§ 5

It started with Bareton. Bareton, disregarding both Locksley and his new Company-Commander (a full Lieutenant by right of being over thirty), went straight to Colonel Andrews. He told the Colonel, very respectfully until he began to lose his temper, that on no account would he, Jack Bareton, continue to serve in the same regiment as Locksley-Jones. The Colonel asked him, very mildly, why he objected to Locksley.

Said Bareton—they were alone in the Orderly Room—“With all due respect to you, sir, the man isn’t fit to hold His Majesty’s Commission.”

Said the Colonel, “If you have any accusation to make against my Adjutant, you must make it in his presence. Meanwhile, go back to your billet and consider yourself under open arrest till I send for you.”

The Mess seethed.

On the following day, Jack Bareton (without his belt) confronted Locksley before the Colonel’s table:—Major Fox-Goodwin, as temporary second-in-command, lounging, slightly contemptuous, by the fireplace.

Decided the Colonel, having listened to ten minutes of tight-lipped vituperation—all true, but entirely incapable of proof, and some clever dialectics for the defence: “It doesn’t, er, seem to me, Bareton, that you’ve made out any case at all. It seems to me that, er, having heard the Adjutant’s explanation of what are, er, obvious misconceptions on your part, it’s your duty to apologize.”

Jack Bareton stood very quietly for six seconds. Then he said: “As I am not satisfied with your ruling, sir”—he was, it will be remembered, a lawyer by profession—“I believe I am entitled to call for a Court of Enquiry.”

The Colonel sent both juniors out of the room. “What had we better do?” he asked Fox-Goodwin. The Major’s eyes twinkled.

“Get rid of ’em both, me dear fellow. Get rid of ’em both.”

“I can’t do that. Locksley’s a very capable fellow, very capable indeed. Locksley’s saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Has he?” thought the Major. But discipline is discipline.

“A Court of Enquiry won’t do the Regiment any good,” went on Andrews. “Besides, it might break Bareton. Bareton’s a good subaltern, and a patriotic chap. . . . I hate trouble,” he added pathetically. . . .

Bareton, re-called, found himself alone with the Major who said: “Look here, me lad, take a tip from a fellow who’s old enough to be your grandfather. Don’t you press this Court of Enquiry. Ask for a transfer, see!”

“But it’s so damned unfair, sir.”

“I know that as well as you do, me lad. But we’ve got to think of the men. . . .”

A week later, Bareton and Fanshawe transferred to the Reserve Battalion. (Fanshawe died at Festhubert: Bareton still lives—all that the Hun prison-camps have left of him).

But matters did not end there. Locksley-Jones, confirmed in his position, sent for Peter privately. Peter, who was shooting on the miniature range at the time, finished his score with a “highest possible”; looked about for Bromley; couldn’t find him; strolled very slowly to the Orderly Room. Locksley, alone, went on writing for a clear minute. Then he said, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? I just wanted to have a private talk with you. You know, you’re a very clever fellow, Jameson. But you’re not clever enough to tackle me.”

Peter deliberately took off his cap, and sat down—at the Colonel’s table.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I must take your word for that. Go on.”

Our Mr. Jameson was not an easy person to “discipline”—especially if one happened to have put oneself in the wrong by making the talk unofficial.

“Can’t we pull together, P.J.?” went on Locksley. “You know I can do you much more good than your pal Bromley. There’s your second star, for instance. . . .”

Peter couldn’t help admiring the audacity of the fellow. He wanted to consolidate his position; didn’t care how, so long as he achieved his purpose.

“And supposing I were to tell the C.O. what you’ve just suggested?”

“He wouldn’t believe you—any more than he believed Bareton. The old man’s as weak as water. You know that as well as I do.”

Peter controlled the impulse to hit Locksley in the face, and asked: “Is that all?”

“Oh, of course”—Locksley fell into the trap—“when we come to alloting the Captaincies. Let’s see”—he referred to a list—“you haven’t got any Captains in ‘B’ yet. If the Major goes. . . .”

This was news indeed. Now, Peter saw the plan whole. With complacent Company-Commanders and a weak Colonel, Locksley’s position would be unique.

“Is the Major going?” he asked—playing for time.

“Between you and me and the gatepost”—Locksley winked—“the W.O. has just asked if he is ‘considered fit to command a battalion.’ ”

Thought Peter: “What a swine! Still—if it weren’t for Bromley, I’d accept. I could run the show as well as most people.” Said 2nd Lieutenant Peter Jameson: “There’s a good deal in what you say. But I must have a little time to make up my mind. By the way, you don’t object to my taking a day or so extra at Christmas.”

“Not a bit, my dear fellow, not a bit.”

Meanwhile, men died in Flanders.

§ 1

Peter’s Patricia was essentially a simple woman. The early training received from her father, her education, her first nine years of married life, had all taught her the necessity of “balance,” the advantage of reasoning things out for herself—but they had only developed, not altered, her original character: the matehood and the motherhood in her.

