HELEN GROTE was seated between Robin and Jim Lethbridge in the first row of stalls at a revue at the Monarchy. She had given up the attempt to find coherence in the plot of it, and, indeed, Robin had told her that she was on the wrong tack altogether, because revues did not have plots.

“Get in the proper mood, mother,” he said. “Don’t expect anything at all, and enjoy what you get. Oh, what a ripping scene! And there’s Diana Coombe in khaki. Hi! Jim! Don’t you wish there were some Tommies like that in the regiment?”

Jim gave a great shout of laughter by way of reply, for Arthur Angus, owner of the yacht with a crew of treble-voiced seamen, fell flat down as he stepped ashore, and without getting up began to sing.

“Oh, ripping!” said Jim. “Robin, there’s the dance coming now.”

Lady Grote was rather disappointed.

“Oh, have you been to it before?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me, and I would have got tickets for something else.”

Jim laughed.

“I’ve been eight times,” he said; “this makes the ninth. I’ve bet Robin five pounds that I shall go twenty{256} times before they pop me over to France. Wouldn’t it be putrid luck if I went nineteen times and then went out and got shot?”

For a moment both Jim and Robin grew stiff and wooden-faced, for a very mountainous female dressed in union Jacks sang something quite unspeakable about the heroes and the “boys” in khaki. Robin said “Good God!” under his breath once or twice, and the house, which contained a large number of soldiers, received her compliments in chilling silence, so that she was not encouraged to proceed with some encore verses.

“But do tell me why you like it so enormously?” said Helen, to distract Jim from this embarrassing lady.

“Oh, it’s the tunes a good deal, and then Arthur Angus is so awfully funny, and it’s all so muddled up and silly. It’s gay, you know, and when you’ve been superintending a lot of fellows digging trenches for practice all day in the rain, you want something that will take your mind off that devastating job.... Now there’s the dance.”

 

If Lady Grote had by some incalculable chance found herself alone at this preposterous revue nothing would have kept her in her seat for five minutes. But the infection of the two boys’ enjoyment took hold of her, and she found herself laughing because they laughed, and enjoying because they enjoyed. She even at Robin’s instigation tried to think the great Diana Coombe was an alluring and beautiful creature. Robin was clearly known to her, for she threw him discreet little smiles and glances (which quite accounted for his insistence that they should have seats in the front row). Presently she appeared to retire from the{257} army and came on again as a French marquise, which she resembled about as much as she resembled a soldier, with Arthur Angus as her marquis, receiving guests at the door of an outrageous drawing-room, and saying: “How do you portez-vous?”

But really the stage occupied her less than the two boys between whom she sat, both in khaki, both enjoying themselves enormously, both soon to face the peril in Flanders, and both completely normal. For them no chasm had opened, or, at any rate, it had been negotiated by that divine elasticity of youth which had made them spring from the peak of the old life, alighting unruffled and unamazed on the new. Until the beckoning finger signalled to them, they went on in their leisure hours with the old amusements and diversions, while for their employment they superintended the digging of trenches instead of attending lectures.

Till yesterday they had been high-spirited, unthinking, undisciplined boys, absorbed in games, tolerant of a small amount of work, and perhaps absorbed in each other more than in anything else; to-morrow, if need be, either or both of them would go out into that grim storm that raged from end to end of Europe with the same tranquillity as they would presently go out to find the motor that was to take all three of them to supper at the Ritz. It was true that she had noted an immense change in Robin, or thought she had done so; now she wondered whether she had not been completely wrong about that: whether it was not precisely the same Robin as she had always known, merely facing with precisely the same spirit as he had faced all his previous experiences this new adventure.

It was a man’s part he had to play now, but he played it with boyishness and with all his might, refusing point-blank to consider any scheme that might shield{258} him from the full deadliness of the blast. But now, at this absurd revue, he was exactly what he had always been. And though she had met Jim but a couple of times before, she divined that in him, too, there had been no radical change. They both just “took on” the new tremendous adventure with the same light-hearted seriousness as they had brought to their cricket....

She tried to imagine what either of them would have been like if, instead of volunteering for active service, they had preferred, as it was in their power to do, remaining up at Cambridge. But it was a perfectly useless attempt, for it was clear that neither of them would have borne the slightest resemblance to them as they actually now were; they would have been utterly different boys altogether. Robin would never have been Robin at all if he had done that, or if, indeed, as she saw more fully now, he had accepted instead of declining the staff appointment she had obtained for him. All his life he would have been an altogether different fellow, he would have been some slouching, timid, furtive-eyed boy ... she could not imagine Robin like that. If he had shirked now, he would have been a shirker for all the nineteen years of his rampageous existence.

