Dornford Yates, “And the Other Left”

This is the first in many (I hope) reprints of public-domain short stories, specifically from what I call the High Victorian and Edwardian period: roughly 1880 to 1920. In the United States of America, where I am, everything published before 1923 is in the public domain. I have a three-foot-high stack of photocopies from the university library of short stories from books, newspapers and magazines published during that time, which I plan to post to this blog at the rate of one a week. (At that rate, it will take ten years to post them all. By the way.)

Dornford Yates, the writer of this first installment, was an English writer of short stories and thrillers who believed sincerely in the superiority of the British people, who took the rigid class lines he grew up with in the 1890s for granted, and who loathed and despised Germans, Jews, and the colored races. He also had great skill in light persiflage, as his “Berry” stories about the Pleydell family illustrate, and could wax lyrically about natural beauty in an unselfconscious way that recalls Romantics like Wordsworth and Keats.

This story is taken from the book The Courts of Idleness, published in 1919.

“Anybody would think you were bored to find me here,” said Bill Courtier.

“Would they? I simply didn’t know you were coming. That’s all.”

“What’s that to do with it? Why — ”

“Oh, everything. And now, if you don’t mean to go and fish, or anything, do be quiet and let me read.”

With that, the Hon. Dolly Loan bent her fair head once more over her novel and turned over a page with an aggrieved air. The slight frown hanging about her straight brows suggested concentration, which had been disturbed once and really must not be disturbed again. Courtier started to fill a pipe thoughtfully.

Hitch a fortnight in Scotland on to the end of a London season, and you will swear by the simple life — till you are once again standing in the hall at the Carlton, considering the advisability of going on to a Night Club. It was the fourth day of August, and Dolly Loan and her companion were sitting on the verandah of the Flows’ shooting-lodge at Yait. Forty-six miles from the nearest post office, all among woods and mountains and broken, scrambling waters, Yait is as retired a pleasance as ever was known. Half its charm lies in its inaccessibility. Once drift into the shelter Yait affords, and people simply cannot get at you. In these stressful days it is, as it were, sanctuary.

When his old friends, the Flows, had asked Bill Courtier to make one of the small house-party, he had been forced to refuse the invitation. They and he were alike sorry, but it could not be helped. He had promised to go to Dorset only the day before. Then, at the last moment, his prospective hostess had been taken suddenly ill, so he had wired joyfully to the Flows to know if he might come to Yait, after all. The text of his telegram was characteristic.

“Dorset stunt off have you a bed left I have some nerve haven’t I?”

So was their reply.

“No but you can sleep in the stable yes but then you always had.”

Which was how Bill Courtier came to be staying at Yait, and why Dolly Loan was greatly surprised to find him there, when she arrived two days later.

The two were old friends. At least, they had known one another pretty intimately for three years. Dolly was twenty-four and pretty enough to figure in one or another of the weekly periodicals more or less frequently. Sometimes she was described as “The Beautiful and Talented Daughter of Lord Merlin,” sometimes as “A Society Favourite.” Once her photograph had been entitled “An English Rose.” And it wasn’t a bad description either. For she was English to the tips of her pointed fingers, and as fresh as a rose, new-opened before the sun is high.

With eyes half closed, Courtier regarded her meditatively, sitting there, reading with a little air of severity that he did not understand. This was a Dolly that he had not seen before. He was one of the few who had ever beheld her serious; once he had seen her sad. Once, too, in his presence she had flashed out at staid Tag Ewing, a brother-subaltern.

The three had been sitting together at Ranelagh. Out of mischief Dolly had demanded a cigarette. As soon as it was alight, “I suppose you think I oughtn’t to smoke, Mr. Ewing,” she had said mockingly. Very gently, “Not here or now,” he had answered. Dolly had gasped, and then turned on Ewing and rent him for an “impertinent preacher.” The next moment she had flung the cigarette away, caught her offender by the arm and was crying: “I’m sorry, Tag. I know you’re right, and I’m sorry. I’m just a child, Tag, aren’t I?” she added artlessly.

“Yes,” said Tag solemnly.

