i

Something awful had happened.  Adeline had told Anne about it.

It seemed that Colin in his second year at Cambridge, when he should have given his whole mind to reading for the Diplomatic Service, had had the imprudence to get engaged.  And to a girl that Adeline had never heard of, about whom nothing was known but that she was remarkably handsome and that her family (Courthopes of Leicestershire) were, in Adeline’s brief phrase, “all right.”

From the terrace they could see, coming up the lawn from the goldfish pond, Colin and his girl.

Queenie Courthope.  She came slowly, her short Russian skirt swinging out from her ankles.  The brilliance of her face showed clear at a distance, vermilion on white, flaming; hard, crystal eyes, sweeping and flashing; bobbed hair, brown-red, shining in the sun.  Then a dominant, squarish jaw, and a mouth exquisitely formed, but thin, a vermilion thread drawn between her staring, insolent nostrils and the rise of her round chin.

This face in its approach expressed a profound, arrogant indifference to Adeline and Anne.  Only as it turned towards Colin its grey-black eyes lowered and were soft dark under the black feathers of their brows.

Colin looked back at it with a shy, adoring tenderness.

Queenie could be even more superbly uninterested than Adeline.  In Adeline’s self-absorption there was a passive innocence, a candor that disarmed you, but Queenie’s was insolent and hostile; it took possession of the scene and challenged every comer.

“Hallo, Anne!” Colin shouted.  “How did you get here?”

“Motored down.”

“I say, have you got a car?”

“Only just.”

“Drove yourself?”

“Rather.”

Queenie scowled as if there were something disagreeable to her in the idea that Anne should have a car of her own and drive it.  She endured the introduction in silence and addressed herself with an air of exclusiveness to Colin.

“What are we going to do?”

“Anything you like,” he said.

“I’ll play you singles, then.”

“Anne might like to play,” said Colin.  But he still looked at Queenie, as she flamed in her beauty.

“Oh, three’s a rotten game.  You can’t play the two of us unless Miss Severn handicaps me.”

“She won’t do that.  Anne could take us both on and play a decent game.”

Queenie picked up her racquet and stood between them, beating her skirts with little strokes of irritated impatience.  Her eyes were fixed on Colin, trying, you could see, to dominate him.

“We’d better take it in turns,” he said.

“Thanks, Col-Col.  I’d rather not play.  I’ve driven ninety-seven miles.”

“Really rather?”

Queenie backed towards the court.

“Oh, come on, Colin, if you’re coming.”

He went.

“What do you think of Queenie?” Adeline said.

“She’s very handsome.”

“Yes, Anne.  But it isn’t a nice face.  Now, is it?”

Anne couldn’t say it was a nice face.

“It’s awful to think of Colin being married to it.  He’s only twenty-one now, and she’s seven years older.  If it had been anybody but Colin.  If it had been Eliot or Jerrold I shouldn’t have minded so much.  They can look after themselves.  He’ll never stand up against that horrible girl.”

“She does look terribly strong.”

“And cruel, Anne, as if she might hurt him.  I don’t want him to be hurt.  I can’t bear her taking him away from me.  My little Col-Col....I did hope, Anne, that if you wouldn’t have Eliot ­”

“I’d have Colin?  But Auntie, I’m years older than he is.  He’s a baby.”

“If he’s a baby he’ll want somebody older to look after him.”

“Queenie’s even better fitted than I am, then.”

“Do you think, Anne, she proposed to Colin?”

“No.  I shouldn’t think it was necessary.”

“I should say she was capable of anything.  My only hope is they’ll tire each other out before they’re married and break it off.”

All afternoon on the tennis court below Queenie played against Colin.  She played vigorously, excitedly, savagely, to win.  She couldn’t hide her annoyance when he beat her.

“What was I to do?” he said.  “You don’t like it when I beat you.  But if I was beaten you wouldn’t like me.”

ii

Adeline’s only hope was not realized.  They hadn’t had time to tire of each other before the War broke out.  And Colin insisted on marrying before he joined up.  Their engagement had left him nervous and unfit, and his idea was that, once married, he would present a better appearance before the medical examiners.

But after a month of Queenie, Colin was more nervous and unfit than ever.

“I can’t think,” said Adeline, “what that woman does to him.  She’ll wear him out.”

So Colin waited, trying to get fitter, and afraid to volunteer lest he should be rejected.

Everybody around him was moving rapidly.  Queenie had taken up motoring, so that she could drive an ambulance car at the front.  Anne had gone up to London for her Red Cross training.  Eliot had left his practice to his partner at Penang and had come home and joined the Army Medical Corps.

