Part 16 (2/2)

”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?”

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