Part 14

The reaper has come forth to reap out of season, and the young corn is mown down in the green ear, and all the poppies and the pretty flowers go down with it.

Sitting in rooms which we had not revisited since before the war, these are sad thoughts that the crowded recollections bring.

London itself, however, seemed little changed; even that much-discussed night-darkness hardly noticeable. Driving in the daytime we instinctively counted, with frowning glance, the number of stalwart young men out of uniform, and wondered how any girl could walk with them, much less smile upon them. And our eyes followed the soldiers with pride as they marched by, singing popular catches to inspire themselves in default of the band which the stern necessities of this war forbid. What fine fellows they are--so well set up, looking out with such steady vision upon the future which they have chosen! And the lilt of the merry tune, with what a deep note of pathos it strikes upon the ear!

Of course there are a great many soldiers about London, yet no more than in Jubilee time, and there is no greater excitement among them, and a good deal less among those who watch them pass, than in the days when it was all pomp and circumstance, and no warfare.

London does not carry the stamp of war about her, but we carry it each one of us in our hearts. That is why we sicken from the music-hall posters; why wrath and grief mingle in our minds at the sight of that bold-eyed community with its whitened face, its vulgar exaggeration of attire, and its unchecked and unashamed hunting of its prey; a prey sometimes visibly unwilling, sometimes pathetically, innocently flattered!

The Zeppelin menace has created no sense of apprehension in the town. The first night of our arrival we conscientiously prepared amateur respirators for ourselves and such of the _famiglia_ as accompanied us. Pads of cotton-wool, soaked in a strong solution of soda, were placed within easy reach of the bedside. The next night we said “Bother!” and the third night we forgot all about it. Though the Signora, lying awake, had occasionally a half-amused speculation whether the throbbing passage of some more than usually loud traction-engine, or the distant back-firing of a belated taxicab, might not be the bark of the real wolf at last!

Our little white-haired housemaid, generally left alone to mind the London house, possesses this philosophic indifference. She made herself a respirator. We doubt whether she ever thinks of placing it handy. We believe she shares the view of the old nurse of a friend of ours into whose garden a bomb really and truly did drop during the recent raid on Southend.

“Frightened, miss? Lord bless you, no! I knew it was only them Germans!”

Nevertheless, though London is neither alarmed nor depressed, we set our faces towards the Villino again with a sense of relief. These days it is better to be in one’s own place; and in London we feel only visitors now. Yet, strangely, the country is far more full of the war than the town.

Beginning at Wimbledon, we meet motorcars filled to overflowing with bandaged, bronze-faced young men, who smile and wave their hands as we whizz by. Dear lads! Some from that greater England beyond the sea, more closely our brothers now than ever before, with ties cemented by the shedding of blood. _Blut-Bruderschaft_, indeed, you have pledged with us: a Teutonic rite put into practice after a fashion our enemies thought out of the range of possibility.

And presently we come to the camps. Here, where the pine-woods solitary marched, where the heather was wont to spread, crimsoning and purpling to the line of blue distance--a wonderful vision of wild scenery--here is a brown waste, peopled with a new town. Rows and rows of wooden huts run in parallel lines. Where the trees stood you cannot even guess; but once and again there is the smell of the raw wood, and you see a giant lying lopped of his branches. And the whole place swarms in activity. We pass hundreds of ammunition and gun carriages--the two-wheeled carts for the new howitzers--some already with the guns in place; long sheds where half a dozen smiths are busy shoeing, with groups of patient horses, shoulder by shoulder, waiting outside; we hear the clank of iron upon iron from within; we catch the vision of red fire upon the sleek flank and the brawny arms wielding the hammer. Horses everywhere, it seems--lines of them, picketed; horsemen coming and going: detachments riding up and down among the thickest dust that you have ever imagined; and waggons lumbering, some charged with fodder, some, as we pass, with loaves fresh from the baking. And now a traction-engine, filling the air with noise and smoke, driven by two grimy Tommies who shout at each other as they throb and bumble along, has to be dodged and left behind.