So Courtier had seen her angry. But her demeanour this August afternoon was something quite new. And, since he believed he knew her better than anyone, he could not get over it. Possibly she was tired, for Yait was a hundred odd miles from her father’s lodge in Argyll, and she had not long arrived, after motoring all the way. Possibly. Yet the soft colour of health springing in her cheeks, her easy, upright pose in her chair, her very absorption in her book, gave the lie direct to such a notion. Besides, she had just had a cold bath.

The eyes that Courtier was watching stole up and away from the page to gaze for a minute over the peaceful glen and the toss of the steep woods beyond. Then the faint frown died, and for an instant the lips moved ever so slightly. The next moment the Hon. Dolly shut her book with a bang.

“If the man isn’t going to amuse me,” she said, “I shall go for a walk.”

And the tone was the tone of Dolly. If taken aback, Courtier was visibly relieved.

“I like that,” he began. “You go and — ”

“I dare say I do. Why shouldn’t I? I am Dolly.”

“That’s the devil of it.”

“What I really want to know,” said my lady, “is why my host and hostess were not here to receive me.”

“Probably because, as you said, you are Dolly. By the way, did you bring a paper?”

With a faint smile, his companion shook her head.

“I’m afraid not,” she said slowly. “I’m so sorry. It’s awful not having anything to read sometimes, isn’t it? Here,” she added suddenly, picking up her novel. “You can have this. I’m going —— ”

“From bad to worse,” said Courtier, taking the book, to send it skimming the length of the verandah. “Pretty rapidly, too. There are times when I almost fear for you.”

“You don’t?” said Dolly with sudden interest. “How awfully exciting! Do your knees knock together? When you’re fearing, I mean? By the way, that novel cost six shillings, and now you’ve broken its back.”

“Have you change for a sovereign?” said Courtier, feeling in his pocket.

“No, but you can pay me to-morrow,” said Dolly. “This is splendid. Isn’t there anything else you can destroy? I’m saving up for a new sponge, you know.”

“I absolutely refuse to contribute towards your aquatic ventures,” said Bill firmly. “To my great personal inconvenience, you have occupied bathrooms for an outrageous time all over England on more occasions than I like to remember. The six shillings must be spent upon another copy of the same novel. I have long waited to see you turn over a new leaf.”

“Good old Bill,” said Dolly, laying a small hand upon his sleeve with a maddening smile. “And he’s never said how he likes my new brogues.”

“Who looks at the moon before the sunset?” said Courtier gallantly. “My eyes never get any further down than your ankles.”

Dolly Loan broke into a little peal of laughter.

“A compliment!” she cried delightedly. “When did he think it out? Oh, Bill, you’ll be worthy of your name yet!”

Courtier laughed.

“If you’re like this at twenty-four, what’ll you be in ten years’ time?” he said.

“Thirty-four,” said Dolly pensively. “By that time I shall probably have one husband and two children, and instead of saying I’m pretty, they’ll call me handsome. But that’s a long way ahead. A long, long way. . . . So you got here on Sunday?” she added suddenly.

The other nodded.

“After starting on Thursday, too. Nothing but trouble with the car after I crossed the border. When Tag comes, I’ll have the engine down.”

“He’ll be here to-morrow, won’t he?” said Dolly, gazing into the distance over the sunlit woods.

Courtier nodded.

“Complete with papers,” he said.

“More papers” — musingly.

“Well, Doll, I haven’t seen one for five days, and —— ”

“Neither have I. We only get two posts a week at Ferret. And I didn’t look at Saturday’s lot when they came. Somehow, I don’t want papers when I’m up North. I like to forget there’s any news or any roar or bustle going on in the world.”

“I’ll be like that in a week,” said Bill. “But the spirit of town life takes a little while to die.”

He paused and let his eyes wander luxuriously over the prospect before them. The solemn peace over all lent the scene something more than dignity. Natural grandeur had taken on the majesty that is of silence alone. After a moment:

“It’s wonderful to think the ’buses are still swinging down Piccadilly, isn’t it?”

“They’re not,” said Dolly with conviction. “London’s been a great dream. That’s all. And now we’ve woken up.”

“But they are,” said Courtier. “And the traffic’s writhing through the City, and the pavements of Regent are crammed, and taxis are crawling up Bond Street, and queues are beginning to form up for theatres and music-halls, and —— ”

“‘But I’m here,
And you’re here,
So what do we care?’”