Eliot, home on leave for three days before he went out, tried hard to keep Colin back from the War.  In Eliot’s opinion Colin was not fit and never would be fit to fight.  He was just behaving as he always had behaved, rushing forward, trying insanely to do the thing he never could do.

“Do you mean to say they won’t pass me?” he asked.

“Oh, they’ll pass you all right,” Eliot said.  “They’ll give you an expensive training, and send you into the trenches, and in any time from a day to a month you’ll be in hospital with shell-shock.  Then you’ll be discharged as unfit, having wasted everybody’s time and made a damned nuisance of yourself....I suppose I ought to say it’s splendid of you to want to go out.  But it isn’t splendid.  It’s idiotic.  You’ll be simply butting in where you’re not wanted, taking a better man’s place, taking a better man’s commission, taking a better man’s bed in a hospital.  I tell you we don’t want men who are going to crumple up in their first action.”

“Do you think I’m going to funk then?” said poor Colin.

“Funk?  Oh, Lord no.  You’ll stick it till you drop, till you’re paralyzed, till you’ve lost your voice and memory, till you’re an utter wreck.  There’ll be enough of ’em, poor devils, without you, Col-Col.”

“But why should I go like that more than anybody else?”

“Because you’re made that way, because you haven’t got a nervous system that can stand the racket.  The noises alone will do for you.  You’ll be as right as rain if you keep out of it.”

“But Jerrold’s coming back. He’ll go out at once.  How can I stick at home when he’s gone?”

“Heaps of good work to be done at home.”

“Not by men of my age.”

“By men of your nervous organization.  Your going out would be sheer waste.”

“Why not?” Does it matter what becomes of me?”

“No.  It doesn’t.  It matters, though, that you’ll be taking a better man’s place.”

Now Colin really did want to go out and fight, as he had always wanted to follow Jerrold’s lead; he wanted it so badly that it seemed to him a form of self-indulgence; and this idea of taking a better man’s place so worked on him that he had almost decided to give it up, since that was the sacrifice required of him, when he told Queenie what Eliot had said.

“All I can say is,” said Queenie, “that if you don’t go out I shall give you up.  I’ve no use for men with cold feet.”

“Can’t you see,” said Colin (he almost hated Queenie in that moment), “what I’m afraid of?  Being a damned nuisance.  That’s what Eliot says I’ll be.  I don’t know how he knows.”

“He doesn’t know everything.  If my brother tried to stop my going to the front I’d jolly soon tell him to go to hell.  I swear, Colin, if you back out of it I won’t speak to you again.  I’m not asking you to do anything I funk myself.”

“Oh, shut up.  I’m going all right.  Not because you’ve asked me, but because I want to.”

“If you didn’t I should think you’d feel pretty rotten when I’m out with my Field Ambulance,” said Queenie.

“Damn your Field Ambulance!...  No, I didn’t mean that, old thing; it’s splendid of you to go.  But you’d no business to suppose I funked.  I may funk.  Nobody knows till they’ve tried.  But I was going all right till Eliot put me off.”

“Oh, if you’re put off as easily as all that ­”

She was intolerable.  She seemed to think he was only going because she’d shamed him into it.

That evening he sang: 

  “’What are you doing all the day, Rendal, my son? 
  What are you doing all the day, my pretty one?’”

He understood that song now.

  “’What will you leave to your lover, Rendal, my son? 
  What will you leave to your lover, my pretty one? 
  A rope to hang her, mother,
  A rope to hang her, mother....’”

“Go it, Col-Col!” Out on the terrace Queenie laughed her harsh, cruel laugh.

  “‘For I’m sick to my heart and I fain would lie down.’”

“‘I’m sick to my heart and I fain would lie down,’” Queenie echoed, with clipped words, mocking him.

He hated Queenie.

And he loved her.  At night, at night, she would unbend, she would be tender and passionate, she would touch him with quick, hurrying caresses, she would put her arms round him and draw him to her, kissing and kissing.  And with her young, beautiful body pressed tight to him, with her mouth on his and her eyes shining close and big in the darkness, Colin would forget.

iii

    Dr. Cutler’s Field Ambulance, British Hospital, Antwerp.

    September 20th, 1914.

Dearest Auntie Adeline, ­I haven’t been able to write before.  There’s been a lot of fighting all round here and we’re frightfully busy getting in wounded.  And when you’ve done you’re too tired to sit up and write letters.  You simply roll into bed and drop off to sleep.  Sometimes we’re out with the ambulances half the night.