This is an artillery camp--a marvellous place which gives one a more vivid impression of England’s strength, of England’s new army, than any words can describe. These splendid, happy, vigorous, busy men; these rows of howitzer and ammunition carts; these thousands of sleek, lively horses; this untiring, determined movement of work and preparation ... all for the Dardanelles, we hear.

We get out of the dust and the noise and the gigantic stir, and along the green roads again; and then into another camp. A curious stillness here: the myriad huts are all shut up, the sheds empty, even the new shops seemingly untenanted; only here and there stands a stray khaki figure to emphasize the loneliness. They left for the front the day before yesterday. To-morrow twenty thousand new men are expected, like a new swarm of bees, to take their place in the vacated hives.

* * * * *

Home again in the Villino, with all the fur babies washed and waiting for us. Rather a silent group of dogs, a little offended because we went away. Loki, who generally screams with rapture, has certainly a reservation in the ecstasy of his greetings; but Mimosa clings to us with two little paws, like a child hugging a recovered treasure, and offers kisses, of which she is not generally prodigal. Plain Eliza is shy. She has grown perceptibly in three days.

The garden is full of sweet scents. The dawn, the coronation, and the crimson ramblers are bursting into lovely bloom beside the blue of the delphiniums.

There was always a special kind of joy in the old days about home-coming to the Villino. We used to go from room to room, taking stock of the dear, queer little place; greeting the serene, smiling Madonnas; the aloof angels folded into their prayers; pagan, pondering Polyhymnia in her corner of the drawing-room, brooding upon the glory of times that will never be again.... It is all just as it used to be: bowery, without and within, as usual.

Everything is scrubbed to the last point of daisy freshness and polished to spicy gloss against the Padrona’s return, and smiling damsels await compliments on the stairs. Other years, as we say, these were moments of unalloyed light-heartedness. It was always unexpectedly nicer than we had imagined.

“Isn’t it dearer than ever?” we would say, then, to each other. “Don’t you love it? Aren’t we happy here?”

This year it is another cry that rises to our lips.

“Oh, how happy we might be, if only----”

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND

Transcriber's Note:

Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible.

Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.

The following is a list of changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.

Page 13

by Mrs. MacComfort as umistakably Mimi’s by Mrs. MacComfort as unmistakably Mimi’s

Page 21

surrounted with politely assisting Hoheiten. surrounded with politely assisting Hoheiten.

Page 46

“_Ah, voilà qui m’est bien egal!_ That is my own “_Ah, voilà qui m’est bien égal!_ That is my own

Page 70

up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--but I can up, Birdie’--he calls me ‘Birdie,’--‘but I can

Page 130

ontclusion to draw that the mere fact of death conclusion to draw that the mere fact of death

cheem, in the eyes of most people, to qualify seems, in the eyes of most people, to qualify

ses soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask whaf the soul for eternal bliss. It is idle to ask what

becomes of the generally accepted doctrine fo becomes of the generally accepted doctrine of

certain to be saved, anyone should put himselt certain to be saved, anyone should put himself

Page 151

of a beautiful little daughter. of a beautiful little daughter.”

Page 178

Artist, in all reverence be it said. “He hath Artist, in all reverence be it said: “He hath

Page 191

Trainant la jambe dans la poussière Traînant la jambe dans la poussière

Page 197

there is a langour about his movements extraordinarily there is a languor about his movements extraordinarily

Page 206

To think that anyone could ever hurt a “To think that anyone could ever hurt a

Page 224

the swine!” the swine!’”

Page 225

blazing. All the langour, the unacknowledged blazing. All the languor, the unacknowledged

Page 240

terrible there just now terrible there just now.

Page 265

It is still home to us; not _the_ home, _a_ home It is still home to us; not _the_ home, _a_ home.

Page 269

bell. And some are in the Dardenelles, under bell. And some are in the Dardanelles, under