Dolly flung out the words of the song with initmitable abandon. She had a sweet voice. Bill Courtier joined in.

“‘Time and place
Do not count. . . .’”

As they finished on the chorus:

“As sung on the London — if you please — music-hall stage, Edison Bell Record,” said Bill. “Much virtue in dreams.”

A step on the verandah made them look round. The next moment a man-servant was at Courtier’s side with a telegram.

“For me?” said Bill surprisedly.

“Yes, sir.”

“A wire for someone at Yait!” yawned Dolly. “The population of seven will faint with excitement. How on earth did it come?”

As the servant opened his mouth to reply:

“My God!” said Bill quietly. And then “My God!” again.

Then he stood up quickly.

“Bill, what’s the matter?” cried Dolly, laying hold on his sleeve. There was that in his face that frightened her.

Courtier turned to the servant.

“There’s no answer,” he said. “And I want my things packed at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the man left the verandah, Courtier handed Dolly the form.

It ran:

“Return instantly France and Germany at war England certain to declare on Germany to-night Tag.”

“Oh, Bill!” breathed Dolly, rising.

For a moment the two stood looking at one another. Then Courtier broke into a light laugh and crossed to the balustrade.

“Quick work,” he said, knocking out his pipe on the rail. “And now don’t talk for a minute, Doll. I want to think.”

Leisurely he began to fill his pipe, and a moment later he fell a-whistling the refrain whose words they had been singing together. Abstractedly, though, for his brain was working furiously. Dolly Loan never took her eyes from his face. He did not look at her at all.

When the pipe was filled, he pressed down the tobacco, folded his pouch very carefully, and slipped them both into his pocket. Then he turned to the girl.

“I shall go straight for Edinburgh,” he said. “Will you lend me your car?”

“Of course. In fact, I’ll come —— ”

“No. You’ll stop here. Your chauffeur can come to take the car back. If I can’t get a train at Edinburgh, perhaps I’ll go for Carlisle. And now may I tell him to get her ready?”

“Yes.”

He passed quickly across the verandah to the room behind. At the wide-open door he turned.

“So it’s come at last,” he said, with a great light in his eyes. “‘Made in Germany.’ ’M! They make a lot of rotten things there; we’ll see how they can make war.” Here his glance met Dolly’s. “Good little girl,” he said gently. “I’ll write to you on a drum. Don’t go away. I’m coming back to say ‘Good-bye.’”

Dolly stared after him. Then she sat down in a chair and tried to think. She read the telegram over again dazedly. All the time the lilt of the music-hall ditty danced in her head mercilessly. War! Yes, of course. What of it? There had been wars before. The war in South Africa, for instance. But this . . . not twenty hours from England. Perhaps not ten. And all among the places she knew. Rheims, Strassburg with its red roofs and its old cathedral, the one spire looking like some lonely twin; Cologne and the curling Rhine; Frankfurt with its proud Palm Garden; Dresden, the dear sleepy place where she had been at school. Her thoughts leaped for a second to the cool house in Lessing Strasse, with the plane-trees along its front and the old stone fountain that never played. War! Still, it was not the thought of the ‘area’ that wrought the catch in her breath. Familiarity with places made it exciting, rather. But . . . Courtier was her very good friend. He was — well, he was Bill — Bill Courtier. No, Bill. That was all but it was a great deal. As for Tag . . .

She got up and leaned over the balustrade. ‘So what do we care? Time and place do not count.’ The mockery of the words blazed at her, while at the back of her brain the haunting number ramped tirelessly on. There rose and fell the sunlit landscape, calm and exquisite as ever, but not for her eyes, so black the magic of the flimsy form in her hand. Looking now, she found the sunlight brazen, the smile upon the face of Nature grim, the almighty peace of the place nought but a giant satire, bitter indeed. ‘So what do we care? Time and place —— ’

“I like that man,” said Courtier, stepping out of the smoking-room. “He uses his brain. Most servants would have started packing my trunk. He’s pushed the things I’ll want into a suit-case, and says he’ll send the other luggage after me. Your chauffeur’s a good sort, too. Simply spreading himself. As soon as he’s ready, he’s going to sound the horn. I’ve just about got time for a cigarette. One for you, Doll?”

