january was a very busy month in the hospital at grote; the accommodation had been increased, and now it comprised a hundred and twenty beds. early in the month a convoy had come with many very serious cases among its numbers, and during the next fortnight there were three deaths, the first that had yet occurred. helen had waves of abject misery over these; she could not help wondering if something more might have been done to save the men, and miss hawker spoke to her, so she thought, rather brutally on the subject, in connection with certain supplies, which she had undertaken and forgotten to order, running short.

“if the work is too heavy for you,” she had said, “you had better ask for someone to help you. we can’t afford to have mistakes of that sort happen. supposing it had been some ether you had forgotten about, and we had run short of an?sthetics?”

this was all quite well deserved, and helen did not resent it.

“i know; i am very sorry,” she said. “but i have been worrying very much and that made me forget. it shan’t happen again.”

“yes; i saw that,” said miss hawker. “you were worrying over those men who have slipped{306} through our fingers. there’s nothing so useless as that. you’ve got to do your best, and when you’ve done that, you mustn’t let yourself get soft. you’ve got to think; it’s not your business to feel, if your feeling does no good.”

helen made a great effort with herself; it cost her the jettisoning of all her pride to make the suggestion that she now offered.

“you must let me know if you think i’m not up to the work,” she said, “and get someone else.”

miss hawker, who was already half-way to the door, paused a moment.

“and a pretty rebellion we should have in the wards,” she remarked. “and have you heard from your son lately?”

“yes, i heard this morning,” said helen. “he’s very well.”

“so there is something left to be thankful for,” said miss hawker, leaving the room.

miss hawker, helen thought, was like some mental tonic, bitter and rasping to the taste, but internally invigorating.... then the pendulum swung back again in the hospital, and a couple more cases that hung to life by a mere thread, strengthened their hold, and passed out of danger. though it was not permissible to feel dejection when things went badly, it was not only permissible but obligatory to be elated when things went unexpectedly well, and while robin was safe, and doctors were satisfied with temperature charts, all that was of prime importance in life, apart from the existence of the war at all, must be accepted thankfully as outweighing the rest.

but as the days of january went on, there were events and tendencies which, though they belonged to{307} the class of secondary importance, were intensely pleasing to her. by far the best of these was a certain change that was taking place in her relations with her husband. for years their intimate life had lain so far apart, that they were no more than ships voyaging distantly at sea, and from time to time exchanging a perfectly friendly signal with each other; but of late the interval between them seemed to have sensibly diminished. it was as if robin had both of them singly in tow, and, in consequence, they were rapidly approaching each other in his wake. his father, no less than she, had always been devoted to the boy, and though, when robin was secure at home or at cambridge, this tie failed to bring them together, now, when he was imperilled in the trenches, the steady pull of their love for him resulted in their drawing nearer to each other. to them both robin’s safety, in their personal life, took precedence of all other desires and aims; it formed a living connection between them.

and as when from opposite sides of some southern pergola two sprays of vine touch and are entangled, they put forth tendrils that grope for each other, seeking interlacement, so between helen and her husband now, when once the contact was made, it was continually being strengthened by sensitive feelers put forward shyly enough at first, which grew into anchors and interlockings of living tissue. it was, for instance, a very tentative touch, ready to be withdrawn, that made him suggest, a month ago, that he should come down to grote to spend a week-end there, if he would not be a burden on her time and the arrangements of the hospital, but after that his visits grew frequent.

january turned sleepily over in its winter’s sleep and became february, who dreamed about spring. the{308} moss was vividly green now below the trees, and the sides of the path down to the river were white with snowdrops. her husband had been unable to get down for the next week-end, but looked forward to an early visit, and for helen the days passed swiftly in the monotony of a routine that only varied in details. the main end in view was always the same, namely, that the men should move on from the hospital wards into the convalescent wards, and from lying in the loggia should be promoted to the use of their own powers of locomotion again.