This new love for Peter, suddenly (and as she now believed reasonlessly) conceived on the night he informed her of his decision to apply for a commission, had struck deep roots. But, as yet, it gave neither leaf nor blossom.

Always, she felt conscious of it. Nearly always, the consciousness irritated her. To begin with, married women with completed families—she argued—ought to have got over that sort of thing. Secondly, there was no likelihood—“very little likelihood” corrected instinct—of the love developing into a mutual passion: they had become too set in their matrimonial comradeship for any such occurrence. And thirdly—this formed the main irritation—her sudden change of feeling towards the man was not reasonable.

One might—she decided—hate a husband because he wouldn’t fight for his country. One needn’t on the other hand fall madly in love with him (after eight tranquil years) just because he decided to do the right thing. Besides, he hadn’t “gone out,” yet—perhaps he never would. For Patricia’s experiences in driving tired mud-stained men from the cold darkness of Victoria Station to their outlying homes, had taught her the sharp difference between training in England, however uncomfortable, and the rigours of active service: taught her that difference better than her brother Jack’s careful letters from the front itself.

Resultantly, she arrived at the “Royal York,” (tooling the Crossley like a professional chauffeur), very much on her guard.

§ 2

Brighton-on-Sea’s first war-Christmas betrayed no lack of prosperity. Its hotels, booked up weeks in advance, its saloons, its piers, its theatres and its picture-houses palpitated gaiety. From their billets in Shoreham Town and Portslade, in Worthing and beyond Worthing, the Southdown Division poured in a constant stream of blue-clad men and khaki-clad officers: London sent flappers and chorus-ladies, middle-aged business men and elderly idlers, frisky matrons and demure maidens. The whole town seemed one strolling, dancing, theatre-going, drinking promenade.

“Preston must be making a lot of money,” said Peter, as he and his wife took their first meal together in the crowded dining-room.

“I suppose so.” She had never known him quite so absorbed. “Is there anything the matter, Peter?” she went on.

“Lots. I’ll tell you after lunch. I wrote you about Alice being here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you didn’t say where she was staying.”

“At the Metropole. We’re to dine with them this evening. There’s a dance or something, I believe.”

He was enormously glad to have her with him: but far too occupied about regimental and other matters to shew it. The handsome woman sitting opposite to him—tight chinchilla motor-bonnet and plain Lovat-tweed tailor-made accentuated both figure and fairness—summoned many eyes in that room: but not her husband’s.

Luncheon over, they settled themselves in the little apartment leading off the lounge; drew chairs to the fire: and he sketched for her the position as between himself and Locksley, Bromley and Locksley, the regiment and Locksley.

Her limited experience of men could not grasp it.

“But, Peter, it all seems so childish. Like a lot of boys at school. And surely, with people being killed every day, this is not the time for you others to quarrel.”

“You’re perfectly right, old thing. That’s what I told Harold only last night. What makes me mad is that one man can do so much harm. Honestly, if it weren’t for Locksley I believe we should never have had any of this trouble. As it is,” he paused a moment, “we two have decided to get out.”

“But isn’t that,” she said the words deliberately, “an admission of failure?”

“I suppose it is,” he reflected. “But what am I to do? It wouldn’t be playing the game to accept promotion over a friend’s head.” . . .

“No. I suppose not.” She began to realize that his seriousness had its reasons. “But the men?” she asked.

“I know.” He grew very silent. In those three months Peter had learned a great affection for “B” Company, which he had watched grow from a mere mob to an orderly body; a body to be moved at will and by a word. Individuals too, he would be sorry to part from: Gladeney, Sergeant Atkins, his servant Priestley, “long” Longstaffe who started the choruses from the leading “four” in Number Five platoon, a funny little chap called Haddock, always untidy but always willing. “It’s best for them, though. Rows between officers don’t do the men any good. But you’re right about it being a failure, Pat. I suppose that’s what’s making me so mad.”

Only then, did she quite understand. It was failure: but failure excused by loyalty: loyalty to a friend, loyalty to his sense of playing the game, loyalty to that intangible thing—the spirit of a regiment, against which individuals do not count.

“I’m sorry.” She laid a hand on his arm. He took it, rather shamefacedly: said “Come on, old thing. Let’s go out for a walk.”

§ 3

They walked straight out of the hotel into the arms of a voluble stout little civilian, with eyebrows like the horns of a stag-beetle, a blue silk muffler round his throat and a bowler hat, not quite clean, crammed down over his big head.

“And how are you, Mr. Jameson? Very glad to see you, I’m sure. My cousin Sam told me I might run into you down here.”

Peter introduced Marcus Bramson, owner of Bramson’s Pullman Virginia’s (“the cigarette you must try”) to a slightly standoffish Patricia.

