train of each battalion ; stretcher-bearers carrying their stretchers on their shoulders followed in train of each company. The cause of the incessant stoppages was a long procession of transport wagons and field artillery which. 122 WAT OF REVELATION having been parked in the town Place before the old Hotel de Ville, were now on the move, and somehow or another had to take their place in the middle of the apparently endless column. Daylight had far advanced by the time the main body ot infantry reached the outskirts of the town. Early as the hour was, the inhabitants stood at the doors of their debitants and estaminets or peeped from the windows of their dingy tene- ments. Women with shawls over their heads formed groups at the street-corners ; men in blue blouses and peaked caps, the traditional costume of the French industrial worker, watched from the kerbs or passed stohdly to work. For them it was the customary apparition of an army marching out of the night. For three days, it is true, the town and neighbouring villages had been packed with troops ; all night long the rumble of guns and tramping of an easterly-moving soldiery had been heard in the streets. Yet considering the proximity of the front line — no more than four miles distant — everything in that direction seemed curiously calm and silent. The two friends marched side by side in rear of their com- pany, Captain Cyril Orde at its head. For three miles or more beyond the town they followed with countless stoppages, the main pave road which leads from Merville by way of Estaires and Sailly-sur-Lys to Armentieres. As they marched a low muttering began to tremble along the eastern horizon, the ejffect of the sound on their ears being that of a number of small drums tapping in the distance, with the occasional thump of a big drum obtruding itself above or rather through the rest. Aeroplanes appeared, humming, purring, whirring. And then eastwards, again, an occasional pale flash against the grey, morning sky showed where a hundred guns were firing. The battle of Neuve Chapelle had begun. The men turned to each other and pointed. The mist WAT OF REVELATION 123 lifted, the sun came out. A Staff officer rode past on a bicycle, shouting : " The first three lines of trenches have been taken with slight loss." Once the whole Brigade halted for half-an-hour in a big field near a red-brick factory. The men had breakfast, the white-haired Brigadier rode round on a grey horse, A roar like an express train followed by an explosion and a cloud of smoke close to the factory-chimney, gave the alarm. The Brigadier shouted an order. Battalion by battalion they moved out and on. Orchards and ruined cottages full of troops in concealment bordered the road. An unceasing stream of traffic attempted to pass the marching column. To Knoyle, who had so far seen no more of war's paraphernalia than the trench-fore- ground and the silent approach to the trenches by night, all this was vitally interesting. It was much as he had imagined it would be. Red Cross ambulances and grey Staff- cars pushing past, motor-despatch-riders, cyclist-orderlies, artillery-limbers and ammunition wagons, all impatiently trying to move back or forward. Eric, on the other hand, nothing seemed to interest except the march-discipline of his men. Progress was slow, but after winding about among a number of lanes, during which all sense of direction was lost, they found themselves in the battery-area, and, once in advance of the firing guns, could no longer hear or speak with comfort. Yet even here, with one exception, actuality was not at variance with anticipation. Knoyle saw the black noses of heavy howitzers peep forth from their canopy of leaves and belch flame and blue gunpowdery smoke — a whole battery simul- taneously — followed by a collective detonation that was overpowering. He smelt the cordite. He saw the barrels recoil fiercely on the carriages and the gunners, clad only in shirts and breeches, cleaning, loading, reloading, working like ants or little demons. What he had not anticipated amid 124 ^^^ ^F REVELATION the turmoil that would naturally reign within a couple of miles of the fighting-line, was the spectacle of a French peasant ploughing with an old white horse. They halted in a sunny meadow by the roadside. Winter had begun slowly to merge in spring. The cannon roared, but a spring breeze stirred grass and tree-tops. Aero- planes hummed and whirred, but a lark sang as on any March morning above Enghsh fields. Thinking of such things, the young man made acquaint- ance with pain and death. Soldiers came trickling back from the battlefield — men with bloodstained uniforms, and white-bandaged heads and arms and hands : not badly wounded men, but frightened, shaken creatures with sallow faces. The waiting troops crowded round, asking questions. " What's it Hke down there ? How are things going ? How far have they got ? Did you see many Germans f " The replies were : " It's bloody hell down there," or " We got their front line, but we're all wiped out." Occasionally one would say : " Going fine. We've got all three lines, and the boys are shoving right on." A little later stretcher-cases came along. And these impressed Adrian with their likeness, as he conceived, to corpses — so white, so still, with eyes closed. Long processions of prisoners began to pass — tall, fair Prussians with mien expressive of a proud stolidity. Morning merged imperceptibly in afternoon, afternoon in evening, and still they sat on their sunny bank — Orde, Eric, and Adrian — smoking, munching sandwiches or chocolate, dozing. German shells burst with mathematical regularity round a haystack half-a-mile away. The thunder of the artillery never ceased. " What do you think of it ? " The voice was Pemberton's — Pemberton, the hero of black-striped kid gloves. The young man had been Adrian's companion on the journey from WAT OF REVELATION 125 England, and was attached to another company. Khaki suited him better than a dress-suit. His large, simple face expressed an amiable placidity. He had strolled across to ask for news. " It reminds me of a sham fight at Earl's Court," Adrian replied. " More noisy, though, and " " So tiring," put in Eric. " Such a beastly row." " It will be fun if it's like this to-morrow, won't it ? " said Pemberton. " Sufiicient unto the day " quoted Adrian. " Let's hope we ' young officers ' don't make fools of ourselves." "Yes — have you boys inspected emergency-rations and water- bottles in your platoons ? " demanded Orde, looking up sharply from the field-service pocket-book, in which he was writing. " The order for the attack will be marching-order without greatcoats. Hear ? " " Mine are all right," said Eric. " Oh ! lord, I forgot the damned water-bottles," said Adrian. " Don't forget, then ! Have you both counted your three hundred and sixty rounds per man ? " " Yes." *' No. Sorry, Cyril. I'll go and do mine now." " Yes, and get a move on, young feller." " Well, so long — I must be getting back," said Pemberton, taking Orde's instructions as a hint. " Hullo ! What on earth's that ? " A curious and increasing sound like an impending whirlwind made itself heard. Orde looked up, shading his eyes with his hand. " Gec-wiiiz ! " ejaculated Eric. A couple of hundred yards away an aeroplane came spinning, whirling, twisting to the ground. " Heavens ! " gasped Adrian. " Like a shot pheasant," said Orde. Ten minutes later two stretchers were borne down the road. On each lay a limp figure in overalls, the face covered up. 126 WAT OF REVELA710N Adrian thought they looked Hke mummies. He and Pemberton, who had joined the battahon a fortnight later than Eric, did their best to suppress any visible evidence of shock or surprise. A certain sympathy born of common experiences and new emotions had sprung up between them. Outwardly and visibly it expressed itself in offering each other cigarettes. They said little to each other ; they had little to say. But, for his own part, Adrian saw and freely recognised in the other a new man born out of the harmless individual who was " all wrong." For one thing, he could not forget that in the crowded railway-carriage coming " up the line," Pemberton had insisted on lying under the seat whiJe'he lay on it. In Eric, Adrian had already noticed new and surprising things. Eric did not appear to take his soldiering any more seriously than might have been expected ; in fact, in England he had earned the reputation of being " idle " — the " could-if-he- would " sort of officer. But on active service he had disclosed a curious faculty for getting things done. With him they happened — and he smiled. He never noticeably exerted himself — never. He retained his old foppish neatness of personal appearance. He was still partial to sm.all tricks — but they were enhsted in the service of the commonwealth. It was Eric who got the fire going ; it was Eric who kept it going and boiled the mess-tin ; it was Eric who made the tea — and Eric who did odd things with twigs and boughs and waterproof sheets. It was Eric who " contrived ;" he revealed a genius for these things. Orde was too busy : Adrian at a loss. Eric smiled frequently if fastidiously. When dark fell the order came to move. " We're going to billet in a farmhouse about a mile from here for the night," Orde announced. " We shall probably attack to-morrow morning, so hurry along, boys, and bag some sleep while you can." They did their best to hurry along with their platoons. But they crept. They crawled. Troops moving in both WAT OF REVELATION 127 directions, and wounded and transport, made progress well-nigh impossible. There were collisions, stumbles, and much hard swearing in the pitch-darkness on the rutty road. Cavalry coming up the side-roads with jingle of bits, clatter of hoofs, and neigh of horses, blocked the way. Artillery ammunition- limbers nearly ran over them. All this, however, was considered of good augury for the battle. § 2 It was midnight before Captain Orde had found sleeping- quarters for the whole of his company. With oaths he turned a number of Hussar troopers out of an estaminet and barn. Eric meanwhile, having discovered a heap of fairly clean straw, had made a large pallet which he proceeded to spread on the floor of the farmhouse kitchen ; on it there was just room for all three to lie. Adrian lost his way in the dark, and finding it again, felt ashamed. Orde looked — and said nothing. The three of them then lay down under their greatcoats, too tired to talk. A peasant-woman, wooden-featured and incredibly ugly, brought hot coffee, and, with a maternal air, tucked up each of them in turn. " Good old gal ! " ejaculated Orde. " Damned good coffee, too." " Oh ! charming woman ! " murmured Eric. These two fell asleep. Not so Adrian ; he could not sleep. The heavy, old-fashioned oil-lamp burnt itself out, casting queer shadows about the beamed kitchen that had been the home, no doubt, of many generations of peasants. The old woman went into the next room and for some time her sabots could be heard clanking about the brick floor. At length these, too, became silent. Only the rats scuffled. The men snored in the outhouses and passages. On the shelf an ancient wooden clock ticked. Orde's and Eric's regular breathing told of a dreamless rest. Adrian, 128 TFJT OF REVELATION weary though he was, lay on his side staring into the embers of the lire, going over and over in his mind the last six momentous months of his life. Out of a medley of memories three events stood in relief. First the August day upon which he and Eric had introduced themselves to the novel perplexity of wooden huts, parade- grounds, mess-rooms, and ante-rooms represented by Aldershot. There followed a dead-level monotony marked by signposts, labelled with such terms as " Squad-drill," " Company- drill," " Musketry, Course A and Course B " — all pointing in the same lurid direction. Then Eric had left for the front. A fortnight later his own turn had come, and he recalled a dour evening when — after days of unimaginable rush — he found himself sitting opposite his father and mother in a little restaurant somewhere near the King's Road, Chelsea. He recalled the atmosphere of false jocularity that pervaded the occasion, his parents' pathetic solicitude, the sharp twinges of conscience and of regret that smote him then. What had he ever done for them (he remembered reflecting) except take them for granted in the brief intervals of his restless search for pleasure ? . . . There came the bright cold January noonday at Waterloo, with Pemberton bidding farewell to a frankly sobbing mother, and his own fiery father crumpled up, inexplicably humbled, and yet parentally proud, waving farewell with a bamboo-handled umbrella as the train glided out of the station. And they had passed through Basingstoke. Next followed an impression of going up to the front — a two days' train journey in biting frost, a rat-ridden night in a tobacco factory at Merville, a twelve-mile march through a misty morning, and a greeting from Orde and Eric outside a farmhouse. Yes — Orde, oddly rough and unfamiliar, was at the end of it. By a stroke of luck (and special application) he had been posted to Orde's company, to which Eric already belonged. There had then come his first night fatigue and his nrst four-day tour in the trenches, during which nothing WAT OF REVELATION 129 more exciting had happened than an introduction to the uttermost degradation human existence seemed capable of amid mud and sHme. Finally they had moved back in preparation for the attack. It was a source of the utmost satisfaction to him that he had not been frightened at first. The trenches were ghostly and hideous and mysterious — but not frightening. A shell had burst within a hundred yards of him and he had not " ducked " ; he had " ducked " on subsequent occasions, but only when he wasn't thinking. It is true nothing much had happened — one machine-gunner killed by a bullet, but it was in Eric's bit of line. Yet how abominable it had been ! Frost and food mixed with mud — above all, mud ! Ever in the background of these later impressions was the Grand Illusion of the bygone summer and of that — now — puny world which sank daily further and further behind them all. And there was Arden : that strange interval which so sharply divided the one set of memories from the other. Rosemary. She had been in his thoughts in all places, at all hours, but especially in the loneliness of nights — and this night above others. For what would the morrow bring forth ? That he could not even visualise. , . . The firelight flickered on in the beamed kitchen. Again and again his mind went back to the intense moments of his great experience ; again and again he dwelt on every Httle incident with her. His brain worked in a groove, round and round it went Hke a bicycle-chain. Trying to immerse himself in the past, forgetting the present, he found only insubstantiality. With sleep at last, came a knock at the door, and an orderly's voice : " Is the Captain there, pleafe ? '* He woke Orde, who rubbed his eyes, cursed, and looked at his watch. I30 WAT OF REVELATION The orderly handed him a slip of paper. * * * * * Dawn broke across the Flanders plain in streaks of black and ashen-grey, shedding upon the countryside a cheerless light. They soon left the road along which they had been marching, and in single file followed a light ammunition railway across fields. No word was spoken. It was all a man could do to pick his way along the narrow track on either side of which lay liquid mud. Now and again they met parties of weary Highlanders trudging back from the firing-line. In the distance a gun boomed. Close at hand another answered. One by one that sullen booming was taken up along the line behind. As the light grew, bullets began to whiz and hum above their heads, making every variety of odd sound. First occasionally, then increasingly until the air sang with them. Quite close in front there was a sudden little burst of rifle-fire Hke the crackling of dry sticks. They came to a road swarming with troops. It was the front line. All were ordered to press close together behind a high, thick sandbag breastwork. Shells were bursting on and behind the road with an accuracy that was evidenced by the loud, child- like whimperings of men who had fallen or were crawling along it. Bullets, too, pattered against the breastwork's outer face. They formed a sort of line. Orde looked at his watch. The advance was timed for seven o'clock. There were ten minutes to go. The two friends crouched close together. Eric was asking questions of his men, making suggestions to his platoon- sergeant, and giving orders in sharp, business-like tones. He seemed to know exactly what was expected of him ; Adrian looked on, anxious to do whatever the situation demanded, but chiefly conscious of his own inadequacy. Glancing along the line, he could just see Pemberton's smiling face. Pemberton was all there ; Pemberton was equal to the occasion ; was he not directing and inspiring his men ? All that was most likeable in the fellow seemed to rrjr of revelation 131 radiate from him at this moment : his simpHcity, his soUdity, his stoHdity. Adrian studied the faces of individual soldiers ; some of them wore a smile, some were unnaturally composed, some sickly-white. He was very frightened, nevertheless tried to compose his own to an unemotional rigidity. The word to " fix bayonets " was passed down. A long-drawn rasping sound followed. His platoon-sergeant — a hulking fellow, already the hero of battles — said to a friend, " Don't stick me, Jimmy ! " and laughed. The colonel of the battahon came along, with his adjutant, shouting bloodthirsty expletives in a sort of fox-hunting vernacular. Orde had his whistle between his lips ; every man's head turned that way. In that moment, Adrian saw Orde in flannels on a tennis-court. Every man was poised in a crouching attitude, with one foot on the side of the breastwork and one on the ground. It was hke waiting for the start of a race. Above the crash of the bursting shells and the gradually increasing crackle of musketry he could hear his Colonel bawling : " One — two — three ! . . . Now, boys ! " Orde's whistle blew. Adrian caught sight of his lean figure on the skyline — and himself and everybody else clambered onto the parapet. But he found he could not run. He could only flounder and stumble forward through the mud. He had to leap trenches. He had to extricate himself from loose strands of barbed wire which snared him by the puttees. He barely apprehended a landscape that consisted of yellowish- brown mud, watery shell-holes, piles and rows of whitish sandbags, crooked iron stakes with bits of barbed wire hanging from them, one or two spUntered stumps of trees. A hundred yards of this, and he saw low, irregular heaps of battered sandbags immediately in front — beyond these a shallow ditch. He saw the man on his right throw himself flat. They all threw themselves flat. One or two grey heaps of clothes and some 132 WAT OF REVELATION pieces of revetting material lay about. He conjectured that they were in the German front line, and not a German to be seen — except those muddy grey heaps. The men crowded into the ditch and behind the sandbags, but there was not room for everybody — or shelter from the bullets. The big sergeant who had said " Don't stick me, Jimmy ! " suddenly jumped up with a shout. Adrian thought he had seen a German, and shouted, " where ? " But the man began groaning and sobbing, his hands clasping his forehead, from which blood poured down his face. Once, when a boy, Adrian had seen a man bleeding after an accident, and it had turned him faint. This sight only filled him with a grave wonder and disgust. Every other moment somebody was hit. It was like shooting down animals. Every other moment he heard the half-strangled shout or whimpering cry which told of a man killed or wounded. Two or three soldiers lay propped, half-conscious, against sandbags, looking like stuffed figures. One, near him, lay stretched motionless. Then the line jumped up again. Now he lost sight of Orde, but he could see Eric away to the right loping across an open stretch of plough. An old grey-haired soldier in his platoon, with whom he had made friends in the trenches, tumbled down, shot through the stomach. His instinct was to stop and give succour, until he recollected that it was not a street accident but a battle. They dived under a strand of barbed wire and streamed diagonally in batches across an enclosure. He felt he must do all he could to keep his men together. No regular for- mation was possible in such ground — the men followed their officers in groups, or singly, as best they could. How the bullets hummed, sizzled, and zipped ! . . . They came to another breastwork which afforded better protection than the last. It was the second line of German trenches — and still no sign of a living German. In front of them the ground had been blown into a mound some forty feet high by the WAT OF REVELATION 133 action of heavy high-explosive shells. The soil had been hollowed and scarred and rent into a great cavity which provided a last shelter for many — a pit of horror indescribable. Here all the refuse, all the material of the neighbouring trenches, seemed to have fallen. Many German dead lay here, grey and bloody amid the upturned earth. By itself lay the body of a British soldier, the face covered with a piece of white tarpauhn. Adrian vaguely wondered how anyone had found time to perform that act. All the trivial things of life lay here — biscuit-tins, scraps of food, hand-mirrors, ration- tins, boots, books even. And everywhere litter of equipment — black shiny German helmets with the golden eagle emblazoned on the front, German caps and accoutrements, rifles, clips of bullets, pistols, weapons of all kinds. . . . The tradition of blood and iron seemed to have found its consummation in that one place. Out of the pit they clambered, and up the mound beyond ; and then along a kind of ridge. A small river or large ditch of stagnant water had been bridged at one place by a plank which had broken down. As he approached this a high- explosive shell burst with a staggering concussion and reek of gunpowder on the farther bank. Adrian's inclination was to throw himself flat, but it was not a time to hesitate. He waded through the greenish, sulphur-streaked water, which rose to the level of his chest ; his rifle, clogged with mud, was already useless. Then he came upon Orde. Orde was lying back in the arms of his orderly, his face yellow and so twisted as to be hardly recognisable. Adrian threw himself on his inees beside his company-commander. " Cyril ! " he shouted. " Cyril ! " — the guns were deaf- ening — " where are you hit ? " " The shell got him full," the orderly said. " I fell flat ; he went right on." Adrian could just hear Orde's whisper : " It's got me — all over the place. Go on. . . . and good luck! " 134 ^^^ ^^ REVELATION He made a feeble gesture as though to urge his subaltern forward. The latter obeyed though to do so seemed an outrage on friendship and the humanities. He stumbled across a ploughed field heavy with recent rains. Men were falling right and left. Khaki heaps dotted the open ground like milestones. Some of his men had got slightly ahead in the race ; others unwilling to face the stream of bullets, were crawling forward on knees and elbows. Eric he could just see drop down into a sHght depression in front. Here the thin line began to re-form itself, everybody wanting breath. He made for Eric. A number of men of various regiments and battalions formed an increasingly thick firing-line on either side of them. Through the mist he could see skeletons of trees and the tall red-brick chimnej of the Moulin de Pietre — their objective. When he had flung himself down, it took several moments to recover breath. Then : " Cyril's done for." "Good lord! Killed?" " Knocked over by a shell a couple of hundred yards back. What's to be done ? " Eric thought a moment. " I suppose I'd better take charge, as I was second-in- command. We'll have to rush that damned mill. Come on ! Tell your chaps to get ready." Adrian afterwards recalled how naturally, how inevitably, how unconsciously indeed in that moment of peril he had accepted the leadership of his friend — reversal of their old relationship though it was. He crawled along to where some of his own platoon were lying. Bullets were humming overhead like flocks of hurricane- driven birds ; a machine-gun was enfilading from some vantage- point. The Moulin de Pietre was evidently a formidable nest of Germans. WAT OF REVELATION 135 Both realised that it was the critical moment. Eric's voice snapped out the cautionary words. His whistle blew. . . . With what was left of his platoon Adrian started forward. He leapt a ditch. Two strands of barbed wire lay in his path — all the world seemed concentrated in those two obstinate strands. Interminable, intolerable moments passed. Men fell against the wire, groaning, lopsided, and were riddled with bullets. . . . Himself was violently struck. He staggered. He shouted out, thinking that some concealed enemy had hit him with the butt-end of a rifle. He felt a thudding pain in his right thigh, and fell backwards into the green, brackish water of the ditch. Someone dragged him out. A voice said : " Are you hurt, sir ? " He realised that he was wounded. §3 For a long time he lay on his face. His leg ached and was limp and helpless. Presently it lost all feeling. He heard them pass down word that he was wounded ; he wondered what had happened to Eric. He took his little phial of iodine from his haversack and tried to reach the bullet-wound. That was painful and too difhcult. Most of those lying around were wounded. Two or three dead lay near. It seemed that the line of advancing men, mown down here, would get no further. Then he saw Eric coming to him. He came over the top of the ground without haste, and knelt on one knee as Adrian himself had done beside Orde. " Where is it ? Thigh ? Keep still and let's have a look." " Lie down, Eric, for God's sake, or you'll get a bullet through the head ! " 136 WJr OF REVELATION " Lie down, sir ! Lie down ! " voices shouted from all sides. " They can see you ! " " All right ! All right ! I know what I'm doing. Now then " He slit the coarse khaki material with his clasp-knife, examined the tiny punctured wound and applied a phial of iodine. He then began ca-efuUy to bind up the wound. Shrapnel burst low with a shattering crash. Eric's hands gradually ceased in their task : he sank very slowly back- ward. As he did so, he clasped the back of his head with fingers through which blood trickled. In his own helpless state Adrian could not raise himself sufficiently to reach his friend. Eric rolled gently over on his face and lay still. A spasm of fear amounting almost to certainty, shot through Adrian's mind. Eric was dead ! He shouted for help. The groans of the wounded answered. Through the other's clasped Snsers blood continued to ooze. u A kind of ghastly stagnation descended upon the battle- field. Through the smoke and the mist and the noise the tall, red-brick chimney continued to stare down at them with maddening serenity. An unceasing stream of bullets came from it, but bullets also came from their right flank and even from their right rear. A machine-gun enfiladed them with a monotonous "clack-clack-clack" at regular intervals. Regular as a heart's beat, minute by minute, came the wail of high- explosive shells. These skimmed their heads, bursting every time a few yards behind. Bits of iron hummed through the air and hit the ground on either side, hissing hot. Showers of earth and stones fell upon the back and neck. The earth around was soon tainted a yellowish-green. Hands and uniforms assumed the same colour. Adrian silently prayed for the end. fFJr OF REVELATION 137 Then to his unspeakable relief, Eric raised his head and looked round. His face, papery-white and smeared with earth and blood, was indescribably shocking. Adrian had never conceived of his friend so. The first thing the company- commander did was to drink from his flask. He then took out his handkerchief and proceeded to roll it into a bandage. " Gurr-r-r," he sputtered. " Are you there, Adrian ? " " Yes. . . . Thank the Lord ! I thought you were done in." *' I've got a bit of shrapnel in the back of the head. How difficult it all is ! I must have fainted or something." " Keep still, or you'll faint again ! " " I shall be all right in a minute — if only — I can — blast it ! — get this bandage fixed." " What's to be done ? '* *' Oh ! hang on here and dig in. You and the other cripples had better make your way back. Wait till the shelling slacks off a bit, though." " What about you ? " " I've only got a scratch. You've got a leg. If you can crawl — crawl." " Plenty of time when you go." " Don't be an ass ! If you can crawl — crawl." " Why ? " " Because I tell you to." " I can still shoot." " Yes, but you can't run. Frankly, you'll be quite dread- fully in the way. Go — quit — hop it, there's a good boy ! " But the moment had not yet come. There had been a brief pause in the racket of sheUing. Now it began again with redoubled fury — the whistle and roar, the ear-splitting crash, the sulphur reek, the showers of earth and stones. Behind, in front, the clamour of the guns never paused. Boom — boom — boom — boom ! A German field battery was firing salvoes at short range, and Adrian thought the four clockwork piercing reports at intervals would drive him crazy. 138 WAT OF REVELATION Bang — bang — bang — bang. Away to the right lyddite was bursting in clouds of sulphuric smoke amid the ruins of Neuve Chapelle. An aeroplane sailed overhead. He longed to be in it, to be at least above all this, with one turn of a lever to sail back and in a few moments leave behind the fumes and the flames and the noise. Shrapnel cracked low, enormous high-explosive shells burst a short distance away, throwirg up fountains of earth amid billowing black smoke. Rifles spat at intervals, more often a machine-gun swept round. The boom — boom — boom — boom of the German field- battery went on. Once or twice only in those weary hours was there a minute's complete silence — like the pause that now and then falls upon an animated conversation — and then they could hear a lark sing. Late in the afternoon the opportunity for reorganisation came. Guns and men seemed to have grown weary of killing ; at least to have grown weary of shooting at that which they could not see. Eric gave the word to dig in, and those who could began working feverishly with their entrenching-tools. A medical officer and two stretcher-bearers came up over the open and set to tending the more desperately wounded. Eric passed the word : " All wounded to the rear ! " He turned to his subordinate. " Now be off — and good luck ! " That tone of admonition admitted no dispute ; and with a heart heavy for his friend, Adrian started to crawl back aided by both elbows and one foot. Half-way across the ploughed field the shelling began again. He now found himself in the centre of the shell-area, of which the firing- line was slightly in advance. 5.9 inch shells, that tore through the air with a mild whistle, finishing up with a roar like high- power machinery, seemed to burst on top of him. Shrapnel ex- ploded above his head in a series of ear-splitting crashes. A high velocity shell arrived like a bullet simultaneously with the WJT OF REVELATION 13^ report of the gun. He crept into a shell-hole and lay flat. It reeked of lyddite and contained a German pistol of curious shape, bearing a Birmingham trade mark. He could see the blue sky above flecked with ^ttcy white puffs of aerial shrapnel. At intervals between the booming and banging of the guns, the detonation of the bursting shells, and the incessant metaUic clatter of machine-guns behind, he could hear the droning hum of aeroplanes. Death from above, from before, from beliind, death, shapeless and repulsive, in every shell- hole ; death usurping, beckoning, tyrannical. Terror seized him, such terror as he had never known in his Hfe before. Hitherto he had been conscious only of the profound unpleasantness of the whole business ; now it was all he could to do to prevent himself from yelling hysterically. A head appeared above the rim of a shell-hole. " Ye'd better give me yer-r pack, zur-r. Ye'll never be able to get on with it as y'are." He blessed the sound of a human voice. And there was some- thing familiar about this voice — something inexpHcably friendly : — not the voice but the accent. He recognised it as a West Country accent. And with that came a second's vision of the hills behind his home as they would lock in the bright March sunlight, the white chalk horse on Stanc's steep side, the silent spaces of the down-land beyond. He yielded his pack gladly to those large, willing hands. Slow as his progress was, and often as he stopped for breath in shell-holes, he came at last within sight of the white, irregular sandbags which marked the old German second-line The stream through which he had waded during the advance lay between, with one visible means of crossing — a single greasy plank, across which lay a dead soldier. He poised himself on the plank straddlewise, bullets hitting the sandbags on either side. Several times he came near to falling off side- ways, but recovered. Reaching the boots of the dead man, with extraordinary repulsion he dragged himself across I40 TVJr OF REVELATION the stiff, unnatural figure, whose dark blood was dripping slowly from a bullet-wound in the neck. He felt the cold blood moist on his hands, and brushed over the soft, clammy face, so unhfelike — a mere heap of flesh. He saw a head looking over the breastwork. " Come on, sir ! Pull yourself up ! Here's a hand ! " With the assistance of the arm extended he dragged himself over the heap of sandbags and found — his own stretcher- bearers. Near to fainting now, he knew httle more until he felt the swaying, jogging motion of a stretcher as they carried him along a road which he did not recognise. But he saw the battlefield receding, the setting sun, dead horses and dead men, a tableau of khaki — and one German — in an orchard, as though all had there lain down to sleep. Then he heard the purring of a motor, and was hoisted out of daylight into the gloom of an ambu- lance's interior. Almost before he realised where he was the vehicle had started, with a jarring of brakes — full-speed ahead. The journey seemed a long one. At first he thought he heard shells bursting ; then the sound of traffic. His companions were noisy. One groaned loudly and ceaselessly. Another, with a pronounced Irish accent, poured forth volleys of blasphemy, proclaiming that he had " done in " at least half-a-dozen Fritzes. A third whistled " Tipperary." Beside him lay an officer without sound or movement. With no noticeable transition he found himself lying on a bed in a large whitewashed room which looked out upon a courtyard. Something about the place told him that it was either a convent or a school. Once a young doctor came in, looked at his wound, gave him an anti-tetanus injection, and tied a white label on his chest. Once an orderly brought him a bowl of soup. Lying very still, he watched evening steal into the courtyard and saw the sunlight fade on a red-brick wall. He heard the twittering of sparrows without, ivy leaves WJT OF REVELATION 141 rustling against the window-ledge, and at infrequent intervals a moan from the next bed. In the failing light the door opened, and there slipped in a gaunt figure in a cassock, who, after glancing at him and doubtless thinking him asleep, turned to his neighbour. It gazed long and earnestly, made the sign of the cross, then went out silently as it had come. Adrian peered at the adjacent bed. It was growing dark, but a last sunbeam lit up the pillow, illuminating features that were familiar and yet strange. Blood had gone from them, their fulness being drawn into thin, ugly lines by pain. It was only at the second or third look that he realised Pemberton lay there. 142 WAT OF REVELATION CHAPTER II Adrian and Eric § I With the coming of night and the lighting of the oil lamps, Adrian noticed figures, diagrams, and queer elemental series of pictures of birds and animals on the walls. He must have slept ; it was not the room he had been in before. Beds were set at ordered intervals round the room, each covered with a blue-and-red Army blanket, and every one occupied. In the centre a number of stretchers lay side by side upon the floor, and every one occupied. Red Cross orderlies, doctors, and a nurse in army uniform, grey faced with red, hurried in and out ; stretchers were constantly being carried in with much trampling of hob-nailed boots. A sound of motors came through the open door. "Oh-oh! Yah-ah-ah! Oh-h-h-h ! " Groans, cries, and moans accompanied him through the night. Now and then, from the neighbouring bed, came a half-moan, half-sigh which voiced something that expressed itself also in the spasmodic contortions of Pemberton's face. For the rest, there were loud cries, cries more pathetic in their helplessness than those of children in pain, petulant queries, calls for water or attention, deep, full groans, heavy, effortful breathing of men trying to stifle their suffering ; then again the clatter of nailed boots and the subdued con- versation of those who could converse. Amid the shattered limbs, the mutilated heads and faces, the patient, weary eyes, the low moaning, hard breathing and sighing, the unearthly quiet of approaching death, the white, WAT OF REVELATION 143 bloodstained bandages, the ragged uniforms and almost un- recognisable figures of men who looked like bundles of old clothes — beneath the yellow, sickly light of the oil-lamps — the army surgeon made his way. He was a dark-haired young man, wearing pince-nez, and was followed by a sergeant, who, ledger and stylographic pen in hand, wrote down diagnoses of the wounds with businesslike precision. The surgeon came to Pemberton first, looked long at his face, felt his pulse, and with a shake of the head murmured, " Touch and go, touch and go." Then it was Adrian's turn. His inspection was of the briefest. " Nothing serious. Slight fracture, laceration of the tissues. You'll be laid up for two or three months. Next conroy for England ! " He passed on. Adrian could hear the name and diagnosis of each case called out in turn. After two or three such he began to doze. But he soon awoke, " Lieutenant Sinclair ! " " Well, what's the matter with you ? Bit of shrapnel in the head. Any concussion ? " " No." " Sickness or dizziness ? " " No." " Take care of it in England. . . . Next one ! '* Adrian looked. " Eric ! " " Hullo ! " The reply came from a stretcher on the floor. " I'm here ! " *' Who's you ? " " Adrian ! " " Cheers ! I'll get them to carry me over to you." " And how the devil did you get here ? " Adrian demanded when carrying was accompHshed. 