no very serious fresh cases had been brought in, and in this mild february air, soft and enervating to the hardy, but stimulating and life-giving to the weak, there was a general all-round rise in the well-being of the wards. bad cases improved rapidly, slight cases got well, and for the present there was no influx of the severely wounded. she never could quite attain to the professional attitude of miss hawker, who one day when a case of pneumonia, following on a slight wound, exhibited very marked improvement, said, “the case presents no further interest.” but she knew that somewhere, down below, there was no tenderer heart than miss hawker’s. her efficiency, as matron, was based on her having it in control. sometimes helen wished that her own heart was better drilled; sometimes she wanted to give it all the pangs of which it was capable. experience was dearly bought, if you had to pay for it with even a superficial callousness. and then again she knew she was wrong. she did not really want mr. brinton to grow dim-eyed—as aline would certainly have done—because an unconscious subject for his skill must lose a leg. emotion must never impede efficiency, as long as there was anything practical to be done; you had to control such emotions{309} as pity and vague compassion. you could show your compassion best by doing your work well.

there came a morning with a throb of excitement in it. jaye was promoted to the locomotive dignity of a bath-chair, to be pulled round the lawn by an orderly, and was allowed a half-hour on the terrace. helen, for whom jaye still “had a fancy,” accompanied this progress, and jaye had questions of weight to communicate. the one that really mattered was whether it was reasonable of him to expect that his girl should feel for him now what she undoubtedly felt before when he had two legs instead of one. apparently there was no question as to the sincerity of her affection when the boy was still a biped. helen had heard something of that during his convalescence, and she knew that if she had been jaye’s girl, she would have married him—even at the early age of nineteen, which was the case with both of them—before he had gone out to france. but in the present circumstances, was it fair of jaye to expect constancy?

“it’s like this, sister,” he said. “if you arsk me if i would marry my girl, she having lost a leg, and me not, well, i should say i must think about it. i dessay i shouldn’t—i don’t see as you could blame me. now, here am i, same as what we supposed she was, and what am i to expect of her?”

the orderly gave a suppressed giggle and said, “gawd!”

“don’t you be interrupting,” said jaye, who was waxing fat like jeshurun, and would willingly kick with his one leg. “you don’t understand nothing with your four arms and legs.”

helen thought over rapidly what she knew of jaye, for that was the first part of the problem. she had thought him a simple quiet boy when he first came,{310} then a very nervous boy, when the time for his operation approached, then an almost angelic boy, because he had wanted her to be with him during it. (the want, it must be understood, was angelic, the demand the most trying that had ever been made of her.) since then, as his convalescence restored him, he had ceased to be simple and quiet, and had become a bumptious life and soul of the ward, who, miss hawker said, should be sternly suppressed. and yet, all the time, in all his phases, he was only being a boy....

that was only the first part of the problem: the second part was even more vital to the correct solution, but it implied a knowledge of the character of jaye’s girl, and helen at present had not the privilege of her acquaintanceship.

“you must get your girl to come down and see you here, jaye,” she said. “i don’t know what she’s like. she may be so fond of you that she doesn’t care a bit about your leg. she may not care two straws how many legs you have. but i think i should give her a chance, if i were you, instead of taking it for granted, quite straight off, that she can’t care for you any more.”

jaye was suddenly seized with diffidence.

“gawd! fancy me talking to a real lady about my girl and me!” he said. “seems cheek, doesn’t it?”

“not a bit. we’ll have her down some afternoon,” said helen. “where does she live?”

“isle o’ man,” said jaye uncompromisingly. “she had a situation in hammersmith when we first met, and it was on a bank holiday it was, and we fair clutched each other, first time of meeting, in one of them hurly-go-rounds. or was it a cock-shy at cocoanuts? i couldn’t say.”

and this was the quiet boy, reduced to apathy by{311} pain and injury, now blossoming out again into his ordinary self. how many identities, how many characters, seemingly complete in themselves, she asked herself, went to make up one quite ordinary human being? and did she not supply, in herself, another case in point? so few months ago she had been the engrossed pilot in extravagant and rudderless voyagings: now, anchored in the same waters, she was equally engrossed in the not very promising love-affairs of a one-legged boy, with whom she had nothing in common except a bond of humanity, and the bond of the cause in which he had suffered. so long as all was well with robin, she could not better spend priceless irrecoverable time than in participating in jaye’s love-affairs.