“A fine fellow, your husband, Mrs. Jameson. Everybody in the trade is proud of the way he enlisted. Right at the start, too. I was telling my cousin Sam, only the other night, how grateful he ought to be to work for such a man.”

They couldn’t get rid of Marcus! He stood there, looking like a strapped mummy in his tight overcoat, pouring out compliments and trade-gossip alternately.

“Poor young Schornstein. He’s been killed, you know. Sam Elkins gave his car to the Red Cross. I’m an old man, worse luck. Still, I’m trying to do my bit. And Mrs. Bramson, she’s running a canteen.

“Well, I mustn’t be keeping you like this,” he said at last. “We’re spending Christmas at this hotel. So if you’re passing again, drop in and take a drink with us. I’d like to have a little private talk with you, Mr. Jameson,” he added, as he wrenched off his hat and passed in through the glass doors.

“Quaint old bird, Marcus,” announced Peter, still smarting under the compliments. “Did you see what he was driving at?”

“No.” Patricia swung down the crowded parade. “I only thought of his clothes. How can he afford to stay at the ‘Royal York?’ ”

“Marcus must be worth at least a quarter of a million. He’s one of those chaps who simply can’t help making money. And he spends nothing. They live in an eighty-pound villa at Maida Vale, keep two servants, and take a holiday like this three times a year.”

They threaded their way out of the crowd; made towards Hove. It was a mild, misty afternoon: sun hanging low and scarlet over a dun sea.

“And what was he driving at?” she asked.

“Nirvana.”

“But you’re not going to sell it, Peter?” She looked round at him; but his eyes avoided her.

“I’m afraid so, dear.”

They walked on.

“Failure again!” he commented bitterly.

Now, she was loving him madly, reasonlessly. And she couldn’t help him. He had gone back beyond her reach, into the old world: the world of denied accomplishment.

“Failure,” he repeated.

“It isn’t.” Her eyes lit. “It isn’t. It’s splendid. To give up something you really loved for the sake of your country—that can’t be failure.”

“Oh, the country. . . .” The word was almost a sneer. This man’s patriotism lay deep down in his nature, a thing of whispers and suggestions, a thing to die for but not to discuss.

“The country!” he went on. “ ‘We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go’. . . . And once you have gone, we’ll take devilish good care to snaffle anything you’ve left behind you.”

“You don’t mean a word you’re saying.” The hostility in her tone caught his ear. In eight years, they had never quarrelled. This Patricia was as new to her husband as to herself. He walked on in silence.

“You could resign your commission, I suppose?” She said it purposely, meaning to provoke him.

“Resign! Damn it, woman, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the first time he had ever sworn at her. Inwardly she laughed.

“I’m sorry, old thing,” he said a minute later.

She stalked on haughtily. She was flirting, deliberately flirting, with her own husband. And she felt a fool. Rather a delicious fool, though. Suddenly, he became aware of her; acutely, physically almost. . . . Then the custom of years overwhelmed both.

“The trout,” remarked Patricia, “took the May-fly with a rush. . . .”

He caught her meaning at once. “But you shouldn’t rag about that sort of thing, Pat.”

“You deserved it. And besides, you lost your temper with me. That means a forfeit—fizz for dinner.”

They had drifted back—neither quite realizing—to the early days of their marriage.

“There’ll be plenty of bubbly tonight, without my standing any.” He began to talk about Alice’s husband. She countered with a relation of Violet’s sudden prosperity. Peter had not told about his quarrel with Herbert Rawlings: Pat objected to criticism of her relatives—even when she knew the criticism justified. His little mood of bitterness passed; leaving only a caustic humour in its wake.

“Great man, that brother-in-law of yours,” he laughed. “I saw his picture in one of the illustrateds last week. They called him ‘a patriotic war-worker.’ I think. Something of the sort. . . .”

§ 4

They returned for tea in the lounge; and were unavoidably buttonholed by Marcus Bramson, looking shabbier than ever in a greasy tail-coat and elastic-sided boots.

“Mrs. Bramson would be so glad to know you,” he told Patricia, “but she’s lying down at the moment. So you won’t mind, Mrs. Jameson, if your husband and I have a little talk?”

He drew a chair to their table, began to gossip. Tea over, Pat accepted the cigarette he offered; leaned back in her sofa. They made a curious contrast: her husband, workmanlike in his khaki, cigar in the corner of his mouth, very deliberate, (it was the first time she had ever seen him talking business to a stranger); and the voluble little old man, wheedling, gesticulating,—but never missing a point.

“That cousin of mine,” began Bramson, “he’s always been a bit of a waster, you know. Good fellow, excellent salesman—but no head for money.”

“Oh, come,” began Peter.

“Nice of you to stand up for him, Mr. Jameson. Very nice of you, I must say. But I know him better than you do. Now, between you and me”—the voice dropped—“he’s not doing you any good.”