144 ^^^ OF REVELATION *' God knows ! I suppose I must have ' gone off ' again. I just woke up and found myself here." Owing to the bandages about his head, Eric had some diffi- culty in articulating. " So we're on our way back to England." Adrian suggested. " I don't mind telling you I feel all chawed up. I expected something pretty bad, but — it was worse." There was some emotion in his voice. " I feel as if I'd been turned inside-out — and left exposed to view. The war's no joke, you know." A sigh, followed by a deep groan, came from the next bed, " That's Pemberton." " Ah ! " " I tliink he's going west, Eric." " Poor chap ! But you'll soon get over feeling queer about it. Going through a battle's like having an operation without an anaesthetic." " I wonder " Eric yawned. " What I don't like is leaving the sheep without a shepherd. But it can't be helped." " The company, you mean ? " " Yes." " What's that you've got there ? " Eric, after much fumbling, produced a black-and-gold emblazoned object from the pile of equipment which lay beside him on the stretcher. " A Prussian helmet. The fact is — well — Faith and I had a bet whether I should get one or not. Give it her, will you — with my love ? " ^ " Give it her yourself." " Shan't see her, my dear chap." " You'll see her as soon as I shall.'* ** No, I'm not for home." " But the doctor's just tied an ' A ' label on you ! " " Well — he'll have to untie it. I shall be all right in a fort- WAT OF REVELA710N 145 night. England, home, and beauty don't appeal to me just yet. War is the poor man's pastime, you know — and the despair of his creditors." Adrian suspected this reasoning. But he only said : " I'll take the thing, of course, if you like. But — we shall probably all be at Arden again in a few weeks." " I doubt it. And on the whole you needn't say anything about me at all. Just — give it her." Adrian took charge of the helmet. The events of the past twenty- four hours had revealed new and unexpected lights in Eric ; still, he felt no doubt that they soon would meet on the " other side." Then his friend was carried away, waving a hand. The evacuation had begun, and the stretcher-cases on the floor were taken first. §2 It was a calm spring-like morning when Adrian's turn came to be carried out across a courtyard, under an archway to a waiting motor-ambulance, which drove rapidly to the station. The sun shone upon Pemberton, who was borne out next — his features a little paler, a little more of the quality of marble than they had been the night before. Pembeiton had ceased to make any sound. The flap of the ambulance was not lowered, but Adrian had a strong sense of active life going on around. He knew without seeing that a number of people were standing at the entrance to the clearing-station, watching the wounded being carried out ; and as they dashed through the crooked streets, with their cobbled paving-stones and red and blue and white houses, he glimpsed Staff cars rushing past, officers riding, soldiers in English khaki and French blue swarming on the footpaths, parties of German prisoners marching by under escort. When, crossing a square, they passed the Hotel 146 WAT OF RE F ELATION Normandie and turned down a narrow street, he recognised the place as Merville. The hospital train stood at the very- platform upon which he had detrained one bitter night barely a couple of months before. And as he lay in the long car on a well-hung, comfortable bed which sv/ayed with the motion of the train, he contrasted his present feelings with those of the earlier journey. Then the unknown lay before him. Now it stood revealed : the ordeal to which he had so long looked forward was past, and he was going back to England, to orderliness, to the old atmosphere, the old distractions and interests, to — Rose- mary ? That afternoon was a thing of joy. The train rolled slowly and lazily on its journey after the manner of such trains. He cared nothing for its dilatoriness, but watched, with a sort of overful happiness, the flat fields, poplar-plumed spinneys, and drab farmsteads flit past. How different they looked, basking in the first grateful warmth of spring, from their earlier greyness under the frost of a winter's evening ! The countryside smiled at him, the future smiled at him, and in the primrose beauty of the budding year he read a smile more cheerful than any of these. Physical pain he had none. He could not move his right leg ; on the other hand it caused him no active discomfort. And as the atmosphere of the battlefield receded, his old optimism was reborn in him. He refused to be daunted by the war — refused to surrender his youth, his hopes, his aspirations, his ideals, his dreams to this first disillusioning. He refused to treat it as other than a disagreeable incident in an, on the whole, well-ordered world. And he asked himself — it had never occurred to him to do so before — how he and Eric really had come to be mixed up in the business ? It was considered suitable at this period of the war — at any rate, public policy — to regard the young volunteers as in some sense heroic. But in respect WJT OF REVELATION 147 of two fairly representative young Englishmen, he asked himself whether their motives in joining the Army had been either altruistic or patriotic, or whether they were not in point of actual fact purely interested and personal ? For his own part he had no violent antipathy to Germany nor any violent enthusiasm for Belgium, nor any peculiar affection for the British Empire because he didn't know much about it. Adventure, the prospect of experience, the first glamour of the thing, the natural reaction from a futile existence had in a measure attracted them both. Both were in a sense disappointed, or disappointments who had somehow to justify themselves. And in his own case there were yet more personal reasons. Always in the end his mind went back to Rosemary. True, she had passed out of the region of contact, for he had received only half-a-dozen notes and letters from her since leaving England ; yet that was natural. She could not have had his address for some time. Yorkshire was a good deal further away than London — posts were bad, they had been constantly on the move, and in any case she must have been preoccupied by the hospital that had been established at Stavordale. Lady Cranford would see to that. But now his face turned once more towards England. There was that in the young man which demanded, or failingly, created an abstraction. He ideaHsed this girl, and, so far, experience of the war had had the effect of sharpening this idealising or idolising faculty. She was the antithesis to all that ; she breathed about him a perfume of romance in a world of crudest reality. The spring entered his blood. Everywhere signs of it — primroses and crocuses on the banks of the cuttings, aconites sprinkling little woods, green shoots of wheat pushing up in the fields, a quickening life in the hedgerows, and among the tree-tops. Spring, too, in the swift breeze that rushed past the train. He longed to be out in it, remembering how 148 WAT OF REVELATION quietly, delicately, as it were on tip-toe, it came to his West Country home — the grassy dell aflame with daffodils, blackthorn snowing the hedgerows, the cawing rooks rebuilding their nests in the parkside elms. These were the old familiar signs. And when summer came . . . ? Hope surged roughly in his heart. A slight rustle at his left hand caused him to turn over. A nurse was looking down at Pemberton with an odd, solemn expression on her face. Through the window, tossed-up sand-dunes, pines, and the blue dimpling waters of the Channel. . . . He stared for a full second into Pemberton's eyes before the nurse drew the sheet over them. Something went out of him then : his whole theory, perhaps — of black-striped kid gloves. His Grand Illusion crumbled ; for the first time in his life he saw — face to face. WAT OF REVELATION 149 CHAPTER III Fortune's Wheel § I Early in April Sir Charles Knoyle died. He died of double pneumonia following upon the chronic bronchitis which had troubled him regularly for many winters. At the age of sixty-five it finished him off. Adrian heard the news from Mrs. Ralph Clinton in whose hospital he was near Bury St. Edmunds. Mrs. Clinton was one of Lady Knoyle's particular friends. A tall, handsome woman, with an efficient manner, she came to him one morning as he lay in bed looking out upon the cedar-shaded lawns — it was nearly a week after an operation had been performed upon his thigh — and handed him a telegram. " Father died this morning — Mother." In this moment he realised that the often crotchety and increasingly decrepit and of late rather pathetic figure of his father — that figure which, unknowing, he had seen for the last time on the departure platform at Waterloo Station three months before — had vanished for ever. The real pathos of it for him was that he felt inadequate before the death of this father, whom he had never loved so much as respected, whom he had never intimately known, and who had never intimately known him. The personal shock he experienced was in no sense com- parable to that which he had experienced when Pemberton had died beside him. That impression, that first familiar rencontre with death, remained vividly. It obliterated every other. Pemberton in life had meant little to him, but they 150 l^T OF REVELATION had undergone the same trials, had passed through the same series of emotions and the same initiation — had shared in fact a great common experience. And so he thought more often of Pemberton than of his father. The real though impalpable change, the central fact, was that through Pemberton death had become familiar, instead of remote, incredible — a thing that might concern the old but had nothing in common with the young. His mind reacted quickly to experience ; could it be staggered by anything of this sort any more ? By the second post upon that same day came a letter from Eric. The moment Adrian saw the envelope he knew Eric had had his way. The envelope was franked and bore the battalion stamp. How the devil had the fellow managed it ? The letter explained itself : " I was sent to R , where I got round the Medical Officer after being X-rayed and found to be unconcussed. To make sure, I tipped the R.A.M.C. sergeant 20 francs. My ' wound ' was nothing, and healed practically after three weeks, but they insisted on keeping me an extra week. So here I am, and you were wrong ! . . . I've got the company. This will seem to you extraordinary, and I can't altogether make it out myself, as there are plenty of people senior, but there it is ! It certainly makes life more interesting, but also a jolly sight more strenuous. . . . I suppose you've heard about poor old Cyril. He's in hospital in Park Lane. I'm afraid he's a goner. Better perhaps if they had done him in. . . ." The letter contained information about the company and the men and the line they were about to take over. It even hinted at an impending attack. It was an ordinary letter, but, reading and re-reading it, Adrian apprehended suddenly the man's enthusiasm — and his courage. WJr OF REFELATION 151 § 2 A day or two later Lady Knoyle came down, escorted by her brother, Sir Patrick Cullinan. Before Adrian was permitted to see his mother he had a talk with Sir Patrick, who, had he not lately come of age, would have been his guardian. He was a red-faced, ginger-haired Irishman with a hearty manner which he tried creditably to subdue in deference to the occasion. " You must have had a bad time, old chap. Very glad to see you safe home again. And then this — sad affair. A terrible loss for you ! Poor Charles ! Poor old Charles 1 " He stared, with the ill-worn melancholy of a robustly cheerful person, down at the carpet. " Your poor dear mother, too. What a terrible time ! The long illness and the incessant anxiety about yourself. . . . But it's really about the business side of things I came to talk to you." His features brightened in spite of themselves, his voice became more naturally loud. " Of course, you succeed to everything. As trustee, under your father's will, I went into it all with old Payne, the family man of business, and I'm happy to say we found matters in a better way — a much better way — than either he or I expected." Sir Patrick paused to let these words soak in ; he lit a cigar. " You'll be comfortably off. Your mother, of course, has the jointure from her own estate. Your father was always, as you know — at any rate, in his later years — a careful man. You know, too, the ambition of his life — to pay off the mortgages on Stane. My dear boy, I'm glad to tell you that, so far as Payne and I can see and unless you make an ass of yourself, there's every chance of that ambition being realised." " At the termination of the present lease ? " " The lease comes to an end, as you know, on December 31st, 1918." " I always thought we hadn't a bob." 152 WAT OF REVELATION " Your father saved. He — er — invested modestly — and on the whole successfully. He doubled, or rather nearly trebled, his capital. He reinvested. Payne and I knew nothing of that. Even your mother knew nothing of it. He kept you short, I know — on principle. He thought young men ought to learn to economise — perhaps he was afraid of your following the example of your great-uncle Algernon. Ha ! ha ! ha ! " — here Sir Patrick laughed frankly and loudly, as though at lome insupportably entertaining reminiscence — " anyway, we reckon, as far as we can judge at present, you should have an income of rather less than five thousand after paying off death duties, and providing you live with reasonable care meanwhile. Stane, of course, brings in a couple of thousand a year and is kept up." Therewith and thereunto the uncle went into a number of particulars — about farms, cottages, legacies, old servants. Lady Knoyle's jointure, duties and taxation. Adrian murmured " Yes," " Exactly," and " Oh i quite," without any very clear idea of what it all amounted to. Towards the end of the con- versation the worthy gentleman, abandoning quite his avuncular role, became jovial and even facetious. He wound up by saying : " The next thing is to get you through this damned war. Then you must find a wife and settle down." He shot a smart glance at his nephew. " Meanwhile nurse that thigh, and as soon as you're fit enough come over to us in Ireland for as long as you can — we cau give you a bit of fishing, at any rate." The invitation was accepted. Sir Patrick departed impetu- ously, enjoining upon his nephew the advisability of visiting the firm of Payne, Payne & Payne, Solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields, at the first convenient opportunity, and leaving as a legacy a large box of Corona cigars. As soon as Adrian saw his mother it became evident to him that she was crushed beneath a weight of grief which she fought, and in part subdued, for her son's sake. Though WAT OF REVELATION 153 she and Sir Charles had married late in life, their devotion had been none the less complete. " He spoke of you towards the end. He asked after you repeatedly, and said how happy he was to know you were safe. That was almost the last time he spoke. He said his greatest wish was that after the war you should settle down at Stane." Lady Knoyle completed her Httle speech without faltering though tears coursed down her cheeks as she spoke. That first talk (to Adrian's relief) was cut short by evening dressings, and Lady Knoyle rarely referred to the subject again. She could not do so without emotion, and that, as she well knew, embarrassed her son. And she was there to superintend his convalescence ; she was there to enliven, to hearten him. Day after day she would flit in like a September leaf and sit by his bedside — or by his wheeled-chair out in the garden — a bent and fragile figure, her head covered with a black lace mantiUa, her white hair strained back from a forehead and face that bespoke character, some sensitive or artistic perception, and was still not devoid of the beauty which had once notably been hers. She had a gentle, sympathetic way ; she was so obviously anxious to make everybody about her happy, even if she could not be happy herself. Thus she would sit and read aloud to her son or knit, or say nothing, or suggest and fetch things that he might want. Mrs. CUnton and the nurses left them together. Since his uncle's visit with its momentous intelligence, Adrian's thoughts had centred more and more upon Rosemary. And, try as he would, stifle the thought as he might — and honestly did — he could not remain oblivious to one fact : Fate had worked amazingly in his behalf. . . . Fate ? But after all this much could be said for liim, that on receiving Lady Cranford's coup de grace via Rosemary he had taken destiny firmly in his hands — and had been rewarded. Fortune had then so far played up to him, had so far completed his task, that he stood before the world no longer without a 154 ^^^ OF REVELATION profession, no longer without some positive achievement — the achievement, at all events, of having done what was expected of him — no longer without — prospects. And yet the nearer he approached fulfilment in these respects, the farther away Rosemary seemed to drift. There was the elusive baffling quahty in her ; he could not — reach out to her. Assure and reassure himself as he did that CYCvy- thing was all right, he realised that hers would not be as plain- sailing an argosy as, (for instance), Faith's. Both the young ladies were hotly engaged at their respective hospitals. He had receiA'-ed a sympathetic letter from each on being wounded, another on his father's death. Shortly before leaving Mrs. Clinton's establishment he heard from Rosemary — after a fortnight's silence — that Lady Cranford had decided to gire up the hospital at Stavordale finding it too great a worry and expense — had formed the intention of taking a flat or small house in London " early in the autumn." In London, they felt, they would be more in the middle of things. And that seemed necessary. The young man was well satisfied with the news. Rightly or wrongly, he interpreted it as a hint from Rosemary herself that she realised the looked-for moment was at hand. This straightforward piece of information, in fact, not only clarified his immediate plans, but stilled absolutely qualms or doubts as to the future. WJr OF REVELATION 155 CHAPTER IV The Baptism of Pain § I By the beginning of June Adrian Knoyle was sufficiently recovered to leave hospital, his Medical Board having awarded him ten weeks' sick leave without violent exercise. And from hospital he proceeded to London, en route for Ireland, where at the Cullinans' he purposed indulging in a couple of months' fishing amid peaceful surroundings. London he found rank, dusty, full of khaki and clamour. Everywhere — the war. In the streets, in the parks, in the clubs, in the theatres and the restaurants (which were almost too crowded to enter), in the shops and the railway stations, at dinner as at breakfast, in the day and the dark — always the war. A sense of stale depression, of recrimination and mis- giving, of morbid foreboding, indeed, seemed to harass all. It was not the London, at once hopeful and vehemently patriotic, he had left in January. That had been a London still savouring the victories of the Marne and of the First Battle of Ypres. This was a London still digesting the defeats of Neuve Chapelle and Festubert, the nightmare of the Second Ypres battle. Men shook their heads about the Dardanelles. The " shells scandal," bringing about the fall of the Liberal Cabinet, had shaken their faith in Government. Adrian, while taking little interest in politics, reacted in- stantly to this depression. Did he not know P Had he not seen the British dead lie thick at Neuve Chapelle ? And had he not read the newspaper accounts thereafter in which it was said the German fallen lay as five to one ? . . . Well, he at least 156 WAT OF REVELATION knew the fantastic falsity of that statement ; and he could read the same story between the lines of Eric's carefully-worded letters after Festubert. He at least recognised how far the newspaper public was being misled, how far the newspapers themselves were being gagged, if not hoodwinked. One thing above all depressed him. He began to realise what type of men they were who were " getting on with the war." §2 The very first thing he did on reaching London (after changing into plain clothes) was to visit Cyril Orde's hospital in Park Lane. He found his late company-commander huddled in a wheeled-chair out on the balcony ; it was a sunny after- noon. Yes, that stalwart figure had shrunk — into a mere bundle of clothes. And Orde, staring out over the greenish-blue tree-tops of the Park, did not see Adrian until the latter uttered his name. Then he turned abruptly, as though glad of the distraction, and a smile lit up his face. " Ah ! My dear Adrian — delighted to see you ! Very good of you to come ! I heard you were leaving hospital. Sit down and tell me all about yourself." Adrian took a chair beside him and was shocked by the changed expression of his face, so much thinner, sadder. It was the eyes that more than anything altered the face. No longer keen and alert as of old, they looked tired — and hopeless. Adrian, indeed, had difficulty in keeping emotion out of his voice and face — he who a few days before had reflected that the war could spring no more or greater surprises upon him. Orde spoke, however, in his old curt, incisive tones. WAT OF REVELATION 157 " I heard you were hit in the leg — or thigh, was it ? But I'm glad to see you've only got a limp. I'm, as you observe, a crock. No good to anybody and never will be again. Better out of the way altogether." " Don't say that, Cyril. Modern surgery works wonders." " But not miracles. . . . I'm paralysed, you know, paralysed from the waist downwards. . . . Oh, well ! One'll get through the days somehow, I suppose — and the nights. No more tennis, though ! " He laughed. Adrian murmured " Rotten luck," and tried to change the subject. He found Orde's laughter rather painful. " I heard from Eric the other day," he said. " You know, of course, he got a bit of shrapnel in that show. He's back with the battalion now." " Ah ! Eric. Back with the battalion, is he ? " Orde repeated the remark slowly, as though wishful of assimilating the infor- mation by degrees. "' I hope he'll take care of himself. A good boy, that." Orde bit a toothpick meditatively. Adrian said : " Lovely view you've got from here." " Yes, it's nice lookin' over the Park."' Then after a pause : " Reminds me sometimes of — do you remember ? — that week-end at Arden just at the outbreak of war . . . where we all met." Adrian assented, racking his brain to think of some means of keeping the conversation off that topic so natural, so living with recollections alike for Orde and himself. But it seemed as though the other was determined to go back to it. " Yes — and that was the last time I played tennis, wasn't it ? " " Let's see," Orde went on after a pause, " who was 158 WAT OF REVELATION there ? Yourself and Eric and all the Daventrys and — oh, yes ! that old buffer Freeman — and that appallin' wife of his. By the way, though, have you heard Freeman is to be one of our war-winners ? Freeman is to be a Cabinet Minister ! " " God forbid ! " " My dear chap, I assure you. . . . this is the kind of man who gets on — the kind of man who has all the stock phrases on the tip of his tongue — the beetle-browed, double- chinned bureaucrat who rolls out ' so far as present informa- tion indicates ' and * our future course must be guided by circumstances ' — and fights the bloody war with words while we're cannon-fodder for lack of shells. Seems to me their chief qualification for winnin' it is that they spend half their lives makin' themselves ' useful ' to whoever's in power, and the other half makin' money." He spoke with an emphasis surprising in one usually so self-contained, adding presently : " If one even felt they were out to win the blessed thing, but they're not, my dear chap. They're out to save their faces, to stick to office or get office, to please their wives, to bamboozle the country. . . . They're politicians first, last, and all the time. The war's a secondary thing ; the political game is the one consideration for the Freemans and all the Freeman kind. They spin webs of words while the country's spinnin' on the edge of an abyss." And after a further pause : " Why can't they leave the executive side to the soldiers and sailors ? Why can't they organise shell production and man- power at home instead of interferin' with the generals and the admirals at the front ? But no — it's words, words, words — and officemen and ex-lawyers and adventurers dodgin' and schemin' for power and place and kudos, while our pals get killed. . . . And they'll whitewash 'emselves. You see, they'll come out on top in the end — and P'estubert and Neuve WAT OF REVELATION 159 Chapelle and all these hellish casualties that might have been halved — they'll be forgotten." There was bitterness in these words. Orde, however, soon recovered his normal dry tones. " Taltin' of Arden, though, a friend of yours came to see me the other day — that pretty gal of Lady Cranford's. I must say I thought it devihsh nice of her — she's so like her mother who was no end of a beauty in her time — and she brought those gorgeous roses. Lady C. is apparently still up at Stavordale closin' or openin' a hospital or somethin'. She's an intelligent sort of woman, but it's a pity she lets that extremely good-lookin' daughter run about entirely on the loose. She brought along a chap I don't care for — that black-eyed cove who was at Arden — what's his name ? — Topham, or Upham, or something ? " Adrian sat up straight in his chair. Orde went quietly on : " Who do you think is nursin' here — nursin' me, in fact 1 Another of the Arden contingent — that extremely amiable Miss Ingleby — do you remember ? " As though in response to his remark the door opened and Sister Ingleby entered. She was the same as at Arden in every important particular — red-faced and rather plump, with kind, cheerful eyes and a suggestion of bygone good looks brought out of a cupboard. She shook hands warmly with Adrian, putting the conventional questions that the war inspired. Then she turned to her patient. " Captain Orde, there's a visitor for you — a surprise ! Another beautiful young lady — and more roses ! Aren't you a lucky fellow ? Will you see her ? " " Rather ! Show her up, please — whoever she is." Sister Ingleby trotted out. " Do you know, Adrian," Orde said solemnly, " that woman's an angel. She looks after me like a wife and a mother and a sister, all rolled into one. Upon i6o WAT OF REVELATION my soul, if I wasn't a crock for life I — I'd like to marry her ! " Adrian had risen to go, though his curiosity was aroused as to the identity of Orde's visitor. He was making for the door when Faith Daventry entered. She looked efficient in a blue serge V.A.D. uniform ; it suited her. " Adrian J " she exclaimed. " Well — what luck ! I am glad to see you. Ought you to be about like this, though ? I thought you were still on a bed of sickness." They went over to Orde and she shook hands, depositing a sheaf of roses on the table by his wheeled-chair. " From Arden," she said, " with mother's love and mine." Orde thanked her. " And now tell me all about yourselves, poor things." She turned to Adrian. " How is the limb — really I mean ? Well, you mustn't think you can run about on it yet, you know. Why didn't you come and be nursed by me ? ' Some * nurse, let me tell you. But firm — oh ! very firm. I stand no nonsense. I slap the ones in bed if they're tiresome, and the others quake before my tongue. You see, I'm Assistant Commandant ! " " I didn't know you took in officers," said Orde. " Well, we don't, as a matter of fact. Father and mother have firmly made up their minds that ' officers ' are not 'nice.' One might think they were a sort of savage alien race, what ? However, you see, we've not done with the Victorian Era. But of course, with old friends it's different. It would have been like old times, too, having you both there ! " " It does seem the devil of a time since that week-end," Orde ruminated. " I can hardly believe it ever happened — not sure it did, in fact. Weren't we just startin'a second set when ... or am I dreamin' ? " He had stopped, as though forcibly recalling himself to the WAT OF REVELATION i6i present. Sister Ingleby glanced at him, and from hin> meaningly to Faith. " How long are you up for ? " she asked. " Alas ! only till this evening. This evening I go back to * the daily round, the common task ' — not that it is really so very common. I love it. I never could have believed I ever could have liked nursing and housekeeping and things — before the war. I did them, but they bored me stiff. Do you know, they really are extraordinarily fascinating ! There's a sort of mysterious attraction about dressings and disinfectants and blanket-baths. I couldn't analyse it, but there it is. " And how are Lady Arden and ' his lordship ' f " inquired Adrian. " Oh, mother is very well. She wanders about — she's Commandant — I do the work. Can't you see I'm worn to a skeleton of my former self ? Look at my hands ! Look at my complexion ! Wouldn't they do credit to a kitchen- maid ? We're all so terrifically and tremendously efficient, you see ! ... As for father, he's at Clacton with his Yeomanry,, playing at being a soldier and damning and cursing every- body because they won't let him go to the front. Of course^ they won't ! But we've got an uncanny feeling he'll manage it somehow. He's so determined, so absolutely muHsh about some things, you know. He never comes near the hospital. He says the whole thing terrifies him and he can't stand seeing his drawing-rooms and library turned intO' dormitories. So one of us has to go off to ' classy Clacton ' every week-end." Adrian became aware of a duty unfulfilled while Faith was speaking. He thought of Eric's Prussian helmet. How should he broach the subject of Eric, in fact ? Or should he i*^ Or would she ? It struck him as a little strange that she had not done so already, but he decided that it would be tactless to mention the matter in public. He would wait till Faith) i62 WAT OF REVELATION departed and leave with her. This she did very soon, but not before she had confirmed Ordc's news about the Freemans. " Who do you think I met just now — our friend, Lady Freeman ! Gertie ! She was arrayed in broad black-and- white stripes and a hat that looked like a badly-folded envelope ■ — a simple creation from Paris ! She was perspiring profusely, and fell on my neck. And what do you think ? Sir Walter's in the new Government — ' got his portfolio,' she called it. . . . He's Minister for Something or to Somebody — I don't know what. She was radiant — she was triumphant — and made me a present of three Cabinet secrets straight off (under promise of perfect discretion) — but I've forgotten them." Orde gave a groan. Faith rose. " Good-bye, children," she said. " I must be going. I've to catch the 4.30 train, and a hundred thousand little fussy things to do before then. Au revoir I " Adrian joined Faith on the stairs. They were shown out with smiles by " nice, kind Miss Ingleby " — who wanted a vocation. § 3 As they walked down Park Lane, Faith said : " And how did you leave dear old Eric ? " The question came casually enough. " Slightly damaged but cheerful. He had a bit of shrapnel in the head and was stoutly refusing to be sent home. But that was three months ago. He went back to the battahon within a month." " Yes, I heard from him the other day." There was a pause and a note of concern in her voice when she spoke again. " But why — why didn't he come home ? " How should he answei the question ? Why had Eric refused to be sent home ? He siraplj' didn't know. He said he jupposed the doctors thought it was not a bad enough case. WAT OF REVELATION 163 " Faith, you know," he went on, taking her arm as they walked, " you may not have reahsed it — I confess I never did before Neuve Chapelle — but Eric is what they call a ' stout fellow.' It's a compliment. He is the youngest company- commander in our regiment — if that conveys anything to you. He's quite distressingly brave and that sort of thing. . . . War is a funny business. It's always springing surprises on you. Eric's one of them." Silence followed. They turned into the Park at Stanhope Gate. " And, by the way," he said presently, " I've got something for you — a Prussian helmet." She did not mistake that. She coloured. A look of under- standing came into her eyes and — more than understanding. " I see, Adrian," she said quietly. He knew then that he had done a good thing — and was glad. Yet something remained unsatisfied. Of one person Faith had not spoken. He wanted her to speak. But she had offered no remark, pubhc or private, upon a subject which she well knew meant everything to him. Should he speak ? He hesitated. The right word would not come. They strolled as far as the bandstand, then turned back to Hyde Park Corner and stopped under the clock. Faith teemed preoccupied ; a dead cold constraint settled upon Adrian. What had Orde meant about — Rosemary and Upton ? As Faith was in the very act of taking her leave he blurted out : " By the way, what about Rosie ? Have you seen anything of her ? " It was a poor attempt at ofT-handedness. Faith replied with an embarrassment she was far too ingenuous to conceal : " I saw her some time in March, dining at the Astoria with Gina Maryon and — some people. They were just going on to Giro's to dance." i64 WAl" OF REVELATION " Anybody I know ? " " Oh ! — two young men." He did not put the question that was on the tip of his tongue. " How was she ? " ''' She seemed — lively. . . . but I must run." They shook hands and went their ways. §4 Adrian's took him across St. James's Park — he avoided Picca- dilly — en route for the offices of Payne, Payne & Payne, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn Fields. He wanted to be alone. He felt con- fused and wanted a respite in which to pull himself together. He strode on, noticing neither the dirty children, the bits of newspaper blown about by the wind, the orange-peel and banana-skins, the squalid couples on seats, nor the dreary men and women lying about on the grass — all that sordid aspect of summer London which usually depressed him beyond words. He thought only of Rosemary and the information which Orde had imparted and which Faith's reticence had corro- borated — in fact magnified — to his suddenly inflamed mind. One thing was certain. There had been deception. And that was a wound in itself. And then this — yes — this reappearing, disquieting figure of Upton. . . . His mind travelled back to the Rodriguez' ball when he had first seen the two together, beyond that to the afternoon at Ascot, and so to the evening at Arden when by chance he had overheard their " Good- night, Harry," " Goodnight, Rosemary. Dormez. bien ! " In a letter from Rosemary written about the middle of March which he remembered receiving much later at Mrs. Clin- ton's hospital, she had said nothing about Upton, nothing about a dinner-party at the Astoria, nothing about stopping in London or seeing Gina. At the most she gave the impression of having WAT OF REVELATION 165 rushed down to London to do some shopping and rushed back to Stavordale because of the strenuous demands made upon her by the hospital. She had not exactly given the lie to what he now heard ; merely the impression left on his mind was entirely different. And one other fact pierced him. Rosemary must have received his letter written a few days before Neuve Chapelle, conveying clearly that he was about to go into action — she must have read the accounts of the battle — she may well have known (for it was early published in the newspapers) that he had been wounded. At that very moment she was dining in gay company at the Astoria, going on to dance. . . Egotistical it was of him perhaps, and unreasonable — but he cared. Was he jealous ? He did not excuse the fact or deny it or attempt to call it by any other name. There it was. He felt a disHke of Upton transcending any dislike he had felt of any- body or anything before. . . . For the rest — he did not know. Whether he had the right to resent Rosemary's apparent callousness, whether Rosemary really owed him anything of consideration or anxiety or interest, whether he had the right to expect her to deny herself the most trifling pleasure or amusement on his account — he did not, in his then condition, could not, judge. He only knew the fact as a fact ; that it hurt him more than anything had ever hurt him before — that his belief in Rosemary simply could not be the same again. . . . As he neared the Lake, mocking cries came to his ears, reminding him of that Arden, where he had first so greatly loved. i66 JFJ2^ OF REVELATION CHAPTER V A Duel a Trols § I Adrian Knoyle returned from Ireland in the first week of August. His first care was to visit his father's grave in Kensal Green Cemetery. And he was almost immediately summoned to attend his second Medical Board. A benevolent looking old gentleman wearing fince-nex and a white moustache decreed him two months' light duty, whereupon he rejoined the reserve battalion of his regiment at Aldershot. He was granted a further fortnight's leave and spent this in London ; he was glad to be back in the centre of life. The mountains of Mourne had been peaceful, beautiful, but dull. Physically and mentally the complete change of life and environment had done him a world of good. He felt once more aglow with zest and confidence. He even began to think again in general terms of the war which, swaying to this side and the other, rising in high tide and beating against the cliffs of victory and then falling back into the trough of disappointment and defeat, always impended and always darkened the horizon. He had heard from Eric, who had been home on leave. Eric had written once from Scotland, and once from London. "... I spent most of yesterday with old Faith. We went to a matinee and afterwards sat a long time in the Park watching the ducks go by. (Such ducks !) She behaved yen' nicely — so very nicely that I as nearly as possible com- WAT OF REVELATION 167 mitted myself to the second time of asking. But would this have been comme il faut as they say in Streatham. It's different for you. You fixed up your affairs before this in- fernal war. But when one is only home on ten days' leave I suppose one ought to ask oneself whether it's treating one's guardian angel respectably. You see the dear creature is so confoundedly high-principled about that hospital and me and all. In fact I feel inadequate. What do you think ? Anyway, I didn't. . . ." Adrian believed he had held the key to Eric's romance ever since his conversation with Faith. He was disappointed. And yet — was not Eric right ; Eric who had gone uncom- plainingly back to France ? And he, for his part, re-reading the letter, experienced the first conscious intimation of a duty to return — and that at the earliest possible moment — to the acute physical experiences wliich, he now frankly admitted to himself, he loathed. Debating these matters, he had moments of almost sinister misgiving. They were succeeded by periods of detached philosophical calm. He felt his own life to be in flux, he experienced the same sensation of loss of control that he had known in the small hours of the Fifth of August, 1914- Nothing was certain, nothing static except the fact that nothing could he static. The world was changing, the nations were changing, and — he was changing. Upon his return, the first person he ran into — in Harrods' Stores — was Gina Maryon. She was darting from one department to another, armed W'ith parcels, and amazingly attired in a pronounced sort of deshabille which resolved itself presently into gauzy black bespangled with golden fleur-de-lys, a gold girdle at the waist. On her head — flowing — was that which could have been 1 68 WJ2^ OF REVELATION mistaken for a widow's veil, only it was gold too. It streamed away behind so that mean people turned round and sniggered, while the merely virtuous said, " Good gracious ! " " Adrian ! " she exclaimed emphatically, seizing him hy both hands. " How rather wonderful to meet — to-day — now — ^just here ! " Still holding his hands, she gazed at him long and earnestly — as if trying to tell his future (he thought) by the colour of his eyes. It was evidently the latest thing. " And how is the poor lad ? Haven't they shot you or shelled you or something ? What a life ! . . . That hot week- ■end — do you remember \ — just this time last year. ... By the way, are you in love ? You've got that far-away look still — or is it the war ? . . . Come along ! I'm absolutely up to my €yes in things. Come and buy flowers with me ! I must have flowers. Can one live without flowers ? I'm selling socks for orphan babies this afternoon at Princes'. . . . Pinks, pansies, geraniums, buttercups, anything. But flowers ! " She rushed off in the wrong direction, and on his pointing out this, said suddenly, glancing sharply at him : " My dear, she's looking so pretty. I tell you, she's looking lovely. Properly dressed that girl would be a dream. Harry's infatuated. We've all lost our hearts. She has personality. She has charm. She's come on a lot. She only wants time. But she does not understand clothes. Helena Cranford's ideas are no use to her. I saw the ravishing creature on Tuesday night at Ciro's. We made up a party — Venetia Romane and Harry Upton — you remember him at Arden ? — and Venetia's cher ami — and a young Cornwallis in your regiment and Casavecchia from the Italian Embassy — such an amusing little person ! — and one or two others. We had the greatest fun. If only they wouldn't close the damned place at 12.30 ! . . . All the same London's a dreary amusement. I'm just about fed up with it. But you see I'm in love with Casavecchia and the Rosebud and all of them, so I can't possibly get away yet ! . . . WAT OF REVELATION 169 Will you really give me the gardenias ? How really truly sweet of you! . . , I've been away. I'm only just back, and on Saturday we're all going down in a herd to Stratford-on-Avon to get atmosphere for the Shakespeare tableaux Venetia's doing. Characters from Shakespeare, you know ; will you be one ? You'd make a good lago. It's coming off for rickety Belgians next month. You really must see my Juliet and bring everybody you can — don't you think it will suit me ? . . . Do you really mean to say you haven't seen your Rosemary yet ? Well, you're a poor sort of admirer. My dear, she's pining to see you. She was talking about you the other night. Ring her up at — let me see, I've got the number somewhere," — her hand dived into a black-and-gold be-tasselled bag — " Gerard 1 1 330 — that's it! They've taken a flat till they can get a house. You'll find ' the Countess ' more ' the Countess ' than ever." She laughed trebly. " Hi ! A taxi ! Thank you, my dear. Now I must rush, simply tear for my life. I'm having luncheon at Claridge's at one. It's a quarter to and I've got to go to a dressmaker and try on Lord knows how many beautiful garments, though they'll never be paid for. But it's in the cause of charity — which covers a multitude of sins, doesn't it ? We shall run into each other again though — sure to. And remember Juliet at His Majesty's on the 23rd. Au revoir, au revoir ! " She screamed the address to the driver and was gone. §3 Adrian walked to his club. He walked quickly, oblivious of all but one fact and one thought. Rosemary was in London, breathing the same air, living, moving, just round the corner, liable to be met at any moment, accessible, close ! Their correspondence during his stay in Ireland had been confined to two very ordinary letters. In addition to these he had written three very long ones — and torn them up. I70 fV^r OF REVELATION Well — Gina had said Rosemary was " pining " for him ! On reaching his club, he went to the telephone-box. His hand trembled as he took off the receiver. Would SHE answer ? " Gerrard 11330! " The waiting moments were trying. Twice he was given the wrong number. His heart thumped furiously, irrationally. Would she answer ? " Are you Gerrard 11330 ? " " No, we're the Gas and Coke Company." He could have laughed — had he been less angry. Interminable moments of waiting. Would Lady Cranford answer ? God forbid ! He hoped she might be out. If so, what next ? . . . He pulled himself together, schooled himself to speak in normal tones. At last there was a faint tick-tick at the other end and a maidservant's voice — obviously a maidservant's — said : " Who is it, please ? " " Is Lady Rosemary Meynell in ? " " No, her lad'ship's out. She's not expected back till this evening." "Will you. give her a message, please ? But no — er — just say Sir Adrian Knoyle rang up ! " A flash of intuition had indicated the safer course. He might have left a message. He might have said he would ring up later — perhaps he would ring up later. She knew his club would find him. The next move lay with her. . . . It was not by the first, but by the last post next day that he received a note in Rosemary's handwriting. The note ran : " 37, Grosvenor Mansions, "Thursday. "Mount Street, W. " My dear Adrian, " So glad to hear you're back. Do come to tea on fFJr OF REVELATION 171 Saturday. I'm looking forward ever so much to seeing you. "In wild haste, " Rosemary," What, he asked himself, did this brief communication imply ? That they were to be on a new footing .? That he had fallen in her estimation ? It was at once a challenge, a disappoint- ment, and a puzzle. Really it told him nothing. The few scribbled lines might mean anything. There was the evasive quality in her. u He knew no feelings of trepidation or anxiety, but only of overwhelming eagerness when two days later he ascended in the lift of the Mount Street flat. Somehow or another he had bluffed himself into a condition of high confidence. He had anticipated in much detail the forthcoming tete-a-tete, only hoping that Lady Cranford would not appear on the scene to interrupt it. He had in fact rehearsed the con- versation in advance, held half-a-dozen ready-made sentences in hand, enumerated half-a-dozen points of view to lay before her, a dozen or so memories to recall — or to revive. He wished, he intended, to straighten things out. Tact would be necessary, indulgence, restraint. He would not charge her with anything or refer in any way to Upton. He would ignore the whole subject of Upton. He would show her that he on his part after a year's absence was in no way changed, and that as a matter of course he assumed she was not. How rudely were these anticipations shattered ! The flat was not a large one, and when the housemaid opened the door the first thing he heard was a man's voice. Me caught a glimpse of Lady Cranford at the tea-table, then^ of Rosemary. Then he saw Upton. 172 WAT OF REVELATION Lady Cranford greeted him with a carefully adjusted smile, held out her hand as if she had been doing nothing else all her life and was tired of it, and said : " So glad to see you back. You know Mr. Upton, don't you ? " Adrian flickered an eyehd, Upton nodded. Rosemary held out her hand cordially. '" Hullo, Adrian ! How nice to see you again ! How's the damaged limb ? Sit you down if you can in this teeny room and have some tea and be comfortable." Her naturalness was — impenetrable. It was as if there had never been anything more — than that. His first glance had told him that something new, some new beauty of grace and height and contour had come to her in his absence. She was dressed in summery grey, she wore her string of pearls. Something firmer, more mature, more expressive had come into her face. A new colour, sur- passing delicate, had crept into her cheeks. He noticed these things, though after the first greeting he averted his eyes. And he noticed the rather commonplace little rose-pink and sky-blue drawing-room automatically, just as he remarked the challenging smile on Upton's unwholesome face. Upton wore a blue serge suit and a black bow tie. Adrian thought he looked like a professional musician or a Socialist Member of Parliament. He was almost blatantly " intellectual." The martial spirit had evidently not yet claimed him. So this was to be their tete-d-tete ! Adrian's chagrin was complete. He was dumbfounded at the girl's audacity. His blood boiled now against the one, now against the other. He felt that somehow he must cope with the situation, but his mind was in a turmoil. What did it all mean ? . . . He knew what it meant. It meant that Rosemary was asserting the independence he had freely given back to her, that she was dehberately issuing defiance. WAT OF REVELATION 173 " Here I am ! " she seemed to say, " Rosemary still — but not so easily captured ! If you want me, you'll have to win me all over again — see ? " The girl herself then had cold-bloodedly contrived this situ- ation ! And she was quite shamelessly enjoying it. She delighted in confronting these two who, she knew, detested each other. Well, she should enjoy it as little as he could contrive ! If only he had at his command the loud self-confidence of a Sir Walter Freeman, the imper- turbability of an Eric or an Orde, the blandness, however odious, of Upton himself ! He had not. He was as ingenuous as a child. Emotions flickered across his face with the infallibility of an index. He felt the tensity of the situation overmuch. §5 The conversation at first consisted of commonplaces. How had he fared at Mrs. Clinton's hospital ? What had he been doing in Ireland and how was his uncle. Sir Patrick ? Where was he quartered, and when was he going to rejoin his regiment ? Poor Captain Orde — had he seen him ? Had he heard of So-and-So's engagement and wasn't it dreadful about such-and-such an one being killed ? The hospital at Stavordale Castle ? Yes, it had been closed down — the methods or rather lack of methods of the War Office were more than she, Lady Cranford, could cope with. For he found himself drawn into exclusive conversation with her ladyship, who wanted to know the truth of the shell- shortage scare and our alleged gigantic losses on the Western Front. Would the Germans march on Petrograd after the fall of Warsaw, were the Russians completely done for ? And so forth. He found difficulty in concentrating his attention on matters, the interest of which was for him at the moment nil ; he kept catching snatches of Rosemary's and Upton's small 174 ^^^^^^ ^F REVELATION talk. He could not but feel, however, Lady Cranford's attraction as a listener, nor could he remain entirely oblivious to the compliment implied in her questioning. At length, tea being over, she rose, saying that she was going to lie down, as her custom was, before dressing for dinner. Thus the three were left alone. Adrian sat facing Upton. Upton sat at right angles to Rosemary. Rosemary occupied the sofa. The tea-table was between the three. From the first the two men stared across at each other with unconcealed hostihty. Upton would not meet Adrian's rather aggressive stare, but wore a half -defiant, half-triumphant smile as who should say : " I know all about you. Now then, a fair field and no favour ! You're no more to her than I am. Don't think I'm going to hand over the reins ! " How he detested the fellow ! And Rosemary — was judge and jury. Instinctively he knew that all the time she was watclung them, watching them out of her quick Httle eyes and alert brain, comparing them, weighing them up, judging between them, probably, nay, certainly laughing at them both. It was the role she had set herself to play. " When's the war going to end ? " she demanded. " A good many " " Personally, I don't think . . . beg pardon, Knoyle ! " Both men had begun to speak at once. Upton smiled ; so did Rosemary. " A good many soldiers say it will be a draw," pursued Adrian in a constrained voice. " Some have thought so all along. Of course, we've got enormous resources which I suppose are increasing every day, but the Boches are fighting on internal lines and the defence has a huge advantage nowadays. I don't see myself how we're ever to break through." He happened to have been reading an article by The Times Military Correspondent that morning. WAT OF REVELATION 175 " Good heavens ! Is that the effect Ireland has had on you ? " laughed Rosemary. " You're not fit yet — that's quite clear. You want sea-air and champagne ! What can we do for him, Harry ? " " My chief gives it a year," said Upton, without noticing her remarks. " The blockade will finish them by this time next year apart from anything else. They are getting short even of the bare necessities. They've absolutely no rubber, very little metal, and very little raw spirit, so I don't see where their equipment and ammunition are to come from. Then of course there's the food question " " As long as we aren't starved first," put in Rosemary. " You don't think that, do you, Harry ,? I'm so greedy, you know." Upton with a flourish offered jam sandwiches. Adrian, not to be outdone, handed the bread-and-butter. The competing plates collided. " Ah ! " she laughed. " Be careful ! Which shall I have ? Well — I can't resist jam sandwiches." She shot a smiling glance at Adrian, who winced. Everything about the fellow exasperated him. The large liquid eyes — that women found attractive. His faintly patronising, slightly affected, didactic way of talking. The sort of expressions he used such as "My chief." The undeniable precision of his point of view. " Look at the creatures we've got filling Government offices ! It's all very well talking about what may happen. As Cyril Orde says. . . ." He checked himself. He realised that he was verging on downright rudeness and appreciated the foolishness of it. Upton grinned malicious defiance, with a hint of impending triumph. Adrian changed his tone. " Oh ! well," he ended rather lamely, shrugging liis shoulders, " I suppose nobody knows much about it either way. I only hope you're right. We haven't heard what you think yet, Rosemary." 176 WAT OF REVELATION Rosemary laughed. " My dear, my opinions are at present discoloured by the atmosphere of the Countess of Cranford's hospital — a conca- tenation (is that the word ?) of chloroform, bismuth, disinfec- tant, steriliser and red tape from which I never expected to emerge alive ! We never had any time to think of how the war was going, we only saw the effects of it, which I thought disagreeable in the extreme. And mamma was terrible grim ! Mamma, you see, is efficient. She's the sort of person who enjoys the worst cases. Oh ! no more hospitals for me. Not this child ! I'm going to adopt a general — like Gina." " Or sell programmes for war-babies or * walk-on ' at charity matinees for rickety Belgians — what ? " xA.drian could not forego this chance cut at her whom he now regarded as his enemy. " Both of which Gina does ! " " Who is Gina's general, by the way ? I met her the other day but she never mentioned him." " Haven't you heard ? Oh ! But it was absurd. By dint of the sort of wire-pulling " (" or leg-pulling," Upton inter- posed) " at which she excels she got attached to this important personage in the capacity of chauffeuse. You know what she is. Well, she turned up an hour late the first morning and went to the wrong address the second. After that she was told she needn't appear again. In fact, a red-capped and gold- laced gentleman politely suggested she should try an aeroplane instead, which gets there quicker, he said, and can't take a wrong turning. Since when ... as you say ! " Rosemary and Upton laughed. Adrian murmured, " Typical ! " ■ The story irritated him as Gina's laugh did. It was typical of her. It was tiresome — and time-wasting. He suspected Rosemary had told it on purpose to annoy him. WJr OF REVELATION 177 And it only needed this to explain the change in Rosemary — that change which he had been trying to fathom ever since he entered the room. She was a Maryonite. In his absence, she had become a Modern Bohemian. Where were the old candour and simplicity, the ingenuous if sometimes mischievous look of earlier days f Now her face showed — well, self- consciousness. She was conscious of her charm as a woman — and a beautiful one — where he remembered her only a child of Nature. She was conscious of power. And she offered him a scented cigarette. §6 " I believe Adrian disapproves of Gina," she said, turning to Upton. " He's shocked at her behaviour, aren't you? " " Oh, no ! Not a bit " " You forget Knoyle has been fighting for his country ! " S'.eered Upton. " He takes life seriously." " I meant to cast no reflections on the lady," Adrian pro- tested. " Everybody says she's clever, which is irritating certainly. I've read the first edition of ' Rays.' P'rankly, I think it's rot. I'm going to see her as Juliet. But she's born out of due time, don't you think ? To me, she's an anachronism at this time of day." " A what ? Great Scott ! " " Well, I wondered how the war would take her. I mean," he finished up, falteringly, " the war — takes people different ways." " Well, if you ask me," laughed Upton, " I think it takes her to Giro's most nights of the week, don't you, Rosemary ? " Adrian stiffened. The other two exchanged glances. The girl said : " Well, don't look as if you disapproved, young man ! We don't mean any harm, do we, Harry ? What's the use of 178 WAT OF REVELATION sitting down and crying over the beastly war ? As Gina says, * It's a short life, so live it.' Come with us to Giro's on Sunday night and try one of Harry's new concoctions — what do you call the things, Harry ? — a ' horse's face,' or something very odd. I thought it horrible personally, but I'm sure it's just the thing to pull you together, m'lad." He felt fit to kill her — with his hate or his love, he could not have said which. They were in league, these two. They were laughing at him. He was outside their understanding — she made him feel that. He glanced at the little enamelled clock on the mantelpiece and saw that he had already been there over an hour. But he was determined not to give way. Upton showed no signs of going. He would not go till Upton did. He would not yield a minute or an inch. Quivering with anger as he was, he set his teeth, determined to see it through. An icy self-possession came to his rescue and he answered with apparent good-humour : " Can't — thanks awfully. It's the night I rejoin at Aldershot. But we must go there some other time — it's ages since we danced." They began talking plays. Had Adrian seen " Betty " ? Yes — and what an amusing show it was ! Upton remarked that he hadn't been to a musical comedy for live years. " No ? " murmured Rosemary. " Have you seen ' The Man who Stayed at Home ' ? " Upton met that thrust with a thin smile. Adrian's heart melted like an icicle in sunlight. Upton wasn't having it all his own way, anyhow. " Anything to get away from the war," she went on. " I'm sick of it. It interrupts everything — you can't escape. The papers are full of it and so are the theatres. Everybody you meet is a soldier. It's so much more distinguished, I think, to be a conscientious objector. . . . But, oh! lor', what fun one might have had in respectable times ! " WAT OF REVELATION 179 " Be charitable, my dear Rosemary ! " said Upton, with an expostulatory gesture. " Remember you're addressing one whose heart is in such a bad way, he may die of palpitations at any moment. Personally, I have no intention of joining the Army." Again Adrian thought amused glances passed between them. He was again hotly furious. Whoever or whatever the fellow referred to, it was an equally poor joke. Really the situation was becoming impossible. Everything seemed a blow aimed directly or indirectly at himself. The two of them were in league against him — the one he loved and the one he hated most. His subtlety in words was not equal to that of Rosemary and Upton singly, let alone combined. He felt at a hopeless disadvantage against them. Against her — so it had come to that ! He sat fast in his chair, nevertheless, facing them with set face and steady though mirthless eyes. He would sit on thus and let it come to an open rupture sooner than leave the field to his rival. At this moment the door opened and Lady Cranford entered, handsome in a black evening gown. " I don't want to interrupt the conversation," she said, " but do you realise, Rosemary, that you're dining at half-past seven and it's already a quarter-past ? " " Goodness gracious, yes ! We're going to the play. I clean forgot. We've had such an amusing conversation. Now I'm afraid I must turn you both out. Good-bye, Harry ! Sunday night, 8.30 at Giro's — don't forget ! " She turned to Adrian and it flashed oddly through his mind that this was the last time he would see her. But he was determined to betray no emotion. Upton was taking farewell of Lady Cranford with his back to them. Rosemary was smiling. He held out his hand. " Good-bye, Rosemary.'" i8o WAT OF REVELATION For a long second her fingers touched his. Through those baffling eyes flickered — the merest flicker — the simple expres- sion, at once friendly and affectionate and charming, of the Rosemary he had known at Arden. She only said : " Good-bye. Come again." But it was enough to make him feel that he had found after all what he had been groping for through twelve eventful months. As he walked down Park Lane (having curtly discarded Upton) he arrived at that reflection which comes to every lover sooner or later — regarding the contrariness of woman, the evasive quality in woman, the psychological apartness of woman, by man never reckonably to be understood. WAT OF REVELATION i8i CHAPTER VI The Triumph § I A WEEK later the young man again found himself ascending in the lift of the Grosvenor Mansions flats. His features were pah, he looked tired. During the week he had slept little, eaten little, seen nobody, and spent most of his time wandering about the streets and parks. Two notes, one of which still lay in his pocket, helped to explain this condition. The first ran : " Sunday. " 175, Eaton Square, S.W. " Dear Rosemary, " When I came to tea yesterday, I thought it was under- stood we were going to talk over the agreement we came to this time last year. " Instead I found you with that chap Upton, whom, as you know, I dislike. If you want to forget everything that happened a year ago, for goodness' sake say so and there's an end of it. But be frank and let's understand each other as we always used to. Adrian." The answer came three days later : « w A A " 37j Grosvenor Mansions, e nes ay. "Mount Street, W. My dear Adrian, " Of course I don't want to forget anything. But don't be silly about Harry, who's a dear. Come in and cheer me up at tea-time on Friday as I shall be all alone. Love. " Rosemary." i82 WAT OF REVELATION Thus it came about that Adrian's state of mind eddied hke a cork upon successive waves of hope, disappointment, exasperation, love, jealousy, and profound bewilderment. He could no more form a conclusion in relation to Rosemary than a year ago he could have been persuaded that she would ever be the cause to him of such mental torture and confusion. He repeatedly recalled the night of the Rodriguez ball when it had all begun. He remembered the halo of self-satisfaction, elation, and bland optimism with which he had surrounded himself as he walked homeward in the summer dawn. He would have laughed then at the very suggestion that any woman — least of all, Rosemary — could have so disordered his life ! How confidently, how smoothly, and with what un- restrained enthusiasm he had looked to the future then ! xA.nd now — doubt, disillusion, if not debacle. In the back- ground of it all — the war. Moreover, the philosophy, the composure that had carried him through his first war experiences seemed to forsake him in face of this merely emotional situation. §2 As he entered the little drawing-room, he caught sight of Rosemary's profile against the window and was amazed, in spite of himself, by its beauty : the small head on the slender neck, the hair drawn back by the blue ribbon that made a band across the forehead, the features matchless in delicacy of outline. When she spoke he was conscious afresh of the charm of her voice and of her laugh, of her careless graceful manner that so perfectly expressed her attitude to life. He resolved to go straight to the point. She perceived tl e strained unhappy look in his face and smiled amiably, though in the smile was a touch of — defiance ? " Rosemary," he began abruptly after they had exchanged a few words as to their respective doings since the last meeting, WAT OF REVELATION 183 " what's the matter ? Something's happened. We've got ofi the rails." " Really ! " she laughed. " Have we ? Where do yon get your low expressions, may I ask ? Oft the rails ! What does he mean f Explain yourself ! " " Well, it's no good fooling. You know perfectly well what I mean. Things aren't the same as — as when we last saw each other. You're — somehow — changed. I'm not, you see, and . . . it's difficult." " My dear, worthy goose, don't look so tragic ! Of course, I've changed. You've changed. Mamma's changed (for the worse !) We've all changed. Everybody changes in a year — especially with the war and the price of everything. Our tempers get short. But you can't say I've changed to you because I haven't. . . . And now tell me all about the battles." " Oh ! damn the battles ! " Adrian saw clearly that he would have to make the whole of the running. " I didn't come to talk about them. You have changed to me and I want to know why." " It's the other way about, I think," she rephed. " You^ve changed. You seem to have become a very serious young man all sudden-like. You never had that far-away look when I knew you — not even on Sunday in a punt ! Laugh ! Smile ! Don't look so glum ! Why this tragi-comedy Hamlet-and- Romeo air ? Will tea do you any good, or would you prefer some of the ancestral cherry-brandy, or shall I produce the remains of a bottle of champagne ? What on earth's the matter ? " He stared at the carpet. " Are you in love, by chance ? " she inquired demurely. " Oh ! hang it, my dear Rosemary ! You get more like Gina Maryon every day ! " " Well ? " " WeU," he broke out angrily. " It's a confounded pity. i84 WAT OF REVELATION It's a great mistake ! Why can't you be yourself ? I can feel the change in you. Good God, how different you were a year ago ! Don't think I'm losing my temper — but what a pity it is ! Do you ever see anything of Faith now, do you ever write a line to Eric ? Look at this " — he picked up a book, whose cover rayed orange and silver from a gold centre. " ' Rays ' by Gina Maryon, Venetia Romane, Harold Upton, etc. Now, who would have seen that on a table of yours a year ago ? Why, you'd have laughed the thing out of existence ! I don't want to be disagreeable, but can't you see it's the most hectic tommy-rot ever printed and paid for ? I can just imagine Gina ' educating you up to it ! ' . . . Why do you run about with all that Maryon crowd, why not stick to old friends like Eric and Faith and people of your own sort ? " " Like yourself, you mean 1 " she put in — sarcastically. " Yes, and me, if you like. You were born to a different side of life, a different world altogether. You'll finish up by living with professional comedians and amateur poets, coming down to dinner in a green dressing-gown with gold splodges on it, soaking yourself in cocktails and brandies-and-sodas, discussing your emotions as if — they were somebody else's, and ... all that sort of thing. Well, I only hope I shan't live to see it ! " A sort of desperation seized him. " What's the matter with the boy ! Why this sudden out- burst of — what do they call it ? — vit-up-er-ation ? What have I done to provoke such a sermon — poor little me ! " But she, too, had a temper. A hard minxish look had come into her eyes. " I must say you're extraordinarily polite to Gina who happens to be my very greatest friend — not excepting Faith. Of course I'm very fond of old Faith, too — we all know she's a good sort and all that — but I can't see so much of her now because she's buried in the hospital and you know as well as I do she has nothing like the brilliance and charm JTJr OF REVELATION 185 and talents of Gina. Everybody loves Gina — ^you can't help it. If some people would try and understand ' Rays ' instead of abusing it, they might become quite intelligent in time." " I don't mean Gina only. I mean the whole crew of them — poets and comedians and Jews and foreigners and all. They may be amusing, but they're not your lot — they're not the people you were born to. You're infatuated with them, I can see, and they're spoiling you as they've spoilt lots of other people. Nobody comes to any good who's taken up by Gina Maryon. It's notorious. And as for your friend Upton " Adrian paused ; he had spoken very fast as if afraid of forgetting what he had to say. " Ah ! I thought that was at the bottom of it," she ex- claimed vindictively. " So that's what you've been driving at all this time and never succeeded in getting out ! ' My friend Upton ' — as you call him. Well I may as well tell you, Adrian, Harry is a friend of mine and a jolly good one. I know you're prejudiced against him — lots of people are. . . . Why ? Just tell me one sound, sensible reason. Why ? " " It isn't only Upton, it's — all of them. I don't want to begin personaHties, but they're a rotten lot — especially the men. They're decadent and superficial and artificial. Com- pare Upton with Eric or Gina with Faith ! They're — unwholesome. And they aren't even happy. I've seen Gina in the undressing-room with the paint sluiced off and the joy-rags torn to ribbons ; you've only seen her on the stage with the limeUght and the footUghts on. She's what novelists and newspapers call ' ultra-modern.' She's the precocious child of the next century. Why not stick to the present one ? " " What you really want is that I should give up being friends with Harry." Silence fell between them. Each felt that the turning-point 1 86 WAT OF REVELATION had been reached. After all they understood each other so well. . . . Adrian's face had grown firm and set. Rosemary's, by turns angry and mischievous, now wore the expression of a kitten playing with its first mouse." Presently he said : " Very well, put it that way if you Hke. But I can be frank, too. I come to you humbly enough to ask whether you mean to stick to the understanding we agreed upon a year ago, or — whether you want it washed out. You remember the two conditions ? I needn't mention them. Your mother made them. I can only say I'm equal to them now. I don't come to claim you. I agreed to our egagement being broken off. I only ask you to look the thing fair and square in the"tace. You stand up for Uptoa.and ask me what I've got against him ! I've told you already I dislike him personally. You can't marry both of us. It's got to be one or the other. And you've got to choose. If it's to be him, I go — here and now. If me, he's got to fade away — for keeps. . . . That's the case in a nutshell." A flush had risen in Rosemary's cheeks and her eyes were very bright. " Things have changed," she said. " Things ! " he exclaimed bitterly. " Yes — and people. But I haven't. I'm just the same. I tell you straight you've been in my mind every hour of every day for over a year. You've been a part of myself. You've been the mainspring of my life. I've never been without you ; till the last few weeks I've never doubted you. You're as much to me now a§ you were on that Sunday evening at Arden — under the willows in the punt. It's just because you mean so much to me — everything in fact worth living for — that I say we've got to come to a decision here and now. Time won't wait. Things can't go on like this. Uncertainty's impossible to anyone who feels as I feel. She saw that he was in earnest, that he was- suflFering — \ WAT OF REFELA7I0N 187 and liked him for it. A queer little smile played about her lips. Adrian did not obserj^e this, but gazed unhappily out of the window, away over the chimney-pots into the blue sky. Only a convulsive gripping of the hands that clasped liis crossed knee betrayed him. When Rosemary spoke, it was in a hard level voice : " I can't give up Harry. That's too much. . . . Besides, why should I ? He's a great friend of mine — nothing more than a friend. He's never been what you've been to me, Adrian. But — I can't give him up. It's selfish of you to ask me to. He's never said a word against you. Why can't we go on without quarrelling about each other's friends ? I'm- very, very fond of you, but — njp, I can't simply wash out Harry." Adrian rose. " Very well," he said quietly and firmly, though blank misery spoke in his eyes. " Good-bye, Rosemary. It's time I was off." He went towards the door. She looked up. " Sit down ! "_ she commanded. " Don't be so impulsive ! Let's think the matter over calmly and decide in a few weeks' time. Nothing could be more foolish than to rush into things of this sort — or out of them. I may have changed in the last year.'