Stephen’s hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what she would answer.
Then she said very slowly: “After the war—no, I won’t send you away from me, Mary.”
XXXVII
I
The most stupendous and heartbreaking folly of our times drew towards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit was stationed at St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very humble, seemed like paradise after the dugouts.
A morning came when a handful of the members were together in the coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was principally composed of damp brushwood. At one moment the guns could be heard distinctly, the next, something almost unnatural had happened—there was silence, as though death had turned on himself, smiting his own power of destruction. No one spoke, they just sat and stared at each other with faces entirely devoid of emotion; their faces looked blank, like so many masks from which had been sponged every trace of expression—and they waited—listening to that silence.
The door opened and in walked an untidy Poilu; his manner was casual, his voice apathetic: “Eh bien, mesdames, c’est l’Armistice.” But his shining brown eyes were not at all apathetic. “Oui, c’est l’Armistice,” he repeated coolly; then he shrugged, as a man might do who would say: “What is all this to me?” After which he grinned broadly in spite of himself, he was still very young, and turning on his heel he departed.
Stephen said: “So it’s over,” and she looked at Mary, who had jumped up, and was looking in her turn at Stephen.
Mary said: “This means …” but she stopped abruptly.
Bless said: “Got a match, anyone? Oh thanks!” And she groped for her white metal cigarette case.
Howard said: “Well, the first thing I’m going to do is to get my hair properly shampooed in Paris.”
Thurloe laughed shrilly, then she started to whistle, kicking the recalcitrant fire as she did so.
But funny, old, monosyllabic Blakeney with her curly white hair cropped as close as an Uhlan’s—Blakeney who had long ago done with emotions—quite suddenly laid her arms on the table and her head on her arms, and she wept, and she wept.
II
Stephen stayed with the Unit right up to the eve of its departure for Germany, then she left it, taking Mary Llewellyn with her. Their work was over; remained only the honour of joining the army’s triumphal progress, but Mary Llewellyn was completely worn out, and Stephen had no thought except for Mary.
They said farewell to Mrs. Claude Breakspeare, to Howard and Blakeney and the rest of their comrades. And Stephen knew, as indeed did they also, that a mighty event had slipped into the past, had gone from them into the realms of history—something terrible yet splendid, a oneness with life in its titanic struggle against death. Not a woman of them all but felt vaguely regretful in spite of the infinite blessing of peace, for none could know what the future might hold of trivial days filled with trivial actions. Great wars will be followed by great discontents—the pruning knife has been laid to the tree, and the urge to grow throbs through its mutilated branches.
III
The house in the Rue Jacob was en fête in honour of Stephen’s arrival. Pierre had rigged up an imposing flagstaff, from which waved a brand new tricolour commandeered by Pauline from the neighbouring baker; flowers had been placed in the study vases, while Adèle had contrived to produce the word “welcome” in immortelles, as the pièce de résistance, and had hung it above the doorway.
Stephen shook hands with them all in turn, and she introduced Mary, who also shook hands. Then Adèle must start to gabble about Jean, who was quite safe although not a captain; and Pauline must interrupt her to tell of the neighbouring baker who had lost his four sons, and of one of her brothers who had lost his right leg—her face very dour and her voice very cheerful, as was always the way when she told of misfortunes. And presently she must also deplore the long straight scar upon Stephen’s cheek: “Oh, la pauvre! Pour une dame c’est un vrai désastre!” But Pierre must point to the green and red ribbon in Stephen’s lapel: “C’est la Croix de Guerre!” so that in the end they all gathered round to admire that half-inch of honour and glory.
Oh, yes, this homecoming was as friendly and happy as good will and warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was oppressed by a sense of restraint when she took Mary up to the charming bedroom overlooking the garden, and she spoke abruptly.
“This will be your room.”
“It’s beautiful, Stephen.”
After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so much that might not be spoken between them.
The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent dinner, more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them managed to eat very much—they were far too acutely conscious of each other. When the meal was over they went into the study where, in spite of the abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had managed to build a huge fire which blazed recklessly half up the chimney. The room smelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather, of old wood and vanished years, and after a while of cigarette smoke.
Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: “Come and sit over here by the fire,” she said, smiling.
So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a hand upon Stephen’s knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that hand, for she just let it lie there and went on talking.
“I’ve been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I’d like to get