 

They drove off when the revue was over and they had been fortunate enough to secure a few very special smiles from Miss Coombe, in the brougham that really only held two, but was triumphantly demonstrated by Robin to hold three, by process of his sitting on Jim’s knees and protruding other parts of himself out of the window. He seemed to occupy most of the rest of the brougham as well, and, as in a sort of cave made by Robin, the two others conversed, or were silent.{259}

How well Helen remembered a drive back alone through the illuminated and crowded streets two months ago, on a night when she expected not to be alone! To-night the streets were much darker; it was impossible to see with any distinctness the walkers and the loiterers. They were still there, some peering, others peered at, but in this era of darkened lamps they were but shadows against the blacker shades of the houses. Some department had lately taken the question of the lighting of streets in hand; they had adopted a system of camouflage, as if to make London look as unlike London as possible, so that air-craft of the hostile kind should not recognize it and drop bombs on it. Certainly they had succeeded in completely changing its aspect, for now instead of the brilliance of arclights and incandescent gas, that used to make Piccadilly far brighter by night than it had ordinarily been on the average London day, it had become a sort of dim-lit polychromatic pantomime. Some lights were quenched altogether; others had coats of blue, red or green paint applied to their panes. Little fairy lamps bedecked the parks, in long double lines and clusters, simulating, so it must be supposed, streets and squares of the city, in the hope that Zeppelins and other intruders would mistake some empty or depopulated area for a busy thoroughfare, and drop their bombs on it to the great discomfort of plane-trees and sparrows.

Idle talk of this kind passed between Jim and Helen Grote; she bid him admire the twinkle of lights, waveringly reflected on the damp pavements, for a little rain had fallen earlier in the evening, and still made a mirror of clouded surface. And all the time she was seeing herself drive westwards alone from her rendez-vous at Covent Garden, claiming, or at least{260} acknowledging, kinship with the loitering and neglected. Yet, vivid though the memory was, it resembled rather the vividness of some arresting book that she had read, or of some enthralling play that she had seen acted. With her boy and his friend filling up the motor, these memories lacked the bite of personal experience. She remembered it, remembered with the intensest keenness, but remembered it as something apart from herself. Was it she, the body and bones of her, that had sat with a letter in her hands, which she had read once and did not need to read again? She could recall every word of that even now, she could have quoted from it, and yet it was all like something learned by heart, memorable only owing to some unforgettable style in its writing.

All went through her mind with the rapidity of some picture momentarily thrown on to it by a magic lantern. She made no effort to recollect; the recollection was flashed on her from outside. Robin, fearing for the security of the carriage door, had just suggested his falling out into the roadway, and “the body of a well-nourished young man” being debated upon at the inquest next day, when, even as she laughed, the image of those happenings that had occurred to someone else made their instantaneous photograph.

Then Jim, merely by way of polite conversation, said to her:

“I suppose you’re awfully busy, aren’t you, with some sort of war-work?”

Upon which Robin stamped heavily and designedly on her foot, clearly under the impression that it was Jim’s.

And that was all, for the present. The moment afterwards they stopped at the door of the Ritz, where a low-bowing porter inserted her in a circular{261} cage that revolved. But the fact that Robin meant to stamp on Jim’s foot by way of some kind of warning or silencer had the vividness of personal experience, which her recollections lacked.

 

The dining-room was already crowded with post-theatre suppers, but the head-waiter, clearly perjuring himself, gave her a table where chairs were already turned down in token of future occupation. There were a dozen people she knew, and her entrance with those two very smart young Guardsmen somehow pleased her enormously. Robin and Jim also threw greetings about; they were popular and well-looked-on in this new seething life which she had done her best to avoid. At this hour, in the house of refuge to which she had resorted only a week or two ago, Aline and Hermann would be playing a last rubber of Bridge, if they had guests, or would be refraining from rising to say good-night to Mr. and Mrs. Tempest, in case they were engaged on a game of picquet, which they played, so Aline told her, when they were alone and, presumably therefore, when there were guests who did not matter.