^I've gained experience, you see." She spoke with a childish sagacity that would have struck him as amusing had the situation been other than it was. " There's plenty of time " " There's not plenty of time," he broke in, taking one or two turns up and down the httle drawing-room. A photo- graph ofjArden in the full-dress uniform of his old regiment stared liim in the face and recalled memories that he would sooner have forgotten/ All the will in him was concentrated on controlling and crushing the weakness th^t surged up in him — the lodging, the passionate longing to take her in hi« 1 88 WAT OF REVELATION arms ; to preserve her from a world that would seize her and soil her and make her suffer ; to take her to him for loving, for cherishing, for protecting — from herself. But he only said : " There's not plenty of time — any more than there's room for — anyone else. I may be selfish. I don't know. I know that I care for you more than anybody or anything I have ever cared for, can ever care for on this earth. I know that I can't and won't share you with any mortal soul. I know that every moment of uncertainty is an agony and that a year's waiting is more than long enough. You've not been frank with me. You neither tell me nor even hint to me of your — friend- ship with this person until I come to ask you to carry out your part of our agreement — then you fling him in my face. . . . No, Rosemary, you've not been straight with me." " Well, then, I'll be straight with you now ! " she cried in anger. " I'll be straight with you now ! I can't give up Harry as a friend. What's more, I won't. You're asking too much. You're utterly unreasonable ! I'll make no conditions whatever ! " In that moment he feared for her as never before. Without a word he held out his hand. She took no notice, but gazed obstinately out of the window. Sounds of the evening streets came up to them — cries of children at play in the nearby mews, hoots of motor-cars, a distant rumble of motor omnibuses in Park Lane. Adrian went to the door. '' Good-bye, Rosemary." Her face was bent away from him and he could not see the sudden look of fear that flitted through the resentful expression of her eyes. But as he turned she moved her head and looked up over her shoulder at him with an expression that he well knew. She walked dehberately to the sofa and sat down. " Silly — old — thing," she murmured, her voice suddenly quiet. ffjr OF REVELATION 189 His face was still stern and utterly unhappy ; he paused, fingers on the door-handle. " Come here ! " she said softly. " Come here ! " He hesitated, fumbled with the door-handle, looked at her — moved back into the middle of the room. She half-sat, half-reclined in a corner of the sofa. " Silly — old — fool," she murmured almost inaudibly. Her impudent chin, her eyes dancing up at liim, her lips roundly pressed together, her gossamer hair, her damnable charm — drew him. . . . drew him. Very late that night Rosemary Meynell sat at her writing- table in the little pink and blue drawing-room that so exactly resembled a score of other little drawing-rooms in the West End of London. She was all alone in the flat. Lady Cranford had not yet returned from the play. A shaded electric lamp cast a rose- pink glow on her features. Seen thus, it was a face so full of possibility and charm that it could neither be ignored nor forgotten, but seemed bound to play a more than ordinarily active part in the fortunes of men and women. It wore at this moment a troubled expression. With long pauses, with much and deep reflection — and an occasional sigh — she was writing a letter. " It's no good," she wrote, " it's no good a woman thinking she can equally care for two people at the same time. Until to-day I thought " love " and friendship could travel side by side. They can't. Sooner or later one or the other's got to go. It's a question either of a big loss or a big smash. I don't understand myself, Harry, as I've often told you. I seem to be two different people* rolled into one — since I got to know Gina and you. I've thought the whole thing over calmly to-night and I realise (90 WAT OF RE F ELATION that I must go back to my true self — the original one. The other, though it's part of me, seems to be only kind of grafted on. I've loved my time with you all — too much. If I had cared for you less, it could have gone on with the other thing. But — it's meant too much. " And so I said — quite voluntrarly (sic) because I see it's for the best, in fact the only possible thing, seeing what we've been to each other the last few months — I said we'd each go our own way and that except by acident (sic) we wouldn't meet for a very long time. I tell you frankly I hesitated, but to-night I seem to see plainly which way my future Hes and that apart from obligations I ought to be true to what I believe is my real self. *' I have given my word, Harry, that we won't meet again." She paused, fell into reverie, and murmured to herself : '' Yes — Adrian was right. They're not my people. They're amusing, exciting, attractive — p'raps I could have become one of them in time. Perhaps. . . . They're Uke fireflies, dragonflies, butterflies, shooting-stars — different every time you see them. So am I in a way ! That's where we're on common ground. ... At times they're wonderful — then maddening. . . . Harry's a wonderful lover — Adrian's clumsy. Harry can — express things. Adrian's always an Englishman — and always the same. . . . How funny they were together ! Why zvill Harry wear black bow-ties, stick-up collars, and say ' Excuse me ' when he gets up to go ? That's when he's maddening. . . . Sometimes wonderful with his big dreaming eyes and way of saying things and — sometimes just a clever little clerk. Adrian's — liimself, with something thrown in since Arden. I think I like him better than then. We were a boy and a girl then. Now he's a man and I . . . feel very much a woman." WAT OF REVELATION 191 §3 The Yale lock on the outer door clicked and Lady Cranford entered, handsome and young-looking in a dark gown and a diamond. " Well, child, writing letters at this hour ? You look tired ! Go to bed. . . . We went to ' Peg o' my Heart.' It's Irish and attractive and " " Mamma ! " Rosemary interrupted. " Yes, darUng ? " " I'm engaged. Lady Cranford said nothing while she took off her cloak, nor did she betray the slightest sign of having heard. Then : " Who to, darhng ? " "Adrian Knoyle." Another pause during which in front of a mirror the majestic lady appeared to be much occupied with the small ornament in her hair. " Oh, well, he's an old friend, isn't he ? Let's talk it over in the morning. Come and kiss me." Cold and imperturbable as marble. Lady Cranford allowed herself to be kissed. It was her way. Rosemary sent out her maid to post a letter. Mother and daughter went to bed. 192 WJT OF REVELATION CHAPTER VII The Dream § I Upon the expiration of his leave, Knoyle rejoined the reserve battalion of his regiment at Aldershot and found himself back in an atmosphere that had ceased to be famihar — an atmosphere four-square consisting ot corrugated iron and wooden huts, dusty parade-grounds worn bare of grass, "orders," " duties," and " shop." War, women, work, and whisky were the staple topics of conversation in that " C " Mess whose atmosphere was as prosaic and hide-bound as the standard corrugated iron erection which housed it. During the morning, and an hour in the aft";rnoon, everybody was on parade. Everybody went to sleep over the newspaper in the ante-room after luncheon ; it was a tradition to read the Winning Post after tea. After tea, too, most of the young officers played lawn tennis, or by some means, equally mysterious to the licensing authorities as to the ordinary foot passenger, diihed about in small motor-cars. Every Friday and Saturday afternoon, there was a general exodus in the direction of London, while during the small hours of every Monday morning a really surprising number of arrivals might be noted at the gate of the camp. Lieutenant Knoyle was invariably one of these. A certain proportion of the officers were confined to camp by routine duties each week-end ; he was never one of these. For to Adrian's surprise and great convenience he found himself a person of some consequence on rejoining. Many had joined subsequent to himself and were still joining ; most of the younger regular WAT OF REVELATION 193 officers bad been killed, incapacitated, or were " on the Staff " ; his own contemporaries were mainly in France or in hospital. And so he found himself a senior subaltern. The incidence of which was that he also found himself in a position to " arrange " a large proportion of camp duties. Never one minute more than he could help did he spend in the unromantic atmosphere of Aldershot. The fact was he hardly noticed Aldershot. It passed him by as things pass by a man dreaming ; and the latter part of that August and the whole of that September were for him a dream. At Aldershot, he was an automaton ; it was in London that his pulse throbbed and his heart beat. Practical considerations he could not deal with ; he thrust them aside or just left them alone. And the time-honoured firm of Payne, Payne and Payne, solicitors, had bitter cause for com- plaint, their name triply expressing their feelings. Adrian was engaged to Rosemary, firmly, boldly engaged ; this was all that mattered. Rosemary was the world and the world was Rosemary. He knew nothing of the war (except when Eric Sinclair wrote), and until these matters were forced upon his attention had not the remotest idea that Warsaw had fallen, that there had been an " affair " in the Baltic, and that the guns were thundering with ever greater intensity along the Western Front. All he was conscious of were the long London week-ends frequently extended to Monday evening, the occasional evenings snatched (on the French system), the thirst and ardour of his renewed approaches to the drawing-room in Grosvenor Mansions. Lady Cranford was tactful and rarely appeared, or was busy and, safeguarding the proprieties, glad to have her self-willed daughter off her hands. So the couple led a hectic life. They were never still. The love that had sprung up again between them, like an uncertain flame, fanned itself and seemed now to all but consume them. Their movements were erratic — but always movements. They enjoyed no peace as at Arden 194 WAT OF REVELATION and knew nothing of Arden's spaciousness or calm entrance- ment. Something new and turgid — something integral to the war and to the time — had entered their love-making, as indeed it had entered into the lives of all. Adrian would have been for sitting still. His content was to spend happy hours a deux in the little drawing-room between tea and dinner. But no ! Rosemary would allow this only after all other experiences had been exhausted. Thus a great deal of their time was spent in taxicabs, in rushing from one place of amusement to another, in frequenting the gardens of Ranelagh and Hurlingham. They played a great deal of lawn tennis. On Sundays they often went on the river at Maidenhead or Shiplake. They went to the play and danced — Lady Cranford unvocally disapproving. Twice a week Rosemary worked at a canteen. By force of circumstances, the dictum had come to prevail in high circles that " nothing matters in war-time." The old conventions had (almost without exception) fallen into desuetude — not, it is true, with the formal sanction of such confirmed Victorians as Ladies Cranford and Doncaster who entirely disapproved of young people going about in couples ; but because these ladies could no longer practically resist the new customs that the new set of circumstances had ordained. Nor were the lovers always together. They were often accompanied by one or other of the Miss Kenelms, who gave no trouble, but on the other hand a cachet of respect- ability, and who carried on a mild spangle with a young brother-officer of Adrian's, Arthur Cornwallis by name — a dreamy youth lately from Oxford. Once, and once only, they ran into Harold Upton. It was at the Dover Street tube station. He had blossomed into the uniform of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve and if they had not run straight into him, would have passed unrecognised. He shook hands with Rosemary- who said : " Whence this vision in blue-and-gold ? " WAT OF REVELATION 195 Adrian thought he detected a momentary self-consciousness. " I operate searchlights on the roof of the Admiralty. You must come and see them working, Rosemary." His voice and manner bespoke a certain defiance. He ignored Adrian after one swift glance in the latter's direction. " Are you still at the Home Office ? " " Yes, but I'm a half-timer. I've a weak heart, you know. At present we're busy bringing out a second edition oi ' Rays.' In fact, I'm just off to see Gina about it now. By-bye ! " The couple walked home silently. §2 Lady Cranford showed complaisance about the projected marriage since she was assured by the majority of her acquaintance that Adrian Knoyle was a " possible " young man and that, considering the dark circumstances of the time and its still darker prospects, Rosemary might have done worse for herself. Lady Cranford's common sense affirmed the same view and she put no impediment in the young people's way. Her peculiar pride spoke differently. She had more than one conversation with Lady Doncaster on the subject : " Of course, he's quite a nice sort of boy, Carrie, and all that — I've nothing against him. There's five thousand a year and a place, but — I don't know — when one thinks of the chances that gal's had ! One has to think of practical considerations, especially in these times — nobody knows that better than you and Doncaster ! — and what money he's got is in land. That young Upton in the Home Office, who wanted to marry her, though one doesn't know much about him, is extremely well off, clever, I think, and very agreeable, but there seems to have been some previous understanding 196 WJr OF REVELATION over my head with the Knoyle boy. As you know, I put a stop to it once." " The gal might have done better for herself," Lady Doncaster declared, pouring out tea. " On the other hand she might have done worse. She's just as pretty as she can be and, of course — though Margaret Knoyle is a dear, I've known her all my life — the Knoyle side is really not very interesting and five thousand with a place to keep up is nothing in these days. However, if they're fond of each other " " Oh ! there's nothing more to be said. It would be useless for me to say anything. I should like them at any rate to wait. But you know what Rosemary is, you know what all the gals of the present day are — one can't say a word to 'em. . . . Yes — I do feel she's wasted. There she was all last summer, as pretty and well-dressed as any gal in London, with every chance in the world and crowds of very presentable young men hanging about. . . . She could have married Fotheringay — so nice, though a bit wild — but no ! she insisted on going her own way and choosing her own friends. . . . All these children — I don't know, we're old-fashioned I'm always being told, but " " It's no use worrying, my dear. They will know better — until a couple of years after and then . . . weeping and gnashing of teeth, followed by the Divorce Court. Edward and Mary Arden are exceptionally lucky, of course. Faith, I think, is thoroughly sensible, not at all your ' gal of the period,' and will soon make up her mind to marry that nice young Sinclair who comes into all the Craigcleuch property. There's plenty of money, and I believe he's done so well in France." §3 Lady Cranford's consent having been won and there being no obvious impediment, the wedding was arranged for the middle of October. Owing to the war and Sir Charles WJr OF REVELATION 197 Knoyle's recent death, it was to take place as quietly as possible in Yorkshire, with no public announcement until a week or so before the event. Lady Cranford described it to her friends as " a hole-and-corner affair." Meanwhile time was passing, and that month of September, 1 91 5, was not as other Septembers in London. Such an aitumn had never been known. London was full of people instead of being, as in happier days, utterly deserted. Whence and why they came none could say. The fashionable streets and more especially the resorts of pleasure were full to over- flowing, and if superficially life seemed to be more careless, more intense, more abandoned even than in peace-time, there might yet be found a very short distance below the surface, consuming anxiety, suspense, and mental torture. Upon the public conscience still, in the public mind lay the tragedies of Neuve Chapelle, of the Second Battle of Ypres, of Festubert, and the opening phases of the Dardanelles campaign. In the East, the Russians were everywhere retreating. The grey tide of the German armies seemed to be surging forward East and West. And it was as though Doom daily, nightly, hourly and invisibly crept nearer to London itself. Adrian and Rosemary sitting at the open window of the Grosvenor Mansions fiat, could sometimes hear the sound of the guns in Northern France. It was usually after dinner when that quarter of the city is comparatively quiet, only an occasional motor omnibus lumbering past at the street's end. " Listen ! " he would whisper. And she would bend her head. The low muttering seemed to come from the south-west. " Funny, isn't it ? " She would squeeze his hand. " Oh, Adrian ! " she murmured, " I don't know — there's something awful and warning in it. . . . Please, please — you must never go back there ! " 198 JFJT OF REVELATION And he would laugh if in the mood, or — kiss her gravely and tenderly ; or, again, leading her to the piano, would insist upon her singing that snatch of the Apache ditty which she had sung at Arden : " C'est la valse brune Des chevaliers de la lune, Que la lumiere importune, Et qui recherclient un coin noir." " It's a queer little thing, that," he would say. " It will always remind me of Arden and our love." §4 There was a night when, coming out of a theatre in Shaftes- bury Arenue, they found hurrying crowds, people gazing upwards, and a saffron glow in the eastern sky. There were detonations. A man's voice said : " Can you hear it ? " And another : " No, I think it's passed away," All around people were calling out : " Look at the sky ! Look at the sky ! " — but remained at gaze regardless of danger. Was it lack of imagination or a sort of dumb surprise, he wondered ? For Adrian, that night was a revelation of mob-psychology. And the lurid eastward glow, throwing into relief the chimney stacks and church steeples, the bold stone pinnacles and lofty projections above the city ; the dim, hurr}'ing or watching crowds beneath, whose faces were pallid, some with fear and some vvith excitement ; the clangour of the racing fire-engines, the occasional violent explosions near and far, the unearthly droning of aeroplanes in darkness overhead, the mysterious frenzy and confusion of it all — these presented to the young man's imagination a spectacle more tremendous and more awe-inspiring than anything he had seen before. WAT OF REVELATION 199 It seemed to him then as though some Judgment, great and terrible — for all its sins and shames, for all that city's wrongs and self-inflicted woes — impended above himself, above her beside him, above the generality of mankind. Rosemary clung to his arm in these moments, thrilled and wondering not less than he. And in these moments they lived. He pushed her into a taxicab before half-a-dozen other struggling people and ordered the driver to Grosvenor Mansions. As they slowed down to cross Piccadilly Circus, an hysterical woman tried to climb in. Only then was Rosemary frightened. When they reached home she insisted on changing into a tweed coat and skirt and going off to the City where the fire was raging. . . . When they reached home again, dawn had come. During all those September days while the artillery duel grew fiercer and fiercer on the Western Front, and from one club to another, from one little forum to another the know- alls ran with their ill-founded tidings — these two lired on in their dream. 200 WAT OF REVELATION CHAPTER VIII The Awakening § I The Battle of Loos broke upon the world on Sunday, Septem- ber 25th, 191 5. Four days later Adrian's Commanding Officer sent for all officers to the Orderly Room. " I've brought you here to tell you that during the present fighting, I'm sorry to say, our battalions have lost very heavily, especially in officers. It will be necessary to send out a big draft at once with another to follow, and I want every officer who is fit, to get ready to proceed overseas at once, and those who are not passed fit to go before Medical Boards as soon as possible with a view to being so. Please give your medical histories and categories to the Adjutant. There will be no leave of any kind until further orders. Company-commanders, get to work on your drafts at once." That was a rude awakening for Adrian. He realised with a jolt that he had not finished with the war, that, on the contrary, the war lay in wait to claim him and use him and engulf him. He fell heavily out of his trance into an unthinkable dilemma. Yet as a fact the moment his Commanding Officer had spoken he had seen his duty outlined before liim straight as a broad white road — clear-cut and perfectly plain. In that same moment something clutched desperately at him. It was not the voice of Rosemary, though that he heard, too ; it was not the mortal fear of losing her at the last that gripped him, it was not the other prime emotion of his life, his love for Eric Sinclair, who might now be lying wounded — or might be dead ; WAY OF REVELATION 201 it was not the sudden shattering of his dream though, God knew, that hurt ; nor was it the smaller though none the less bitter thing that liis cherished week-end was lost — perhaps his last. It was a fear g. eater than these. He felt like a man who has given his word not to escape and who sees his prison door ajar. It could be done. It was so easy. It could be done without an effort. He had not to pretend, he had not to act, he need only remain passive. . . . He knew Medical Boards. They did everything by routine. He had had a couple of months' light duty ; they would give him a month's home service — probably more. He had only to produce his medical history sheet, answer one or two questions, and — sit still. Yet it could not be done. He knew it could not be done the moment he thought of Eric, of Eric's attitude, scornful of home and resolute after Neuve Chapelle, of Eric at Festubert unscathed, undaunted, and still determined, of Eric serving long months in the trenches at Bois Grenier, and La Bassee, of Eric leaving Faith — a free woman ; of Eric in this mighty battle now. He simply could not shut his eyes to these things. There were forty-eight hours in which to decide, forty- eight hours in which to decide whether he should state liis case and remain true to Eric, true to himself, or, clinging to Rosemary — remain silent. After he had sent a telegram and written a letter to this little tyrant of his, there was no more to be done. He saw that he must fight the thing out alone. He threw himself into the work of inspecting kits, emergency rations, boots and what-not, but aU he did was mechanical. He could not concentrate. It was as though suddenly in the midst of an idle meandering he stood con- fronted by a fateful parting of ways. His instinct, of course, was to evade decision. He longed to turn his back on the alternative, to let somebody or something or circumstances decide for liim. Yet he could not do that 202 WAT OF REVELA7I0N either ; the alternatives were too clear-cut. And ever and again came the little voice whispering in his ear of the wedding that would have to be put off — till when ? But no ! why should he visualise that ? The voice whispered, too, of the futility and unreason of the course he proposed, of the course that was reasonable and sensible, straightforward quite, and demanding neither evasion nor pretence. It whispered of the fantastic character of his sentiment towards Eric — what would Eric expect him to do ? To come out as soon as he was sent out, of course ! If there was anybody who loathed sentiment, conventional sentiment especially, it was Eric. He could imagine the very words of Eric's counsel. . . . And Rosemary — what would she expect of him, what had she the right to expect of him ? Surely that he should marry her as had been arranged, on the day that had been arranged. Was it proper, was it commonly decent to leave her with the profoundly uncertain prospect of a further long engagement ? The same small voice whispered insidiously, insistently over and over again the name, Upton. § 2 The morning of the Medical Board came and with it a letter from Rosemary imploring him not to be a fool, im- ploring him to take no risks of being sent to the Front until after they were married. She knew, she said, what an ass he could make of himself ; she trusted him to think a little of her. But he had made up his mind now. And nothing would change it. Through the whole of one day and the greater part of a night he had wrestled with himself, cajoling, conjuring, reasoning ; and at last the still small voice had nearly won. . . . In the morning came the news which finally decided him. And so far as this struggle went his mind was at peace. WAT OF REVELATION 203 The news was that almost alone among the officers of the first battalion, Eric Sinclair had been neither killed nor wounded ; that, on the contrary, he had achieved con- spicuously in the bloody assaults on Hill 70 ; and that he had been awarded the Military Cross. Hearing this, Adrian debated no more, was unmoved by Rosemary's entreaty, and when the senior officer of the Medical Board asked him how he felt, replied that he \vas fit, had been fit for some time, and wished to be passed immediately for active service in the field. On the following morning he was informed by the Adjutant that with eleven others he had been detailed for the next draft and would be given three days' leave in which to obtain the necessary kit. §3 Lady Knoyle had taken a small house at Ascot, and to her Adrian devoted the whole of one of his three precious days. This day was harrowing. It was miserable. And yet it was comforting, too. Try as she might. Lady Knoyle could not cloak nor dissemble the emotions she felt at this parting from an only son while yet in the shadow of her earlier grief. All about the windy Heath they strolled, pink and purple heather smihng, pines and birches waving in the breeze that sighed through yellow-prinked gorse of another season gone. Sun and shadow wheeled and wove against the deep green and black of the landscape, light-hearted golfers passed them intent upon their round — to all appearance care-free from the war. The world seemed gay in the bright October weather — it was impossible not to inhale the scent of the pines ! They talked of the parent who was gone. Nor could Lady Knoyle forbear to speak of his example of principle and independence, of his great pride in, of his masterii g Icve 204 WAT OF REVELATION for, his only son. And of the father's hopes in that son's behalf. And after they had walked a while without saying much, they began to talk of the wedding that must be postponed, and of the postponed happiness that must go with it. Adrian had hitherto made no mention to his mother of those events which had changed, or at any rate seemed to be changing, the whole aspect and tenor of his life. They had seemed dissonant from her state of mind ; he had feared, too, to hurt her feeling s so soon after his father's death. But he had intended in any case to tell her now. He thus made known to her without hesitation the outline of his story, confiding his intention that the marriage should take place as soon as he could get leave, and reserving only those details which touched upon the part Upton had played in his affairs. He did not regret it. All her patience, all her sagacity, all her sympathy were from that moment his. He had her blessing. She reinforced, she encouraged, she counselled. She asked no questions but by her insight gave him a new courage, a new confidence, a new hope, in the course he had elected to pursue. " Perhaps it is for the best," she gently said. " It seems hard now, I know — but I think in the long run you may not regret it. You're young, you're both of you young, with, we'll hope, all your lives before you and little, thank goodness, but happiness behind. I have often felt deeply thankful that you have always been so happy. You were as a child. You were at school — and afterwards. But don't think you always can be ! That's the mistake too many people make. So now remember this isn't the end of anything, it's only — life. . . . You see, I know you so well that I'm sometimes afraid for you. I'm afraid of the imaginative thing you get from us, Cullinans — the Irish temperament — and then, our, how shall I say, hardness in suffering. . . . Never let life knock you down. Meet it fair and square, and if it WJr OF REVELATION 205 hits you hard, give to it like a tense spring — and spring back. " I think you have already begun to feel. I could see a change in you when you first came back. I can see something still different now. This war happened for you and men like you.'* They walked on in silence. They came to that part of Ascot Heath which is opposite the stands, and Adrian looked across to the enclosure with its white palings, reddish-pink tiers, and thick second crop of hay, all empty and forlorn — that arena where with no thoughts but of gaiety, love, and hope he had watched the social pageant of England moving and changing beneath him. And the ground on which he stood — it must be the very place where in the hot glow of the club-tent Rosemary and he had sat together, dallying with strawberries and cream as they had so far dallied with Hfe. There, too, it was that he had come by his certainty and his decision. Then Faith and Eric had come in. . . . He was lost in reflection while Lady Knoyle rested on a sandy bank. It was only at such moments, when brought face to face with one or other of the events of that far-off summer, that he apprehended the change which had already begun to move within him. He still did not know the quality or the extent of it nor indeed to what direction it tended. Lady Knoyle was speaking again. Her rather sad Irish e.es gazed at and beyond the waving crests of the Swinley Woods. "... And believe me," she was saying, " believe your old mother when she says that in the end it will be worth while. One cannot live, one cannot die, one cannot love or hope or know or achieve anything worth having without pain, without experience. Remember that, whether it's the horror and the dreadfulness of the time are breaking your heart, or whether — whether it's anything else. Suffering is the crucifixion of each one of us — the very embodiment of the 2o6 WAT OF REVELATION life-story of Our Lord Who was crucified and rose again . . . the anvil upon which is beaten out the slow-wrought progress of our world and of humanity. " And although her eyes had filled with tears, she presently continued : " To beHeve in God, a God, to look up to — something — to beheve in a divine purpose and a hereafter — this is not science or religion or metaphysics or philosophy ; it is instinct — truth." They were turning in at the garden gate of the little villa when Lady Knoyle added : " You may die, and if you do, you will have done a good thing. And if you live — ^you will be the greater and the better and in the end, perhaps, the happier man." During tea and dinner they talked of his childhood, of his school days, and of Stane Deverill ; of the wide landscape viewed from the Three Hills at sunset when woods and farms and meadows sleep in peace ; of the white chalk horse on the side of the downs, of shadowy cattleways, old encampments, and the grassy barrows of a long-vanished race ; and of the space and silence of the Great Plain beyond. Only at the last Lady Knoyle broke down. Her son walked through darkness to the station, liis heart heavy with the atmosphere — and prescience — of farewell. The following day Adrian spent in buying and packing. At night Lady Cranford, Rosemary Meynell, himself and Mr. Heathcote — who arrived, triumphantly flourishing a preliminary list of officers in the Foot Guards reported killed in the fighting at the Hohenzollern Redoubt — went to see " Watch your Step." WAT OF REVELATION 207 CHAPTER IX Last Day § I Their last day together, Rosemary and Adrian decided to spend in a long country walk. Announcing that nobody was to wait up for them, they set off early and took train from Marylebone. It was a still, misty October morning. London behind them lay, grey and sombrely veiled ; as they reached the outer suburbs, sunlight began to pierce through the fog. They passed rapidly through Pinner, Rickmansworth, and Amersham and, descending at a wayside station, set off along a lane past fields and woods and parks where copper-gold sunbeams made broad level paths through hanging mists, while overhead, instead of the grey pall of the London atmosphere, they caught glimpses of an enshrouded blue. On this, his last day in England, Adrian ached for a breath — that he might carry across the sea and beyond — of the English autumn, of that so perfect Michaelmas summer. He found what he sought when they came to the yellow stubble, the ploughman at work on the steep sides of the Chilterns, the black rooks following the newly-turned earth, and heard their clamour on the dry air. He wanted to make Rosemary, too, feel something of this. He hoped she might share with him that side of nature and life which finds expression in the silence and solitude, the beauty and peace of an autumnal countryside. It was a quality he had found in the writings of Jefferies and Hudson and Hardy ; and he spoke to her of them. 2o8 JVJr OF REVELATION She looked puzzled, then smiled. " Who are all these funny men ? It's certainly a divine morning." It was plain that she did not understand. And the words that trembled on his lips were never uttered. If he felt a twinge of failure or of disappointment, he corrected it at once. He had only to look at her face — and the landscape became filled for him with a beauty trans- cending its own. It was so far, this, so infinitely, mercifully far from the social vortex in which they had lived, from — the Gina Maryon thing ! So he assured himself : " Some day when we have lived a good while at Stane and she knows it, every inch of it, and loves it as I do — then she'll understand." They had luncheon in the stuffy dining-room of the principal inn of a small town upon which they happened by chance. Neither had remembered to bring sandwiches, whereat each accused the other. Outside was the market square, grey, red and white, with narrow streets branching from it. They could just see the rounded, burnished tops of the beeches high up on the slopes of the hills beyond. The square was empty save for a foxhound puppy. Once a raw youth in corduroy breeches and leather leggings came out of the inn-yard, rolled the puppy over, looked round and went back through a side door to the inn-yard. That was the only sign of human activity. After luncheon, they nearly had a quarrel. Rosemary was for calling at the mansion known as Ash-hangar which lies beneath a flank of the Chilterns northward, and which had lately been bought from its owner of centuries by none others than Sir Walter and Lady Freeman. They discovered this through the loquacity of the young woman who waited upon them. Rosemary declared that she would give anything to see the place and that the Freemans might provide them with much entertainment, Adrian that he would give a good deal to WJr OF REVELATION 209 see the place, but did not feel in the mood for Freemans on this their last day. " Let's climb those hills," he pleaded, " and plunge into the beechwoods — and get lost in them if you like — only let's spend the whole of this one day together." Rosemary became petulant. " You selfish old duffer," she said. " You never do a thing I ask. Why this sudden passion for solitude and beech- woods ? It won't take us long to go to Ash-hangar, look round, pull their respective legs — and then there'll be time for solitude and beechwoods. * The day is yet young ' as Gina says — of the night ! " " It's our last day," he pleaded. " All the more reason why you should do one Httle thing to please poor little me." " Very well, then," he reluctantly agreed. Rosemary said " Poor darling ! " and kissed him. But in the way she said it, there was something that reminded him of Gina. § 2 Ash-hangar was, in fact, only a mile outside the town. Round the sweep of a broad carriage-way they came into full view of the great Tudor house. Everything seemed buried in unfathomable silence. Not a dog barked. Not a bird twittered. Not a sound of any kind came from the interior. So calm, so quiet, so self-contained, so devoid of and far removed from life ! It was as though the very spirit of the older, half-forgotten England had fled from a world in which it found no place — and hidden here. The door was opened by an almost indecently up-to-date butler who announced that both Sir Walter and " her ladyship " were at home. They were conducted through a 2IO WAT OF REVELATION panelled echoing hall to an inner walled garden. Sir Walter was reading newspapers, Lady Freeman and another lady were knitting. " Well," said the stout, large, bald-headed gentleman, rising heavily, " this is a pleasure ! An unexpected pleasure ! You know my wife ? You know my sister-in-law, Mrs. Gran- ville-Brown ? " Mrs. Granville-Brown in a pink tam-o'-shanter, yellow golf jersey and light tweed skirt, made a formal inclination of the head and said, " Pleased to meet you." Lady Freeman exclaimed : " Oh, how lovely to see you both ! Let me think ! Not since Arden — fancy ! Have you had lunch ? Reelly ? Oh, well ! then, you'll stay and have an early cup of tea. We'll have a little chat and then take you round the sweej: old place." She threw a sparkling, an almost confidential glance from Adrian to Rosemary. The Freemans had been established at Ash-hangar only a very short time. It was so " old-world," Lady Freeman explained — and convenient for week-ends. " My husband has to be at the House or his Ministry all the week," she added. " Yes," Sir Walter echoed, " these are busy times." They sat in a circle. Under the Freeman influence, Adrian felt that for all the charm and beauty of the place, the much- talked-of invasion of England had really begun. " Everything going splendidly," Sir Walter announced in response to Adrian's conversational inquiry. " Most of the confidential telegrams pass through my department and you can take it from me, young man, the Huns are on their beam- ends. They're starving, the blockade is wearing them out, their losses have been terrific, their munition supply is failing, they're using up their reserves in the East, and in the West we are in overwhelming strength. In the spring — vrell, you'll WAT OF REVELATION 211 see. It is not a break-through this time but, take it from me, the C.-in-C. never expected one — that I happen to know. We've got Hill 70, we've got all our objectives, it only remains to finish oflF the war. That ought to be good enough, eh ? " he finished up jocularly. " And what about our losses ? " " A lot of good fellows gone, of course ; a lot of good fellows gone. But there it is — what can you expect ? ' Sailor gare,' don't they say over there ? Our losses ! A mere flea-bite, my dear boy, a mere flea-bite compared with what we shall put across this winter — a mere flea-bite compared with the losses of the other side. So go back with a stout heart 1 Hang on till the spring ! Business as usual at home. That's the message you can take back to your comrades — and good luck go with you ! " He had caught a catch-phrase, probably from a newspaper, and clung to it like a man with a hobby. He was obsessed with it. Meanwhile the rest of the company had been listening to the oracle with awe — except Rosemary, who sat on the grass and played with the cat. Adrian's mind occupied itself with Orde, Eric, and — the sleepers in the orchard at Neuve Chapelle. Now, however, Lady Freeman began to discourse upon her situation to Rosemary in a high voice. Mrs. Granville-Brown, for her part, announced (not very appositely) that her husband was an Army doctor at the Front. " Life for us wives of public men in these days is, you can be sure, one long rush. We only just managed to snatch this week-end at a moment's notice. Snatched ! Well — I in- sisted on it ! Sir Walter was getting run down. Anybody can see he wants rest and change. ' It's no use,' I kept telling him — she glanced fondly at her spouse, who made a protesting gesture — ' it's no use trying to burn the candle at both ends, turning yourself into a bit of the office furniture with never a moment to sit down and enjoy yourself.' (He 212 WAT OF REVELATION wasn't taking his food.) ' I know they can't spare you,' I said, * but it don't pay. That's the way to lose the war, not win it,' I said. I used to sing ' Your King and Country need you ' every morning while he was taking his bath — just to remind him. Well — it's a wife's duty, isn't it ; it's up to us women to look after the men in these times — they won't look after themselves, poor dears. ... At last he gave way." " No, really," said Rosemary with innocence. " Yes. Woman's part is not an easy one in war time whether she's the wife of a public man or only of one who's doing his little bit over there," put in Mrs. Granville-Brown rather tartly. " What do they say — ' the woman waits.' It's very true. One long anxiety. My husband is at a stationary hospital. But they have to put up with damp blankets and Nestle's milk — and you never know, you know." " I'm not exactly idle m'self," continued Lady Freeman, regardless. " I'm on the ladies' sub-committee of the Central Canteen Board, I'm honorary president of the Bazaar Fund for Disabled Officers. I'm busy running the Shakespeare P.evival Charity Matinee with the Gina Maryon-Romane set y'know. It'll be a smart function. Then there's my political work to help Sir Walter. Oh, dear ! " Rosemary glancing down saw on the grass beside her a copy of the " Prattler " lying open at a page which displayed the photographs of four ladies in natty uniforms. She im- mediately espied the bold, vulgarly handsome features of Lady Freeman, who was described in print above the usual size as " An Enthusiastic War-worker," with the addition of a few of those personal details which the good lady herself had just supplied. Rosemary giggled, and found salvation in a cough and her handkerchief. Adrian saw and smiled. " Everything going splendidly." The worthy baronet and his wife were " in it " all right ; their purgatory would be to be in any way out of it. WJT OF REFELJTION 213 § 3 How glad the couple were to be alone again ! With what pleasure they turned to each other after this ! On the whole, Adrian was not sorry they had visited Ash-hangar, if only because the encounter with the Freemans — and what the Freemans were and what the Freemans stood for — was the one thing they needed to set off the perfection of their own solitary communion. And in a moment they were lovers. The slight dissonance of the morning was obliterated. Rosemary put her arm through his, and when he stooped to kiss her looked up with that in her eyes which he had rarely sought in vain during these last weeks. The Freemans were as though they had not been. The mood of prevarication, the mood of laughter, the mood of petulance, the mood of mischief had given place in a moment to their all-absorbing interest in and for each other. They held hands and walked slowly. They took the road which climbs that wooded range of hills known as the Bledlow Ridge. Gradually the woods began to encroach upon and encircle them. At last they were lost in the woods — those beechwoods so deep and dark that even the westering sunbeams scarcely entered in. They branched off the by-road and took a path that led into utter- most labyrinths. It was strange there and very quiet. They seemed to recover something of the Arden spirit. Yet was it not quite that, for, after all, the wheel of Fate was turning, turning. Something inexorable waited — some Unseen Presence that stood behind them watching from the shadows. And they were happy as most wanderers in lonely places. They were utterly at one. No need to try and explain himself now. They felt rather than spoke. They looked what they felt and knew all without uttering. After walking some distance they heard a sound as of a wood-cutter's axe and, coming to a clearing, found two men 214 WAT OF REVELATION and a boy, cutting, shaping, and turning wood on a lathe. All around were logs cut into even lengths and the giant unhewn trunks of beech-trees. In the centre of the clearing was a rough wooden shanty covered with tarpaulin which contained piles of white neatly-shaped pegs or sticks. Out- side the shanty a fire crackled, giving out the delicious scent of green wood burning. From this rose a thin wisp of blue smoke which somehow suggested the coming of winter to that still leafy place. Sitting on a heap of logs, they watched the three at work for some minutes. The woodmen evidently represented three generations — an old bearded man of great height and breadth, a middle-aged swarthy man with blue eyes and reddish-brown cheeks, a raw-boned sturdy youth. The old man announced that they were making chair-legs, as they had always done, as their forefathers had done for generations, as these three would always do. They Hved, he said, at a place called Flowers' Folly in the woods two miles away. After a while, having asked Adrian the hour, he turned to his companions : " Come along ! Give over ! Time we went home to tea." And bidding the strange couple good night and picking up their baskets they passed out of sight among the beech-trunks. When their footfalls on the crinkling leaf-carpet had died away, Rosemary said : " I wish I could be just like those men, Adrian — calm and quiet and very simple and happy. And make chair-legs all my life. And never leave these woods, but watch the colours fade out of the tree-tops as they are fading now and watch for the leaves to come back again in the spring. And I would like to live where those men live — at Flowers' Folly. And I would like to have just you with me — nobody else. And I would like never to know anything of the world outside or abo-ut the horrid things in it, but only about the nice and WAT OF REVELATION 215 beautiful things — the squirrels and birds and the open sky. . . . Adrian, is that possible ? " " One cannot turn one's back on life, dear heart. One's got to stand up to it and face it — or it will find one out in the end.'