"As I said, your rulers will get their deserts in time, but I think, Baron von Dressler, your Nemesis has come on you already. That little poor kid is asking you for her mother. Don't forget it in the years to come, Baron. No, I don't think you _will_ forget it."

My story is finished. Later on, when some of the dreadful nightmare through which she had pa.s.sed had been effaced from her mind, Maisie and the man who had come to her out of the grey waters discussed many things. And the story which the Prussian had told her after the dance on the flagship was finally discredited.

Can anyone recommend me a good cheap book on "Things a Best Man Should Know"?

CHAPTER VII

THE DEATH GRIP

Two reasons have impelled me to tell the story of Hugh Latimer, and both I think are good and sufficient. First I was his best friend, and second I know more about the tragedy than anyone else--even including his wife.

I saw the beginning and the end; she--poor broken-hearted girl--saw only the end.

There have been many tragedies since this war started; there will be many more before Finis is written--and each, I suppose, to its own particular sufferers seems the worst. But, somehow, to my mind Hugh's case is without parallel, unique--the devil's arch of cruelty. I will give you the story--and you shall judge for yourself.

Let us lift the curtain and present a dug-out in a support trench somewhere near Givenchy. A candle gutters in a bottle, the grease running down like a miniature stalact.i.te congeals on an upturned packing-case. On another packing-case the remnants of a tongue, some sardines, and a goodly array of bottles with some tin mugs and plates completes the furniture--or almost. I must not omit the handsome coloured pictures--three in all--of ladies of great beauty and charm, clad in--well, clad in something at any rate. The occupants of this palatial abode were Hugh Latimer and myself; at the rise of the curtain both lying in corners, on piles of straw.

Outside, a musician was coaxing noises from a mouth-organ; occasional s.n.a.t.c.hes of song came through the open entrance, intermingled with bursts of laughter. One man, I remember, was telling an interminable story which seemed to be the history of a gentleman called n.o.bby Clark, who had dallied awhile with a lady in an estaminet at Bethune, and had ultimately received a knock-out blow with a frying-pan over the right eye, for being too rapid in his attentions. Just the usual dull, strange, haunting trench life--which varies not from day's end to day's end.

At intervals a battery of our own let drive, the blast of the explosion catching one through the open door; at intervals a big German sh.e.l.l moaned its way through the air overhead--an express bound for somewhere.

Had you looked out to the front, you would have seen the bright green flares lobbing monotonously up into the night, all along the line.

War--modern war; boring, incredible when viewed in cold blood....

"Hullo, Hugh." A voice at the door roused us both from our doze, and the Adjutant came in. "Will you put your watches right by mine? We are making a small local attack to-morrow morning, and the battalion is to leave the trenches at 6.35 exactly."

"Rather sudden, isn't it?" queried Hugh, setting his watch.

"Just come through from Brigade Headquarters. Bombs are being brought up to H.15. Further orders sent round later. Bye-bye."

He was gone, and once more we sat thinking to the same old accompaniment of trench noises; but in rather a different frame of mind. To-morrow morning at 6.35 peace would cease; we should be out and running over the top of the ground; we should be...

"Will they use gas, I wonder?" Hugh broke the silence.

"Wind too fitful," I answered; "and I suppose it's only a small show."

"I wonder what it's for. I wish one knew more about these affairs; I suppose one can't, but it would make it more interesting."

The mouth-organ stopped; there were vigorous demands for an encore.

"Poor devils," he went on after a moment. "I wonder how many?--I wonder how many?"

"A new development for you, Hugh." I grinned at him. "Merry and bright, old son--your usual motto, isn't it?"

He laughed. "Dash it, Ginger--you can't always be merry and bright. I don't know why--perhaps it's second sight--but I feel a sort of presentiment of impending disaster to-night. I had the feeling before Clements came in."

"Rot, old man," I answered cheerfully. "You'll probably win a V.C., and the greatest event of the war will be when it is presented to your cheeild."

Which prophecy was destined to prove the cruellest mixture of truth and fiction the mind of man could well conceive....

"Good Lord!" he said irritably, taking me seriously for a moment; "we're a bit too old soldiers to be guyed by palaver about V.C.'s." Then he recovered his good temper. "No, Ginger, old thing, there's big things happening to-morrow. Hugh Latimer's life is going into the melting-pot.