Much as Peter hated the idea of parting with Nirvana, he could not but appreciate Marcus’ opening.

The old man paused. “I always did wonder” he went on reflectively, “why you wanted to bother yourself with that factory. It isn’t as if you hadn’t got another business. A rich young man like you don’t want to trouble himself about making cirgarettes. Now Jamesons, that’s a good business, that is. . . .”

“Trying to buy me out?” The attack came suddenly—and to Patricia, unexpectedly.

“I wouldn’t mind.” Bramson lit himself a cigarette. “I’m always buying businesses, I am.”

He waited for his opponent to speak; waited vainly.

“Well? What do you think about it, Mr. Jameson?”

“To tell you the truth,” prevaricated Peter, “I’ve never contemplated such a thing.”

To the woman-mind of Patricia, the conversation grew more and more fantastic; seemed like the game of cross-purposes and crooked answers she had played as a child. “Here”—she reasoned—“were two men, one of whom obviously wanted to buy, the other to sell. Why, then, all this finessing?”

Gradually, she lost interest; began to think of her kiddies. What a shame they should be left alone for Christmas. She blamed herself a little, her desire to be alone with Peter. . . . Six o’clock! And she hadn’t unpacked yet. . . .

Both men got up to bid her au revoir: sat down again. She could hear their voices as she waited for the lift.

“You don’t want to be bothered with it, Mr. Jameson. Not now you’re in the Army. And I’d pay you a good price. I would reelly.”

§ 5

Unpacking Peter’s haversack in the warm, lighted bedroom with the drawn blue curtains and the two brass bedsteads, Patricia found a bundle of correspondence addressed “Francis Gordon, Esq., 10 Mecklinburgh Square.” A postcard, an American picture-post-card, dropped out of the bundle: lay, address downwards, on the carpet. The colouring and design—a large white hotel set among palm-trees—caught her eyes; and she could not help reading the handwriting underneath: “A happy Christmas. It’s a long time since you’ve written. Why? B.C.”

Patricia had asked herself the same question many times in the last months. Nobody knew exactly what had happened to Francis Gordon. Except Peter. She felt certain that Peter knew. But Peter wouldn’t say; contented himself, in reply to verbal enquiries with: “All I can tell you, is that he’s all right.” Her letters on the subject, he had calmly ignored. . . .

§ 6

Colonel Stark’s Christmas Eve dinner-party at the Metropole did not belie his reputation for bibulous hospitality. A tray of cocktails, poised unsteadily on a tiny table, opened the proceedings; sherry accompanied the soup; Chambertin followed Niersteiner (“patriotism,” announced the Weasel, quoting Bismarck, “stops at the palate”), Bollinger preceded port and brandy.

They sat down, a round dozen of them, to a round table, red with holly and white with mistletoe, in a private sitting-room on the first floor: three married couples, the Starks, the Jamesons, Colonel and Mrs. Mallory (a jolly old Artillery “dug-out,” well over seventy, with red cheeks, white moustaches, and a pink and white wife, five years his junior, to match): Harold Bromley, very shy with Mrs. Armitage, a sprightly middle-aged widow, alternately horsy and languorous: Torrington, a fair pale dark-eyed boy, who wore the three stars of a Captain, and told Patricia, when she asked what his brick-red medal-ribbon betokened, “That’s the Vic. C.,^[3] Mrs. Jameson”: Purves, fresh from Oxford, with a budding moustache and a Balliol drawl, still self-conscious about his subaltern’s kit: Lodden, a fierce-looking black-moustached Major of Territorials, who appeared in a frightful rage about the world in general: and Pettigrew, a silent youngster, not in the least shy, who twinkled whenever one spoke to him.

They ate; and they drank; and they talked; slowly, and except for Lodden, without any undue excitement.

Said Lodden to Mrs. Mallory, stabbing furiously at his last morsel of fish: “But the thing’s a scandal. A positive scandal.”

“What’s a scandal?” asked the Weasel from the opposite end of the table.

“I was talking about the Foreign Office, Colonel. They tell me that cotton’s pouring into Germany, simply pouring in, through Holland.”

“Oh, I thought you meant a really amusing scandal, Major,” put in Mrs. Armitage.

“Plenty of that about in Brighton, if one looks for it,” scowled the Major.

Everybody laughed: and Lodden, distinctly pleased with himself, attacked the next course. The Burgundy arrived: and with its outpouring, talk quickened. The two Colonels fell into an argument about who won the Grand Military Steeplechase in ’93; Mrs. Armitage, abandoning Bromley as hopeless, turned her attention to Pettigrew and Purves,—repartees snapping back and forwards between the three of them; Mrs. Mallory did her best to smooth another grievance of Lodden’s; Peter and Alice talked Devonshire, her county.

Said Torrington to Patricia, “I hear your husband may be coming to us, Mrs. Jameson. If he does you must come down to Brighton and stay.”—sotto voce—“I’ll find you a horse to ride. It’s against regulations, of course. . . .”