* " The terrible thing is I'm not sure, I'm not sure of myself. I wish, oh ! I wish I knew myself. . . . While I'm with you I'm all right, I'm safe. . . . Then — I don't know. I'm like the weather. In some ways I'm like Gina. I want to be like Faith." " Silly Httle thing ! " " Yes, I know, Adrian, but still — I'm afraid." " Afraid ! Afraid of what ? " " I dunno. I think — of waking up different in the morning." *' My foolish one ! We mustn't let ourselves get depressed — now above all." " Is it very weak of me, Adrian ? What do you think ? " She spoke with a seriousness such as he had not known in her before. He looked at her, wondering and vaguely disturbed. Then his arm stole around her. §4 They presently resumed their wandering along the woodland path. They would not hurry, feeling their hour too brief. Shadows gathered round them, lay across their path, followed them, crept after them, dogged them like wolves that follow travellers in the Russian wilderness. A jay mocked them, chattering, from the depths of a thicket of birch and hazel. A green woodpecker flew laughing away. Cloudy blue of wood-pigeons glanced against the bronzing yellow of the turning leaf. Eyes watched them from the shadows — eyes of squirrels from the tree-boles, eyes of wood-mice and brown owls, and those of other darting, rustling things. Oblivious of time and space though they were, wrapt in their dream, dimly apprehensive perhaps of the fleeting quality 2i6 WAT OF REVELATION of dreams — it was as though they clung desperately to one another. It was only when they reached the outskirts of the woodland through which they had just passed, and were dazzled by the transverse beams of the setting sun, that they realised night was at hand. They rested — at her suggestion — on the trunk of a blasted pine, a deep-tinted sunbeam warming it to a rich red, kindling to splendour the pale gold of her hair. A plantation of larch and young pine grew near and a faint, fragrant scent came from it. " What a quiet, beautiful place ! " she murmured. He, indicating the log upon which they sat, said : " Yes, but they evidently get storms. What a sad thing a fallen tree is, Rosie ! " Each was thinking of the morrow. Years after he recalled her expression. It was that of a tired child. §5 For all their weariness they walked at a rapid pace along the lane whose whiteness shone thinly through the dusk. They were lost, yet knew that the lane must bring them to some farm or village. At last they came to a green where an inn light shone among a group of cottages. Under the light Adrian looked at his watch and perceived that it was already past the hour when the last train left the wayside station towards which they had hitherto bent their steps. They did not even know where they were. Entering the inn, he found a number of men drinking. There appeared, however, a woman with a broad plain country face who, in consultation with her husband, informed them that their only course was to walk to a junction and market- town five miles distant, where a train to London might certainly be obtained. Gig or carriage was not to be had in that remote WJr OF REV EL A7 ION 217 place, which was but a hamlet, far even from a main road. Supper, however, she could provide — ham and eggs, cheese, and butter, if that would suffice. They had not long to wait for their meal in the inn-parlour, which smelt cleanly of beer, its faded yellow-papered walls cov'tfcd with immense photographs of members of the family and wedding-groups. A piano stood in the corner. In the fireplace was a little coloured Japanese umbrella. The landlady removed this, lit a fire, placed an oil-lamp in the centre of the white cloth, ran in and out with implements for the supper, and every now and again glanced at the couple seated on the horsehair sofa, curiously and not unkindly. They sat, hand in hand, like two waifs — insufferably happy, gloriously alone. During the meal they spoke of ordinary things — of how they would write to one another every single day, of what Rosemary would se-«d Adrian for Christmas — in case he did not come home before — of the knitting lessons she was going to have so that she might make him a comforter, of when he would get leave, of the arrangements for having the wedding during that leave, and of what chance he stood of obtaining a month for the honeymoon. They then found themselves out in the darkness again — a darkness that, relieved by starlight, speedily became familiar. Refreshed by their meal, exhilarated by the frosty stillness of the October night, they travelled at good speed. Rose- mary declared she was not tired now — was enjoying the walk more than she would have liked driving. " We shall have longer together." " If only we had all the nights and days before us ! . . ." They passed through woods again. Owls hissed, whistled, and from solitary trees out in the fields uttered their mellow and despondent three-syllable cry. They heard the tremulous wailings of plover and once, they thought — though it was early yet for that sound — the bark of a dog-fox. They passed 2i8 WJT OF REVELATION ■cottages whose lighted windows were fretted with the trailing limbs of plants, suggesting a warm and snug interior. They passed distant farms from which the same warm light came. They were barked at by dogs. The trees, the great wayside elms and oaks, overlooked them. The ashes almost touched them — and the silver birches seemed to smile. They came presently to a wide main road and from thence the way lay straight. Long vistas of it stretched ahead. A broad heath they came to where a light breeze sang in the telegraph wires which gave them a sense of infinite loneliness and infinite space. Cross-roads they came to, with a white sign-post pointing four different ways, and there rested. Strange songs the breeze must have sung to them as they sat in the long grass by the wayside, his arms about her, her head resting upon his shoulder. Strange things they must have whispered one to another, and strange those things that wind and grass and fields and the watching night have whispered to hearts of lovers since the world began ! Rosemary confessed herself weary now, and when they plodded on once more she took Adrian's arm, leaning her full weight upon it. They came at last to the summit of a high hill, and saw beneath them stray, half-veiled lights, and many miles to the eastward, an uncertain reflection that they knew to be London. §6 It was long after midnight when the train rumbled into the vast emptiness of Paddington Station. They were too tired to talk as they drove to Grosvenor Mansions. They had been too tired to talk in the train. After all they were very near the end now — and there was no more to be said. Like burglars they crept up the steps of the flats, though their careful footfalls resounded hollowly from the stone. It WJr OF REVELATION 219 was very dark. Adrian lit a match and Rosemary put a fingei to her hps. When they came to the fourth floor, they paused, the heart of each thumping furiously as they pressed together. Adrian whispered : " This is good-bye ! " "Notyet ?" " Yes, Rosie — I must leave you here.'* '■ Come in ! " she whispered. " I can't ! I mustn't ! It wouldn't do." " Why not ? Mamma's asleep ages ago. She knew we weren't coming back till any hour ; she won't worry about us. She'll never wake. . , . Besides — it's all right. Come on — only be quiet ! " They crept into the flat. Adrian had to light a match before he could find the switch, and Rosemary gave a subdued laugh. In the pink-and-blue drawing-room, she took off her hat and coat. There were lemonade and sandwiches on a table. Turning out the electric light, they sat side by side upon that sofa where two months before they had become lovers once more. §7 How the night passed neither of them could have said. Both were utterly weary. Adrian remembered the light of a street- lamp casting a faint reflected glimmer on the opposite wall. They heard the wailing of cats in the mews outside and all those other sounds that in the small hours arise from sleeping London. He felt her warm body close to his. Their last common thought was of something impending, something that overpowered their consciousness and disturbed their dreams, some vague, dominating, tyrannical threat. Then they must have slept. But it was the same waking, sleeping thought that after some time caused Adrian to start 220 WJT OF REVELATION up. He looked at his watch by the faint light of the street- lamp. It was five o'clock. He had no time to spare if he was to report at Aldershot by nine. He must first go home, change, and collect his things. At his ear, he heard Rosemary's light regular breathing, that told him she still slept. Should he wake her or leave her as she was . . . and spare them both ? But as though in her very sleeping she had divined his thought, she started up, with an uneasy dissatisfied sigh. " What is it ? " she murmured. " Darling. ... I must go." She shivered. " What ? " She was still but half awake. " It's time for me to go." " Going F . . . Where ? " " .^dershot." " You don't mean to say — you're leaving me ? " There was sudden apprehension in her voice. " I've to catch the 7.30 train. It's past five already. . . . Besides, the house will soon be waking." " Oh, but you can't ! . . . Stay ! Stay ! . . . Jdrian ! " She was fully awake now and terribly frightened. For several minutes they clung to each other. Then he heard her stifled, tumultuous weeping and felt the tears falling one by one upon his hands. " You're going . . . and it will never be the same again . . . and you will never come back." " I must go," he whispered. " But I shall come back." " You will be killed. . . ." " No. " Sob after sob broke from her and was crushed against the sleeve of his coat. It racked him ; it tore the inmost fibre of him. He had never known her weep before ; he had never known weeping like that. 7VJr OF REVELATION 221 "... and you will love me — always ? " *' Dear heart — you know that." *' Whatever happens — always P " " For ever." She put her arms around his neck, drew his face down to hers, and kissed him frenziedly. " Oh, Adrian ! Adrian ! come back to me or ... I am lost." Day peered in at the window. He gently disengaged her arms and crept on tip-toe from the room. End of Part the Second. PART THE THIRD ; TRAVAIL And in those days shall men seek deaths and shall not find it ; and shall desire to die, and death shall fi.ee from the?tt. Revelation IX, 6, fVJr OF REVELATION 225 CHAPTER I Winter In Northern France § I Adrian Knoyle rejoined his old battalion in France during the last week of October, 1915. He found it lying in billets at the small town of Lillers. This rather wretched place comes within the coal and industrial area of Bethune, from which it is distant seven miles, and the character of which it shares, in drabness, squalor, and featureless poverty. There had been days of rain. Grey, rusty-black, and mud- yellow were the streets through which motor-lorries, horse- waggons, guns, motor-cars, and road-stained bodies of troops ceaselessly passed, while the pavements were crowded with foot-passengers, dejected-looking French civilians and British soldiers. Grey, rusty-black, and mud-yellow were the fields beyond, intersected by dykes and ditches, poplar-edged, or lined with pollarded willows. Poplars stood four-square drearily around water-logged meadows which in summer perhaps contained a pool. The cottages in which the troops billeted were built of lath-and-plaster with thatched or tiled roofs ; the infrequent farmhouses of sodden brick were dark, cramped and comfortless. Everywhere — water. Water lay stagnant in the meadows, water glistened beside the narrow roads, water stank in the farm courtyards, and water filled the ditches which, in lieu of hedges or fences, divided the fields. Such was the country to which Adrian, with six brother- officers and some two hundred men, came in pouring rain — a rain that for many days continued to pour. 226 WAT OF REVELATION They found the battaHon scattered on the outskirts of the little town. It was resting, re-equipping, reorganising as best it might, and licking its wounds after the great Battle of Loos, in which it had borne a glorious part, and the subsequent bitter fighting for the HohenzoUern Redoubt. On handing over his draft, Adrian was posted to his old com- pany — Captain Sinclair's — as also, at his request, was the young officer, Arthur Cornwallis, whose friendship he had made in England. Adrian tired, mud-stained and wet, unlatched the door of a particularly wretched-looking farmhouse and beheld — Eric. The latter was little changed. He was pink-and-white and spic-and-span, with well-brushed hair, and moustache ; he exhaled the scent of eau-de-Cologne and fresh soap. Only in his Toice and manner was a new note of authority. Their joy at seeing one another was expressed in an uncivil epithet and handshake. After introductions between Cornwallis and Eric on the one hand, and Adrian and a thick-set burly subaltern named George Walker on the other, Eric led the way to the narrow whitewashed room which the two friends were to share together. He lent Adrian some dry things into which to change. " Well, old boy, and how's everybody and everytliing in England ? How's yourself ? " Adrian briefly related the somewhat precipitate circum- stances under which he had come out to France, saying little of the more personal aspects of the case, which he felt should be the subject of a longer and quieter talk. He told his friend all the news he had about Faith and handed him a pulpy mud- bespattered letter. " Ah ! old Faith ! " was the latter's only comment. Eric referred to Adrian's handhng of the medical authorities in these terms : " You were a mug ! You ought to be in London now having tea with Rosemary. Asking for trouble. WJr OF REVELATION 227 I call it, to apply to come out to this God-damned country. I ask you — look at it ! " He made a gesture of disgust at the prospect, visible through the window. " However, you know what I feel about it, my dear fellow. I'm delighted to have you back again. It's been a bit trying sometimes on one's own." " How's the company ? " " Oh ! The company's just beginning to sit up and take notice again. It's had a coarse time lately. That Hohen- zollern place !" He went on to relate some of the experiences through which they had passed. " That bit of ribbon looks very becoming," Adrian re- marked in reference to Eric's newly-won Military Cross as they went into the kitchen for tea. " Yes," the other replied, " it adorns the manly breast, doesn't it ? They gave it me for not being able to run quite so fast as the rest at Hill 70." §2 His fellow-subalterns, Walker and Cornwallis, Adrian found, presented as great a contrast physically and mentally as could well be imagined. Walker was in every way large, with a red face expressive of good humour, and a sandy moustache. There was no mistaking him, indeed — nothing subtle or diffident here. His physical manner, his loud laugh spoke for him. His conversation was hardly less Rabelaisian than the manner of it ; it was freely bespattered with oaths. Arthur Cornwallis, on the other hand, with liis angular figure, his pale, bespectacled face and dreamy look, his thin sensitive lips, and nervous mannerisms, belonged to a type which Oxford produces (or used to produce). At dinner that night CornwaUis hardly uttered a word, but looked shyly 228 WJT OF REVELATION down at his plate. Walker, on the other hand, was very noisy, drank copiously and told stories of the front line. (Adriar suspected him of trying to " put the wind up " Cornwallis.) " I waited for the blighter," he told, " morning after morning at stand-to I waited. But he never showed his ruddy head again. At last I got fed up with waiting, so just before daylight I crawled over with my runner, and there the little swine was a-peepin' over his perishin' trench. Well, I out with my shooter and pipped him right off — and I'm damned if another of the blighters didn't show his ruddy head. Well, I pipped him too. Oh, that vjas a morning — some morning ! Ye Gods ! Ha ! ha ! " " Reckless fellow, isn't he ? " murmured Eric, ami, " For Christ's sake shut up, George ! You bore me." The conversation turned to a different subject, but Walker again led it. " If you're expecting to pick up any little bits of fluff out here, Knoyle," he said demonstratively, " you've come to the wrong place — the wrong part of the country, anyhow. I've never seen such a lot of frowsy old hags. You should have seen 'em in Lillers market-place yesterday — well, I never ! But I don't mind telling you " — he lowered his voice to a confi- dential key — " that day I went to Bethunel found an estaminet — a filthy little place it was, too — where . . . ," and he pro- ceeded to relate various uninteresting details. " That was a bit of all-right, wasn't it ? " Everybody except Cornwallis laughed. And in tkis strain the conversation continued. That night when the two friends were creeping into their sleeping-bags, Eric expressed the opinion that George Walker was " not such a bad chap as you might think." " Only he will talk ' shop ' and he can't talk sense. But it isn't all gas with him. He really does like being up in the line. He runs about all day with a gun and at night pots imaginary Germans with a Vdrey pistol. He doesn't kill much, I must WAr OF REVELATION 22c admit, but it's what they call ' the spirit of the offensire,' isn't it ? You make yourself a damned nuisance to ererybody and then you're given a V.C. . . . That lad Cornwallis. though, doesn't look the sort to stand much knocking about ? " Adrian agreed, adding : " Persevere with him, Eric. Don't be prejudiced and professional and — er — ultra-English with him. It won't pay. The Colonel can do all that. Let's be human about his sort of people in this company — now you're running it. I don't suppose he'll be a success any more than I shall be. He's hopelessly unpractical, extremely well-meaning, keen in his own way, but I should say, dreading the whole business like the very devil. I know what I should go through, joining again, if you weren't in this battalion. Nothing can make one feel so utterly selfless and alone as the Army if it chooses." " P'raps you're right. I don't care what he is as long as he tries." " They gave him a pretty rotten time at Aldershot. He was always losing his name in the orderly room for doing most things wrong, being late for parade, having his buttons undone, ginng the word of command on the wrong foot, etc. — playing the imitation soldier, in fact, rather worse than most of us. Partly his own fault, chiefly nervousness. But he'll do his best. And, after all, it's not quite the same out here as at Aldershot." " I won't curse him. Steele and Langley can do that," Eric laughed. " They'll lose no time about it, bet your life." " If you don't break his heart he may be some use. It's the wrong way, the professional way, in a citizen army. I'm certain of that. All very well in peace time where you're got a lot of people of the same stamp who mean to make it their business in Hfe. But out here . . . different altogether. Nobody's gone into the thing for fun, have they ? One takes it for granted that everyone's doing his best. To get a lot of blokes together drawn from every Hne of life and 23© WAT OF REVELATION temperamentally as different as chalk from cheese from the regulation type, and treat them as the regulation type seems to me the shortest way of making bad soldiers. What do you think ? " " I agree with you up to a point, though one must preserve some sort of uniformity in a battalion, especially among the junior officers. I warn you that under Steele you'll find this show's run on very professional lines. Of course he's a good soldier." " I know he is, but that's not everything. He's Healing with indiridual human beings now — not with a type. It's a different sort of army now from the one we came out to last January, for instance. As to what you say about uniformity in prin- ciple and method — agreed. But it seems to me one must do in a Tolunteer army by tact and reason, what in your peace- time professional army was done mechanically and often stupidly. After all the main object is to make efficient officers. Of course, I don't know Steele, except by reputation as — rather a Prussian. In which case Arthur is in for a bad time. " Well, the lad will get his chance in this company. . . . I rather want to talk to you about Faith, though. My dear fellow, the solemn fact of the matter is — my future happiness is bound up with that young woman. I assure you that she is exceptional. She's got principles, and all ; she is religious. Am I ? I'm not good enough for her. She has an uncom- fortable way of making me feel she expects something of me — I don't know on earth what. Of course, I'm a damned fool — not moral or clever or anything. But, tell me, as a friend, do you think she cares a tinker's cuss for Eric Sinclair ? Or— what ? " " My dear Eric, she's extremely fond of you. That I'll Bwcar to." *' Then, will she ever show it — in any practical way ? . . . Look here ! This is what happens. You remember that time WAT OF REVELATION 231 at Arden ? I put the fatal question. She replies affabljr but firmly : * I can't make up my mind. Let's talk it over again in a few months.' When I am on leave I only see her once. I go up to Scotland and she cannot get away from the hospital — or says she can't. Now I go on leave again soon after Christmas " " Have it out with her again. I lay a fiver to one the answer is in the aflrtrmative, as they say." " Done. But why do you think so ? " " Because — I know Faith. I know her in some ways better than you do. Faith is slow and careful and not very emotional, and never does things on impulse — like Rosemary for instance. There's method in everything she does. She thinks. She weighs and judges. . . . You see, that girl's got a head as well as a heart." " But still — why so positive ? " " Because I know — I'm sure.'* They were in that mood so delightful between friends after a long separation when confidence begets confidence and intimate conversation comes as easily to the lips as to the thoughts. And Adrian, for his part, was in a mind to tell Eric of his earlier disillusionments, of his old doubts and fears regarding Rosemary that were now finally set at rest ; of the affaire Upton. Yet something restrained him. Was it not after all better left unsaid ? Would it be loyal — eren to tell Eric ? He disliked, too, mentioning the very name of Upton. So the matter remained unbroached when, turning over in their sleeping-bags — each with the fragrance of a certain memory as his last waking thought — they fell asleep. §3 Everybody felt confident of a long rest after the recent, heavy fighting, but very soon rumours began to circulate of .1 move northward into winter trenches. And it was not long 232 WAT OF REVELATION before these rumours materialised. Some forecasted Ypres, others Armentieres, but the matter was resolved when definite orders came that on a certain morning early in November the whole Division would move into the Merville district. On the whole everyone was pleased. It was a water-logged country, of course, but that description applied to the whole of Flanders in winter ; Laventie was reputed to be still a quiet part of the line ; the rearward billets were known to be good ; and — well, anything was better than the Ypres SaHent. All were, in any case, glad to leave Lillers with its associations of interminable rain, damp billets, and liquid mud. The march tended away from the colliery region, passing through a country remarkable for a peculiar featureless ugliness. Swing- ing along side by side at the head of the company, Adrian and Eric agreed that they knew nothing comparable to it in England — not even in the Midlands or the industrial North. Drab field succeeded drab field, each consisting of greyish upturned loam that looked like the refuse of many factories. The roads themselves, poplar-lined and dead straight, were of rough pavty rery tiring to the feet. Rows of sodden-looking cottages with occasional brightly-coloured unsubstantial- looking villas comprised the villages, new-looking farmsteads flaunting scarlet roofs appeared among sparse orchards. The dull November landscape seemed to reflect the dull and windy November sky. It was shortly after the second halt that Arthur Cornwallis " lost his name " for the first time. Up and down the column rode Lieut. -Colonel Steele accompanied by his adjutant, Captain Langley. The former was a square thickset man with a heavy dark moustache and coarse features, that bore the unmistakable stamp of ill-temper. Allied with these characteristics was a certain joviality, and a loud voice. His adjutant was tall and shm, with a vapid and rather dissipated face , who sat his horse well. WJr OF REVELATION 233 *' Mr. Cornwallis ! " The young officer raised his eyes from the direction of his boots. " Sir ! " " Please look after the rear of your platoon. It's all orer the place. You're not put there to dream, you know." " Sir." Mr. Cornwallis dashed half the length of the company, urging the men to " keep closed up " and " march by the right," whereupon all the platoon-sergeants and all the junior sergeants and even many of the corporals set up a loud chorus of adjuration — a regular shouting-match. Their keenness, at any rate, should not be impugned. " Close up there ! Keep together ! Can't you hear ? By your right, man — no ! your other right. Wandering along like a lot of old women . . ." Thus the Company Sergeant-Major with his fiery com- plexion and yellow waxed moustache. " You can't march ! You can't march — not one of you ! You want a month on the square, some o' you, that's what you want ! Now, then — pick up the step ! It's not a goose-step — it's a man's step. And take that smile off your face — number three from the left in the last section of fours, or you'll find yerself in the guard-room when we get there. ... I want to see you men march. You walk along, you tumble along — anyhow ! What d'you think you look hke, I wonder ? Soldiers, did somebody say ? A lot of skivvies out of a job, / should say." Cornwalhs, with humiliation depicted on his face, fell to the rear again. The men smiled. And he had the pleasure of hearing Colonel Steele remark to Captain Sinclair : " You must look after that new subaltern of yours, Eric ; he's idle." Then they were marching up the long, narrow Merville 234 ^^'^^ ^^ REVELATION street, across the railway line, over the canal-bridge, and so with band playing through the market-square, soon after midday. Billets were found in farm buildings north of the town, Eric Sinclair and his officers being assigned to a com- paratively up-to-date farmhouse with a small though com- fortable living-room opening hopefully on a midden, and two bedrooms. Here the company mess was established. Walker and Cornwallis were to sleep at neighbouring farms. Coming and going, it was to be the home of all of them for some time. But they were not left undisturbed long. No sooner were all comfortably settled than company-commanders received orders to go up and inspect the new line of trenches which, it was announced, would be taken over in a week's time. Every morning there was a parade for drill, gas-drill, musketry and so forth. Sometimes they had a route march and sometimes the officers gave or attended lectures. Merville itself provided little entertainment, there being but a sprinkling of shops in which could be obtained only such things as nobody required. Adrian one afternoon tried to renew associations with the tobacco factory where Pemberton and he had passed their first night at the front. But that somewhat distracting episode in pitch darkness had left little impression of locality upon him and he had to be content with re-discovering the ex-schoolhouse clearing-station to which he had been carried after being wounded. The place was indisputably depressing, and the young man himself felt depressed. A misty greyness seemed permanently to overhang the ill-fated land, over Merville itself, when of afternoons Adrian and Eric or Cornwallis — sometimes all three — strolled through its narrow streets, thickly thronged with soldiery. The whole country and everybody and every- thing in it seemed to merge in a single drab monotone. The drinking-saloons or estaviinsts^ where a few found solace, were unutterably squalid. Football matches in fFJr OF REVELATION 235 which the officers took part were better fun. And at night there were lively dinner-parties supported by whisky and wine. After all there was no lack of " good fellows " in the battalion. Of the other company-commanders, one only was a regular soldier. This was Vivian, who commanded the Right Flank company — a suave and lively personality, a man of the world. The two other leaders had won their companies by merit as had Eric. These were Alston and Darell — the former a barrister who had joined the Army at the outbreak of war and had something of the legal profession's dry efficiency. Darell had been a gentleman farmer and was an oddly naive and simple character, a natural leader of men — not a good soldier, some said, but brave and liked by his company. §4 Ihey were in a sense unreal to Adrian, these days of early winter. On the first morning but one after their arrival came a letter from Rosemary, full of love, longing, speculation — adjuring him to write, to write at once, to write frequently. " That day on the Chilterns," she wrote, " shall I ever forget it ? And the night ! Oh ! my dear, what wonderful things happen in life ! How wonderful this thing they call * love ' — a word I always despised — and what a great huge gap it fills in one's existence ! I feel quieter and happier now though it was too awful for words after you'd gone. . . . But do you remember the silly things I said in that wood ? Well, I want you to forget all about them — I did not really mean them. But seriously, I think of becoming a good steady little thing — a sort of Miss Kenelm ! I shall never forget that day and night we had together though, because I have never so had the feeling of belonging utterly and completely to somebody, of being cared for and looked after and being absolutely a part of somebody as I had then. . . . 236 Wyfr OF REVELAflON But why, oh ! why, do the good things in this world end so quickly ? And why, oh ! why, were you such a perfect fool as to leave your little Rosemary for that beastly country ? Now, I'm going to be extremely vulgar (not to say banal, not to say ' second-rate ' as Mamma call? it) and put as many x's as I can write at the end of this epistle. What a relief it invariably is to be vulgar and banal and second- rate ! » There followed a long string of those cryptic signs which have embodied the sentiments of Ktchen-maids and kings since the practice of handwriting began. WJr OF REVELATION 237 CHAPTER II Christmas, 19 15 On a sunny though bitterly cold Sunday afternoon they paraded in heavy marching order for the trenches. An open-air aerrice had been held in the morning. The march was a slow one, taking them through country and through towns that were already familiar to Adrian. Through La Gorgue they passed (as in an earlier time), and then through Estaires as dusk was closing in. When night had come, they were tramping in single file along a lonely road — cigarettes out and no talking. And when he saw the coloured lights rising and falling in front with the flat country stretching, vague and mysterious, on either hand, and when he heard a sniper's shot or two, or the far-off chatter of a machine-gun — Adrian began to feel as though he had never left it all. When they came to a ruined village in front of which the trenches lay, he breathed once more the atmosphere, at once ghastly, ghostly, and obscene, of the old trench world. The same smells came to his nostrils. He heard the same sounds. There was the stench of rotting sandbags, of damp tainted earth, of stale tinned food, the stench indefinable. There was the sharp jrack of bullets against the brick walls of ruined houses which, as they tramped down what had once been a village street, were limned grotesquely in moonlight. There were moments of breathless silence, a sense of vast desolation. There was the plashing through water, the clambering over heaps of fallen earth, the stumbling and the stopping, the swearing and the stern injunctions to silence, the wet, crumbling 238 WAT OF REVELATION sandbags that felt like cold flesh, the creeping, burdened, g-hostlj? figures of the soldiers. In the front line it was the same — old familiar atmosphere. Only instead of the shallow unconnected series of strong points he had known at Fleurbaix, here were sandbag breastworks, tliick and high, with well- constructed fire-bays and stout traverses. Of httle account were the dug-outs — mere dens beneath parapet or parados, dripping wet, with water oozing through the floor-boards, and everywhere, rats. Nor was there room for all the men, some of whom had to lie out on the fire-steps — though, it was remarked, by those who knew Colonel Steele, it mattered little, as there would be scant rest for anybody during the four days in the front line. As soon as his sentries had been posted and his men as fairly apportioned as might be, Adrian clambered onto the parapet and surveyed the scene. Glooming before him stretched No Man's Land with its inscrutable shadows and its baffling mystery. A line of dwarfed willows ran at right angles to the trench. A few hundred yards away (he knew) were the Germans. A powerful and pecuhar curiosity to penetrate that deathly veil of moonshine returned once more. He jumped back into the trench and found Cornwallis, at a loss to know what to do or where to go. " I came along to try and find where my platoon ought to be," he stammered nervously. " And now I can't find it— No. 15." Before Adrian could advise in the m.atter, a harsh voice was heard. " What's that — what's that ? Who can't find his platoon? Hullo, Knoyle ! What's this about a lost platoon r " Colonel Steele had come round the traverse, stick in hand, followed by the Commanding Officer of the battalion they were relieving and two orderlies. " We're just going to look for it, sir." " Who's ' we ' ? Is it your platoon, Knoyle ? " WAT OF REVELATION 239 " No, sir." " Is it yours then ? " the autocrat demanded, turning on Cornwallis. " Yes, sir. I — I was with it a moment ago. I — it can't be far." " Well, look for it, man ! Catch it ! Find it ! You're holding up the whole relief." " What's his name ? " the Colonel inquired of Adrian in wearily impatient tones after the unfortunate young officer had gone on ahead. " Is he one of the just-joined ? Oh ! well, give him a hand for heaven's sake. The boy's a fool." The two Colonels passed on down the trench. Adrian and Cornwallis stumbled about for some time in search of the missing platoon. Cornwallis spoke no word. But whenever a bullet thumped into the sandbags near them, he ducked. And whenever a Verey light went up, falling with hiss and glare anywhere at hand, Cornwallis crouched. These two movements, Adrian perceived, were involuntary and simultaneous with the event. It was the first reaction on an imaginative, highly-strung nature. And he who had not been without his own earlier struggles saw a further world of trouble ahead for Cornwallis. However, they at length found the missing unit and put it in its place. Then Eric came along with the Company Sergeant-Major. " Everything all right ? Found the macliine-gun emplace- ments ? Got the bombs and grenades and tools and things ? Got all your sentries posted and your men detailed to dug- outs ? Good ! Now about the wiring " Following Eric, they all clambered out of the trench. The company-commander began prodding the wire with his stick, testing its strength and thickness : presently he found a way through and strolled out beyond it, the rest following. They had not gone far when a light went up followed by the shattering " clack-clack-clack " of a machine-gun, the bullets of which 240 WAT OF REVELATION whirred like a covey of driven partridges over their heads. All stood still in the quivering white glare that seemed intent on exposing every detail of the landscape — all except the un- fortunate Cornwallis who gave a jump and fell flat on his face. " Hullo ! " whistled Eric. " What's up ! Not hit, are you ? It's generally best to keep still when these things happen. . . . Now here, of course, we shall have to do a lot of strengthening " At this moment Walker joined them. " Oh, the dirty dogs ! " he ejaculated. " They're just put one of their infernal machines into my trench and got one of my blokes in the leg. I watched it coming over. It came from the place where the other people (and what a filthy state they've left the whole place in !) said a machine-gun fires. I swear I'll go across to-night and see what's there. And if there is a blighter there, well, I'll do the blighter in. Any objection, Eric ? " " None, my dear chap — none whatever," Eric replied in the voice of a bored host giving carte blanche to an importunate guest. " Shoot anything you like — do. We don't preserve any, you know. Now about this cross-wiring for to-morrovr night. . . ." § 2 One day slowly succeeded another, and it did not take the battalion long to settle down to the ordered routine of trench hfe. With three subalterns, in addition to the company- commander, who was himself an example of what can only be called " lethargic energy," the trench duties, working fatigues, and patrols did not fall too heavily on anybody. At " stand-to " morning and evening, Eric was always present ; but on these occasions he required the attendance of only one of his subalterns. During the day he was constantly out watching his working-parties, while at any hour of the WAT OF REVELATION 241 night he was apt to walk round the sentry-posts. He seemed to eschew sleep, yet his movements were casual and easy- going. He was never known to hurry, get excited, or be in the smallest degree demonstrative. His attitude in general was one of rather off-hand boredom — certainly of flippancy and detachment — as it had been to more trivial matters in pre- war days. An affable, smiling neatness characterised him in the trenches as out of them. He laid particular stress on parade " smartness." He inspired some slight affection in his men — vnth whom, however, he never cultivated a close personal relationship, declaring they much preferred their own society to that of their officers — considerable amuse- ment, and very great confidence. Eric, in fact, handled war as he had handled the social arts — delicately, fastidiously, and with a certain air of playful amusement. He was never technical, abstruse, or ultra- profeisional. It was his little pose to boast that he could not remember " the names of all the bombs and tilings." Durrant, an elderly and ultra-conscientious subaltern, who kept diaries, notebooks innumerable, any official pamphlets and instructions he could lay hands on, marked maps perserer- ingly in his spare time, and always used the correct technical phraseology even in every-day conversation — Durrant was the unceasing butt of his wit. Adrian, for his part, found a strong human, as well as a technical, interest in his platoon. His men, if not strong individualities, had individual characteristics which, embodying good-nature, patience, humour, and courage, reflected ia each of their little groups very much the same contrasting traits as were found among their officers. The bar between oflicer and man was never passed by him — such accomplishment seemed to require the more robust personality of a Walker — but he endeavoured to consider his men as far as possible rather in the light of a society of individuals than as a platoon of soldiers. Casualties were few in this line of stout high breastworks. 