Mechanically she took a cigarette from his case. When he had lighted it for her:

“Sorry I shan’t see the others. Just show them the wire, and they’ll understand.”

She nodded.

“Don’t look so serious, Doll,” he said suddenly. “It’s only going to be another dream, you know, and when it’s all over we’ll come back here and wake up.”

She raised her eyes at that and swung round. So they stood facing one another.

“I can’t laugh, Bill,” she said quickly. “I don’t believe you’ve appreciated it yet. Perhaps you never will. Soldiers are like that. Besides, it’s — it’s their show now. Only lookers-on. . . . And I think I’ve appreciated it — realized what it means — all at once. And it’s awful.”

For a moment Courtier looked at her — the thick dark hair parted above the left temple, sweeping over the right, and rippling as no coiffeur could ordain, the steady brown eyes strangely solemn for once, the lips that were made for laughter unnaturally set; below them, the lift of the chin, very dainty, and the soft white throat standing for tenderness. Then he threw his cigarette away and laid his hands upon her shoulders.

“Doll,” he said.

Her lips formed the word “Yes?”

“Doll, I’m going away for a while, but I’m coming back, and then we’ll have better times than ever we had before. And — oh, Doll, I love you better than anything in the world. I always have. And I want to marry you when I come back . . . ” He stopped, dropped a hand from her shoulder, and turned to gaze at the woods and the glen and the sinking sun. And a great smile swept into his face, a boy’s smile, the smile of a child. “There!” he went on triumphantly. “I’ve wanted to say that for years, and somehow I never could.”

He seemed to speak with pride, almost with defiance.

The Hon. Dolly Loan never moved.

“You’ve — wanted — to say that — for years,” she repeated dully. “You’ve wanted . . . Oh, why —— ” She checked the wail in her voice suddenly. “Bill, you mustn’t speak to me like this. Not now, or ever again. You see, I just can’t, Bill. Not marry you. I’m awfully fond of you, but . . . It’s difficult to explain. I’ll tell you one day, and then you’ll — you’ll understand. I mean — oh, Bill, I’m so sorry.”

The words came with a rush at the last, anyhow.

Courtier stood motionless, staring into the distance, his one hand still on her shoulder. Then he took a deep breath. She could feel him pull himself together. A moment later the hand slipped away, and he turned.

“That’s all right, Doll,” he said simply.

“Oh, Bill.”

He laughed easily.

“Any way,” he said, smiling. “I’ll write to her. On a drum, too.”

The gruff hoot of a motor-horn came from the other side of the lodge.

Very gently he raised her slim right hand to his lips, smiled and nodded. Then for a moment he held the fingers tight.

“Good-bye, dear,” he said.

As he turned:

“Bill,” said Dolly.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’d like you to kiss me, all — all the same.”

He would have kissed her cheek, but she put up her warm red mouth and slid her arms round his neck.

* * *

The stuff had to be fetched somehow. That was clear. And there it was, waiting at Lence, twenty-three kilometres away. Nitro-glycerine.

“Let me go, sir,” said Courtier. “It’s an officer’s job, and you can’t ask a raw chauffeur chap to take it on. Not that he wouldn’t, every time. But . . . And Ewing’ll come with me. He’s a better mechanic than I am, supposing she did break down.”

“My two Englishmen?” said the French general. “How should I spare you?”

“For less than an hour and a half, sir.”

“I would have sent Pierrefort,” muttered the other.

But the daring driver lay face upwards in the white moonlight, with one foot twisted under him and his eyes wide and staring as never in life. Beside him sprawled the ruin of a great automobile.

“We ought to go now, sir, if we’re to get it to-night,” said Ewing.

For a moment the general stared at the two young Guardsmen who were attached to his staff. Then:

“After all,” he said slowly, “it is Englishmen’s work. Listen. I am not sending you. Only I give you the leave to go. But I bid you return safe. That I command. Take Librand with you. He is a good soldier, though he does not know the front from the back of a car.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The Frenchman rose to his feet suddenly.

“After all, the good God is in heaven,” he said.