I'm as certain of it as--as that I'm going to have a whisky and soda."

He laughed, and delved into a packing-case for the seltzogene.

"How's the son and heir?? I asked after a while.

"Going strong," he answered. "Going strong, the little devil."

And then we fell silent, as men will at such a time. The trench outside was quiet; the musician, having obliged with his encore, no longer rendered the night hideous--even the guns were still. What would it be to-morrow night? Should I still be...? I shook myself and started to scribble a letter; I was getting afraid of inactivity--afraid of my thoughts.

"I'm going along the trenches," said Hugh suddenly, breaking the long silence. "I want to see the Sergeant-Major and give some orders."

He was gone, and I was alone. In spite of myself my thoughts would drift back to what he had been saying, and from there to his wife and the son and heir. My mind, overwrought, seemed crowded with pictures: they jumbled through my brains like a film on a cinematograph.

I saw his marriage, the bridal arch of officers' swords, the sweet-faced, radiant girl. And then his house came on to the screen--the house where I had spent many a pleasant week-end while we trained and sweated to learn the job in England. He was a man of some wealth was Hugh Latimer, and his house showed it; showed moreover his perfect, unerring taste. Bits of stuff, curios, knick-knacks from all over the world met one in odd corners; prints, books, all of the very best, seemed to fit into the scheme as if they'd grown there. Never did a single thing seem to whisper as you pa.s.sed, "I'm really very rare and beautiful, but I've been dragged into the wrong place, and now I know I'm merely vulgar." There are houses I wot of where those clamorous whispers drown the nightingales. But if you can pa.s.s through rooms full of bric-a-brac--silent bric-a-brac: bric-a-brac conscious of its rect.i.tude and needing no self apology, you may be certain that the owner will not give you port that is improved by a cigarette.

Then came the son, and Hugh's joy was complete. A bit of a dreamer, a bit of a poet, a bit of a philosopher, but with a virility all his own; a big man--a man in a thousand, a man I was proud to call Friend. And he--at the dictates of "Kultur"--was to-morrow at 6.35 going to expose himself to the risk of death, in order to wrest from the Hun a small portion of unprepossessing ground. Truly, humour is not dead in the world!...

A step outside broke the reel of pictures, and the Sapper Officer looked in. "I hear a whisper of activity in the dark and stilly morn," he remarked brightly. "Won't it be nice?"

"Very," I said sarcastically. "Are you coming?"

"No, dear one. That's why I thought it would be so nice. My opposite number and tireless companion and helper to-morrow morning will prance over the greensward with you, leading his merry crowd of minions, bristling with bowie knives, sandbags, and other impedimenta."

"Oh! go to h.e.l.l," I said crossly. "I want to write a letter."

"Cheer up, Ginger." He dropped his bantering tone. "I'll be up to drink a gla.s.s of wine with you to-morrow night in the new trench. Tell Latimer that the wire is all right--it's been thinned out and won't stop him, and that there are ladders for getting out of the trench on each traverse."

"Have you been working?" I asked.

"Four hours, and got caught by shrapnel in the middle. Night-night, and good luck, old man."

He was gone; and when he had, I wished him back again. For the game wasn't new to him--he'd done it before; and I hadn't. It tends to give one confidence....

It was about four I woke up. For a few blissful moments I lay forgetful; then I turned and saw Hugh. There was a new candle in the bottle, and by its flicker I saw the glint in his sombre eyes, the clear-cut line of his profile. And I remembered....

I felt as if something had caught me by the stomach--inside: a sinking feeling, a feeling of nausea: and for a while I lay still. Outside in the darkness the men were rousing themselves; now and again a curse was muttered as someone tripped over a leg he didn't see; and once the Sergeant-Major's voice rang out--"'Ere, strike a light with them breakfasts."

"Awake, Ginger?" Hugh prodded me with his foot. "You'd better get something inside you, and then we'll go round and see that everything is O.K."

"Have you had any sleep, Hugh?"

"No. I've been reading." He put Maeterlinck's "Blue Bird" on the table.

With his finger on the t.i.tle he looked at me musingly, "Shall we find it to-day, I wonder?"