242 fFJr OF REVELATION since unless a man chose to thrust his head above t^e parapet in broad daylight there was no particular reason why anybody should get shot. The enemy rarely shelled the front line — he rarely shelled at all. When the British artillery forced him into action, he would retaliate by throwing a limited number of large shells within a given area around the batteries. The one exciting event of every day was the morning tour of the Commanding Officer round the lines. Sometimes he came with the Brigadier, sometimes with his adjutant only. In either event it was Colonel Steele who advised, ordered, suggested, and reprimanded. The grey-haired Brigadier responded — and agreed. It was on one of these visits during the second spell in the trenches that Arthur Cornwallis again came under notice. It was a question of periscopes. " How many periscopes have you got in your platoon, CornwaUis ? I don't seem to see any on your sentry posts. You know the order." Lieutenant CornwaUis knew neither the order nor a peri- scope when he saw one. The answer to such a question had never, therefore, occurred to him. He peered helplessly through his spectacles and said nothing. Captain Sinclair came to the rescue — with a lie. " They were all lost at Loos, sir. No issue since.'* Then there was the drainage question. Lieutenant Cornwallis had never been interested in drains, ex- cept in reference to a certain rustic cottage which his family had purchased in haste and repented at leisure. Yet here he was — ordered to drain a particular place in a particular way. His Com- manding Officer told him how to do it in one crisp sentence : " Dig a channel to a sump-hole." The unfortunate youth felt rather less wise after receiring this instruction than he had done before. However, after much argument and more speculation as to the precise meaning of the order, he begged his platoon WAT OF REVELATION 243 humblj to dig a channel to a sump-hole and trusted to an all- merciful Providence that the water would flow away. It did nothing of the sort. On the contrary, the sump-hole freely filled from neighbouring rivulets and proceeded swiftly to discharge its contents into the already water-logged trench. " What the hell's this mess ? " inquired Colonel Steele next morning. " Didn't I say the trench was to be drained ? Who's responsible for it, Sinclair ? Yourself ? Good God, no ! I remember speaking to one of your subalterns. Oh ! you — what's-your-name — Cornwallis ? Haven't you ever drained a trench before or weren't you listening to what I said yesterday morning ? Drain that Trench ! And come and see me in the orderly-room when we get out of the line." " That boy of yours wants hunting, Eric," remarked Colonel Steele to the company-commander as they passed down the trench. " Oh ! I think he'll do all right, Colonel, he only wants looking after a bit. It was really my fault about the ditch. I told him to do it like that, it looks better — when it comes off." All of which was strictly untrue, but contrived nevertheless to sare Lieutenant Cornwallis from an exceedingly unpleasant few minutes. The culprit meanwhile had crept away to his watery little den which courtesy called a dug-out, where he endeavoured to bury himself and his troubles in " Idylls of the King." §3 November went by, December came and Christmas approached. All settled down mechanically because inevitably to that mode of life unto which it had pleased God and their country to call them. Life divided itself definitely into two phases — the eight days spent half in the firing-line and half in reserve billets, and the eight days spent in the comparatively comfortable farmhouse nine miles back. Thus every week or 244 ^'^^^ O^ REVELATION so they tramped the long straight road through La Gorgue and Estaires : forward with philosophical resignation, rear- ward, tired, mud-stained, and optimistic. Then, indeed, the column would be noisy with jokes and comic songs, buoyed by anticipation of enhanced freedom amid semi-civilised sur- roundings. At Ivlerville, there were formal drill-parades and occasional route marches ; there were also football matches, concerts, rides, dinner-parties. But after a while these amuse- ments palled. Concerts became tame when the comic man had sung his customary song and the sentimentahst had delivered his love lyrics, the quartette had done their hearty part, the sketch-man had given his imitation, and the duologue had provoked appropriate laughter, for the eighth or ninth time. Riding horseback was hardly worth while during that muddy winter, on the narrow pave roads and amid the ceaseless traffic ; it was not a riding country. And the dinner-parties — well, they were pretty much aHke after all, involving much drinking, much cigarette-smoking, a great deal of " shop," and the rather redundant jokes about women. What Adrian Knoyle looked forward to and enjoyed were his long walks with Eric through country however uninteresting, upon afternoons however de- pressing in their speaking sense of the dead-weight of war, the negation of Hfe, and the circumvention of hope. Then together they would contrive to create out of their never- flagging conversation an atmosphere that lifted them above their surroundings, took them back into the past and even led them towards possibilities of a future. For all his loathing of war and everything connected with it, Adrian was not " up against it." The thing was inevitable, it was an experience, nothing would alter it. On the other hand, he was sensible of his good fortune in having what others lacked — his association with Eric. He saw always before him the rather pathetic figure of Cornwallis who had to plough a lonelier furrow than he, and a bitterer one ; Cornwallis in whom Adrian felt many qualities akin ; Cornwallis who was indeed " up against it." WAT OF REVELATION 245 So Christmas came — with its formal message of " Peace on earth and goodwill towards men " — to the drab and motley crew in the trenches. And soon after midnight, as though to herald the birth of the Sariour in the speaking voice of that sinister time, the guns burst forth in a thudding, banging, booming chorus, the sky became livid with gun-flashes, the German trenches glowed with bursting shells and upward-springing sparks. A Corps bombardment had been ordained, and for miles to north and south every gun fired. Adrian Knoyle, passing on his round of the outposts, stood spellbound by this midnight vision of the Inferno, by the grotesqueness of this irony, this voice of Terror incarnate that ushered in the Christmas dawn. Silence succeeded thunder, a silence in which the iron-shod ground alone responded to the frosty glitter of the stars. Alorning broke with a grey sky lowering upon the brown world, with its spectral trees, its leaning crosses, its white husk of a church-tower. Here and there, wisps of moist and vapoury winter mist lingered mournfully, magnifying every feature of the landscape. Smoke of breakfast fires rose above the German breastworks. A black frost still bound the earth. From either side of a belt of ashen grey-green grass, reddened in places by rusting wire and stakes, the two interminable lines of trenches stared at one another grimly. It was here that British and Germans met. And where Knoyle watched in the bay of the trench, even as the grey and khaki figures stood up and waved to each other, a shot broke the stillness, and a platoon-sergeant who had long been his friend, tumbled back into the trench. There he lay at full length, palpitating and bleeding, yet uncannily natural in the mud until someone brought a sandbag and covered up his face. To Adrian, that was a curiously shocking and disillusioning experience. After it, the atmosphere of " Christmas," which even war could not entirely disperse, ceased to have any meaning 246 WAT OF REVELATION for him. This sudden annihilation of a man with whom a moment before he had spoken, was like the tumbling of a last ideal in a catastrophically falling world. And there was some- thing else. Out on the wire in front hung a queer, grey object. It was only half there ; it looked as if a knob of wood, painted blue, had been stuck on a bone. Every time the wind stirred, the grey shreds flapped. Adrian and Eric watched the scene between the trenches in silence. They had drawn their revolvers, but the effort to hold back even their well-disciplined men was without avail. There was nothing to be done. An insurgent common impulse of the combatants prevailed, and grey and khaki swarmed out to meet each other — one or two Germans in white OYeralls or smocks among them — at the willow-lined stream. They crossed it and mingled together in a haphazard throng. They talked and gesticulated, they shook hands. They patted each other on the shoulder, laughed like schoolboys, and out of sheer lightheartedness leapt across the trickle of water. An Englishman fell in, and a German helped him out amid laughter that echoed back on the crisp air to the trenches. They exchanged cigars and sausage and sauerkraut and con- centrated coffee, for cigarettes and bully beef and ration biscuits and tobacco. They exchanged experiences and compliments and comparisons, addresses and good wishes — and even hopes and fears. So was Christmas Day celebrated upon the battlefield. There appeared after a quarter-of-an-hour two German officers who wished to take photographs — a request which the men refused. " Our artillery will open on you in exactly five minutes," they retorted. " Get back to your trenches or take the consequences." And the trench-world was lifeless, unpeopled once more. The guns thudded again, this time from behind the Aubers Ridge ; shells crashed upon all the roads. Fountains of earth and dust and masonry shot skyward around the ruined village ; JVJr OF REVELATION 247 there were death and wounds for those who lingered in the open. Only the rifles remained silent. Morning passed. Silver and still, the afternoon waned into winter's early dusk. Frost gripped again with night, and along both lines of trenches torch-like fires burned. Extra rum was issued. There were sounds of singing. §4 In a low cave or structure roofed with corrugated iron and lit by four candles stuck in bottles, the floor of which was some two feet deep in water — Adrian Knoyle and Arthur Corn- wallis sat together. Walker was on leave, Eric Sinclair going his rounds. In front of each was a white enamelled mug containing port-wine. They were smoking. *' That was a funny show to-day," observed Adrian. " It was," answered CornwaUis ruminatingly. " I've been thinking a lot about it." *' What do you make of it ? " There was a moment's silence. *' It was — astounding." *' But how do you explain it — psychologically f " " I think it was some sort of reaction : reaction of character, of human nature, of fundamental truth and order and. pro- portion against the disproportion and unreality and super- ficiahty overlaying our old conception of civilisation." The youth spoke very earnestly. He was himself with Adrian — and with no one else in the battalion. " Reaction of the best against the worst in human nature. . . . Have you noticed it — only the real things seem to come uppermost in war, Adrian ? I mean reality seems to reveal one to oneself, drags one out of oneself, and the fundamental truth in people seems to show up in face of it and in spite of forms. In peace-time we were always getting across — I mean misunderstanding — one another, weren't we ? And we were always misunder- 248 WAT OF REVELATION standing — life. We saw each other through a glass darkly, but now — face to face. Now we know even as also we are known.'* Leaning his elbows on the table, Cornwallis peered with great gravity at his friend through his steel-rimmed spectacles. Both were caked in mud, and wore two days' growth of beard. " Yes, my dear Arthur, but " — Adrian looked puzzled — " I confess I don't get you " " The impulse at the back of it, the inspiration of the thing. Could one have imagined it ? These chaps pouring out over the parapets into No Man's Land to shake hands, to laugh and joke and exchange presents and — their own dead lying around. One has heard of the French and British drinking at the same stream in the Peninsula but — that was nothing to this. When you come to think of it, it's tremendous — amazing. Of course I'm no soldier, and the disciplinary part of it is of secondary interest to me. What that five minutes' affair this morning brought out, to my mind, was the triumph of funda- mental good in the average individual, who in this case is the private soldier, over — the other thing. It was a revelation. It was finer than any church service or any Christmassy sentiment, because it was a spontaneous human thing. To me it's an unforgettable experience." " Yes — that's interesting," said his companion slowly. " I'm glad to have seen it, too, though war never struck me as anything but utterly damnable, utterly destructive, and utterly meaningless. But — yes, there may be some bigger thing at the back of it." Neither spoke for several minutes. " Well — I dunno," Adrian presently muttered, abstractedly lighting a cigarette. " I mean war and death and the hurt of it — and all. I feel as if it isn't sane sometimes — can't be true." " It isn't, thank God," exclaimed Cornwallis devoutly. (He, had, by the way, evinced a habit that was a source of amuse- ment to some of his brother-officers and of admiration to others, of kneeling down every evening wherever he happened WAT OF REVELATION 249 to be and saying his prayers.) " It isn't. The only life that counts is the life one lives in one's own mind The sandbag that did duty as a curtain over the entrance was drawn aside, and Eric stumbled in. " I suppose you're both drunk," he said. " I want a drink, anyway. It's too bloody cold for words. . . . They're singing over in the German lines." He took off his heavy fleece-lined waterproof, sat down on a plank poised between two boxes, and poured himself out some port-wine. He raised the mug to his lips : " Here's to each of you and here's to all of us ! " They drank this somewhat complicated toast, and then the company-commander said : " Arthur, will you take a walk round now ? One of us ought to be about, or the Boche may play some dirty trick under cover of all that joy-making." For several minutes after they were left alone together the old friends said no word. Speech to them was at all times superfluous. Then Adrian proposed a toast. " To those we love best and to those who love us ! " " Very nice,"murmured Eric. They drank in silence. . . . Adrian's thoughts had suddenly taken a bright turn. He realised that three months had imperceptibly passed and that only two more separated him from Rosemary. The rest — lay with Fate. Crump ? Crump ! Thud ! Thud ! Muffled by the earthen walls came the hollow sound of shells bursting. The two officers crawled out, but silence had fallen again except in the direction of the German trenches where a chorus of guttural voices was chanting Die Wacht am Rhin. « 250 WAr OF REVELATION CHAPTER III Anticipation § I -A BROKEN road by which men and guns and transport journey ito the trenches ; a broken village where the inhabitants lurk in ruins or underneath them, where the rats run and the birds flit at ease ; a broken church whose tower, landmark for miles around, is spared only because the German gunners find it useful as a range-finder. And a decayed railway station, grass- grown, decorated with melancholy advertisements and a melancholy name-board beckoning the traveller who never comes. Unlike some ruins, there is nothing beautiful about these. They are degraded and degrading. Even the church is of a piece with the rest, modern, red-brick, ugly. . . . And the road leads on, muddy and greasy, straight on through the village. It is broad and planted on either side with young poplars. There is a footpath between the roadway and, at the entrance to the village, a row of houses. Most of these are occupied by their civilian owners as well as by troops ; a few are good houses and comfortable. Each has a cellar, which, being the only salvation in case of bombardment, is sandbagged up outside to keep out splinters. Behind the houses are vegetable gardens tilled by the women and old men who have remained. In this village, barely a mile from the firing line, the Left Flank company had spent many weeks of their second winter in Northern France. Late at night they would come back to it, caked in mud, stiff from damp and lack of exercise, for here were quartered WAT OF RE F ELATION 251 the brigade in reserve. And in the wintry twihght four days later, by the same broken road they would set off for the trenches again. There stood nearly opposite the railway station a dilapidated estaminet. Its dark and narrow doon^'ay opened upon two ground-floor rooms leading one into the other, the greenish paint and plaster of which were rapidly peeHng from their compartment-like walls. In one room the floor was of brick tiles. It had evidently been a cafe, for here also was a kind of bar counter. Most of the panes were missing from the windows, one or two were protected by brown paper. The adjoining room had been a kind of parlour ; a faded lithograph or two still hung upon the walls ; there were a stove, a table, and one or two rickety chairs, but no carpet. Both rooms were thick with dirt. They were inhabited by certain strange beings : a fat, frowsy, elderly woman, with pale complexion and black hair who might be seen waddHng about in heel-less sHppers, looking like a Bloomsbury lodging-house keeper ; a middle-aged man, lean, distrustful and furtive, sitting vacantly at the table opposite a bottle or occupying himself with some ill-defined menial occupation. Always these two lurking there. And sometimes about the middle of the morning — or in the evenino^ — a group foregathered in the room : a few friends came in, slatternly-looking girls and dwarfed, misshapen youths, or haggard, woe-struck, aged people, not less dirty, frowsy,, wretched-looking than the couple themselves. Next this " parlour " and for ever within sound of chattering French roices was a large square apartment, lighted by candles and two oil-lamps. A big French stove where the hearth should have been, a thick, stuffy atmosphere, reeking of tobacco- smoke and cooking. There was much flimsy furniture in the room — too much — and on every hand a litter of objects — caps, gloves, waterproofs, and coats ; newspapers, magazines, books, packs of cards, revolvers also lay about. On a side-table in a 252 JFJl" OF REVELATION corner stood bottles of whisky and port, butter on a saucer, pots of jam and marmalade. It was late on a February evening, and the room was occupied by three officers of the Left Flank Company. Walker, smoking a cigar, with a whisky-and-soda beside him, was playing some c^rd game. Cornwallis was deep in Words- worth's " Excursion." Adrian, with a writing-pad balanced on his knee, stared into the pleasant glow of the stove. " Adrian," ejaculated Walker, " I've got a new female in my room. Would you like to see her ? " " No," replied the other without hesitation. " What ! — don't you want to see her ? " " No. I don't like your females. Show her to Arthur." " Oh, no ! " laughed W'alker. " Not Arthur ! Our little curate would be shocked." Cornwallis blinked over his spectacles and smiled amiably : " A new female — what do you mean ? A French girl ? " " Yes — of course. A Parisienne ! " " Oh, you know his beastly collection, don't you ? " growled Adrian. " You mean another Kirschner by your bed ? " " No, no ! A live one in my bed" retorted Walker. " He believes me ! Like to see her ? . . . Come ! Come and play poker patience, you son of a gun ! " " No, George — please ! I want to read my book." " Not that poetical muck — Tennyson, Wordsworth, or whatever the bloke's name is. Oh, no ! No ! Really, I can't allow it. I'm sick of the sight of you poring and peering over there. Be a bit unselfish for once. Come on ! " Cornwallis removed his spectacles resignedly. It was with him a sign of giving way. . . . He always did give way. " Eric ought to be here soon. " Adrian returned to his thoughts, although constantly WAT OF REVELATION 253 interrupted by Walker's loud guffaws or by the entry oi non- commissioned officers and orderlies bringing notes or printed forms for signature. The postponed marriage was now imminent, and the yellow leave-ticket had for days past been the centre of Adrian's dreams. What news would Eric bring on his return from leave ? Time had fled like a shadow through hours and days that separately had seemed endless. He looked back to the chill afternoon of his second arrival in France, and could hardly believe that he stood so near to the end of that long vista of dreariness. Now his great happiness was at hand, within his grasp almost. Letters from Rosemary had been brief lately, but this was to be expected of a young woman in the last weeks before marriage. The final details of the wedding, it is true, had not been settled. This could not be done until they knew the exact date of the bridegroom's leave. They could, after all, be arranged very quickly ; such things usually had to be in those days. In any case, the wedding was to take place at Stavordale. The honeymoon was to be spent at Mrs. Rivington's Sheringham viUa. Footsteps sounded in the stone passage. " HuUo, all of you ! " In the doorway stood Eric, his fur-collared overcoat lightly sprinkled with snow. He carried a haversack. There were general exclamations of welcome. " Had a good leave ? " ♦' The best." " Come and sit down and get warm, and tell us all the news. There's some dinner being kept for you." Adrian drew up a second chair in front of the stove and looked his friend up and down, scrutinising his face, as though to read there some information he sought. It was not like Eric to betray information in tliis way. And Eric was entirely his cool and collected self. 254 ^^^^^ OF REVELATION But after divesting himself of his outer garments and un- lacing his boots, he produced a bulky letter from an inner pocket and flung it into Adrian's lap. With the letter was a five-pound note. §2 Impatient as they were for the other two to depart to bed, they discussed general topics while Eric was eating his dinner. Contrary to his established custom, Eric talked " shop." How was the Company — had there been any casualties — any news of a move ? And Adrian — what were things like in England, when did people at home think the war was going to end, what plays had he been to, who was coming out next to the battalion ? Then, while Eric devoured ham, Adrian devoured the half- dozen sheets covered by Rosemary's sprawling handwriting. "... Time flies," she wrote, " and this time next month I s'pose we'll be duly wedded man and wife. Doesn't it sound funny — and respectable ? Don't be rough and full of odd expressions when you come back, and dori't talk about the war, or I shall refuse to accompany you to the altar. . . . I'm a very busy child. I'm going to act in ' Lady Winder- mere's Fan ' at the Court next month in aid of blind soldiers or something. I sold programmes twice last week, and every morning I pack parcels for prisoners at Princes'. Then there's the wedding trousseau to prepare and mamma to manage, and sometimes golf. So what do you think of that, my man ? You can never call your beautiful Rosemary an ' idle little skallywag ' again ! " The phrase referred to an expression used in one of Adrian's letters. He laughed to himself, partly at the expression, :diiefly to relieve the burden of his ridiculous happiness. WAT OF REVELATION 255 When at length Walker and Cornwallis departed to bed, the two friends threw coke on the fire, placed their feet close to it, and ht cigarettes. " Well ? " ejaculated Adrian. " You won." " Congratulations are so conventional. Only give me the pleasure of saying ' I told you so ! ' . . . And now we're all joyfully and suitably affianced. If it wasn't for the war we'd have a double wedding in the largest church in London with all the rank and fashion and beauty of the town — what ? " " Of course, it's not settled down to the last detail yet. But the ofiicial sanction is given. Only his lordship wants us to wait till the end of the war. What an obstinate old boy he is ! * Mary * is willing for it to be as soon as possible. However — much can happen between now and next leave. Meanwhile, Faith and I agreed it would be best to rest on our laurels and wait — for the present. She'll get round the old chap in time." They talked far into the night while the sleet pattered against the brown paper in the window-frames. Adrian could not help reflecting upon — while not envying — the cool and collected quality of Eric's and Faith's regard for one another. Yet how dijfferent from his own feelings for Rosemary ! But he no longer doubted the durability of their affection. Faith he had never doubted ; it had needed the war to reveal Eric. The latter showed an inconvenient dilatoriness in respect of Rosemary. He dilated upon the charms of " Bric-a-brac " and " Shell Out," upon a couple of days' shooting he had had at the Rivingtons' (together with a few poignant details of his ex- periences with the Miss Kenelms, one of whom had become engaged to the local curate), upon a day's racing " over sticks " at Gatwick, and upon a bachelor dinner-party he had given at the Cafe Royale. But of Rosemary — nothing. At last Adrian's impatience got the better of him. " By the bye, did you see anything of Rosemary ? " 256 WAT OF REVELATION " Yes, we dined at the Berkeley and went to the play. She and Faith and old Cyril and myself. She's very fit. She talked a lot about you, of course. I gather the preparations are well on." " Ah ! " For an instant it crossed Adrian's mind that there was the faintest suggestion of reserve in his friend's manner. Then Eric spoke again. " Poor Cyril — it did him good. He's lookin'* better, though. We ran into Gina Maryon — I didn't know, by the way, she was such a friend of Rosemary's. I confess personally I can't cope with the woman. She talks sixty to the dozen, says * a-ma-teur^ and looks at you as if you were a bit of old French furniture. . . . Hullo ! What's this ? " An orderly had entered with an official envelope which he handed to Adrian. It contained a yellow ticket. " My leave ! " He leapt up, seized it and sat down. A slow flush rose in his cheeks as he stared at the slip of paper. " Why, they've given me a month ! " he cried, looking at his treasure. " It's marked ' special.' How the devil ? I suppose you managed that, you old blackguard ? " " C^est ga^ mon garconP " Just like you, damn you. But I can't take it, you know. It's not my turn." " Rot ! You weren't fit when you came out. They never ought to have sent you. I'm not going to have my second-in- command crocking up with the ' shooting season ' coming on " " rU take a fortnight of it." " You'll leave to-morrow at midnight and you'll return one month from that hour." " Well — we shall see. At the moment I can't — I simply cannot — believe it's at last going to happen." WAT OF REVELATION 257 " The natural feelings of a bridegroom ! " commented Eric, putting coke on the stove. " It's pretty bad luck you can't be my bottle-washer, Eric." " Oh ! get Cyril — or somebody. He'U do it equally well, wheeled-'thair and all." " Very nice — but not the same thing ! " " Don't think I want you to be married, my dear Adrian ! Not in the least. Say what you like, when a man enters what they call the ' blessed estate of matrimony,' he inrariably prefers his own drawing-room to anybody else's smoking- room." The two inseparables went on philosophising in this vein for some time. Both agreed that it would be better to say nothing about the forthcoming event in the battalion until it was zfait actompli — except, of course, to Colonel Steele, who had generously recommended the granting of " special leave " for " urgent family reasons." His real reason probably was that, prompted by Eric, he saw a chance of conserving the health of his senior subaltern, and one of the few young officers with experience in the battalion. Adrian — if the truth were known — dreaded the unmerciful chaff he knew he would receive at the hands of his brother-officers — especially Walker. It was near daybreak when the couple finally cHmbed the rotting staircase to bed. Looking out, they saw snow falling upon a landscape inexpressibly drear. This provided a rapt contrast for Adrian, who for a long while could not sleep, so joyfully his heart leapt and sang. 258 WAT OF REVELATION CHAPTER IV Nightfall § I It was shortly after the midnight next following that Adrian set out upon the happiest journey of his life. A two-mile walk from the billet over a rough shell-torn road brought him to the railway station. He carried nothing save a bulky haversack and a walking-stick. He strode along, engrossed in joyful imaginings, through the frosty starlit night. Searchlights, German and English, occasionally swept pale fingers across the sky ; eastwards, a few miles away, the familiar Verey lights rose and fell in an objective loneliness. Laventie slept. He had curiously the feeling of leaving behind him, finally, this ghost-haunted and sombre world. It was not so, of course ; he would be back in a fortnight — a month at the outside. But to visualise returning to it was at the moment impossible. At the station there was a long wait. The leave-train was due to start at one o'clock ; by two, it had not moved. He found himself sharing a carriage with three other officers. For some time he walked up and down the platform to keep warm. His spirits brooked no damping ; he cared little indeed how long the journey was protracted, so it ended — with Rosemary. Mechanically, almost unconsciously, he carried on half-a-dozen conversations with different people whom he did not know and whose faces he could not see — each, it seemed, exactly like the last, " Cold, isn't it ? " " Damnably." *' Going on leave ? " fp'jr OF REVELATION 259 " Yes." *' I wish the confounded train would start." " It's an hour overdue already." " Where's your Division now ? " " Fauquissart-Laventie." " Quiet there ? " " Nothing much doing." " Heard anything of a ' push ' coming off ? " " Not immediately." " In our part of the line " and so forth and so on. Adrian's preoccupation rejected these platitudes and, as he p.iced up and down, his mind roved as far as could be from things of the war, finding its goal in the small parish church of Stavordale, in Yorkshire. §2 At last the train did move — inconsequently, as it were, with a jerk and without warning of any kind. Thereupon the four officers composed themselves in their carriage after the approved fashion of such farings, one each along the seats, one crossways, and one lying on the floor. Adrian reclined crossways. But he did not sleep. His mind would not contemplate repose. Doze he sometimes did, to awaken sharply with such mastering thrills as set him staring, staring out into darkness, his face lit with a smile which he self-consciously feared might be observed by his companions. So the night wore away. Rumbling, jolting, stopping, starting again ; the dim, greenish, half-veiled lamp always quivering and shaking ; trees flitting mistily past, and through frosted windows a vague prospect of moonlit country. • They stood for an interminable time in the silent glass-covered station of Hazebroiick. Daylight found them no farther than the sidings at St. Omer, sandwiched between two troop-trains. Looking at their occupants, obviously troops 26o WAT OF REVELATION goin^ " up the line " for the first time, Adrian felt a sort of joyous pity. In the measure that he was sorry for them, he was glad for himself. Thenceforward the leave-train speeded up, and by ten o'clock they were through the flat country, and the snorting engine was taking in water on the arid outskirts of Calais to the monotonous chant of the children : " Bisquee, s'il vous plait, m'sieur ! Bisquee ! Bisquee, s'il vous plait ! " And then, through the sand-dunes, past the great new ranges of hospitals and camps beside the railway, they came to Boulogne. For two or three hours, Adrian's three companions had talked remorselessly about the war. " Minnies " and " whiz-bangs " and " coal-boxes " and " stunts " played a chief part in the conversation, darting in and out of it, like ladies and gentlemen in a pantomime. At Boulogne he found the boat was not due to start till three. Plenty of time to wash, shave, and eat a comfortable meal at the big white hotel which fronts the quay. And what an experience that first breath of civilisation after four months ! The gilt-and-marble hall, the red-and-white dining-room, the concierge^ the waiters in stiff, sliiny shirt-fronts, the white table- cloths, the gleaming spoons and forks, the glasses, the amazing cleanliness of everything ! All was so surprising, so unspeakably eloquent and dehghtful. And what a long step they seemed to carry him towards — Rosemary ! He met officers whom he knew, but he avoided them after passing the time of day, in order to be at hberty to sit by him- self in a corner and devour and enjoy every moment of this reunion with Hfe — this divine anticipation. At two o'clock he went on board. Would his leave-pass be in order ? A frantic, unreasoning spasm of fear nearly choked him. If . , . ? But of course it was in order. And he stoutly walked aboard. There were already scores of officers and soldiers on the boat, crowds standing on the quayside, quantities of military officials ; here and there, a Frenchman or two. Everybody had a merry face, was cracking jokes, and forming WAT OF REVELATION 261 noisy groups on deck. There were gold-laced and red- capped generals ; many Staff officers. There was a red-capped gentleman bawling people's names through a megaphone. That appeared to be very much part of the business of em- barking. Now and then the steamer hooted warningly. At the last moment officers of the highest rank rushed from nowhere, throwing themselves on board and their dignity to the winds. How living, how amusing it all was ! Then they moved. A \€.