“How did you know about Peter?” smiled Patricia, looking her stateliest in black velvet.

“I’m helping the Colonel in the office. Light duty, you know. He told me he meant to get your husband and that other chap, Bromley. The Colonel usually gets what he goes for.” He looked meaningly across at Alice, and added maliciously. “By the way, aren’t you Jacky Baynet’s sister?”

“Yes.”

“Jacky was devilish cut-up when the old man married Alice. . . .”

Waiters brought in the champagne, three magnums.

“I am perfectly certain,” drawled Purves—in the middle of a hush—to the widow, “that any more wine will have a most intoxicating affect on the party.”

“Turn his glass down, Mrs. Armitage.” This from the Weasel. “We musn’t let the children get into bad habits.”

Mrs. Armitage obeyed: and the two struggled amiably together, Pettigrew twinkling over the fray.

“Peter,” lisped Alice, bubbling glass at red lips, “Douglas is so keen on you and your friend coming to us.”

Our Mr. Jameson, whose head was very nearly as good as the Weasel’s own, drained his bumper before replying. “Oh, we’re coming,” he said.

“Douglas will be pleased. Douglas dear,” she called across to her husband, “I’ve got you two new officers.”

By now the whole table, not excepting Bromley, were in that pleasant state when the better-class Englishman becomes almost as talkative as the average foreigner.

“Don’t talk shop in mess, me dear,” beamed Stark: and to Mallory, “How long did it take you to discipline your wife, sir?”

Mallory, (“Sir” by right of age), looked across at his Hetty, said: “Hopeless task, Stark. Hopeless task.”

By general request, the ladies did not rise with the port. They drank the King-Emperor’s health, proposed by Purves as the most junior officer present: a Merry Christmas (Colonel Mallory); and “Gott strafe Germany,” (Major Lodden).

The Weasel looked at his watch. “If you youngsters”—he winked at Mallory—“want to dance, it’s about time we went downstairs.”

Alice rustled out with the ladies: her husband came over to Peter and Bromley; said: “Better come to my office, both of you, the day after tomorrow.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to manage it, sir,” replied Bromley. “I may be on duty.”

“Then get some one else to do your duty,” snapped the Weasel. It was the only sign he gave, during the whole evening, of an alcoholic consumption which would have put any ordinary man under the table.

“Rummy devil,” confided Torrington to Peter and Bromley, as they strolled downstairs. “I was in his battery at Le Cateau. Brave! My hat—” this from a V.C.—“if his wife knew how he really got that D.S.O. she’d have a fit.”

“Tell me,” said Peter. But Torrington, who won his own “gong” at the same time, grew suddenly shy; broke off the conversation.

They descended to the cellar-like dancing-room, found it crowded. Rag-time thumped; lights blazed; couples slithered. Purves, too gentlemanly for words, was already partnering Mrs. Armitage: Pettigrew had taken the Colonel’s wife: Mrs. Mallory, despite her husband’s jocular entreaties, refused to dance: Major Lodden was grousing to Patricia.

“How about another liqueur?” suggested Torrington.

“I don’t think we’d better join the Gunners after all,” laughed Bromley to Peter: but he went to the bar with them just the same. There, they found the Weasel, drinking brandy-and-soda.

“You youngsters had better not drink any more tonight,” he commanded. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” from Torrington, “that I quite approve of officers dancing in their khaki.”

“I’m quite sure I don’t”—the Colonel’s blue eyes hardened—“but the ladies insist.”

They stood chatting till the music stopped. None of the four had drunk too much: but each of them, according to his capacity, had had quite enough. Bromley detailed a South African experience; Torrington capped it with a story of the Retreat; the Colonel listened professionally.

Peter had arrived at that mellow stage when he could regard the failures of our Mr. Jameson from a standpoint of pleasant detachment: in which state he decided that our Mr. Jameson was inclined to take life a little too seriously. During the remainder of the evening—except for the last “John Peel” which Torrington claimed—he and Patricia danced accurately with each other. . . .

§ 7

They walked home together, arm-in-arm, down the darkling sea-front. A moist breeze blew in their faces: and she clung to him. Their old-time friendship seemed to have renewed itself. The man felt supremely contented: the woman—a trifle off her guard. . . .

And then, they found Marcus Bramson waiting up for them!

He was prowling about the half-lit lounge, purpose in his eye; insisted they must come to his sitting-room; be introduced to Mrs. Bramson; have “one little glass of something, just to celebrate Christmas Day.”

“Confound Marcus,” yawned Peter as—some hours later—he struggled sleepily between cool sheets, “it must be about two G. M.”

“Half-past,” corrected Patricia, combing gold hair before the slanting mirror. She came over; kissed him according to custom; climbed into her own bed; switched off the lights.

§ 8

Peter’s leave lasted four days; and Marcus Bramson haunted every hour of it.