You needn’t worry about me.  I’m keeping awfully fit.  I am glad now I’ve always lived in the open air and played games and ploughed my own land.  My muscles are as hard as any Tommie’s.  So are Queenie’s.  You see, we have to act as stretcher bearers as well as chauffeurs.  You’re not much good if you can’t carry your own wounded.

Queenie is simply splendid.  She really doesn’t know what fear is, and she’s at her very best under fire.  It sort of excites her and bucks her up.  I can’t help seeing how fine she is, though she was so beastly to poor old Col-Col before he joined up.  But talk of the War bringing out the best in people, you should simply see her out here with the wounded.  Dr. Cutler (the Commandant) thinks no end of her.  She drives for him and I drive for a little doctor man called Dicky Cartwright.  He’s awfully good at his job and decent.  Queenie doesn’t like him.  I can’t think why.

    Good-bye, darling.  Take care of yourself.

    Your loving

    Anne.

    Antwerp. October 3rd.

...  You ask me what I really think of Queenie at close quarters.  Well, the quarters are very close and I know she simply hates me.  She was fearfully sick when she found we were both in the same Corps.  She’s always trying to get up a row about something.  She’d like to have me fired out of Belgium if she could, but I mean to stay as long as I can, so I won’t quarrel with her.  She can’t do it all by herself.  And when I feel like going back on her I tell myself how magnificent she is, so plucky and so clever at her job.  I don’t wonder that half the men in our Corps are gone on her.  And there’s a Belgian Colonel, the one Cutler gets his orders from, who’d make a frantic fool of himself if she’d let him.  But good old Queenie sticks to her job and behaves as if they weren’t there.  That makes them madder.  You’d have thought they’d never have had the time to be such asses in, but it’s wonderful what a state you can get into in your few odd moments.  Dicky says it’s the War whips you up and makes it all the easier.  I don’t know....

    FURNES.

    November.

That’s where we are now.  I simply can’t describe the retreat.  It was too awful, and I don’t want to think about it.  We’ve “settled” down in a house we’ve commandeered and I suppose we shall stick here till we’re shelled out of it.

Talking of shelling, Queenie is funny.  She’s quite annoyed if anybody besides herself gets anywhere near a shell.  We picked up two more stretcher-bearers in Ostend and a queer little middle-aged lady out for a job at the front.  Cutler took her on as a sort of secretary.  At first Queenie was so frantic that she wouldn’t speak to her, and swore she’d make the Corps too hot to hold her.  But when she found that the little lady wasn’t for the danger zone and only proposed to cook and keep our accounts for us, she calmed down and was quite decent.  Then the other day Miss Mullins came and told us that a bit of shell had chipped off the corner of her kitchen.  The poor old thing was ever so proud and pleased about it, and Queenie snubbed her frightfully, and said she wasn’t in any danger at all, and asked her how she’d enjoy it if she was out all day under fire, like us.

And she was furious with me because I had the luck to get into the bombardment at Dixmude and she hadn’t.  She talked as if I’d done her out of her shelling on purpose, whereas it only meant that I happened to be on the spot when the ambulances were sent out and she was away somewhere with her own car.  She really is rather vulgar about shells.  Dicky says it’s a form of war snobbishness (he hasn’t got a scrap of it), but I think it really is because all the time she’s afraid of one of us being killed.  It must be that.  Even Dicky owns that she’s splendid, though he doesn’t like her....

iv

Five months later.

    The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire.

    May 30th, 1915.

My darling Anne, ­Queenie will have told you about Colin.  He was through all that frightful shelling at Ypres in April.  He’s been three weeks in the hospital at Boulogne with shell-shock ­had it twice ­and now he’s back and in that Officers’ Hospital in Kensington, not a bit better.  I really think Queenie ought to get leave and come over and see him.

Eliot was perfectly right.  He ought never to have gone out.  Of course he was as plucky as they make them ­went back into the trenches after his first shell-shock ­but his nerves couldn’t stand it.  Whether they’re treating him right or not, they don’t seem to be able to do anything for him.

    I’m writing to Queenie.  But tell her she must come and see him.

    Your loving

    Adeline Fielding.

Three months later.

    The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire.

    August 30th.

Darling Anne, ­Colin has been discharged at last as incurable.  He is with me here.  I’m so glad to have him, the darling.  But oh, his nerves are in an awful state ­all to bits.  He’s an utter wreck, my beautiful Colin; it would make your heart bleed to see him.  He can’t sleep at night; he keeps on hearing shells; and if he does sleep he dreams about them and wakes up screaming.  It’s awful to hear a man scream.  Anne, Queenie must come home and look after him.  My nerves are going.  I can’t sleep any more than Colin.  I lie awake waiting for the scream.  I can’t take the responsibility of him alone, I can’t really.  After all, she’s his wife, and she made him go out and fight, though she knew what Eliot said it would do to him.  It’s too cruel that it should have happened to Col-Col of all people. Make that woman come.

