His surmise was correct. The enemy was aware of what was toward. Also he knew the precise moment of time which had been appointed and called “zero.” The information was a great help.
It was light enough to see now. The rain had ceased, but a piercing wind blew steadily. The Vardar wind does not blow in gusts, neither does it rise and fall. For more than a week now one long, continuous, withering blast had swept mercilessly, day and night, across Lake Doiran from the distant snows, laying a bitter curse upon life, turning red blood to ice in the veins, making men silent with pain and beasts indifferent and listless. There is an edge to the Vardar wind that no clothing will turn. Its cold iron enters into the soul.
The trench lay in the foot-hills below the heights to be assailed. Certain deep ravines running irregularly through No Man’s Land made a formidable bit of country still less easy to negotiate.
“You’ll have a topping good view from where we’re going,” said Fairie, looking at Fettering and taking out his watch. “Be able to give your fellows a treat for once. Three minutes to the barrage,” he added quietly.
“Not there yet,” said Broke grimly. “Yes?” This to a signaller who had pushed his way up to the trench.
“From Major Dudley, sir. Shell fell right on top o’ the trench. Six or seven killed and nine wounded. All ‘A’ squadron, sir. And he’s having the wounded put in a dug-out.”
“All right.” He turned to the Commanding Officer. “Did you hear what he said, sir?”
“I did,” said Fairie. “Bad luck or fine shooting. Bit of both, I’m afraid. Doesn’t seem to be going on, though, thank God. What a life!” he added, with a sigh. “Never mind. It’s a poor heart that never rejoices,
mes braves
. And after it’s all over, Rih, my boy, and a long drink, and a hot sun, and a nimble dollar on old Zero o’ nights, just for luck.” And he slapped his cousin on the back.
Fettering looked up from his glasses with a smile.
“D’you remember—”
The sentence was never finished.
As he spoke, from the direction of the lake came the long hoot of a big steamer, and the words died on his lips. While the echoes rumbled into the hills, the three men stared at one another.
“But we’re forty odd miles from the coast,” cried Fettering, “and the lake–” He turned to the signaller by his side. “Did you hear that? “he asked sharply.
“Yes, sir. Must be a new one, coming from over there.” He nodded in the direction of the lake. “’Eavy gun, too,” he added reflectively.
A whine rose to a scream, which swelled into the rending tear of some tremendous fabric, culminating in a blinding crash, as a wrecked world staggered to meet the falling sky. The enemy gunner had scored again.
The remains of the Commanding Officer were identified by his servant, who recognized a fragment of the shirt his master was wearing. It was equally clear that the Forward Officer had been killed instantly. The Adjutant died that evening at the casualty clearing station. He rambled a little at the last.
“Can’t think why I didn’t ride up,” he muttered. “Might have known I couldn’t reach that bell. Under the wisteria? I know. But I can’t reach, I tell you. I can’t reach. They took the horses away. Poor old regiment. They – Why” – a great smile lighted up the poor quivering features – “the gate’s open – open. Ah!”
Then he died.
And the Other Left
“Anybody would think you were bored to find me here,” said Bill Courtier.
“Would they? I simply didn’t know you were coming. That’s all.”
“What’s that to do with it? Why—”
“Oh, everything. And now, if you don’t mean to go and fish, or anything, do be quiet and let me read.”
With that, the Hon. Dolly Loan bent her fair head once more over her novel and turned over a page with an aggrieved air. The slight frown hanging about her straight brows suggested concentration, which had been disturbed once and really must not be disturbed again. Courtier started to fill a pipe thoughtfully.
Hitch a fortnight in Scotland on to the end of a London season, and you will swear by the simple life – till you are once again standing in the hall at the Carlton, considering the advisability of going on to a Night Club. It was the fourth day of August, and Dolly Loan and her companion were sitting on the verandah of the Flows’ shooting-lodge at Yait. Forty-six miles from the nearest post office, all among woods and mountains and broken, scrambling waters, Yait is as retired a pleasance as ever was known. Half its charm lies in its inaccessibility. Once drift into the shelter Yait affords, and people simply cannot get at you. In these stressful days it is, as it were, sanctuary.