To-morrow Sir Hermann would go out shooting again or playing golf in his betasselled stockings, and Aline, in her sables, would distribute rabbits to bereaved station masters. They would go up to bed in the lift that exuded German chorales, and no doubt by now Aline would have got a new nurse for her children, who would refrain from calling them Huns, while the children would have learned to refrain from singing the “Watch by the Rhine.” It was to that house she had gone to escape from evenings like this.... She could not help wondering what would have been the Gurtners’ attitude towards the bloody and glorious affair at Ypres.{262}

But Ypres and Aline were about equally remote from the spirit of the present moment. Robin, who scarcely knew claret from port, was, out of the depths of his wisdom, consulting the head-waiter as to the particular brand of champagne which would be suitable, and in the middle of his consultation he caught sight of someone entering, and trod, this time correctly, on Jim’s foot, to bid him observe the epiphany of Miss Diana Coombe, who swept into the room, and proceeded to occupy a table immediately adjoining theirs. There were two young men with her, both in civilian clothes, and a remarkable old lady whom she addressed as Mommer. When asked what she wanted to order, Mommer said in a strong American accent: “Just give us of your best, and be quick about it.” Round her neck, thin as that of a plucked bird, she wore a string of stones that rather resembled rubies, from which depended a huge copper badge. Helen recognized that, for Gracie always wore one when she waded about among patched trousers.

The two boys had to go back to barracks, when supper was over, and as they all stood together for a moment on the pavement outside, making plans for another theatre evening as soon as possible, a private, as he passed, saluted, and most unmistakably grinned also.

“Lord, there’s Jelf,” said Robin. “Hi, Jelf!”

He turned and wheeled and saluted again.

“Mother, this is Mr. Jelf,” said Robin. “He’s doing the job thoroughly, as I told you, not like Jim and me. How are you, old boy? Been lecturing about your love for the Huns lately? Do you remember that Sunday afternoon?”

Jelf laughed.

“Yes, when the Hun woman told us of the invincibility{263} of the German army. Wonder if she’s right. Lady Gurtner, wasn’t it?”

Lady Grote interrupted.

“Do come and see me, Mr. Jelf,” she said. “Come and dine to-morrow, won’t you? Robin, I must go; my motor is stopping the entire traffic. Good-night, darling, and thank you and Mr. Lethbridge for a lovely evening. I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Let’s have another very soon.”

“Rather. But aren’t you going down to Grote all October?”

“I’ve made no definite plan,” said she.

“Make a definite plan then to stop in town. You would be bored stiff down there.”

 

She slid off into the darkness, feeling more alive than she had felt for the many weeks past, during which she had tried to banish all thought of the war, and remove from her surroundings anything that might remind her of it. She had tried to get isolation in the country; she had sought out others who, like herself, wished to forget, yet into the shut room, through closed windows and well-fitting doors, the war, like the drift of some London fog, had always made its way, poisoning the ill-ventilated atmosphere that already had no briskness in it. But to-night, for the first time, she had left her stuffy room, and gone out and let fresh air, with whatever else it might be laden, flow round her. She had expected to come home with an added pang of miserable presage, with a heart that ached, and eyes that even more strenuously refused to look into the future. It was only in response to Robin’s urging that she had gone out at all, expecting at the best to see forced gaiety and sombre lapses from it on the part of him and his friend. Having settled to take them{264} to the theatre and sup with them, she had determined to do her best to “keep it up,” to pretend that everything was laughable and amusing. Instead, it was she who had been “kept up”; she had expected a trial of her fortitude, and had been given the most tremendous tonic in place of that....

 

She had found herself encompassed by the New Spirit that possessed Robin and his friend and thousands like him. It had not changed him; it had merely brought out the light and the fire that was in him, even as under the wheel of the cutter and polisher the glory of the diamond is developed. The New Spirit was doing that for the whole nation, and for her now it was lambent through the darkness, and hung like a rainbow across the menace of the thunder-cloud.

 

The moment of illumination grew bright to blinding-point, then faded again, and she was like one on whom some great light has flashed but for a second, leaving her in darkness again with the phantom of the light still swimming on her retina. For an instant she had seen it, as across waste waters is seen the revolving beam of a lighthouse. But it had passed, and, between her and it, was the tempest bellowing across the windswept surges. All the youth and triumphant young manhood of England was being snatched away and shovelled into the burning Moloch across that sea.

 

As she stepped on to the pavement in front of her house, she found that her foot hurt her, and remembered that as they drove to the Ritz Robin had very heartily stamped on it. His design had clearly been to stamp on Jim’s foot, in order to stop him saying something, and in the sharp pain that came to her{265} now she wished that the darling had stamped on Jim’s foot and not on hers. She remembered also that this brutal caution was in the nature of locking the stable door after the steed had been stolen, for Jim had certainly already said that which Robin had wanted to stop him saying. His question had completely reached her; he had supposed that she was “awfully busy” doing some sort of war-work.