“isle o’ man,” repeated jaye again. “her mother drank herself to death, and, like a good girl, she went back to see after her father. that was before i had my little accident.”

helen rapidly reviewed those premisses. there was really a great deal to be said in defence of the girl if she decided to throw jaye over. if she had been just attracted by this brilliant half-back in league matches, with his speed and his swiftness, and his certainty for some years to come of a good income, it would be requiring a heroism on her part to stick to a bargain which had lost its allurement. and yet you found heroisms where you would never look for them: her going back to the isle of man showed a capacity for devotion. again, the real jaye, something she had found in him, independent of his right leg, might have drawn her. certainly, she must come down and see jaye, but helen wished that her family did not live quite so far away. or would it be better for jaye to go up there, when he had got his new leg and a facility in its use....{312}

she was debating this when she saw her husband approaching them across the grass. he had not let her know that he was coming to-day, though she had been expecting to hear from him, by any post, that he could get down for a day and a night. the posts, too, were very irregular, he might easily have written, and the letter not yet arrived. but even as this went through her mind, and seemed all reasonable enough, she knew that she was holding at arm’s length a fear that threatened to spring upon her.

“we must talk about it again, jaye,” she said, “for i must leave you now, as i see lord grote is coming to look for me. but i like her for having gone to the isle of man to see after her father.”

she left him with a smile and a nod, and struck on to the grass to meet her husband.

“i did not expect you,” she said, as they came within speaking distance, “but it is quite delightful to see you. did you write or telegraph to say that you were coming? i have not received anything.”

“no, my dear,” said he. “i didn’t write or telegraph. i—i just came.”

she faced him quite quietly, knowing already that she knew. there was no tremor in her voice when she spoke.

“it’s about robin, then,” she said. “tell me: what about robin?”

he took both her hands in his, and she spoke again:

“robin has been killed,” she said.

“yes, helen,” said he.

they stood there looking at each other, with hands still clasped, and the steadfast love which had illuminated the sky above her came swiftly down the stairs of heaven and shone on them. and her lips smiled, and the light of that love was in her eyes as she kissed him.{313}

“robin gave himself,” she said. “we have to give him, too.”

“can you do that, helen?” he asked. “i can’t.”

“we must learn to,” said she.

he was silent a moment.

“there are no details yet,” he said. “just the bare news was sent me. i thought i would tell you myself.”

“that was good of you,” she said. “i always dreaded a telegram, but i didn’t dread you.”

for that moment they came together more closely than their love of robin had ever yet brought them.... more clearly than anything, more clearly even than the memory of her last day with him, she remembered now, how twenty years ago she stood with her husband here, and told him that she was with child. and through the estrangements, the unfaithfulness, and all the sequel of the marriage that had so soon been void of honour and of love, there shone, as through rent mists, the gold of a gathered harvest.

together thus they walked back to the house. so short a time had elapsed since she left jaye’s bath-chair, that it had still not arrived at the end of the terrace. the post had come in, and there was a pile of letters for her in the hall. the topmost of them was unstamped and addressed in pencil. “from robin,” she said, and she took it up as she would have taken up some sacred thing....

she was alone again that evening, for her husband had to get back to town, sitting in the white room where she had seen the last of robin, and the inevitable reaction from that first splendid spring of her spirit to accept what had happened, and not to grudge the gift he had made of himself, came upon her like some wind that withers.{314}

robin was dead, and she knew now that it was his unconscious inspiration entirely that had caused her to devote herself to the hospital which, together with the thought of him, had filled her life for the last months with the zest of unselfish and loving living. apart from that, the only other cause of her taking it up was her inability to divert herself with her old amusements.