\c\j blue winter's afternoon sky smiled overhead ; a Icyel, blue sea waited without. And perhaps this was the gladdest part of all that glad journey : — when the boat glided out into the basin, glided out among the fishing-smacks, and Boulogne, her piled-up houses and hotels, her spires and fort-crowned hill in the background, her crowded quays and hectic Anglo- foreign life, receded into a fast-gathering haze. For with all that went the war. . . . To the prospective bridegroom pacing up and down the encumbered deck and looking novr ahead, now backward at the French coast, life reopened amazingly. And in it was no guile. As the day began to wane, gleams of sunshine made silvery play upon the waves. Seagulls hovered whitely about the masts, uttering, it seemed to Adrian, cries of revelry. Outside the breakwater they picked up a destroyer which acted as flank guard. A wake of snowy foam boiled and eddied behind them About half-way across they passed the returning leave-boat, alive with the khaki of those whose brief respite was over, and who were journeying back to try their luck in the great lottery once more. From time to time he met his companions of the train journey and exchanged a word with them. In addition to the hundreds of soldiers on board, carrying packs and rifle? and greatcoats, and British officers. Staff-capped and otherwise, in all shades of khaki, there were foreign military attaches, Americans, Japanese, Italians, Frenchmen, Belgians, civilian 262 WAY OF REVELAJION English, Government officials in spectacles and fur coats — women, too, Red Cross nurses, V A D.'s, and privileged refugees. From the forepart of the boat Adrian strained his eyes for a first glimpse of the English coast. Eventually, however, it was only by the twinkling of suddenly near lights that he discovered Folkestone. The sea grew vague and grey in the evening ; far away along the coast solitary revolving light- houses glimmered, then vanished. He sliivered — first intima- tion of the night's impending frost. Now they glided within the breakwater, and he knew that nothin;^ but land separated him from his earthly paradise. He began counting the half-hours, translating them even into minutes. . . . Queer little jerks of happiness, hot little thrills of anticipation, shot through him from time to time. And for all the sharp bustle that went on around, he was not in spirit there. Yet how he revelled in it ! How he revelled in the plain, rough faces of the English porters who tumbled aboard as soon as the boat drew to the landing-stage, in their coarse, familiar speech, in the physical sensation of stepping ashore, in the shouts of the newspaper-boys and the inviting appearance of the train. He thought of sending a telegram to Rosemary and to Iiis mother. He did not do so. His arrival should be a complete surprise to them both ! § 3 A man was made to feel a hero in those days. Ladies approached him on the landing-stage, offering their services for this, that, and the other thing ; ladies offered him, free and gratis, packets of chocolate, cups of tea, cigarettes. For his part, Adrian made a dash for a seat in a Pullman car, where he found an arm-chair and tea. Pandemonium reigned in the station ; it seemed as if they would never get off. An officer who sat opposite made appropriate remarks about the glad TFJr OF REVELATION 263 feeling of once more setting foot on native soil. Adrian frankly pitied him. Remarks of that sort seemed ridiculous. Risking rudeness, he protected himself behind a newspaper, finding his own thoughts during this last stage of his journey too absorbing, too precious to waste or lose. And he travelled through a dream country. Perhaps all did in those strange days on the home-coming leave-train. . . . The whole journey to London was unreal, and ever afterwards remained unreal, in his mind. It was a wonderful, cherished looking-forward, in which he now heard Rosemary rush to the door, saw her fling it open, saw her look as she welcomed him ; now went over in his mind the plans for the wedding fire days hence ; and now with all his senses was worshipping at the shrine of Rosemary's re-found beauty. . . . Again, it was the moment of finding themselves alone, supremely unrespon- sibly, at Stavordale or Sheringham — that moment when they would set out on the Great Adventure splendidly, like ships in full sail. Before he realised it they were in London. And he was plunged back into London, the all-embracing sense of London swayed him, uplifted him. And she was in London ! Already they breathed the same air, were divided by minutes only and by yards — and still were drawing nearer. He ex- perienced a curious sense of imminent realisation after an infinity of looking-forward, of imminent crisis — of crisis how great he could not know. He would, of course, go straight to Grosvenor Mansions — just as he was — as fast as cab could carry him. . . . The train slowed down going over Grosvenor Bridge and^ outside Victoria Station stopped. That was maddening. He stood ready, waiting, at the door of the corridor, haversack over shoulder, stick in hand. He stood thus a quarter-of-an-hour, occasionally looking out of the window and seeing the foggy, tantalising lights inside the station. Anyone watching closely the young man's face in these moments, with its straight English featuree, sensitive 264 W^r OF RiV ELATION mouth, and dark, contemplative eyes, might have perceived in it an intensity of expression, a degree of concentration, a dominating thought or idea, that boded ill for him if aught should cross the purpose of his life. A murky gas-lamp or two burned in the grimy, high-storied brick buildings between which the train stood. The dingy light showed enough to suggest a yet more dingy interior, con- veying to his mind one swift negative picture of London life. . . . Then the train moved. The train glided ever so slowly, ever so smoothly into the wide, dim-lit spaces of Victoria station — beside a platform crowded with friends and relations, with soldiers and officials. He glanced at the illuminated station clock. It was exactly seven o'clock. If he went straight to Grosvenor Mansions he would find her. He ran a race for the nearest taxicab. He won. " To Grosvenor Mansions, quickly ! " His voice was already husky with excitement. A long line of motor-cars and cabs was filing out of the station. He was en- thralled by London's winter evening, by the variety of sounds that came to his ears — the shouting of newsboys, the whir and buzz of motor-cars, the hootings of motor horns, the high- pitched whistles of railway engines, the shuffling and pattering of many footsteps, the omnipresent roar of traffic. It was all satisfying beyond words. Then he was being whirled up Grosvenor Place, the gloom of which seemed, if anything, intensified since the previous autumn. In his preoccupation he had forgotten to wash or tidy himself in the train. He now frenziedly tried to improve his appearance, smoothing his hair and arranging his tie in deference to — Lady Cranford ! Would her ladyship be in the drawing-room, or would their first few moments be alone together ? His future mother-in- law might with luck be resting or writing letters in her bedroom. In any case, Rosemary would certainly rush out into the hall. He had only to ring. Intuition would tell her the rest ! fVJr OF REVELATION 265 The cab flew across Hyde Park Corner, up Park Lane and, turning down Mount Street, drew up at the famlHar portals of Grosvenor Mansions. ... At this penultimate moment he delayed, he hesitated. Should he enter ? Should he prolong the sweet agony awhile — go home and change, then return ? Should he walk up and down for a few minutes and prepare a little speech ? He did neither. He paid off the driver with a cheerful good- night and a double fare. It was good in itself to pay a taxi- driver again, above all, that god in a car who had driven him from the station to the threshold of his happiness. He entered. The stone stairs were very dark, as always at Grosvenor Mansions. There was fear of air-raids, of course. The lift-man was absent — as usual. It was all happening so exactly as he had rehearsed it over and over again in his mind, as he had countless times pictured the situation to himself ! He tramped noisily up the oft-counted steps, no sound coming back to him but his own echo. He thought with a smile of the last occasion of his mounting them, when together they had crept up like burglars. Reaching the fourth floor, he expected to see light under the front door. This evening there was none. So the switch had been turned off in the hall — a new measure of economy ! He paused to regain breath before ringing. One — two — three seconds . . . and they would be together. §4 He felt for and pressed the bell. The immediate stir within that he had expected did not come. How often before had his first ring not been heard ! He pressed the button again and waited with nerves aquiver. The flat remained silent. . . . The truth, however, dawned upon him. But of course ! How had that possibility — nay, probability — not occurred to him before ! Rosemary and Lady Cranford had gone out early 266 WJr OF REVELATION for the evening — to a theatre or a dinner-party — and the servants, after the manner of their kind, had gone out too ! He would stroll round to his club — the house in Eaton Square had been sold — make sure of his room, wash, have dinner, and return, by which time there would certainly be somebody in the flat. Yet it was with a half-acknowledged disappointment that he descended the steps. He had barely reached the second floor when the jar-r-r of a taxicab drawing up at the entrance of the Mansions came to his ears, followed by the hard metallic ring which prociaimi that the driver is being paid off. WAr OF REVELATION 267 CHAPTER V God-forgotten § I He knew it was she. And, knowing, heard the rippling laugh that had something of a brook's music in it and something of a bird's. Then he heard a man's voice. . . . With that he stopped. He had reached the landing of the second floor. The couple could be heard entering the main outer door of the flats. Were they coming up ? Whoever her com- panion might be, Adrian had no wish for a formal meeting then. There were upon every landing two doors, each giving entrance to a flat, together with a deep recess which gave access to the lift. Into one of these recesses he stepped. He was in complete darkness. That was the doing of a second. The couple now stood in the hall beneath. They were laughing and talking. The man pleaded. *' My Rosebud ! — yes. Now — quickly ! Just — just — this once ! " He knew that voice. He froze. He drew back into the recess so that, did they pass within a hand's breadth, he could not be seen. He heard her laugh. " No ! " In the word was witchery but not denial. " But who's up there, beautiful child ? Your mother ? The servants ? " " Nobody. Mamma's away till to-morrow. I told the servants they might go out." 268 WJ2^ OF REVELATION " Then — I can come up for a leetle while . . . just a minute — or two . . . baby . . . mine ? " " You're not allowed to call me things like that ! " She laughed again, her voice vibrant with unmistakable excite- ment. " Don't ! . . . Don't pinch my arm ! " " My Virgin Mary — my beautiful, maddening angel — but — yes — yes. . . ." His Toice became insistent — urgent, rapid. " Perhaps he'll be back to-morrow — ^you never know — per- haps — this is the last time ? " " I say NO ! " There was petulance in the words — but what else ? " We've had some wonderful times together, Harry ; now don't spoil it all ! " " But I— must . . . Rose ! " In the recess the listener trembled as one whose last hour is come. He knew Upton had seized her, though he could see nothing. There came the sound of a kiss. . . . Then she rushed upstairs, one, two steps at a time — breath- less, panting, gurgling out her low laugh. She brushed past him. Her sleeve touched him, he neither moving nor making any sound. Upton followed. Higher and higher they rushed, until he could hear nothing but their echoing footsteps. Then there was a pause, followed by the click of a key in a Yale lock. A laughing cry. The bang of a door. Silence. * * * * * Some time in the course of that night Adrian Knoyle found himself sitting on a seat in Hyde Park, opposite the Serpentine. It was cold. Stars winked, remote and passionless. There was a distant sound like the faint murmur of the sea. Close at hand he heard water lapping. WAT OF REVELATION 269 Probably he had been sitting on the seat a long time. His feet and hands were numb ; his senses, too. He turned on the iron bench and raised a hand to his head, to his temples. They were throbbing — throbbing. Too weary or too dazed to tliink or discriminate, he stared vacantly out across the quiet, mysterious water to the dim trees on the far shore. He murmured to himself again and again, " This is the end — this is the end." He could neither think nor realise nor care ; and when a pohceman, stalking past, turned upon him the full glare of a bull's-eye lantern, he did not move. The pohceman was probably surprised. Expecting to find some abandoned woman, some drunkard or homeless wanderer, he saw — a British officer. He hesitated, then passed on. § 2 And the night passed on. The murmur as of the sea died away. At last complete silence prevailed — that terrifying silence which encompasses the unsleeping in the midst of a city. It must have been in the smallest, coldest hours of the morning that this silence was broken by a wild and desolate cry. It might have been laughter, brazen and cruel. It might have been a woman's scream. It might have been the choking shriek of a drowning man. The sound came again, wild, piercing, sad. . , . It came yet a third time and could now be traced to a low, wooded islet some two hundred paces distant out in the water. It was succeeded presently by what seemed to be the subdued murmuring of a number of waterfowl. During the whole of the night this was the only separate sound to penetrate his brain. During the whole of the night this was the only sound to whip him into recollection. 270 W.^r OF REVELATION Hearing it, he rose and walked violently up and down by the waterside. All came back to him, all rushed back upon him — with this mocking echo of a former life. " It is the end," he murmured, " it is the end." In the next moment and for the first time there presented itself to his mind a clear realisation of what had befallen him. No sooner had the moment passed than anger mastered him, shook him to the innermost deeps of his being, set him quivering as one in a convulsion. That moment, too, passed. The alternative was — misery. What use, what meaning had anything for him now ? She who had promised herself to him, pledged herself to him — not once only — consecrated herself to him, forsworn herself, demanded all of him in return and received all — his forgiveness, his allegiance, his adoration, his body, soul, and spirit, his life's blood, his life's hopes, his life's dreams, the innermost sanctuary of his trust . . . what signified these things now ? Mercifully he was alone. Mercifully there were none to see or hear him who like a stricken animal had fled to be alone, far as might be from his kind. None should see or hear him in the abasement of his anger and his grief, even as none but the birds and the trees and the sunshine had been their witnes«;es in the dayspring of their love. With that, hotfoot, came anger, mastering, verging upon madness ; not against Upton, indeed — who was no more than some loathsome insect in his sight — but against this other ^vho had been his life's very heart. Blood flows from the lips which teeth pierce. Nails grind into the palms. False as the kiss in Gethsemane. . . . Blood flowed — did it not ? — and there were scars in the Hands — on Calvary day. §3 Illusive calm succeeded. And with calm, words of his mother, prophetic, wiser than he ! fFJr OF REF ELATION 271 " Never let life knock you down. Meet it fair and square, and if it hits you hard, give to it like a tense spring — and spring back." And again : " One cannot live, one cannot die, one cannot love or hope or inow or achieve in life without suffering, without experience. Remember that, whether it's the horror and the dreadfulness of the time are breaking your heart or whether — whether — it's anything else. Suffering is the crucifixion of each one of us. . . ." Her belief sprang — as her whole nature did, her innate good- ness, her woman's strength — from some Higher Power. And he — what had he to do with God, or God with him ? Yesterday — the day before — in his boyhood — he might have beHeved, had beheved, in some unformed yet all-seeing, all-pitying, and embracing intelligence. Was not his betrothed, had not Life itself been an expression, a pledge of divinity, of pity or hope, in human turmoil and existence ? But now ! Where was this God — of love ? On the battlefield where men killed and died, were crucified and came to their Supreme Agony with blasphemy, with hatred on their lips ? Within himself ? Murder in the heart where Love reigned. Where was this God ? . . . Nowhere indeed for him — who was God-forgotten. §4 Sense of actuality returned. And with it loneliness. To be physically alone is not loneliness. It is often happiness ; it h often peace. But there descended upon him now a loneliness of the soul, a sense of severance that was destroying, annihilating. He became aware of intense individual separateness ; of the individual in the mass, each battling along his solitary road, each road leading to a different goal, parallel roads, but none converging ; of an eternal parting of ways — each striving soul a world unto itself. He who had once believed in 272 WJT OF REVELATION unity and love, in the fusion upon earth of two mortal beings as an Entity, ideal, indivisible, who had experienced the perfection of spiritual union, had anticipated the unity of twin-minds — and upon that had pinned his faith ! Well, it was ended : ended their companionship, their mutual perfection, the jointure and the completion of their lives ; ended to-night a hundred secrets, a hundred lifelong moments and discoveries, a hundred common experiences, that none other might touch, complete or share ; ended a chapter which could never be reopened and to which neither of them could ever turn back. All was shattered, all shattered in a world that, within a few brief months, had become night- mare, madness, chaos blinder than human eyes could pierce. His hopes, his illusions, his optimism, his self-certainty — killed in five minutes ; aye, and the very motive-spark of Life itself. There was one thing more terrible than Death — finality in Life. §5 The Park lay grey and quiet about him. Misty moonlight filtered in between the trees. lAJways the Serpentine water lapped, and was lapping at his feet. That was the voice he perpetually heard — the lapping water — whispering, whispering to him hke a cool, steadfast undcr- note of sympathy in the torment and dissonance of his mind. Death ! This the word the voice of the water whispered, . . . All through his pacings up and down, all through his violence, his grief, recrimination, anger, and despair, this voice had whispered to him : gently, understandingly, tenderly, lov- ingly — but insistently. He paid no attention to it at first. Hearing, he was hardly conscious of it. Bui it persisted ; WAY OF REVELATION 273 it insisted. He went over to the waterside and stood, gazing down — thinking . . . thinking. And even as he hstened to the soothing voice, his wretched mind revolv,d the words that she had uttered in the beech- wood : " I'm not sure, Pm not sure of myself. I wish, oh ! I wish I knetc myself. *' Like a whirlpool unpent, the flood-tide of his misery burst forth, breaking all dams, seizing him upon its incalculable current, overmastering him, hurling him into vortex. He began to moan and then to croon her name to himself again and again. " Rosemary ! . . . Rosemary ! . . . Rosemary ! " And then : " Rosie ! My darling ! My own, own love ! How could you deceive me ? How could you desert me — forget me ? How could you treat me so ? " He sank down upon the iron seat and buried his face in his hands. §6 Still the voice of the water whispered — that voice to which so many in this same place had listened and made answer : — of escape, of an alternative, of an ending. Death ! Becoming calmer, he crossed the path, and gazed once more at the little waves lapping the stony shore. It was tempting. It was restful and alluring. It was lonely and quiet — and near her — and yet in the midst of life. But no ! . . . He could not, could not — here. God- forgotten he might be, but drag her name through the mire of such a sequel — he could not. Too fearful, too drab an ending, that, too soiled and ugly a curtain to what, after all, in its little hour, had been a good and a beautiful thing. 274 ^^^ OF RErELJTION Fate held for him a worthier weapon than that. Across the sea, Death waited — on the battlefield, in the trenches, by the wayside. Arms wide to embrace, sleep strong to enfold, a friend there, faithful and true. Constant and tender lover, she, not to deny him, not to betray him. To her embrace, loving, everlasting, he would go. Daylight stalked among the trees, paling such few lamps as were visible. He still sat on, but by slow processes reason insisted. What should he do as a first step ? Soon the park gates would be open — if they were not already. His instinct, still that of a hunted animal or outcast felon, was to escape, hide, creep away, meet nobody — escape at all costs from this city of his sorrows. He felt in his inner pocket the notebook containing his leave-pass — that so-precious yellow ticket ! He scanned it, " Special leave " was written in red ink in the left-hand corner, " Urgent family reasons " was added in brackets. He thought for several moments, staring blankly at the slip of paper. . . . Wherein lay the significance of those reasons now ? He tore a leaf from his pocket-book and covered it with pencilled handwriting very quickly. He read over what he had written : " When I left you to return to France, your last words were a prayer that I might come back to you. I came back — last night. I heard everything. Good-bye." He addressed an envelope and put the note in his pocket. Then he rose and walked in the direction of the Marble Arch. ffJir OF REVELATION 275 §7 Workmen and shop-people were already beginning to stream across the park to their daily avocations. Many looked curiously at the mud-stained, haggard officer who strode past. They made a mental note that this one was really from the trenches ; and that he had had a bad time. He made his way to a small private hotel in Bayswater, where he booked a room for half a day. He washed and shaved, scraped the mud from his uniform, and had tea and dry toast brought up to his room. At a quarter before ten he called for a taxicab, and was driven to the War Office by way of South Audley Street, and $0 past Grosvenor Mansions. The streets seemed oddly empty as the cab whirred up Piccadilly, past the Hotel Astoria. He looked neither to right nor left. Not many had assembled in the waiting-hall of the W^ar Office at this early liour. A messenger led him up two flights of stairs, and by labyrinthine passages to one of many doors. An elderly Staff Officer wearing an eyeglass came out into the passage, " Good morning ! What can I do for you ? " Adrian saluted. " I've a special leave pass for one month issued for urgent family reasons. Those reasons no longer hold good, and I should like to know whether I can return to my regiment at once." " H'm ! " The officer smiled in an accommodating manner, glanced at the yellow ticket and thought a moment. " Better take the leave and say nothing about the reasons." He nodded, as though the interview might be considered at an end, and turned to go " But I want " " That'll be all right." " 1 think I ought to go back, sir." 276 WJr OF REVELATION The officer looked surprised. " What ? You want to go back ? You're either a rer/ keen soldier, or an exceptionally honest young man — probably both. You mean you want your leave washed out ? " The officer looked at the applicant kindly, as one looks at a lunatic. " Yes, sir." " All right then. So be it. Give me the pass." He took the leave warrant, altered the date and initialled it. " The return train leaves Victoria at twelve. Good luck ! " " Thank you, sir." Adrian returned to his hotel, again passing the Astoria and again passing Grosvenor Mansions. He paid his bill, slung his haversack over his shoulder, and drove to the station, on the way posting a letter. Eighteen hours later, he was trudging back along the road that led to the trenches. His face was hidden by the upturned collar of his coat, his eyes looked towards an horizon above which white star-lights slowly, silently, rose and fell. For it was night. Rain fell, too. Rain fell steadily, implacably, blotting out the landscape, making pools of the deep holes and ruts in the road. It is probable he saw notliing of the lights nor felt the rain against his cheeks, nor knew that he was wet through. He came to the shattered village, Laventie, with its derelict railway station and its broken church. As he entered it, a naval gun began to fire at intervals from the railway, such being its habit at midnight. The ghostly battered street was deserted except for a sentry tramping up and down outside a Brigade Headquarters. He was challenged. He inquired of the sentry whether his battalion was in the WAT OF REVELATION 277 village. The reply was that it had gone that evening into the front-line trenches. Two miles more. The rain plashed mercilessly, but the star-lights seemed nearer. There was a sandbag breastwork across the road. The mud was ankle-deep. There were shell-holes. Adrian stumbled forward, neither feeling, seeing, nor caring. Weak from emotional stress and lack of food and sleep, he lurched to this side and that ; once or twice he shufflingly fell. Some distance off a field gun fired with a flash and quick glare out of the gloom of what seemed to be one vast surrounding moorland. Occasionally a stray shell went moaning overhead. He entered a communication-trench with slimy sides and so slimy underfoot that he could not stand up. The skeleton of a ruined farmhouse grinned down at him, and a bullet flattened itself with a startling " crack " against the solitary standing wall. Rats scurried away from him. He came to the front line. He could dimly perceive the figures of sentries muffled in waterproof capes silhouetted against the familiar pale glow that never left the night sky above Lille. For the rest, the trench was utterly deserted, nor was there any sound but the steady drip ! drip ! of the rain. He made for the old Company Headquarters and lifted the split sandbag that curtained the entrance. Eric sat on a ration-box writing by candle-light. The dug-out looked precisely as it had looked on Christmas night except that now the floor was a foot or so deeper under water. The company-commander looked up, and seeing a haggard face framed in the opening, said sharply : " What do you want ? " Then his face changed. " The devil ! " Adrian staggered down the steps into the low chamber and reded against the table. " What on earth's happened ? Why arc you back ? " 278 fVJr OF REVELATION " It's — well, it's over. So . . . I've come back." Eric said : " All right, old boy. Tell me about it in the morning. Sit down here by the brazier. Get out of these things. . . . Have a drink ! " He poured out neat whisky, almost forcing it down his friend's throat. He then dragged off the latter's dripping garments, laid him down upon a wire-netting bed which stood in a corner just above the water's level, and tucked him up with a greatcoat as one tucks up a sick person. Day once more breaking above the rain-soaked Flanders plain, found him still sitting, watching there. fF.^r OF REVELATION 279 CHAPTER VI Underworld § I Adrian Knoyle took the ten days' leave to which he was ordinarily entitled, in the South of France. He at first pro- tested that having had a portion of the leave due, he was very willing to forgo the rest and remain with the battalion. Eric Sinclair merely observed that this was nonsense, and settled the matter out of hand. Nor in reality was Adrian loth to go. He longed for solitude — for quiet — to think things out. In the battalion, this was out of the question, and he found difficulty in facing the inquisitive eyes, the curious comments that he knew were being passed upon his unexpected return. He had given out that the family business which had called him home had been settled unexpectedly. But gossip and inquiry had their way in a life that was monotony itself. Arthur Cornwallis, who held the clue, read much in his friend's demeanour, but held his peace. George Walker, essaying some rallying jest upon the subject of the erratic movements of young men in the spring, was very promptly suppressed by Eric. And Eric proved right to insist on his friend's leave being taken. The complete change of atmosphere, of climate and surroundings, the sohtude in which he wrapped himself at Nice, proved beneficial. Adrian returned in at least a com- paratively normal frame of mind. Already the earliest days of April were beginning to bring warmth, sunshine and illusive hope to a weary and an embittered land. An unforgettable winter had passed. The Battle of 28o WAT OF REVELATION Verdun still racked Europe with its massed slaughter and ferocity. But once more the fighters girded themselves, setting their teeth ironly for — they knew not what. Few among them, perhaps, saw sanely, could think in terms of normality or humanity or, counting the days, could call their lives their own. All felt the irony of an i'^.pending doom which, accompanied by bursting buds of trees and flowers, by mating songs of birds, by the lush green of new grass, fresh scents, and gay colouring of fruit blossom in French and Belgian gardens — ushered in the spring. During Knoyle's absence the whole Division moved to the neighbourhood of Ypres. On his return he found a letter awaiting him. It ran : '* 37, Grosvenor Mansions, " Mount Street, W. " Monday. '* Dear Adrian, " Thanks for your note, though I could hardly read it. " As for what it means I haven't the vaguest idea, except that you seem to have written it in rather a pet — and then rushed back to France like a bear with a sore head. I rang up your club, and they said they knew nothing of your whereabouts and hadn't even seen you. " One thing I do know, though. I'm not going to marry a man who always wants to be spying on my incomings and outgoings and gets jealous at the slightest excuse. Life's not long enough. " I may as well teU you I've talked to Gina, who knows the world better than anybody, about it, and she quite agrees. She says you've never taken the trouble to understand Harry, and he wants a lot of understanding — and I don't think you ever wiU. He's frightfully clever and brilliant, and that's what you don't appreciate. But I do. See ? " " The fact is you ask too much and don't give enough in return. You're beastly selfish. WAT OF REVELATION 281 " By-the-by, will you please return all my letters, as it would be rather a bore their being read, if anything happened to you. " Good-bye-ee-e-e. " Rosemary, " P.S. — Have you read * Stars,' the successer (sic) of * Rays ' ? We're all going to a party given by Venetia Romane in honour of its huge success, to-night ! " Adrian did not reply to this communication. The letters referred to had already been destroyed. §2 He had not so far spoken even to Eric of the disaster that now OTcrshadowed his life. Eric, of course, had at once divined the truth — may even have been prepared for it. But he asked no questions. It was not his way. He knew well enough that in his own time his friend would broach the subject, would open his heart. In due course Adrian did. But not until after his return from the South ; not until after Rosemary's letter put their severance beyond all doubt. The interval had tided him over tlie first shock, under the influence of which he had felt unable to speak of the matter even to his closest friend. Nor did this reticence imply any loosening of trust between the two. Rather it revealed to them both an instinctive sympathy. On the evening of the day after Adrian's return they went out riding togethei. They took the military road which, skirting the town of Poperinghe, led across country to the neighbourhood of Ruisbrugge and Proven. The landscape was uncannily flat. Between the innumerable roads, watched by their sentinel trees, lay wide tracts of minutely-culti- vated land, acres of vegetables and hops, little cornfields, root-crops and the like, these being freely dotted with brick 282 fFJT OF REVELATION cottages, villages, and farmhouses of a nondescript type. Nearer Ypres there were areas of young oakwood broken up by the encampments and cantonments and hut-villages of the troops, but welcome alike for their shade from the growing heat of the sun and for the protection they afforded from the enemy's aerial eyes. For the rest, the whole countryside was alive with men and the doings and the workings of men. Here, new railways being constructed ; there, new roads. Here work- shops, great lorry parks and horse lines, there endless rows of wooden huts, tents innumerable, and hideous tin erections. The main highways carried an unceasing stream of traffic. Every- where men — English soldiers, negroes, Kaffirs, Chinamen, Frenchmen, Belgians, Indians, Egyptians, Canadians, German prisoners, a dozen nationalities intermingUng. Not until they came to the comparatively quiet byways in the neighbourhood of Proven Chateau (the Headquarters of an Army), with its pleasant gardens, drives, and grassy spaces — reminiscent of an English country house — and its great white building, could they converse at ease. As they walked their horses side by side along a dusty track, Adrian said : " What news of Faith lately ? " " She's still working away at Arden. Poor old Cyril has had another operation. His lordship is being desperately efficient down on the East Coast. I suppose it's the privilege of the elderly to be enthusiastic. He's doing all he knows to get a battalion out here, she says. They still live in mortal terror that he'll succeed. That sort of man is apt to. . . . " *' Your future father-in-law ? When's it likely to come off?" Eric had always been scrupulously tactful in evading the subject of his own engagement. But now it had been broached he said : " Oh, goodness knows ! As you're aware the old boy is very obstinate ; he's absolutely got his back up against war marriages. I should like it to have been " WJr OF REVELATION 283 He checked himself. Adrian completed the sentence. " Next leave." " Yes — but it's out of the question. I sometimes wonder wliethcr it ever will come off." "Oh! ItwiU." *' You're always so deucedly optimistic. Why ? " " Because you're fond of her and she's fond of you. And — she's a good sort." " That's true," Eric agreed. " Faith's one in a thousand, you know." " She is." " All women are not like Faith. They're a queer lot. . . " " No. She's one of the best." Eric almost dreaded what was coming. " Eric — ^you know about me, and . . . her ? " When it came to the point he could not bring himself to utter that name. To do so, to utter the name was pain. But he found no difficulty in mentioning the subject to Eric now ; only reluctance to go over each little miserable detail. Eric said : " No, I don't know. Tell me. What the devil's happened ? " " We've . . . crashed. For good, so far as I'm concerned. She is — well, she likes somebody else." His tone was level and quiet. " That— chap ? " *' You saw it going on, then ? " " I saw — something. I heard — things — vaguely when I was on leave. But I never thought of — anything like that." " One wouldn't. Well — that's why I came back. I wanted to get away from it all, from London — from England, My only hope is that we may never meet again in this world." Eric did not respond at once. He was not sure how best to deal with the situation. And he was afraid of touching unnecessarily on some sensitive spot. Presently he said : 284 fFA7^ OF REVELATION " Yon feel that way now — naturally, . . , But next leave — you'll go and see her. You'll make it up. All women are like that. You needn't get desperate about it. They don't mean it half the time. They can't help it, poor wretches." " I don't want to see that blasted London again." " Oh, my dear chap . . . really ! " ** Eric — no. She's been all my life, these last two years — since I've lived at all — all my present and future, all my past. Now she's finished it — killed it. I never want to see her again — or England — or London — or Arden — or any of the places we've known and been happy in together." " Don't be a fool ! She'll come round — of course she will. Women always do. Leave her damned well alone — that's my advice." " My dear old boy, you don't quite understand. It's not a question of ' coming round.' " He laughed. " It's tliC end— for me as well as for her." His voice sank almost to a whisper. " Eric, she can't — she can't go straight. She's all right " — there came a note of old passion now — " she's a good sort, and simple and all that really, and — decent in herself, but — wayward, mad. You see, it's not the fint time, this. . . . I'm too slow for her. We never could be happy, even if I were utterly devoid of pride. She could never stick to me. I feel sure of that now. She's got caught up in this rotten Maryon crowd — I warned her — I implored. She might — heaven knows ! — she might have stuck to me if — if I'd been at home. And — oh ! my God, Eric — I'm afraid for her sometimes — I'm terribly, awfully afraid for her ! " Eric made no reply. A German aeroplane — gleaming white in the sunshine and extraordinarily beautiful with its black cross clearly outlined on the silvery breast — passed over- head at a great height, and the two young men — common sight though it was — concerned themselves in the white TFJT OF REVELATION 285 smoke-puffs of aerial shrapnel that followed in its wake. Besides, an anti-aircraft " pom-pom " on a motor-trolley was firing splenetically close at hand, making speech almost inaudible. But when the aeroplane had passed and the noise subsided somewhat, Eric said abruptly : " You must get over this." *' Yes ? . . . And what about her r " " She'll come running back to you — one of these days. You see ! " " Well, it's done with — finished — so far as I'm concerned." " Oh, yes — but one always thinks that, you know. One gets over these things in time — or else they come right." " In time — yes. . . . But it's ended, all the same. And she's ended. She'll suffer. And — well, I wish to God I was ended." " Cheer up ! " They walked their horses on in silence. They came to the Prisoners' Cage near the cross-roads known as International Corner, where one or two down-at-heel, grey-clad Germans were squatting against the wire-netting, smoking clay pipes in the sun. The two officers stopped, glanced at them from habit, and rode on. Adrian said : " I want you to do something for me." " What's that ? " " Stand by her, whatever happens — do what you can for her." " Of course. You'd do the same for old Faith if i got knocked out or anything." " I would." They came out on the main Ypres-Poperinghe highway, and the stream of men and traffic setting towards the battlefield with the approach of dusk, precluded further conversation. Nor till many months had passed was the subject mentioned between them again. 