* * *

The forty-horse-power Clement had seen better days — merrier ones, any way. Once she had carried a great touring body, rich in leather upholstery, its panels gleaming, the sheen of its fittings matchless — a dream, all blue and silver. Beauty had been handed out of her doors. Gallantry had sat at her wheel. Laughter and dainty voices had floated from under her hood. More than once love had been made above her floorboards. At Biarritz she had been the car of her year. So, for a while, she had flashed through life handsomely. To be exact, for some thirty months, and miles without number. Thereafter she had been purchased by a garage at Lyons. She had been given a landaulette body, built for another car, and the syndicate hired her out, as and when she was wanted. That was often. Never silent, she had become noisy, but she still went like the wind. Sometimes she was greedy, but so long as they gave her her fill, she never went wrong. So, for two years. Then one day they put a van-body on her, and she went to the war.

“What about head-lights?” said Courtier suddenly. “The moon —— ”

“May be able to do without them coming back,” said Ewing, wiping his hands on a rag, “but going — no; must have them. As for their attracting attention, they’d hear us, any way.”

Courtier laughed.

“Right-o,” he said. “And here’s Librand.” The man came up panting. “Sergeant,” he added in French, “give me a hand with this petrol. No. Go and get some water in a can. We must give the old lady a drink.”

Ten minutes later, they swung out of a side-street on to the Lence road. Somewhere a clock struck the half-hour. Half-past three. Three minutes later they were clear of the little town.

If the French could hold Otto, as they were holding Lence, for another three days, all would be very well, and the allied forces would be up to and in possession of the twenty odd kilometres of country that lay between. At the moment the enemy were attacking both the towns vigorously, for they were seemingly more than reluctant to advance between them — though there was nothing to bar their way — till one of the two, at any rate, had been reduced. For the time being, therefore, the road from Otto to Lence was no man’s land. In three days it would probably be in the hands of the Allies, any way. Till then there was nothing to prevent the enemy taking it, if they pleased. According to aviators, they had not pleased up to six the evening before — nine and a half hours ago.

It was awfully cold. That was thanks to the pace at which they were going, as much as the night air. Courtier was ‘putting her along’ properly. By his side sat Ewing, his hands thrust deep into his great-coat pockets, his eyes fixed, like the other’s, on the broad white ribbon of road ahead of them, straight for miles at a stretch. The sergeant sat on the footboard, with his feet on the step. A strap had been buckled across to keep him in.

“Isn’t it glorious?” said Courtier suddenly. “Just the night for a joy ride. Wish I’d got some thicker gloves, though.”

“Joy ride?” said Ewing indignantly. “This is, without exception, the most horrifying experience I’ve ever had. I know you’re supposed to be a good driver, but why — why exploit the backlash? Why emulate the Gadarene swine? For Heaven’s sake, steady her for the corner, man.”

“No corner, old chap. It’s the shadow that cottage is throwing. See?” They flashed by the white-washed walls. “And now don’t make me laugh, Tag. We’ve got to get there, you know.”

“That,” said Ewing, “is exactly my point. Besides, it’s all very well, but I came out here to be shot, not to have my neck broken. This isn’t Coney Island, you know.” Here they encountered a culvert, and the van leaped bodily into the air. “I warn you,” he said severely, “that if you do that again, you may consider yourself under arrest.”

He stopped. Courtier was shaking with a great silent laughter. Consciously or unconsciously his usually serious brother-officer was in form this night of the nights. At length:

“Oh, Tag,” he gasped, “you are a fool. How’s the sergeant getting on?”

“Died of fright at the culvert,” said Ewing gravely, “about three miles back. Thank Heaven, here’s a bit of a rise.”

They flew by cross roads and on up the long, slight gradient. It could not be called a hill.

“That’s the main road to Very,” said Courtier with a jerk of his head to the right. “I remember this part well. It’s flat again in a moment for about half a mile. Road runs through a wood. There you are. Then there’s a fairly steep hill with another wood at the top. There’s a corner there, I know.”

“Where?” said Ewing.

“On top of the hill in the wood. Not this one. We’re just about half way. Hullo!”

The thud of a big gun sounded in the distance. For the first time Librand shifted in his place on the foot-board.

“Having another smack at Lence,” said Ewing. “Or was it behind us?”

Courtier shook his head.

“No. It was Lence all right. Listen.”

Two more thuds followed each other in quick succession. There was no doubt about the direction this time. The attack upon Lence had been renewed.