They found him in the lounge when they came down to breakfast, still there—eager for a chat—when they had finished; they ran into him, asking for letters at the porter’s lodge, as they went out for their morning walk; he and Mrs. Bramson, an over-awed woman of the middle-fifties, met them on the Front; trailed them back to lunch; followed them to the Metropole for tea; sat next to them at dinner; pursued them to the Hippodrome; waited up for them late, prevented them going to bed early.

On Boxing Day, when Peter and Bromley returned to the hotel from their first official interview with Colonel Stark, eager to discuss the arrangements made—the letter Stark had written to Andrews, the letters they must write to Andrews, their interview with General Blacklock, Commanding Southdown Divisional Artillery—it was to find Patricia wedged between Marcus and his wife, virtually a prisoner.

Escape, except in the car—and it rained two days out of the four—was impossible.

Once even, the persistent old man waylaid Patricia alone; and she had to listen, for a long half hour, to his protestations: “You see, Mrs. Jameson, it’s like this. I know my cousin, Sam. He’s a waster. A good fellow, but no head for figures. And your husband had much better sell that business now. He’ll lose a bit; but he’ll lose more if he waits. Honestly, Mrs. Jameson, I’m not thinking only of myself—nor Sam neither. I like your husband. He’s a patriotic chap. And I’ll pay him a good price. I will reelly. Only he’s so obstinate. Won’t you use your influence with him, Mrs. Jameson. . . .”

“The funny thing about Marcus,” laughed Peter when she told him of the interview, “is that he feels he’ll be doing me a kindness. Marcus isn’t a bad old boy at heart: but my word, he is a bore.”

Patricia, driving Londonwards through the rain, could not make up her mind whether the Bramsons had been a bore or a godsend. Falling in love with one’s own husband has its disadvantages!

§ 1

If ever man needed power of concentration on the immediate job, and, allied thereto, that particular quality only described by the crude Anglo-Saxon word “guts,” it was Peter Jameson during the two months during which the War Office dilly-dallied over his transfer from the 10th Chalkshire Battalion of the Line to 4th Southdown Brigade, Royal Field Artillery.

The year’s figures and a conference with Reid confirmed the worst about Nirvana Ltd. Their export-trade had begun to feel the shipping-difficulties; dropped weekly. Home sales were stationary; tending downward. The thing had lost momentum. Without more capital it must continue to slow down, eventually stop. Capital at the moment preferred war-bonds to cigarette-partnerships. The Bank pressed for a reduction of overdraft. And “Pretty” Bramson, as Peter phrased it, had “barely enough spunk to endorse his salary-cheque.”

So Marcus got his way. Peter fought him, pound by pound, and clause by clause, to the last farthing, the last signature. The agreement, as finally drafted, was flawless; the price, all things considered, a liberal one. But the gamble had cost, not including interest which the money might have been earning for years, ten thousand pounds—a third of Peter’s original fortune. In addition, it cost part of a man’s soul!

They signed the ultimate document at Brixton: Marcus friendlier than ever; Peter, biting on an unlit cigar—the good gambler, taking loss with a smile. Afterwards, they walked the factory together, old proprietor introducing new proprietor—explaining this labour-saving dodge, suggesting that improvement. And nobody, not even Patricia, realized the bitterness fought down, the courage that had to be nailed to the mast.

Bitter work, bidding one’s dreams good-bye!

The Jameson position, too, required concentration. The partnership deed between Peter and Simpson—a deed by which in case of one’s death the survivor could retain all the capital in the firm, paying out only interest—had expired. Under the peculiar circumstances, Peter wanted it to continue as before, for the “duration.” He was heavily insured, heavily enough to make good the Nirvana loss: and the balance of his fortune, should he be killed, would be safe under Simpson’s management. Simpson objected. “In the unlikely event of his dying, with Peter still on service, who would manage the business?”

They compromised by renewing for two years, subject only to the condition that, if Simpson died first, Peter must pay out his widow in cash. “Payment to be made within twelve months of the valuation of the estate being completed.”

And then there was the irritation of Beckmanns. Try as Simpson would to replace it, many customers still insisted on the brand. Hartopp (geborener Hagenburg) in particular! Hartopp’s turnover had increased threefold. “How he disposes of the stuff,” said Simpson, “is a perfect mystery. I believe myself that half of the cases we ship to Copenhagen and Amsterdam for him, eventually find their way to Germany. But what can I do? The man’s got a Government export-licence—and I can’t stop him taking advantage of it.”

“How much does he owe us?” asked Peter.

“Five thousand at the moment: but I’ve got some big orders pending.”

“You’re sure he’s all right.”

“Absolutely.” Simpson wagged brown beard. “He’s paying at ninety days to the second.”