    Your loving

    Adeline Fielding.

    Nieuport. September 5th, 1915.

Darling Auntie, ­I’m so sorry about dear Col-Col.  And I quite agree that Queenie ought to go back and look after him.  But she won’t.  She says her work here is much more important and that she can’t give up hundreds of wounded soldiers for just one man.  Of course she is doing splendidly, and Cutler says he can’t spare her and she’d be simply thrown away on one case.  They think Colin’s people ought to look after him.  It doesn’t seem to matter to either of them that he’s her husband.  They’ve got into the way of looking at everybody as a case.  They say it’s not even as if Colin could be got better so as to be sent out to fight again.  It would be sheer waste of Queenie.

    But Cutler has given me leave to go over and see him.  I shall
    get to Wyck as soon as this letter.

    Dear Col-Col, I wish I could do something for him.  I feel as if
    we could never, never do too much after all he’s been through. 
    Fancy Eliot knowing exactly what would happen.

    Your loving

    Anne.

    Nieuport. September 7th.

Dear Anne, ­Now that you have gone I think I ought to tell you that it would be just as well if you didn’t come back.  I’ve got a man to take your place; Queenie picked him up at Dunkirk the day you sailed, and he’s doing very well.

The fact is we’re getting on much better since you left.  There’s perfect peace now.  You and Queenie didn’t hit it off, you know, and for a job like ours it’s absolutely essential that everybody should pull together like one.  It doesn’t do to have two in a Corps always at loggerheads.

I don’t like to lose you, and I know you’ve done splendidly.  But I’ve got to choose between Queenie and you, and I must keep her, if it’s only because she’s worked with me all the time.  So now that you’ve made the break I take the opportunity of asking you to resign.  Personally I’m sorry, but the good of the Corps must come before everything.

    Sincerely yours,

    Robert Cutler.

    The Manor, Wyck-on-the-Hill, Gloucestershire.

    September 11th, 1915.

Dear Dicky, ­This is only to say good-bye, as I shan’t see you again.  Cutler’s fired me out of the Corps.  He says it’s because Queenie and I don’t hit it off.  I shouldn’t have thought that was my fault, but he seems to think it is.  He says there’s been perfect peace since I left.

    Well, we’ve had some tremendous times together, and I wish we
    could have gone on.

    Good-bye and Good Luck,

    Yours ever,

    Anne Severn.

P. S. ­Poor Colin Fielding’s in an awful state.  But he’s been a bit better since I came.  Even if Cutler’d let me come back I couldn’t leave him.  This is my job.  The queer thing is he’s afraid of Queenie, so it’s just as well she didn’t come home.

    Nieuport.

    September 15th, 1915.

Dear Old Thing, ­We’re all furious here at the way you’ve been treated.  I’ve resigned as a protest, and I’m going into the R. A. M. So has Miss Mullins ­:  resigned I mean ­so Queenie’s the only woman left in the Corps.  That’ll suit her down to the ground.

I gave myself the treat of telling Cutler what I jolly well think of him.  But of course you know she made him hoof you out.  She’s been trying for it ever since you joined.  It’s all rot his saying you didn’t hit it off with her, when everybody knows you were a perfect angel to her.  Why, you backed her every time when we were all going for her.  It’s quite true that the peace of God has settled on the Corps since you left it; but that’s only because Queenie doesn’t rage round any more.

You’ll observe that she never went for Miss Mullins.  That’s because Miss Mullins kept well out of the line of fire.  And if you hadn’t jolly well distinguished yourself there she’d have let you alone, too.  The real trouble began that day you were at Dixmude.  It wasn’t a bit because she was afraid you’d be killed.  Queenie doesn’t want you about when the War medals are handed round.  Everybody sees that but old Cutler.  He’s too much gone on her to see anything.  She can twist him round and round and tie him up in knots.

    But Cutler isn’t in it now.  Queenie’s turned him down for that
    young Noel Fenwick who’s got your job.  Cutler’s nose was a
    sight, I can tell you.

    Well, I’m not surprised that Queenie’s husband funks her.  She’s
    a terror.  Worse than war.

    Good-bye and Good Luck, Old Thing, till we meet again.

    Yours ever,

    Dicky Cartwright.