And now they were out of the wood and taking the hill with a rush. Half way up, Courtier slipped into third, and the van roard out of the moonlight and into the next wood grandly. The land lay exactly as he had said. As they rounded the corner, Librand shifted again and peered into the darkness beyond the scudding beam of the head-lights. He was looking a little towards the left.

“What is it sergeant?” said Ewing, speaking in French. “You’re the wrong side for the Germans, you know.”

“Ah! My lieutenant will forgive me. I was not thinking of the enemy. There is somewhere here a sudden gap in the wood. In daylight one stands there and looks away down into the valley. There one can see a little farm. I have seen it so very often, but not now for thirty-seven years. It is the farm where I was born, lieutenant,” he added naïvely, as if everyone was born at some farm or other.

“Thirty-seven years, and now it’s too dark,” said Ewing. “What a shame! You must look out for it on the way back.” And he pointed to the grey look in the sky over towards the east.

“But no, my lieutenant,” said the Frenchman. “It will be too dark still. Besides, I shall be on the other side then. It does not matter at all. I shall see it again one day. Two fortune-tellers have said this. I am to die there, where I was born. It is a good thing to know,” he added contentedly.

“So?” said Courtier. “Thanks very much. I know you’re not superstitious, Tag, but I rather think we look out for this precious wood on the way home.”

“I hope you will,” said Ewing. “That corner’s just the place for a nasty skid.”

The van fled on over the broad highway. Here, for a quarter of a mile, tall silent poplars lined it on either side, their shadows ribbing the pale road with darkness; and here low, thick-growing bushes marked the edge of a stream that ran by their side for a while, and then curled capriciously off under their feet, so that the way rose and fell to suffer its passage. Now they swept through a village, whitewashed houses — deserted — on either side. In the short street the steady mutter of the engine swelled into a snarl, that shore through the silence fiercely. By rights, dogs should have bayed the matter furiously. . . . And so again out into open country. Under the still moonlight the landscape slumbered very peacefully — untroubled slumber that even the dull thunder ahead could not ruffle.

Five miles later they slowed down for the Lence outposts.

As they ran into the town:

“Twenty-one minutes to the tick,” said Ewing, looking at his watch. “And not a sight of a German all the way. If we don’t strike the blighters on the way home, I shall ask for my money back.”

* * *

By the time the van had been laden with its grim cargo, cock-crow had come and gone. A faint grey light had stolen into the sky, spoiling the moon of her splendour, lending to ways and buildings a look of dull reality in place of the illusive livery of black and silver they had worn before. Men and things were invested with a stern workmanlike air. Which was as it should be, for there was vital work to be done, and done quickly.

Smoking easily, Courtier and Ewing stood talking with three French officers, the better for the hot café-au-lait with which they had just been served. On the other side of the van, Librand was exchanging experiences with two or three comrades-in-arms. From time to time he applied a can of hot coffee to his lips with evident relish. Under the supervision of a sergeant, French soldiers were putting the finishing touches to their bestowal of the explosive. It was not the sort of stuff to have slipping and sliding about at every bend of the road.

At length the packing was over, two soldiers scrambled out of the van, and the sergeant closed and fastened the high back doors, lifting the crossbar into its place and thrusting the pin through the staple. The Clement was ready for the run of her life.

“The carriage waits,” said Courtier, throwing away his cigarette. “Come along, brother, or we shall miss the curtain-raiser.”

He spoke in French, and the three officers laughed wonderingly.

“You are brave fellows,” said one of them. “It is not everyone who would escort Madame Nitro-Glycerine to the theatre.”

“She is no worse than other women,” said Courtier. “You take a girl to the theatre. If she does not like the play, she blows up.”

The next minute he had started the engine.

As he was settling himself behind the wheel:

“Better let me have your revolver,” said Ewing. “You wouldn’t be able to use it any way.”

With a sigh the other handed over the weapon.

“Now I really feel like a chauffeur,” he said disgustedly. “Is the sergeant all right?”

“Yes.”

Crying their good wishes, the French officers stepped back from the van. Courtier let in the clutch, and she began to move.

“Au revoir. Bon voyage,” called the Frenchmen.

“Au revoir. So long,” came the reply.

Then they swung out of the sentried yard into the cobbled street.