When his old friends, the Flows, had asked Bill Courtier to make one of the small house-party, he had been forced to refuse the invitation. They and he were alike sorry, but it could not be helped. He had promised to go to Dorset only the day before. Then, at the last moment, his prospective hostess had been taken suddenly ill, so he had wired joyfully to the Flows to know if he might come to Yait, after all. The text of his telegram was characteristic.
Dorset stunt off have you a bed left I have some nerve haven’t I?
So was their reply.
No but you can sleep in the stable yes but then you always had.
Which was how Bill Courtier came to be staying at Yait, and why Dolly Loan was greatly surprised to find him there, when she arrived two days later.
The two were old friends. At least, they had known one another pretty intimately for three years. Dolly was twenty-four and pretty enough to figure in one or other of the weekly periodicals more or less frequently. Sometimes she was described as “The Beautiful and Talented Daughter of Lord Merlin,” sometimes as “A Society Favourite.” Once her photograph had been entitled “An English Rose.” And it wasn’t a bad description either. For she was English to the tips of her pointed fingers, and as fresh as a rose, new-opened before the sun is high.
With eyes half closed, Courtier regarded her meditatively, sitting there, reading with a little air of severity that he did not understand. This was a Dolly that he had not seen before. He was one of the few who had ever beheld her serious; once he had seen her sad. Once, too, in his presence she had flashed out at staid Tag Ewing, a brother-subaltern.
The three had been sitting together at Ranelagh. Out of mischief Dolly had demanded a cigarette. As soon as it was alight, “I suppose you think I oughtn’t to smoke, Mr Ewing,” she had said mockingly. Very gently, “Not here or now,” he had answered. Dolly had gasped, and then turned on Ewing and rent him for an “impertinent preacher.” The next moment she had flung the cigarette away, caught her offender by the arm and was crying: “I’m sorry, Tag. I know you’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m just a child, Tag, aren’t I?” she added artlessly.
“Yes,” said Tag solemnly.
So Courtier had seen her angry. But her demeanour this August afternoon was something quite new. And, since he believed he knew her better than anyone, he could not get over it. Possibly she was tired, for Yait was a hundred odd miles from her father’s lodge in Argyll, and she had not long arrived, after motoring all the way. Possibly. Yet the soft colour of health springing in her cheeks, her easy, upright pose in her chair, her very absorption in her book, gave the lie direct to such a notion. Besides, she had just had a cold bath.
The eyes that Courtier was watching stole up and away from the page to gaze for a minute over the peaceful glen and the toss of the steep woods beyond. Then the faint frown died, and for an instant the lips moved ever so slightly. The next moment the Hon. Dolly shut her book with a bang.
“If the man isn’t going to amuse me,” she said, “I shall go for a walk.”
And the tone was the tone of Dolly. If taken aback, Courtier was visibly relieved.
“I like that,” he began. “You go and—”
“I dare say I do. Why shouldn’t I? I am Dolly.”
“That’s the devil of it.”
“What I really want to know,” said my lady, “is why my host and hostess were not here to receive me.”
“Probably because, as you said, you are Dolly. By the way, did you bring a paper?”
With a faint smile, his companion shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said slowly. “I’m so sorry. It’s awful not having anything to read sometimes, isn’t it? Here,” she added suddenly, picking up her novel, “you can have this. I’m going—”
“From bad to worse,” said Courtier, taking the book, to send it skimming the length of the verandah. “Pretty rapidly, too. There are times when I almost fear for you.”
“You don’t?” said Dolly with sudden interest. “How awfully exciting! Do your knees knock together? When you’re fearing, I mean? By the way, that novel cost six shillings, and now you’ve broken its back.”