That was the topic that Robin had wanted to suppress. He knew that she was doing no sort of war-work, and either for himself he disliked that being alluded to, or he supposed that she would not like it. It was probable that both reasons were in his mind. As regards herself, she really did not care whether people knew she was very completely abstaining from war-work or not. She had tried to take a hand in it at Gracie’s ridiculous establishment, but she was not made for that sort of thing. She preferred to buy her scarves ready made, and no doubt the recipients would prefer that also. She was quite willing to spend freely for the sake of those who needed these and similar comforts; but to sit among pessimistic females and knit was alien to her.... And then some suppressed part of her mind insisted on asking her a rather inconvenient question: “Supposing Robin wanted a scarf, would you not prefer to suffer some sacrifice of your time or inclination in order to give it him, rather than give him something that cost you nothing?”

The question really needed no answer. It was so obvious that you must delight in giving something of yourself to those whom you loved. There was no joy in giving to the beloved a thing you could get in any shop. If you had to get it at a shop, love insisted that you should send some little message with it, in order{266} to give it the touch of the sender. And that was precisely what Gracie and her weary choir of elderly pessimists were doing. They were sending to strangers, to unknown men and boys, whom they had never seen, gifts that had the touch of the giver. It was precisely that which she was not doing.

She began to wonder whether she would not prefer, as regards herself alone, that this should not be alluded to....

There was another possible reason for Robin’s belated and misdirected signal to Jim. It was possible that he did not want it alluded to. Was it an unpleasant topic for him, as well as her? Was he, perhaps, a little ashamed of her? Once, on the subject of his staff-appointment, they had talked about love implying respect. She could have instanced a sort of love which could despise and yet continue to exist, but that was the sort of love that wanted to take, and not to give. But was that love? Cynical philosophers held that the main ingredient in love was the sense of possession. She had never really believed that, and now, thinking just of Robin, she knew that not only was that incredible, but the truth lay somewhere in the region of its very opposite. The main ingredient in love did not consist in possessing, but in giving....

 

There were half a dozen letters waiting for her on the hall table, and with them unopened in her hand, she went upstairs. She had told her maid that she need not sit up for her, and as she unclasped her pearl collar, the image of Mommer with her great badge depending from her collar of impossible rubies, suddenly came into her mind. Mommer was engaged on some sort of charitable war-work, then. Would Miss Diana Coombe be ashamed of her, if she was not?{267}

Suddenly, and again without warning, the wave of utter loneliness swept over her, and her pearls fell rattling to the ground. Once before when it had risen and smothered her, she had thought to prevent a re-visitation of it by surrounding herself with diversion and interests, and above all, by shutting herself off from the thought of the war and the suffering that it brought, and the menace that it threatened her with. But the experiment had not been very successful. Not for an hour, perhaps, until this evening when she was sitting at that absurd revue, between those two gay boys, had the thought of it been entirely lifted off her. Had that happened because, being with them, their acceptation of it had infected her?

 

She heard her husband’s step along the passage outside. It paused opposite her door, and presently there came a discreet tap, sufficient to be audible to her, so she read his purpose, if she was awake, but not loud enough to disturb her if she was asleep. She hesitated a moment, and then answered. It was but seldom that he came to her room: she imagined he must have something to tell her.

“I’m not disturbing you?” he asked.

“No. I came in only a few minutes ago. Robin and his friend and I had supper after the theatre.”

“A pleasant evening?” he asked.

“Very. Was there anything particular you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Yes. There have been some rather unpleasant rumours about for a day or two, and in case you haven’t heard them, I made up my mind that I had better tell you.”

She bent down to pick up her pearls, and as she rose again, she noticed with a strange sense of detachment,{268} that they chinked and chattered together in her hand, and knew that it was trembling. Into her mind there started the image of Kuhlmann and herself standing together, and of Robin looking from the one to the other.

“Concerning me?” she said quietly.

He laughed.

“No, of course not,” he said. “Do you suppose that I should have heard rumours for a day or two concerning you, and not either taken the proper steps to stop them, or have told you?”

She gave one long sigh of relief, that for the life of her she could not repress.

“Concerning whom, then?” she asked.

“Concerning your friends the Gurtners. There is a general idea about that their sympathies are violently pro-German. As you had been there lately, I thought you might be able to give me some information about them.”

............