The firing had slackened a little. At one time, whilst they were waiting at Lence, it had been very heavy. The town’s reply seemed to have silenced one of the enemy’s guns, but, beyond a shattered searchlight, the defenders had suffered little or no damage.

“What’s the time?” said Courtier suddenly.

“Five-and-twenty to five,” said Ewing. “I didn’t think the loading would have taken so long.”

“Nor did I. However.” They turned out of the market-place on to the Otto road. “S’pose I mustn’t go all out now,” he said gloomily. “Not with this soothing syrup on board.”

“As long as you’ve got her in hand,” said Ewing. Then: “Did you mark where the culverts came?”

The other nodded.

“Three, weren’t there?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you when to stand by.”

Two minutes later they were clear of the outposts.

Like the little town behind them, the road and the countryside had taken on a look of soberness. With the grey light of dawn, the shadows had fled. Fantasy, with all her shining train, was gone westward. The brave showy the moonlight had made was over. The world about them seemed to be cleared for action.

As before, the sergeant sat on the foot-board at Ewing’s feet. After a while he plucked a great revolver from under his coat, and held it ready for use in his right hand. With the left he laid hold of the strap that should keep him in. Above him Ewing sat motionless, his hands as deep as ever in the great pockets of his coat, his eyes never lifting from the pale road tapering into the distance. Courtier leaned comfortably against the short back of the seat, his chin lifted a little, smiling easily into the rush of the air that swept over the lower half of the wind-screen steadily, like a long, cold wave. He might have been driving up from Newmarket after a good day.

So presently they came to the silent village, and the stream flowing beyond it, and the long ranks of poplars lining the way.

As they dropped into the wood, Ewing made as though he would draw his hands out of his pockets. Then he changed his mind suddenly, and let them stay where they were. A smile at his own impulse flickered over his face. But Courtier had seen the movement with the tail of his eye and laughed outright.

“‘Just the place for a nasty skid,’” he quoted amusedly, taking out the clutch.

And it would have been, if the road had been at all greasy. All the same, they rounded the corner carefully — to see the German uniforms seventy paces away.

Infantry, about a hundred strong, marching towards them in a dense mas: all on the slope of the steep hill midway between the upper and the lower wood.

At one and the same moment they saw and were seen. For a fraction of a second they stared — the one at the other. Then, with a cry, Courtier let in the clutch and pressed the accelerator right down. . . .

It was their only chance, and slight as a hair at that. Death in front of them, death swaying behind them. . . . Put an odd bullet into the body of the van and all in Lence and Otto alike would know the face of their nitro-glycerine.

The Clement leaped forward like a thing gone mad. The grey mass had halted, and an officer was shouting and fumbling at his holster. Ewing fired with his left hand, resting his wrist on the wind-screen; his right arm lay across Courtier’s shoulder. He would cover him on that side if he could. The sergeant was on his feet firing.

As the officer fell, the mass shivered and broke — too late. Into and over the grey uniforms — that was the way of the van. Literally she ploughed her way through, heaving, rocking, leaping, hurling herself along, hoarse screams of agony and terror ringing her round. Courtier clung to the wheel desperately, helping her all he could. Ewing had lost his balance and lay on his side on the seat, his right arm stretched behind Courtier, blazing away over the Stepney wheel. The sergeant was leaning out at the side, wielding his empty revolver, roaring like one possessed, roaring, roaring. . . . Then a German officer fired full in his face, and he pitched forward heavily on to the broad highway.

It was the only shot the enemy fired. The miracle had happened, and they had come through — they and the death swaying behind them.

“Is she all right?” said Ewing, meaning the van.

The other nodded.

“I think so. Don’t ask me why? Thank God, it was foot,” he added jerkily. “I couldn’t have done it to horses to save my life.”

“Bet there are more behind,” said Ewing laconically, trying desperately to reload. The pace was against him. “Those chaps had come from Very.”

“And turned at the cross roads?”

“Exactly.”

“We’ll be there in a second now. If the others aren’t up —— ”

“We can go as we please for the rest of the way to Otto. If they are . . .”

“She’ll never stand it again,” said Courtier. “The steering’ll go. Besides —— That’s done it,” he added quietly.