now the light that had inspired her had gone, and her life here, which, when the light shone on it had seemed so real and solid, was nothing more than a shell of ash ready to crumble at a touch. probably, for mere decency’s sake, she would continue at her work, especially since she had already proved her inability to amuse herself otherwise; but for the future it would be but a filling of the hours that passed more quickly if she was busy. she thought of the new year’s party: she thought of jaye: she thought of the incessant works and rewards that filled her day; but in this black flood of reaction that passed over her they signified no more than a flock of dispersed dreams.

long ago she had foreseen that robin’s death would leave her with nothing that was worth the trouble of living for, and her foresight was fulfilled. but it had underestimated the quality of the loneliness, the outer darkness of it. perhaps she was vaguely, carelessly glad that she had been of some use to jaye, that she had comforted her husband to-day with the high courage that had now utterly evaporated, leaving only the black sediment of despair; but she was glad only with such a remembrance as she might have had in having assisted a fly to escape from the web of a spider. it was easy to help it: it meant nothing. for her it was midnight with no star, nor any dawn to follow: a timeless, eternal midnight. in the course of years{315} the moment would come that she would cease to be conscious of the midnight, and that was all she could look forward to.

the darkness descended and closed round her. perhaps she was wrong about the nothingness from which she came, and the nothingness into which she would go. perhaps some ingenious artificer had designed all this, and how must he laugh to see the hearts into which he had put the capability of suffering, ache and rebel at his contrivances. some day he would get tired of his sport, and throw away the play-thing that had diverted the tedium of eternity; but for the time it must amuse him to give his puppets the power of loving, so that he might listen to their squealings when he took away what he had encouraged them to love. no decent mother would let her child get fond of a toy with the intention of taking it away, but the artificer of the world laughed at the mother’s misplaced compassion.

suddenly helen felt herself pulled up by a rein external to herself. she was imagining things that her reason, at the least, was incapable of believing. she had allowed herself to do that out of sheer bitterness of heart; but it led to a conclusion that was unthinkable in its horror. she shook herself free from what must be a dream, and woke again to the lesser midnight of the nothingness from which she had come, and the nothingness which before many years would softly close round her again.

it was here she had knelt, saying good-bye to robin, wishing him “good luck with his honour,” and here that he had said that he and she had never loved each other so much as to-day. then he had gone out of that door without looking back, telling her that he{316} would not do so. step by step, minute by minute, she went through again the hours he had spent here then.

up till the last moment they had said to each other nothing that mattered; the day had been spent as if there had been a hundred other such days to follow. and yet through the idle talk and the laughter and the nonsense had come to him, even as to her, the clear knowledge that they had never loved each other so much. then he had gone out of the door without looking back, and she, blind fool, had let him go. why had she not gone up with him to london, and had a few more hours of him? she would gladly give all that remained to her now if he would only stand for one second by the door again, and look back at her, a little dim-eyed, and with mouth that quivered, so that she could see him once more with her mortal eyes, and hear him speak to her just one word. a minute of the world that once held robin was surely worth more than anything in the world which held him no longer....

it was a surprise to herself when, without warning, the sobs gathered in her throat, and she gave herself up to an abandonment of desperate tears. not since she had known that robin was dead had she even wanted to cry. while grote was with her, all she had desired was to give him of her courage, and when he had gone, the fatigue of that braced effort or the withdrawal from it of the love that had wanted it, had caused the reaction which denied all that she had held on to then, and all that had previously inspired her. but now she had none for whom she must be strong, and her heart was sick with its own bitterness.

she had tried everything: she had been eager for her own happiness, and had failed; she had been busy{317} for others; she had been brave for others; she had been bitter, and she had loved. now, watering her desolation, and her bitterness and her love alike, came her tears. like a moving thunder-shower they passed over her own desolation, her own bitterness, her own bravery, but over the field where her love rose in springing crop, like the blades of winter wheat, they lingered and poured themselves out, salt no longer, but with an amazing sweetness. she had no self-pity left in her, no compassion for her own sorrow: these would have made a saltness in her weeping, but none was there. she wept at first for the sorrow of her bereaved love, the natural salt tears; but what was it that made the sweetness, if it was not the joy of finding that love was still alive?