“Have you change for a sovereign?” said Courtier, feeling in his pocket.
“No, but you can pay me tomorrow,” said Dolly. “This is splendid. Isn’t there anything else you can destroy? I’m saving up for a new sponge, you know.”
“I absolutely refuse to contribute towards your aquatic ventures,” said Bill firmly. “To my great personal inconvenience, you have occupied bathrooms for an outrageous time all over England on more occasions than I like to remember. The six shillings must be spent upon another copy of the same novel. I have long wanted to see you turn over a new leaf.”
“Good old Bill,” said Dolly, laying a small hand upon his sleeve with a maddening smile. “And he’s never said how he likes my nice new brogues.”
“Who looks at the moon before sunset?” said Courtier gallantly. “My eyes never get any further down than your ankles.”
Dolly Loan broke into a little peal of laughter.
“A compliment!” she cried delightedly. “When did he think it out? Oh, Bill, you’ll be worthy of your name yet.”
Courtier laughed.
“If you’re like this at twenty-four, what’ll you be in ten years’ time? “he said.
“Thirty-four,” said Dolly pensively. “By that time I shall probably have one husband and two children, and instead of saying I’m pretty, they’ll call me handsome. But that’s a long way ahead. A long, long way… So you got here on Sunday?” she added suddenly.
The other nodded.
“After starting on Thursday, too. Nothing but trouble with the car after I crossed the border. When Tag comes, I’ll have the engine down.”
“He’ll be here tomorrow, won’t he?” said Dolly, gazing into the distance over the sunlit woods.
Courtier nodded.
“Complete with papers,” he said.
“More papers” – musingly.
“Well, Doll, I haven’t seen one for five days, and—”
“Neither have I. We only get two posts a week at Ferret. And I didn’t look at Saturday’s lot when they came. Somehow, I don’t want papers when I’m up North. I like to forget there’s any news or any roar or bustle going on in the world.”
“I’ll be like that in a week,” said Bill. “But the spirit of town life takes a little while to die.”
He paused and let his eyes wander luxuriously over the prospect before them. The solemn peace over all lent the scene something more than dignity. Natural grandeur had taken on the majesty that is of silence alone. After a moment:
“It’s wonderful to think the buses are still swinging down Piccadilly, isn’t it?”
“They’re not,” said Dolly with conviction. “London’s been a great dream. That’s all. And now we’ve woken up.”
“But they are,” said Courtier. “And the traffic’s writhing through the City, and the pavements of Regent Street are crammed, and taxis are crawling up Bond Street, and queues are beginning to form up for theatres and music-halls, and—”
“‘But I’m here.
And you’re here,
So what do we care?’”
Dolly flung out the words of the song with inimitable
abandon
. She had a sweet voice. Bill Courtier joined in.
“‘Time and place
Do not count…’”
As they finished the chorus: “As sung on the London – if you please – music-hall stage, Edison Bell Record,” said Bill. “Much virtue in dreams.”
A step on the verandah made them look round. The next moment a man-servant was at Courtier’s side with a telegram.
“For me?” said Bill surprisedly.
“Yes, sir.”
“A wire for someone at Yait!” yawned Dolly. “The population of seven will faint with excitement. How on earth did it come?”
As the servant opened his mouth to reply:
“My God!” said Bill quietly. And then “My God!” again.
Then he stood up quickly.
“Bill, what’s the matter?” cried Dolly, laying hold on his sleeve. There was that in his face that frightened her.
Courtier turned to the servant.
“There’s no answer,” he said. “And I want my things packed at once.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the man left the verandah, Courtier handed Dolly the form.
It ran:
Return instantly France and Germany at war England certain to declare on Germany tonight Tag.
“Oh, Bill!” breathed Dolly, rising.
For a moment the two stood looking at one another. Then Courtier broke into a light laugh and crossed to the balustrade.
“Quick work,” he said, knocking out his pipe on the rail. “And now don’t talk for a minute, Doll. I want to think.”