They were out of the lower wood by now, and there, at the foot of the rise, was the head of a German column wheeling out of the road on the left-hand side — the road to Very. Only the head of a column, a bare handful of men — so far. But behind, beyond, blocking the road to Otto, utterly cutting them off, was drawn up a squadron of Uhlans, waiting to see the infantry over the cross roads.

“Straight at ’em,” said Ewing. “And when we’re well in, if they haven’t plugged the nitro stuff, I’ll do it mys—— No!” he roared suddenly. “No! Take the road on the right, Bill. Take the road on the right.”

“I’ll try,” yelled Courtier. “She’ll break in half, but I’ll try.”

It is a cool-headed fellow who will stand fast and take deliberate aim, full in the path of an onrushing car. Had they but known of the death that lay in the van, so easy to loose, it might have been otherwise. The few men that had wheeled stared and shrank back dazedly. Others, unseeing, came on out of the Very road, treading upon the heels of those in front. In a moment all was confusion. Some of them turned to fly, one tripped and fell in the road. And, behind, the front rank of the Uhlans shouted and raved impotently.

The Clement tore down the slope desperately. If she could take the corner, her way was fairly clear. The stumbling, shouting, frantic mass of men was writhing on the very cross of the roads. On two sides their comrades and the Uhlans blocked their chance of safety. A few had started to rush down the road on the right.

As they reached the cross roads, Courtier jammed on the foot-brake and wrenched the wheel round. With a rending noise of tires, the great body swung over, pivoting, as it were, on the front wheels and tilting terribly. Half way about, her side met the jam of men like a wall, flying. She just shuddered and swung on, sweeping the broken bodies against the whole behind, and then breaking them in turn. . . . Somebody fired.

It was all the work of a moment, for in the midst of her swing, Courtier straightened her up and let her go. As she leaped forward like a slipped hound, an officer, screaming in German, thrust out his left hand and fired point-blank over the near-side wing.

Courtier shook the blood out of his eyes and glanced at the seat by his side. Ewing was still there.

“My aunt!” he said. Then: “I thought you were gone that time. I held myself in by the wheel.”

“Put her along,” said Ewing thickly.

Then the road curled, and they pelted into the shelter of a belt of trees. They were through.

Nevertheless, they fled along swiftly, watching and waiting for an odd road on the left. So they should come to Otto, or on to the Otto road. . . .

The level-crossing they struck after about seven kilometres came as a glad surprise. No trains running, they had forgotten the line. And now it was only a matter of raising the tall bar — there was the windlass at hand — and pounding along the railway track to Otto. They were as good as home.

Courtier slowed down wearily, for the fiftieth time brushing the trickle of blood away from his eyebrows. A bullet had whipped across his forehead, just cutting the skin.

As the van came to a standstill:

“Oh, Tag,” he said, merriment trying to struggle into his voice, “what a life!”

As if by way of answer, Ewing slid round sideways, with his chin on his chest. Just in time to catch him, Courtier realized with a shock why the screaming officer’s bullet had not exploded the nitro-glycerine. . . .

He got him out and made him as comfortable as he could in the grass by the wayside. After a little he died quietly, as he had lived.

He spoke for a moment or two, just at the end — queer muttering words, with no brain behind them.

“Doll . . . .” The other started ever so slightly. “Dolly girl . . . . always . . . . Love her long lashes and . . . . on the fifth, Doll. So we’ll be at Yait together, and then . . . . I promise. Not even Bill, till the . . . .” He sighed contentedly. Then, “A marriage has been arran—— ”

The poor voice faded. There was a sharp struggle for breath, blood fighting with air in the lungs desperately. Courtier raised him a little, and the blood sank back beaten. But the effort had been too much. A moment later he sighed very wearily, settled his head in the crook of the other’s arm, and just slipped out.

* * *

Fifty minutes later the Clement, her head-lights smashed and bloody, her wings stained and buckled, blood and hair on her steps and wheels and dumb irons, slowed down between the low platforms of Otto’s railway station. And Courtier sat at her wheel listlessly, a dirty handkerchief bound about his forehead, and an old and stricken look in his strong young face. Behind him, the body of Ewing, which had shifted helplessly with every jolt of the van, came to rest easily, with its white face pressed against the packing of the carefully stowed explosive.