all her life she had been a friend to love. she had made friends too easily, but among all those tremulous times was there ever an occasion when her love had been quite alone, awaking no response of some kind? there had always been two in order to enable love to exist. they might differ in their kinds, there might be passive love, content to receive, active love content to give, low love content to get, high love content— ... content to be. but wherever love existed at all, there were two concerned in it. one might even reject, disdain, make mock, but he must be there. he might refuse to put his signature which made the contract valid, but the space for his signing must be there: the contract, though it should never come into effect, must have a space for two names. otherwise, it could never have been drawn up.

her thoughts swarmed to these conclusions, and before she knew that she had spoken, she heard her voice say “robin.”

it was not to the memory of him that she had spoken{318} when she said that. she had thought over the blessed days, and, in especial, the last thrice-blessed day of all, and she had said good-bye to them, for they were over. gaze as she might at that door, never would robin be outlined against it, as he left her without turning his head; on the arm of the chair where he had sat, never again could she feel his warm, smooth fingers grasping hers, as she wished him the good luck of his honour. but she had not spoken to the memories of what was irrecoverable: she had spoken to someone who remembered, even as she remembered, who loved even as she loved. she had not spoken to the past: she had spoken to the present, giving him the contract for him to sign yet once more. and if, with mortal eye, she had seen him by the door, turning back, though he had said he would not, to smile at her again, she would not have thought it strange. nor would she have thought it to be a wraith, a phantom projected from her own longing to see him. it would have been just robin; very likely he would have a smile and a ridiculous joke about miss diphtheria for her. why not? must he lose his human characteristics because a chance shell discharged not with regard to him had stiffened and stifled him? what had that shell to do with robin? how could it conceivably lessen the might of love, or put love among the things that had been and were no longer?

something dearly-loved, his laughing eyes, his mouth, his knee which she had kissed and covered up, the body of him that was born of her body, his blood and his bone, blood of her blood, and bone of her bone, were somewhere buried in france, shattered and torn to fragments, or perhaps pierced by some little pencil-mark of a wound that had left him fallen backwards where a moment before he had stood eager and alert.{319} she hoped it had been like that, for she loved his beauty, and shrank from thinking of its violent disfigurement. some day, perhaps, she would know how the supreme moment came to him; but it was no vital part of him that was concerned in that. that was secondary compared with something else that grew out of the darkness and glowed before her.

all this last month, after he had gone to france, she had felt his presence with her, and had told herself that it was their love, the reallest thing she knew, which had given her that certainty. that certainty was with her still, and it arose from no memory of their love, but from the love itself, which existed now. there were two to that contract still, robin and herself.

there began to be a stir of movement in the quiet house, and she started up, wondering if some emergency had arisen for which her help might be needed.... then she saw that there was light coming through her curtains, and, looking out, knew that the late winter dawn was beginning to break....

she had to be up early that morning, for she had some arrears of work to do, left over from yesterday, and it did not seem worth while to go to bed for an hour. presently there came a tap at the door from her bedroom, and simpson looked in, her old face puckered and puzzled to find her sitting there.

“eh, miss helen,” she said, “and you’ve not been to bed all night! you’ve been sitting up and grieving——”

and then simpson could not go on.

helen got up and kissed her.

“yes, darling old sim,” she said, “i’ve been grieving. and then i think—i think i’ve been rejoicing. i’ve found robin again, sim.”

presently simpson spoke again.

“and you’ll go to bed now, dear, won’t you?” she said. “you’ll take a rest to-day.”

“no, indeed, i won’t. but i’ll take my cup of tea if you will bring it in here. and then will you make me a hot bath? really hot, sim, so that i scream when i move.”

simpson patted and stroked her hand a moment longer, smiling through her tears. “you were always one for a bath fit to boil you, miss helen,” she said.

it had rained in the night, and the lawn shone with the moisture as the sun rose. in the sky was “the bright shining after rain.”