Leisurely he began to fill his pipe, and a moment later he fell a-whistling the refrain whose words they had been singing together. Abstractedly, though, for his brain was working furiously. Dolly Loan never took her eyes from his face. He did not look at her at all.
When the pipe was filled, he pressed down the tobacco, folded his pouch very carefully, and slipped them both into his pocket. Then he turned to the girl.
“I shall go straight for Edinburgh,” he said. “Will you lend me your car?”
“Of course. In fact, I’ll come—”
“No. You’ll stop here. Your chauffeur can come to take the car back. If I can’t get a train at Edinburgh, perhaps I’ll go for Carlisle. And now may I tell him to get her ready?”
“Yes.”
He passed quickly across the verandah to the room behind. At the wide-open door he turned.
“So it’s come at last,” he said, with a great light in his eyes. “‘Made in Germany.’ ’M! They make a lot of rotten things there; we’ll see how they can make war.” Here his glance met Dolly’s. “Good little girl,” he said gently. “I’ll write to you on a drum. Don’t go away. I’m coming back to say ‘Goodbye.’”
Dolly stared after him. Then she sat down in a chair and tried to think. She read the telegram over again dazedly. All the time the lilt of the music-hall ditty danced in her head mercilessly. War! Yes, of course. What of it? There had been wars before. The war in South Africa, for instance. But this…not twenty hours from England. Perhaps not ten. And all among the places she knew. Rheims, Strassburg with its red roofs and its old cathedral, the one spire looking like some lonely twin; Cologne and the curling Rhine; Frankfurt with its proud Palm Garden; Dresden, the dear sleepy place where she had been at school. Her thoughts leaped for a second to the cool house in Lessing Strasse, with the plane-trees along its front and the old stone fountain that never played. War! Still, it was not the thought of the ‘area’ that wrought the catch in her breath. Familiarity with places made it exciting, rather. But… Courtier was her very good friend. He was – well, he was Bill – Bill Courtier. No, Bill. That was all; but it was a great deal. As for Tag…
She got up and leaned over the balustrade. ‘So what do we care? Time and place do not count.’ The mockery of the words blazed at her, while at the back of her brain the haunting number ramped tirelessly on. There rose and fell the sunlit landscape, calm and exquisite as ever, but not for her eyes, so black the magic of the flimsy form in her hand. Looking now, she found the sunlight brazen, the smile upon the face of Nature grim, the almighty peace of the place nought but a giant satire, bitter indeed. ‘So what do we care? Time and place–’
“I like that man,” said Courtier, stepping out of the smoking-room. “He uses his brain. Most servants would have started packing my trunk. He’s pushed the things I’ll want into a suitcase, and says he’ll send the other luggage after me. Your chauffeur’s a good sort, too. Simply spreading himself. As soon as he’s ready, he’s going to sound the horn. I’ve just about got time for a cigarette. One for you, Doll?”
Mechanically she took a cigarette from his case. When he had lighted it for her:
“Sorry I shan’t see the others. Just show them the wire, and they’ll understand.”
She nodded.
“Don’t look so serious, Doll,” he said suddenly. “It’s only going to be another dream, you know, and when it’s all over we’ll come back here and wake up.”
She raised her eyes at that and swung round. So they stood facing one another.
“I can’t laugh, Bill,” she said quickly. “I don’t believe you’ve appreciated it yet. Perhaps you never will. Soldiers are like that. Besides, it’s – it’s their show now. Only lookers-on… And I think I’ve appreciated it – realized what it means – all at once. And it’s awful.”
For a moment Courtier looked at her – the thick dark hair parted above the left temple, sweeping over the right, and rippling as no
coiffeur
could ordain, the steady brown eyes strangely solemn for once, the lips that were made for laughter unnaturally set; below them, the lift of the chin, very dainty, and the soft white throat standing for tenderness. Then he threw his cigarette away and laid his hands upon her shoulders.