For the past year, thanks to seven warless months of excellent trading, Jamesons had made almost their usual profits: but Peter’s capital account—with the closing of the Nirvana gamble and the money lent to his brother Arthur—showed a big drop; stood at considerably less than twenty thousand pounds.

It seemed only prudent to try and let furnished the house in Lowndes Square. The Rawlings’, hourly more prosperous, would have taken it gladly: but Peter refused to negotiate with them. Eventually he secured as tenant from March quarter-day a prominent Belgian embusqué whose rent barely covered expenses.

Add to these circumstances the arrival of Arthur Jameson, demanding assistance of every kind from the loan of a dress-suit to the introductions necessary for a commission in the Flying Corps—and it will be seen that Peter’s civilian occupations (though he was honestly pleased to see his brother again) were neither pleasant nor unstrenuous.

§ 2

Patricia felt she could help but little, console even less. For it must be remembered that all such difficulties were dealt with in days of leave, extorted from a sulkily-reluctant Adjutant; failing that extortion, by telegraph, letter and long-distance telephone. The bulk of those two months, Peter had to live with his regiment. And the regiment provided no antidote for annoyances.

Major Fox-Goodwin’s promotion to the Command of the Chalkshires newly-formed twelfth Battalion, and the transfer-application of his two senior subalterns, gave Locksley, who accepted this answer to his pourparlers in silence, his chance. Bromley and Peter, Peabody and Arkwright, found themselves swamped out with full lieutenants, all eager for promotion to Captaincies.

It was already understood among the men that “Mr. ’Arold ’ad ’ad enough, of that there Locksley; and ‘P.J.’ ’e’d thrown his ’and in too.” At the slightest opening, the Cockneys would have shown on which side their sympathies lay. But no such opening was provided.

The two friends carried on loyally, helping their not-too-competent seniors towards efficiency.

And always, the Company improved. By now, it had khaki uniforms (though not its equipment): and a long rifle, servicable though not “Service Pattern,” for every man. It had, too, a band of its own—three flutes and two drums—to which it marched merrily along the sea-front.

Bromley, less externally occupied than Peter, grew very grave those days. It weighed on him to give up this weapon he had forged, to feel that other hands would carry it into action. To Bromley—not realizing his friend’s reticence in troubles—P.J. seemed positively heartless. He cursed about Locksley every now and then; avoided him at Mess or on the streets; drank rather more than usual; but gave no other sign of being harassed either about the loss of “B” Company or the loss of Nirvana.

It was P.J. who suggested applying to Torrington for some “books about this new gunnery game,” P.J. who insisted that they must study them together, “so as not to look bally idiots when our transfer does come through.”

And study they did—four hours an evening—for the whole two months.

It will be observed that the Weasel proved himself no mean judge of a man’s keenness when he picked out these two over a magnum of champagne!

§ 3

About this time, there arrived at the Stazione Centrale of Milan—one cold and foggy north Italian morning—an emaciated, unshaven priest, dressed in dusty soutane and a black shovel hat; a priest whose hands were dusty and bleeding, whose eyes shone glassy with sleeplessness, whose feet—as he limped down from the crowded third-class carriage—were shod in cracked boots, soles worn to the welt, uppers caked and terraced with layer on layer of drying mud.

Humbly, but in excellent Italian, the priest enquired of a surly facchino his way to the Via Rasori; and having been told in guttural Milanese to make for the Galleria, to take the “Via Dant’,” and then the “Via Boccacc’,” limped out into the fog. Had that fog been less dense, the facchino might have noticed a hole in the priest’s shovel hat, a hole possibly made for ventilation purposes—for it had been drilled clean through the black furry felt, in at one side and out the other.

The hole was two days old; and had not happened to the hat in its passage across the south frontier of Switzerland—but considerably further north, on one of those dark and rainy nights when sentries fire first and challenge afterwards.

Our priest limped out of the station, thanking God for the fog, through the dank gardens (from instinct he avoided main streets near railway stations), past the Hotel Cavour, and Finzi’s shuttered dress-making shop, past the dark bulk of the Scala Theatre, through the huge empty Arcade, and across the Piazza del Duomo into the Via Dante. . . .

He had no more money in his pockets, having calculated to report at Berne: but instructions as to compromising Consuls or Legations in neutral countries were particularly explicit: and in the Swiss Capital a gentleman with a turned-up moustache had evinced peculiar interest about his movements. At the Franco-Swiss frontier, other moustached gentlemen might be waiting. So the last of our priest’s notes—he experienced some difficulty in getting change for the five German “marks”—had paid for the journey from Chiasso to Milan.

It was ten years since his last visit to the city, but he managed to find the Via Boccaccio which runs past the Dal Verme Theatre, and followed it—rather painfully for he wanted to go to sleep on every bench—till he saw, hung at the corner of a high stone house, a shield, white lettered on a red ground, “His Britannic Majesty’s Consul General for Lombardy and Venetia.”

