“A man called Mckechnie. Don’t go in!”
He went towards danger, mooning along. She would have caught at his sleeve, but Caesar’s wife must be as brave as Caesar. Nevertheless she slipped in first. She had slipped past him before at a hanging-stile. A Kentish kissing gate. She said:
“Captain Tietjens is here!” She did not know whether he was a Captain or a Major. Some called him one, some another.
Mckechnie looked merely grumbling: not homicidal. He grumbled:
“Look here, my bloody swine of an uncle, your pal, has had me dismissed from the army!”
Tietjens said:
“Chuck it. You know you’ve been demobilised to go to Asia Minor for the Government. Come and celebrate.” Mckechnie had a dirty envelope. Tietjens said: “Oh, yes. The sonnet. You can translate it under Valentine’s inspection. She’s the best Latinist in England!” He said: “Captain Mckechnie: Miss Wannop!”
Mckechnie took her hand:
“It isn’t fair if you’re such a damn good Latinist as that …” he grumbled.
“You’ll have to have a shave before you come out with us!” Tietjens said.
They three went up the stairs together, but they two were alone. They were going on their honeymoon journey. … The bride’s going away! … She ought not to think such things. It was perhaps blasphemy. You go away in a neatly shining coupé with cockaded footmen!
He had rearranged the room. He had positively rearranged the room. He had removed the toilet-furnishings in green canvas: the camp bed—three officers on it—was against the wall. That was his thoughtfulness. He did not want these people to have it suggested that she slept with him there. … Why not? Aranjuez and the hostile thin lady sat on green canvas pillows on the dais. Bottles leaned against each other on the green canvas table. They all held glasses. There were in all five of H.M. Officers. Where had they come from? There were also three mahogany chairs with green rep, sprung seats. Fat seats. Glasses were on the mantelshelf. The thin! hostile lady held a glass of dark red in an unaccustomed manner.
They all stood up and shouted:
“Mckechnie! Good old Mckechnie!” “Hurray Mckechnie!” “Mckechnie!” opening their mouths to the full extent and shouting with all their lungs. You could see that!
A swift pang of jealousy went through her.
Mckechnie turned his face away. He said:
“The Pals! The old pals!” He had tears in his eyes.
A shouting officer sprang from the camp-bed—her nuptial couch! Did she like to see three officers bouncing about on her nuptial couch. What an Alcestis! She sipped sweet port! It had been put into her hand by the soft, dark, armless major!—The shouting officer slapped Tietjens violently on the back. The officer shouted:
“I’ve picked up a skirt. … A proper little bit of fluff, sir!”
Her jealousy was assuaged. Her lids felt cold. They had been wet for an instant or so: the moisture had cooled! It’s salt of course! … She belonged to this unit! She was attached to him … for rations and discipline. So she was attached to it. Oh happy day! Happy, happy day! … There was a song with words like that. She had never expected to see it. She had never expected. …
Little Aranjuez came up to her. His eyes were soft, like a deer’s, his voice and little hands caressing. … No he had only one eye! Oh dreadful! He said:
“You are the Major’s dear friend. … He made a sonnet in two and a half minutes!” He meant to say that Tietjens had saved his life.
She said:
“Isn’t he wonderful!” Why?
He said:
“He can do anything! Anything! … He ought to have been. …”
A gentlemanly officer with an eyeglass wandered in. … Of course they had left the front door open. He said with an exquisite’s voice:
“Hullo, Major! Hullo Monty! … Hullo, the Pals!” and strolled to the mantelpiece to take a glass. They all yelled “Hullo Duckfoot. … Hullo Brassface!” He took his glass delicately and said: “Here’s to hoping! … The mess!”
Aranjuez said:
“Our only V.C. …” Swift jealousy went through her.
Aranjuez said:
“I say … that he. …” Good Boy! Dear Boy! Dear little brother! … Where was her own brother? Perhaps they were not going to be on terms any more! All around them the world was roaring. They were doing their best to make a little roaring unit there: the tide creeping into silent places!
The thin woman in black on the dais was looking at them. She drew her skirts together. Aranjuez had his little hands up as if he were going to lay them pleadingly on her breast. Why pleadingly? … Begging her to forget his hideous eye-socket. He said:
“Wasn’t it splendid … wasn’t it ripping of Nancy to marry me like this? … We shall all be such friends.”
The thin woman caught her eye. She seemed more than ever to draw her skirts away though she never moved. … That was because she, Valentine was Tietjens’ mistress. … There’s a picture in the National Gallery called Titian’s Mistress … She passed perhaps with them all for having. … The woman smiled at her: a painfully forced smile. For Armistice. … She, Valentine, was outside the pale. Except for holidays and days of National rejoicing. …
She felt … nakedish, at her left side. Sure enough Tietjens was gone. He had taken Mckechnie to shave. The man with the eyeglass looked critically round the shouting room. He fixed her and bore towards her. He stood over, his legs wide apart. He said:
“Hullo! Who’d have thought of seeing you here? Met you at the Prinsep’s. Friend of friend Hun’s, aren’t you?”
He said:
“Hullo, Aranjuez! Better?”
It was like a whale speaking to a shrimp: but still more like an uncle speaking to a favourite nephew! Aranjuez blushed with sheer pleasure. He faded away as if in awe before tremendous eminences. For him she too was an eminence. His life-hero’s … woman!
The V.C. was in the mood to argue about politics. He always was. She had met him twice during evenings at friends’ called Prinsep. She had not known him because of his eyeglasses: he must have put that up along with his ribbon. It took your breath away: like a drop