286 ffjr OF REVELATION §3 Adrian had found, in addition to Rosemary's letter, one from Lady Knoyle awaiting him. He had written to her, stating simply that Rosemary and he had had a disagreement and that the wedding would not take place. He had added, without explanation, that, while dis- appointed at not seeing his mother, he felt disinclined to return to England at present, and had taken the opportunity offered to go to the Riviera. His mother's intuition would supply the rest. There was no doubt Lady Knoyle did understand. She expressed an almost formal regret at the abandonment of the arrangements and at his decision not to spend his leave at home, merely adding, in regard to the latter, that he was his own best judge. The burden of licr letter was contained in its closing paragraph : " I feel for you, my dear one, every hour and every minute, every night and every day. Only remember that it is not all blind and negative, purposeless and without end, but that there is a purpose and there will be an end. Some day we shall know — here or perhaps hereafter — and in that revelation we shall attain all that is lasting and true." As time went on the young man discovered that, in addition to Eric and his mother, there was a third abiding factor in his hfe. This was Faith. Faith wrote to him about some trifle. He replied, and she continued to write — at first about once a fortnight, latterly more often — affectionate and amiable letters, containing such news as was likely to interest him. The solid character of the woman seemed to breathe through these letters as character curiously does breathe through the written word. He was grateful for them. And it was strange — or perhaps would not have appeared so to one familiar (but who except Lady Knoyle was familiar ?) WAT OF REFELJTION 287 with this divisible personality — how his inborn love of his own countryside came back to him at this time. In the trenches, on the march, out riding, awake at night, on parade, at the most unexpected moments, an almost painful longing for the Three Hills — their shapeliness and wide distances, their solitude, freedom, and indefinite calm — returned repeatedly like the quiet motif in a distracting symphony. For the rest, the old Adrian was dead. He lived no more. He existed, moved, ate, slept, and talked, but without realisation of immediacy or of propinquity. It was as if the soul of him had withered. Deep down in his heart he owned allegiance to that new, more constant lover who had appeared to him silently in the hour of Hfe's perishing. §4 Such was his condition at this time. He guarded his thoughts. He watched over them, brooded over them jealously that none might know or guess. And to out- ward appearance the only change in him was a hitherto unnoticed gravity, an absence of light-heartedness that had marked itself on his face, never, perhaps, to leave it again. His comrades noted this change, putting it down to the effect which prolonged warfare and the environment of war are well known to have on certain temperaments, more especially in that lethal region to which they were novv' come. For was not this Ypres the very negation of hope, the very atmosphere of the underworld of the spirit, and of despair ? . . . April found them in cantonments and tents amid the young oakwoods which lie to the west of the ruined city ; May in the so-called trenches, better-named ditches which at that time lay a mile or two to the east of it. And looking back upon this period and upon the four months that succeeded it, survivors were disposed to agree that in all the Five Years they weare the most unearthly, the most 288 fFJr OF REVELATION sinister, the nearest akin within human conception to the last and final state of man. Here it seemed as though the Almighty had passed judgment upon mankind and were levying execution of it inexorably. It was always a crooked and a twisted and a torn and a broken memory in after-years, yet starred with strange intervals of lucid, unexpected peace, during which men saw visions of a wondrous ultimate purity and splendour — else, must surely have perished. It was as though souls had to be tested through denial of the life of the mind, of the realm of the soul, of the celestial human thing. Beauty and Death allied. Nature mocked at suffering. Love gibbered at Despair. . . . Men lived, physically and mentally, in the dim contorted regions of the anti-Christ. But they S3W visions — yes. For if tlie eves were terrible, the dawns were beautiful. And if there was naked horror in the bright noonday when the sun scorched down upon livid festering corpses, and eve-y grinning feature of the land was laid bare and the buzz of the clustering blue- bottles mingled with a nameless stench — there was sleep some- times, too, and dreams scented with thyme of Paradise. And if men hved and died in the nether-world, losing sense of individuahty and time, they came back every nine, ten, or eleven days to meadows vivid with the lush green of new grass, riotous with wild flowers, instinct with the upward pushing growth of the spring. And if existence itself became a purgatory, there was peace still, and hope, in the faces of the dead. The process of this thing was slow, selective, partial, and sure. It was not as it had been in the winter trenches, where blind chance might strike a man down but where Providence watched over the majority. Here the scythe-bearer claimed his victims one by one — five, ten, a dozen, or even fifteen together. Men knew that Time was their master. Captain Sinclair watched his company dwindle. Each platoon-commander saw his comrades — those who had borne the rifle, some of them, WA2' OF REVELATION 289 since the outset of the campaign, and had played their humble part always stoHdly and always manfully — join one by one the drab company which, swathed in waterproof sheets, duly labelled and numbered, morning by morning lay in a row at the head of the trolley-line. One by one they went — ceased to be — were no more seen : their laughter, their chatter, the characteristics of each that distinguished him from the other — stilled and vanished for ever. It was a strange experience. But those who remained gave little outward sign. " Bill's gone," they would say ; " Old Ginger's copped it at last." And would then go on with their work again. §5 If Captain Sinclair felt these things, he, too, gave no sign. He was there — always there — never absent from the trenches for a day or a night as his subalterns were by turns : — " little Percy," the rank and file called him among themselves, and sometimes " Strawberries-and-cream." " Little Percy," no doubt, in respect of his neatness, his fastidiousness, his parade- ground precision, his detached air of boredom which seemed to increase as the days went by ; " Strawberries-and-Cream," in reference to his complexion. Captain Sinclair, it seemed, carried fortune on his shoulders ; at any rate, he risked his hfe so needlessly that the soldiers asked one another — and even made bets on the subject — how long would his luck stick to him, and would it stick to him to the end ? They feared him, too. He had a quiet, terrible way. How he could gaze at a soldier who betrayed fear ! With what a surprised, innocent, inquiring glance, as who should say, " My dear chap, what — what's the matter ? How funny you look ! Anything I can do ? " — or the glance would say, " My dear chap, would you rather — er — go down to the dressing-station f " And seeing his company-commander's contempt, that soldier would pull himself together. 290 WJr OF REVELATION It is probable that deep down in his heart (to which even his closest friend never quite penetrated) he felt a respect not less profound than the more emotional among his brother- officers for these rough and faithful ones who, grumble as they might (and perpetually did), never failed ; who, out of the staunchness of their hearts, supported him through these perils ; who by the sweat of their brow and outpouring of their blood made the Ypres Salient possible in those days. Alone among the officers of the battahon, Eric Sinclair remained unchanged by the ordeal of these four months. If anything he became a little more quizzical, a little more exact and a little more exacting. (It was remarked, not without amusement, that to him from St. James's Street came a special coarse linen cover of fanciful material for the steel helmet, and a special badge worked in the front thereof.) At the same time, new and to Adrian unexpected traits revealed them- selves in his friend — not always likeable traits. One was a pitiless strain in the man. It expressed itself on a certain night when two prisoners were brought in from a German patrol captured in No Man's Land. Eric and Adrian met them being prodded along a lonely section of trench by the bayonets of a sergeant and three soldiers, accom- panied by kicks and curses. Eric laughed ; Adrian felt an unashamed compassion for the two Germans, fine-looking men who behaved with some dignity under the circumstances and were, he reflected, as much the victims of the holocaust of war as himself or their captors. When the platoon-sergeant inquired what he should do with liis prisoners, Eric said : "They're a couple of the swine who fire the ininenweTJ.'r, I suppose. Do what you like with 'em ! " " Oh, send 'em down to Brigade Headquarters, Eric " protested Adrian. " Come along ! " said his company-commander, cutting him short. " They're no use to us." The platoon-sergeant laughed. fFJr OF REVELATION 291 Passing back that way half-an-hour later, they found the Germans lying dead in the trench. . . . As to the rest, all in turn and in varying manner and degree fell beneath the spell of the ghouHsh nightmare of the place and of the time. Walker went first — Walker the " thruster," the bloodthirsty, the enterprising, the devil-may-care. But Walker went. In fact, he made a deliberate confession to Adrian one Sunday evening as they strolled together in the fields behind Brielen. " Adrian," he said, " I've got 'em. I don't know how I shall stick it. I don't believe I can face another show like Wednesday night. It's a hell o\\ earth. It's too — -Jilthy. . . . But don't tell Eric." By " got 'em " he meant that " the shakes " (as the men called it) were upon him. His mention of " Wednesday night " referred to the striking dead by minenwerjer of four of his platoon. Hearing for the first time the explosion of one of these great bombs, he had run up and found the four close together in the trench frozen with shock — two crouching, one standing with his head bowed upon the parapet, a fourth scattered in pieces around. He had been sick. Adrian replied : " We've all got 'em, old boy — more or less. I've got 'em too ; I see things — but I don't worry. I suppose it's all for our sins ... or other people's." And he laughed. It was a mirthless laugh, but he had grown callous of late to other people's suffering. Stick it Lieutenant Walker had to, though he trembled all over, jumped to this side and that, and went white to the lips when shells came plunging into the ditches that lay so im- mediately beneath the enemy's eye. Cornwallis, on the other hand, though gaining by dint of immense effort more visible control over himself, had nightmares in the back areas. He now rarely spoke. Others became jerky and took to drinking rather large quantities of neat whisky. This was particularly 292 WAT OF REVELATION the case with Darell, who had always been somewhat prone to the " bottle " and who now contrived to maintain an unnatural cheerfulness. Vivian, on the other hand, showed a nervous irritability which at times led to smart exchanges in the mess — without, however, lasting ill-feeling. Alston, the ex-lawyer, for all his assumed toughness, began to wear a perpetually grim and worried, an almost haunted look ; Durrant buried him- self more and more in particularity of detail and pedantic theory. Even Colonel Steele was a different man on his nightly tours round the trenches from what he had been back at battalion headquarters — he spoke almost meekly, and his voice had acquired a stutter as though he held him- self under perpetual constraint. As for his elegant adjutant, Langley, tliis young gentleman remained firmly at the telephone, rarely put his nose outside the deepest dug-out available, and then only to bawl for a whisky-and-soda. iVIajor Brough, the second-in-command, a portly personage, was subject to recurring attacks of trench-fever which kept him rather frequently out of the line. Adrian was less susceptible than the rest to the purely physical influences around him, since he lived habitually within his own mind, and that which happened passed by and away from him. Being intensely conscious of himself, he was seldom taken unawares, and only once did he give way to the furnace of suppressed feeling that at times burned within him. This was during a brief period in reserve when, unable longer to bear tne relentless burden which always lay near to his heart, and feeling that by his low spirits he was a heavy drag even upon the rather forced merriment of the rest of the company, he drank too much, became intoxicated, and had to be helped to his tent by his company-commander. He awoke to hear the whir-r-r of aeroplanes overhead and the detonation of German bombs falling around, whilst from far and near came the waiHng melancholy sound of gas-alarms in a score of different keys. On the morrow he was mercilessly chaffed by W^r OF REVELATION 293 his brother-officers, and received the only official rebuke from Eric that the latter thought necessary to inflict during theii long comradeship. " Getting drunk out here," the company-commandei remarked, " is like a joke that goes too far. It ceases to be amusing and becomes rather a bore." The incident was not mentioned again. The two friends were indeed more than ever inseparable. Eric did not sympathise vocally ; he did so by way of a score of unobtrusive actions ; saw to it that Adrian was left alone as little as might be, since he feared the effect of a brooding solitude upon him, and was always ready even at the busiest times to take a walk or ride. He privily com- municated the state of affairs to Faith to do as she might think best in regard to Rosemary. Eric's wisdom was self-contained but practical. Two events alone stood out in Adrian's recollection from the monochrome of that time. These, however, made a lasting impression where all else was hazy and dark, because they nearly affected that purpose which had now become a fixture in his mind. They revealed to him, as nothing else had, the irony of a Fate against which man seemed too puny to struggle. The first of these events occurred a couple of nights after Walker's unsought confession that he had " got 'em." It was also the occasion of Walker's death. That had been a curious confidence, Adrian thought — a curious self-abasement — to come from such a man, one so normally self-confident, so essentially physical, so purelv " animal." He had made that confidence, no doubt, perceiving his brother-officer's sombre state and imagining the cause of it to be similar to his own. It was as if he had had a fore- boding, too. 294 ^'^^ O^ REVELATION CHAPTER VII Love and Death It was an evening late in June, quiet and peaceful, after the heat of the day, the eternal sniping, and the periodical violent bursts of shelling. It was that hour when the slow dusk not being sufRciently advanced for work to begin, the combatants seemed tacitly to agree to take their ease. Captain Sinclair had established the custom of gathering around him at sunset his platoon-commanders and sergeants and of discussing with them the forthcoming night's work. At a point close to the company headquarters where a real bit of trench broadened out somewhat, forming a natural little amphitheatre, they were now gathered together. In the centre of this enclosed space, on a petrol-can, sat Eric, notebook and pencil on knee. Adrian, Walker and Cornwallis, also armed with notebooks and pencils, were seated on the fire-step, while the platoon-sergeants — four large, fierce-looking men whose patched and stained uniforms showed the nature of the life they had been leading — stood in attentive attitudes around. Gently, very gently, the evening breeze stirred the long grasses, yellow vetches, trefoil and red poppy that fringed the lip of the trench. A golden haze lay upon the battlefield, kindling its hideousness almost to beauty ; a couple of miles away the white husk of a high building amid a mass of greenery showed where the city of Ypres slept its sleep of death. Captain Sinclair's voice speaking in quiet precise accents very different from the drawl he habitually used, was the only sound heard, JFJr OF REVELATION 295 ** As soon as it's dark," he was saying, " I want you to leaJ out by platoons to the point we chose last night — you all know that ? String your men out as quietly as possible at four paces interval — No. 13 platoon on the left, then No. 14, No. 15 platoon on the right — and get to work quickly Adrian, you'll be in charge of that lot. George " — he turned to Walker, *' I want you with No. 16 platoon to dig a communication trench back from the centre — choose your own point of starting. Arthur, you'll be with Adrian. Remember you'll be only about seventy yards from the Germans, so go quietly and don't chatter I shall walk round later with the Colonel. ... Is that clear? Does everybody know what he's got to do ? If not, ask." There was a chorus of " Yes, sir ! " followed by a pause that was punctured only by the " crack " of a sniper's rifle. A great bird, dark and sinister, flapped slowly and heavily over the trench on its way to some lair in the wastes of grass. The night crept up quickly. A sergeant, a shaggy grey-haired old reservist, spoke : " Beg your pardon, sir — what if they open fire on us i " " Lie down in the trench — and wait. Or if you haven't dug your trench — lie down " " Hadn't we better put some wire out ? " inquired Walker. " No — no wire. Covering parties. Each platoon will find its own covering party. A corporal and two men." '■ How far out ? " asked Cornwallis. " Use your own judgment, my dear chap. Twenty or thirty yards. You know what a covering party's for ? " " Yes." '• How deep's the trench got to be, please, sir : " A smart, fair-haired young sergeant spoke. " Oh, four feet — about. Until you touch water." Silence fell again while the velvety evening tip-toed round. " I'm sorry you've got to do this," Eric went on com- posedly. " It seems to me a f;iirly objectless proceeding on the whole and a distinctly dangerous one. However, that's beside 296 WAT OF REVELATION the point. It's got to be done. As you know, there's a battle beginning down south any day. The idea of digging these storming trenches is to bluff the Germans into thinking " Even as he spoke, and as though in answer to his words, there crashed out a short distance to the right on ground lower than that which they occupied a hurricane-fire of artillery, machine-guns, and rifles. It was like the first resounding chord of an orchestra at the signal of the conductor's baton. Every- body except Eric jumped up and looked over the parapet. Eric began writing. Battle had leapt to life like a storm at sea. Lights went up, red, white, yellow and green, golden-shower rockets burst against the purpling sky, and the indigo blue of oncoming night was streaked with gun flashes. Walker muttered " Blast ! " between his teeth. Cornwallis tried not to look uneasy. The red-faced ginger-haired sergeant-major remarked to another sergeant, " What's this bloody turn-up ? " Eric said : " It's a raid," and went on writing. It was the overture in the form of a demonstration — they were afterwards to learn — to the battle of the Somme. Meanwhile the flash and thunder of the artillery, the un- broken roar of machine-guns and musketry, the countless red and white S.O.S. signals sent up by the German infantry in their dire need, formed a picture set in the gilded frame of the summer's evening as terrible, as beautiful, as unearthly as any among those present had seen. To Adrian's mood it attuned itself completely. It filled hira, indeed, with a sort of demoniacal joy, reviving in some v.ay the memory of the night of the Zeppehn raid with Rosemary. It was the embodiment of his permanently haunting conception of the mysterious duality between Love and Death. § 2 The storm abated as quickly as it had arisen, but thereafter WAT OF REVELATION 297 the night was never still. As soon as the working-party could be marshalled in the crowded trench — no easy matter — they started off, Adrian and Walker leading, Cornwallis in rear. Slowly, with many exclamations, pauses, and much hard swearing, together with fierce injunctions to silence from the non-commissioned officers, they moved in single file along a sap. One by one they climbed out of this into the open. A little winding path, worn by the feet of patrols and working parties, led along a ridge between enormous shell-holes in which water glistened. The men became nervous and silent, realising that they were beyond cover, far out in No Man's Land, and less than a hundred yards from the German line, the exact where- abouts of which no one knew. Walker's face began to twitch like a madman's. Now and then somebody tripped over a loose strand of barbed wire or stumbled into a shell-hole and there was a scramble, followed by a suppressed curse. Once at their objective, they Hned out quickly, the covering parties creeping forward twenty yards or so into the long, dew-soaked grass. Each man worked hard to throw up the few feet of earth in front of him which should afford at any rate an illusory sense of protection. A peculiar, stench clung to the ground, thicker and more foetid in some places than in others, and as they dug becoming stronger. Mis-shapen, horrible things were dug up or pierced with spades. Drab and muddy, yielding and soft so that it was hardly to be recognised as a human thing — the body of a German. No head, only the trunk. " There's a nice bit o' beef for you," somebody chuckled. " Get out, Fritz ! " and he kicked the unsightly object into a shell-hole, having pre- viously cut off two buttons as a memento. Somebody else found a rifle completely rusted and caked with mud. Then a machine-gun was dug up, rusted and mud-caked, too, having eridently at some time been buried by a shell. Originally English, it had been converted by the Germans, and now perhaps might be re-converted. 298 WJr OF REVELATION Early in the night, Colonel Steele came round, accompanied by Eric Sinclair and an orderly. He glanced quickly at the work ; he spoke in whispers, his manner was constrained and jerky. He even said an affable word to Comwallis, who was himself digging furiously. Eric explained the situation, also in whispers. The Colonel desired his company-commander to attend him along the whole battalion frontage. He held the highest opinion of that self-possessed young man's judgment. When they had passed on, the men paused in their digging, wiped the sweat from their brows, and chuckled. " Old Jack-knife's rattled a bit, ain't he ? Little Percy's got 'im on a leading-string. Why didn't somebody stick a bay'net in the old — ! " It was on these occasions that they remembered extra fatigues in the back areas and names taken on battalion parades, or at the end of long marches. Once — about midnight — a German machine-gun opened suddenly and a man resting on his spade, as he contemplated the result of his labours, swore loudly and sat down. " Oo — 00 — 00 ! It don't 'arf 'urt. Got me in the ankle, the ! Oo — 00 ! . . . Get me boot off ! Fetch a stretcher-bearer ! Away with it, boys ! This one's a ' blighty.' " Everybody congratulated him. That slight commotion over, Adrian stood above the half- dug trench watching the line of indistinct figures toiling and moiling below him. The night, like his own mind, was filled with an uneasy silence. His mind, indeed, was full of questionings, of secret promptings and unanswered queries. Premonition stood at his right hand. It was as though S/;.? watched him as the stars did. . . . Was She waiting upon WAT OF REVELATION 299 him, approaching him ? Out of the gloom was She peeping at him now — pining for him — ogling him with Her baffling iris eyes — waiting, as he was, for the moment when he might be taken toHerself ? Profundity, immensity, eternity ! Easy, quiet, sudden ! Yes, he was ready for Her too. . . . Throughout the interminable sun-scorched day this had been his mood. All through the day it had been in his mind to hasten the end, to seal the compact, to consummate the strongest impulse he had ever known. At times as he lay thinking, thinking, rarely sleeping in his little sandbag den — yet striving not to think — at times the temptation had seemed almost irresistible. Only to go outside, to look over the parapet, to walk once or twice across that gap. Should he tempt Her — tantahze Her — should he not woo Her more strongly, more ardently ? Seize Her ! Capture Her ! . . . Wait — wait ! Wouldn't She come safely, surely, in Her own good time ? Plunged in these morbid reflections, he had not noticed that a burly figure stood beside him. Nor at first did he recognise the voice that now spoke in a husky whisper. " Adrian ... is that you ? I just thought I'd come along — for company. It's a bit funny to-night, isn't it — funny and quiet ? What was that flare-up to-night ? . . . Tell me, old boy, tell me, d'you think anything's going to happen ? " The speaker was Walker. " I don't know, I'm sure," the other replied indifferently. " Seems quiet enough now. Anything might happen at any time, I suppose." It was hardly a comforting reply, and he afterwards regretted that he had not spoken more considerately. After all, he himself had known that sort of fear. A light went up, Walker fell flat, and rose again with a sickly smile. Two or three bullets whined drearily overhead, ind Walker gave a funny little jump forward as though he had St. Vitus's dance in the lower limbs. Both stood thinking. 300 TFJr OF REVELATION Presently came again Walker's hoarse uncanny whisper : " I say — Adrian — I think I see something — look ! what is it ? — don't move, man, don't move for the love of Christ ! My God, it's a man ! I saw it move — look ! Just by that tussock of grass — it's a man's head — there's another, two, three — get your revolver out — get down in the trench. Why, man alive, they're all round us ! " He clutched Adrian's arm, peering forward and shaking from head to foot. " Get down in the trench ! " he shouted, " get down in the trench ! They're right on top of us. Down ! down ! " These last words he yelled at the top of his voice. " Fire ! Fire ! " He let his revolver off — from the hip — and fell back into the trench. Adrian looked down at him coldly. " It's the covering party, you fool. Get back to your com- munication-trench." The fellow went — like a convicted criminal. The Wheels of War grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. He had gone very few yards when a low, throbbing hum came to their ears. Looking up, Adrian saw a small spot of light followed by a little tail of sparks very slowly sailing through the air. The light disappeared immediately above his head ; there Avas a sibilant hissing sound increasing with the volume of an express train. An immense weight seemed to be descending upon them at incredible speed. A voice shouted " Look out ! Mijienzverfer ! " There came a heavy thud close at hand, followed by a profound silence. All threw themselves flat, including Adrian, who obeyed some instinct that was too strong for him or that took him unawares. Puff! The ground trembled, all the world went up around them, a red glare lit up the features of those nearest. Another moment's silence followed — then the roar of yoliunes of earth falling, and of topphng stones. JVJr OF REVELATION 301 Groans and shouts succeeded. Cornwallis's voice could be heard crying " Steady ! Steady ! " rather helplessly. One or two men bolted down the half-dug communication-trench. A tall corporal staggered past, whimpering like a child and holding his arm, which was hanging from the elbow by a shred of flesh. Above these sounds Adrian heard one man's shrieks. " I'm wounded ! I'm wounded ! I'm choking ! I'm dying ! W'ill nobody come ? Oh, God ! Oh, my " It was Walker. As he rushed forward another bomb came, droning towards them, to fall with the same heavy thud a few yards away. A gentle puff, silence, and the world rose up again. He was knocked down. Earth falling — earth and stones — in his mouth, in his ears — down his neck, on his back — beating, buffeting him. When he looked up the red glare disclosed nothing but a stricken waste. This episode of Walker's death, together with that of some half-dozen others who perished with him, disturbed and troubled Knoyle's mind for weeks afterwards. He revolved the circumstances again and again in his thoughts — at night in the back areas and during the long hours of doing nothing in the trenches. He could not comprehend the unreasoning, the apparently senseless processes of Fate. Why Walker ? . . . Walker, who dreaded, who feared death, who treasured life becau'^c he had all in life to live for — and would have lived heartily, happily. Walker gone, vanished, disappeared under- ground ; they had dug for him until daybreak, but there was found no sign and no trace. Walker, his laugh, his jokes, his women, his lavish obscenity — had simply ceased to be ; Walker who w^ould have given his last hope of salvation to have been allowed to live — he had been taken. And Adrian Knoyle, remained. He could have laughed from sheer bitterness of spirit had 302 WJ7^ OF REVELATION he not been so surprised, so — so shocked at the malice — or was it coyness ? — of Death whom he courted. He even felt a kind of jealousy of this Walker who, dreading and repulsing with last vain cries of protest, had been taken to Her arms. . . . There were times, especially towards the end of the foui months' sojourn at Ypres, when unable longer to bear these thoughts, he was driven to tempt, to appeal, and at last to throw himself at Her feet. When these impulses first came upon him, conscious of the need of some greater than human aid, he tried to pray. " Oh, God ! " he muttered to himself, " help me and save me." But at length even these words died on his lips, which became parched and barren as his heart. Eric if anything saved him. Eric came to his rescue — a stimu- lus, a call upon his loyalty What great, what not less great, burdens had this man to bear ! Not alone the responsibility of the company's welfare and conduct in the line of battle ; not alone the wearing strain of the extra risks he took or of the appalling conditions under which they lived ; not only his own private anxieties — his future with Faith, of which indeed Fate might rob him at any hour of the day or night ; in addition to these, he shouldered more than a share of his comrades' burdens. Yet Eric did not appeal to adventitious aid, did not dwell on his difficulties, did not give way to morbid reflections. He encouraged Cornwallis ; to his men he showed a patience and a forbearance that were not his natural forte ; to his friend, a more than merciful consideration. To that friend, indeed, he was at once an abiding example and a putting to shame. But Adrian failed. u The second of the episodes that produced so strong a reaction upon him happened on an evening some four weeks after WAT OF REVELATION 303 Walker's death. It was one of numerous wearisome evenings spent during the period of reserve in the galleries and " dug- outs " which honeycombed the ramparts of Ypres between the Lille and Menin Gates. Here the atmosphere was stifling ; the heat of July lay heavy upon the land, and within these chambers air could neither enter nor escape. On the night in question, the square boarded apartment in which Eric, Adrian, and Cornwallis sat was a blaze of electric light. The remains of a late supper lay upon the table ; in different corners were three wire beds and three sets of pyjamas ; a book lay upon the table, left open at the page half-read, as though mutely protesting that the reader was too weary to finish it. A heap of gramophone records lay piled untidily beside a gramophone as though the owner had grown tired of playing that, too. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco-smoke. " You'd better not come," Eric was saying. " Unless, of course, you want to get killed." He referred to a reconnaissance he had received orders to make that night of a line of trenches shortly to be taken over from a Canadian Division. " Can't you see I want to go ? " Adrian replied irritably. His face was pale and weary. Dark lines hollowing under his eyes emphasised the look of extreme unhappiness which was now habitual to it. For an hour or more he had been sitting, thinking — brooding and thinking while Eric wrote and Cornwallis read. " I hate taking over a line and knowing nothing about it. Besides, the message says ' Company-commanders will take up a second-in-command or subaltern at their discretion,' doesn't it ? " ' " Yes — well, personally, I consider it would be the height of indiscretion for you to go. However, if you're so desperately anxious to commit suicide " " I want to go, and there's an end of it," the second-in- 304 WAr OF REVELA7I0N command interrupted.. " I'm bored stiff with this — it's like a rabbit-hutch converted into a saloon-bar." " Well — have it your own way, you maniac. One must humour 'em, I suppose." Eric winked at Cornwallis. " So far as I'm concerned you can take on the whole job with the greatest of pleasure. Why don't you come too, Arthur, so as to make sure of a complete debacle ? " " Oh, no ! thanks," the latter replied promptly. And so the two started. No beam of light from the illuminated dug-out strayed into the roadway, for it was only by devious passages that access could be obtained to these mysterious internal chambers, centuries old. Outside, the mist crept in, crept up, and round about. Like a ghost, like a wraith, it stole along the dim streets whose secrets were buried beneath tons of bricks and masonry, beneath heaps and heaps of ruins. At first nothing could be seen in the filmy darkness after the brilliance of the dug-out ; instinct alone guided their footsteps. In the dug-out all sound had been deadened ; they could hear nothing from without. But now they found that guns were firing in the city itself — fitfully, yet frequently. Their banging and booming awoke a thousand echoes. Every time a gun fired, the flash lit up jagged ruins, a naked wall, or the skeleton roofs of houses. It was evidently the beginning of a slow bombardment. Across a desert open space they picked their way, then stumbled over blocks of fallen masonry and balks of timber in the lee of a walled garden. It seemed to Adrian that tom- cats ought to be yowling and spitting on the top of such a wall ; but there was no such civilised symptom. Silence, moist and mysterious, settled down between the reports of the guns. At the Lille Gate a wakeful sentry and a watchful sergeant said " Good night ! " In the recesses of a kind of cave which did duty as a gate-house they could just distinguish the prostrate forms of the guard, and could hear snores. The sentry opened rFJr OF REVELATION 305 a door and the two officers found themselves outside the ramparts, plonk-plonking across a plank bridge. There was water underneath — they could feel rather than see it — water that lay black and stagnant, and seemed to listen. They spoke little. Every now and then Eric stopped and consulted his compass. Out in the grass a mile and a half from the trenches familiar sounds came to their ears. Machine-guns were chattering. It was like a domestic ar;?ument. No sooner did an enemy gun start a steady burst of conversation than a couple of Lewis automatics responded with a whirlwind of vituperation. Further away another German joined in angrily while a sniper's rifle interjected sharp occasional comments. Yes — the night was full of sounds. Strangely, and for a moment, Verey lights rose above the mists, silently to vanish. To-night the far-stretching panorama of the SaHent, usually outlined by star-shells, was hidden. Only southward the cannon rolled in a dim unceasing chorus, and near at hand the field-batteries in Ypres fired at irregular intervals, the shells, whistling overhead to burst with a quick glare and crash along the German front line. Bombs at times exploded too. Deep, sullen detonations, three or four together, shook earth and darkness. For Adrian such nights were never without their ghosts. Ghosts crept out with the mists which wreathed and sidled now dense, now lifting thinly ; ghosts and the hideous unknown things which lurk on battlefields. A sinking moon strove feebly with the mist, sometimes momentarily penetrating it ; then all the world became silvery, opaque. Away to the left, etched in a delicate gloom, could be seen the outlines of what had once been a convent. At times, they could discern no more than a yard or two of the ground ahead, which was pock-marked with shell-holes and often caused them to stumble and Kirch forward into the long, rank vegetation, the thistles and nettles. Sometimes they would cross a narrow, weed-grown path that once had been a main road ; sometimes they had '3o6 WAT OF REVELATION to leap an old gun-pit or disused grass-fringed communica- tion-trench ; sometimes a landmark was missed ; and some- times, when the fog grew dense, they seemed to come to a dead end. Then Eric would pause and take his bearings, "partly by the star-lights, partly by the bursting shells on the German front line. Those were queer furtive moments when the silence grew tense, when, in the utter absence of any sign of human life, the seething white mists seemed to take on strange shapes — or one shape ; when out of this silence came the cries of some unknown bird — cries that seemed to Adrian Weird and unearthly. And they hurried on. . . . There were moments when a formless, nameless presence seemed to follow always, and eyes once familiar watched from the great socket-like holes on either hand, and out of the gloom wraith-like features beckoned gravely. The very earth itself, maimed and icarred, spoke of war's eternal mystery, of God's anger and tribulation, of man's agony and bloody sweat. A mile be- hind, the broken city slept as one sleeps who can suffer no more. Clambering over a sandbag breastwork, they entered a trench which was new and clean and handsomely floored with duck- boards. Voices could be heard at some distance along it. A