“Gott sei Dank,” said the priest—and, then remembering that it was no longer necessary to think in German, “Thank God!”

He slinked past the porter’s lodge—the consulate is on the first floor—dragged himself up the marble stairs; and rang the bell.

Mr. Towsey, brown-bearded, short of stature, determined of eye, opened the door himself. He had just made his early cup of tea; his mother was still in bed; their servant gossiping downstairs.

“Ma cosa vuole a cuest’ ora?” he said.

“Console Inglese?” asked the priest.

“Si. Ma cosa vuole?”

“Lasc’ entrare. Non posso parlarvi qui.”

The door closed behind them.

Mr. Towsey led into a square bare room, safe in one corner, desk near the window.

“Ebbene?” began the consul.

“For the Lord’s sake give me a cigarette,” said Francis Gordon.

He had no papers to prove his identity. His eyes kept closing all the time he talked. The hand which held the cigarette shook like a jelly on a plate. He would neither say whence he had come, nor why, nor how. But he knew exactly what he wanted: he wanted Mr. Towsey—he said it over and over again—to send a telegram, a telegram in Embassy cypher addressed to the British Foreign Office for transmission to I. D. War Office. Also, he wanted to go to bed until the answer arrived.

“But hang it all,” said the Consul, “I don’t know anything about you. You turn up at seven o’clock in the morning. You start by talking Italian. Then you ask for a cigarette in English. Now you want me to let you use our secret code-book, and to pay for the cable out of government funds. . . .”

“And after that,” yawned Francis, “I want to sleep in your spare bed-room till the answer arrives.”

Mr. Towsey felt himself in an awkward position. Italy was still neutral; the diplomatic situation growing hourly more complicated. Then he looked sharply at the bedraggled weary man in the black soutane; decided to take the risk.

“Here, write your telegram,” he said, pushing paper and pencil across the desk. “I suppose you don’t want to code it yourself.”

“Oh, Lord, no.” Francis, eyes dizzy with sleep, wrote rapidly. “Please inform I.D.W.O. that No. 63 has arrived consulate Milan with important information. Stop. Can arrangements be made for him to be met at Modane by car and proceed direct to G.H.Q. France. Stop. Please request consul here to advance one thousand lire for clothes and travelling expenses. End.”

Said Mr. Towsey, reading it, “I think I’d better address this to Mr. Montgomery. . . .”

But Francis Gordon had fallen fast asleep.

He awoke, some fifteen hours later, frightened out of his wits; remembered that the need for fear had passed; crawled off a sofa; fumbled about for the electric switch; clicked on the light.

The noise of his getting-up disturbed his host from the deciphering of a cable which read, “Please advance to person for whom you sent cable No. 3426 any monies he requires. Stop. Order him proceed Modane soonest possible and report to French authorities who will have full instructions. Montgomery.”

“I’m most awfully obliged to you, Mr. Towsey,” said Francis Gordon next morning: a clean-shaven Francis Gordon dressed in a green ready-made Italian suit, bright yellow boots on his feet, bright yellow bag in his hand. “Just as a last favour, would you mind having these posted for me.”

He handed over three letters, one—which began “My dear Beatrice, I have to apologize for leaving you so long without news”—addressed care of the Guaranty Trust Company, New York; the second to “P. Jameson, Esq.,” and the third to “H. T. Prout, 10 Mecklinburgh Square, London W.”

Then, having shaken hands with his host, he lit a cigarette, and strolled creakily downstairs to the waiting taxi. . . .

§ 6

Francis’ letter reached his cousin on the morning Peter and Bromley saw their transfer gazetted in the Morning Post. The answer to it, a packet containing two letters and a postcard addressed “Poste Restante, St. Omer,” was in Peter’s pocket as they stood in the Chalkshires’ Orderly Room, bidding Colonel Andrews good-bye.

“I’m very sorry you’re both leaving me,” said the Colonel. “Very sorry indeed.”

“We’re sorry to be going, sir,” from Bromley.

“I’m sorry we’re leaving, sir,” from Peter.

They shook hands with the diffident kindly man, saluted; clanked out, booted and spurred—the Gunner grenades already on their lapels; ran into Locksley-Jones.

“Hallo, you chaps,” he stuttered. “Just off. What?”

“Yes,” said Bromley grimly. “We’re going to a show where they’ve got a soldier for their Adjutant. It will be quite a change. . . .”

But when—(having said good-bye to Mr. Smith, the Regimental Sergeant Major, to Gladeney and Sergeant Atkins and Corporal Pearson, to Peabody and Arkwright and Mackenzie, Mosely and Simcox and half a hundred others who came crowding round the bar at “the Feathers,” to their two servants who stood watching the train as it slid out of Worthing Station towards Brighton)—the two friends at last settled themselves in the corner of a first-class carriage, they both grew very silent—thinking how others would lead into action those hard-drinking, hard-swearing Cockneys who sang, as they marched: