And so, before he had more than arrived, as it seemed, Justin’s last day came.

He was to catch the four-twenty. Mrs. Cloud, refusing to admit fatigue after her successful evening on the sofa, was planning to be up again—down, at least, for lunch—ready to see the poor boy off. But Justin decreed otherwise. Justin, painfully made aware on this last visit how weak the flesh had grown of that utterly willing spirit, was firm with his mother. Get up—to see him off? He would like to see her try! There was Robert to see him off and old Mary, wasn’t there? And Laura? Pack? Now did his mother think he should let her pack for him? There were boots, for instance, any one of which weighed more than his mother. Perhaps his mother would like to clean them for him first? No doubt!

He outlined his ideas.

They would spend a quiet morning together, and after lunch she was to be good and settle down to her nap. Of course he would run up before he left and say good-bye again—what did she think? But then she must promise him to go to sleep, really to go to sleep—no slippings out of bed at the sound of carriage wheels—no surreptitious waving from behind window curtains. What? Did she think he didn’t know her little ways?

He sat with her, as he had promised, till she fell into a light drowse, and then slipped away cautiously to his own room.

Laura, sitting in the parlour below, her eyes on a book, her ears a-prick at every sound, gave a sigh of relief as she heard his tread and the thud of his baggage on the floor. He had gone to his packing ... he would come soon now ... a matter of moments ... for he always packed as if he were cocking hay.... Ah—she thought so ... his door was opening ... he was coming downstairs.... She could afford at last to ignore the clock—that stolid thief who had impoverished her, filching one by one twenty minutes of the hoarded sixty that were hers.

He paused in the hall long enough to give her a pang. He was not going out?—to the stables? Yet she was able to look up indifferently when he opened—at last—the parlour door, and came in.

“Finished?” She smiled at him pleasantly with an air of temporarily relinquishing her book, of being very ready to return to it though, if he did not want to talk. She had been well drilled.

However, he was communicative.

“There was hardly anything—I’m not taking much. Oh, by the way—I’ve left some boots—to be re-soled—in trees—you might tell Mother. At least——”

“Oh, I’ll see to it,” said Laura easily. “Heeled too?”

“I think so. Oh—and there are some things—in the wardrobe—want seeing to—want cleaning.” He elaborated his directions.

A pause ensued, the inane pause that so often preludes a leave-taking. He walked about the room. She read her book. The clock ticked between them, saying ‘your turn—your turn,’ and each waited for the other to speak.

Justin bethought himself first.

“I say—what about the trap? Has somebody told Robert?”

Laura nodded.

“I told him. Four o’clock. Time enough?”

“Heaps. You’re fast.” He tinkered with the hands: and so—having arrived at the hearth-rug and the second armchair—sat down.

She gave him a quick little glance of delight. He was making himself comfortable!... He had crossed his hands under his head: was leaning back: was looking at her.... That meant that he was ready to talk.... She leant back in her turn, her book closed over her hand.

“When’s the next leave, Justin?”

“Lord knows!” he laughed. “You ought to have more sense, Laura. That’s the sort of insatiable thing Mother says.”

Laura laughed too, a touch of vexed colour in her cheeks. She did not often trip.

But he continued, always unconscious—

“Isn’t Mother delicious about this war?—this infamous conspiracy of a Europe that ought to know better against my peace and person? You know—I never knew before what claws Mother had. The bloodthirsty things she says! And means too—bless her! Oh, it’s all very well to laugh, Laura! That’s just what Mother complains of. People don’t realize how serious things are. A bullet might hit me!” He chuckled over his joke.

Laura’s laughter was an excellent imitation of the real thing.

He grew sober again.

“I say—I suppose influenza always does pull people down so? She doesn’t look at all fit.”

“It’s not the influenza. It’s the war. It’s the strain—the sitting still——” she broke off.

“From her letters you’d say she was flourishing. I didn’t realize——” He hesitated a moment. Then—“I say—you might send me a line sometimes—on your own——”

He did not see her nod. Expecting an answer, he glanced up enquiringly to catch a look on her face that set him thinking. When he spoke again his tone had altered—Mrs. Cloud had dropped out of sight.

“Will you? Don’t forget. One likes getting letters out there.”

She flushed a sudden scarlet.

“I will. Of course I will. I would have before—if I’d thought—if I’d dreamed you wanted—if you’d said——” She tangled herself into silence. But it was a silence that was not pause but preparation, preliminary, the recession of the sea between wave and wave. Here was her chance.... For this she had prayed.... He was giving her her chance!... She would take it.... She would not be cowardly, nor falsely ashamed.... She would take her chance....

“Justin—I did write. I tried to write to you. I tore it up. I thought you’d never listen. I wanted to explain—about that wicked thing I did. Justin—I wanted to say—I want to say——” She paused. Her face was burning. Her lips were dry. The shaping of words was difficult. She found herself looking to him for help.

He, too, had coloured; but his eyes were kind. He uttered incredible words—

“It’s all right, Laura. Don’t worry.”

She could not comprehend. She stumbled on again.

“—to say I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am. I’d no shadow of right to do it. I see that now.”

She stopped abruptly, believing she saw in his quick movement—he had risen from his chair and was fidgeting with the toys on the mantel—his man’s apprehension of a scene. She watched him, absurdly occupied in piling matches, spilliken fashion: watched and waited till she could wait no longer.

“Justin——” she petitioned.

He turned. He was smiling at her—shyly, significantly, half-laughing.

“Don’t worry, Laura,” he said again.

His meaning was obvious enough, yet she stared at him, too incredulous to feel relief or contentment or triumph—any of the emotions she had a right to feel.

“Do you mean—is it possible—you don’t mind any more?”

“Not much,” he confessed.

“You’ve got over it—that I smashed it—your eggs—the collection—the only thing you ever cared about?”

“Oh, look here—I’m not a fool,” he protested. “I never made such a God Almighty out of them as that!”

“Oh, Justin, you did!” cried Laura.

It was tactless; but she was too relieved to be careful. And yet a little blank—a little sore. It was strange to feel the nightmare of two years proved dream-stuff, swept aside, nullified in a moment, with a laugh.... It had been real enough to her.... She had paid, she was still paying, it seemed, for what he had long ago forgotten.... Somehow—it didn’t seem fair....

Justin’s voice recalled her thoughts, shifted them from herself to him. Her soreness passed as she listened to him, grown serious again. He was explaining himself to her, slowly, with naÏve interest.

“I suppose I did go off the tracks a bit. A thing takes hold of you, somehow. Not the eggs—the collecting. Anything would have done as well as eggs. It just happened to be eggs. Of course—now—I admit it was absurd. But the whole business—it made one’s days so full. It was ripping to feel so keen. And when you smashed them—there was a hole in the world. Nothing to fill it. I felt lost—soured—I hated you. But when the war began all that dwindled. The war—but we talked about it the other day. It’s gone. Blown away. And now—I don’t care any more. Not a ha’penny cuss. Queer, isn’t it? So you needn’t worry. I never think of it. But what I do think sometimes—what I’ve never understood——” He stopped in front of her, staring down at her with puzzled eyes—“Laura, what on earth made you do it?”

She flushed.

“It wasn’t temper. It wasn’t cattishness.”

“No. I knew that, you know, all the time—really.”

She hesitated painfully—groping for the convincing word.

“It was——Because——Oh, Justin, you know what you said yourself, the other day—about the war altering people—altering you, even. Oh, can’t you see? I wanted to do—for you—what the war has done. I wasn’t big enough, I made an insane mess of it. But that’s what I tried to do.”

She stopped, her eyes on her hands that trembled in her lap.

“But why?” he said, “but why?”

She raised her eyes to his patiently, letting him see all he chose, before she dropped them again.

The silence that lengthened between them was heavy, but not hostile. It brooded, continued, till she imagined, she dared to believe, that he was remembering, understanding, filling in gaps.

He gave a great restless sigh at last, and moved away.

“We made a fine old muddle of it all,” he said.

Laura had no words.

“Didn’t we?” he appealed to her.

She gave him a rueful little smile.

“I suppose——” His thoughts sent him with long strides up and down and up and down the room—brought him to a standstill at last before Laura in her chair, thought-bound too, yet more at peace than he.

“I suppose——” he began again: and then, “Laura, what do you think?”

She laughed at him then, openly—a little fearless laugh of pure amusement. Here was a novel gambit! “I think,” he would begin, deceptively deprecatory; but he had never before said, “What do you think?”

He ignored her laughter, absently, as a nothing, a drift of down, a puff of smoke from the wind-teased fire. He was more deeply engaged. She had set him pondering—wondering—and now, with an amazing, wise simplicity that honoured him and her, he showed her where she had led him, stated his difficulty.

“Do you think it’s right to marry as people do abroad—arranged—you know, without falling in love?”

She was slow in answering. She had her hope to strangle—her hope, the child of her love. She had to bury it deep, to disown it utterly, as a crazed and shameful bastard. But she did answer at last, faithfully, as she would have had him answer her.

“It’s the unforgivable sin,” said Laura.

And he was not content. It was what he expected, what he wanted. It confirmed him, justified him, was his own definite belief. But it disappointed him. He had wanted opposition, that he might overcome it. Her certainty disconcerted him, caused him to feel curiously aggrieved. How could she be so sure?... One laid down hard and fast rules; but there would always be exceptional cases.... Was there, after all, no middle way?...

As if she had known his thoughts she began to speak her own, freely and easily, as they came to her. For she had gained something in the last minute, and she knew it. Beggared she might be—but she was free—free at last to be herself with Justin—hoping nothing—fearing nothing.

“After all,” she meditated, “you say ‘falling in love.’ But what do you mean? Where will you draw the line? What is love? Are there two people alive who mean precisely the same thing? And yet it is the same thing. Just as all the gods—are God. Manifested,” she smiled over her long words—“in endless diversity. Lancelot and Guinevere—Darby and Joan. But it’s all love.”

He half listened, her words interlacing his thought like woof threading a web. What, after all, did he mean—did he want?... Yesterday’s half forgotten verses flickered upon his mind—

Flower o’ the broom? Maybe....

Flower o’ the pine? Not that, at least!... But what did he want?... Romance, he supposed.... Yes, he asked of Life romance.... And she tossed him—Laura!... With such an air, too, of knowing what was good for him!... Other men adventured as they chose ... over hell—under heaven ... but Life had always grandmothered him, he thought, with a new resentful flash of insight.

Romance ... the ideal woman ... with mystery in her eyes.... Yet would he after all find a position of perpetual adoration comfortable?... Would Romance darn his trousers when they rubbed through at the knees?... He smiled. Laura would.... Yes—one came back to Laura.... And if there were no mystery in Laura’s eyes, whose was the fault?...

Laura—Laura—a singing name.... He wished he could make up his mind.... He wished she would say something to him....

But Laura sat silent. Knowing him as she knew her Bible, she was generally aware of the trend of his thoughts, for his simplicity was always naÏvely defeating his reserve. She felt, she knew, how easily because unconsciously, a word from her, a glance, a gesture even, might weigh down, at that moment, the balanced scales. And two years ago she would have had no scruples: would have snatched at happiness as a child snatches at a robin, curious, friendly, hopping closer and closer. But now she could sit quiet, light-breathing, letting it query and advance, and retreat and advance again, letting it flit from knee to hand, from hand to shoulder, to perch there singing its song to her, to stay with her or fly away again at its own will.

No—she would not appeal.... He must be free, as she had learned to be free.... In her garden she had flowers for him—thornless roses, fruits to satisfy a man’s hunger and thirst.... But he must pluck them for himself.... She would proffer nothing....

Yet she felt his intensity of unrest as if it were her own. In that hour a sixth sense was love-lent to her, so that she saw his mind, with its crowded, conflicting thoughts that ran hither and thither like ants, with stumblings and bewilderments, with futile crossings and re-crossings, yet always with a definite surge forward in one direction, in her direction. His turmoil affected her strangely: she found herself watching him placidly, with a sort of amused sympathy. She knew how indignantly he disliked not being sure about everything in the world. Poor Justin! It must be maddening to him not to be sure about himself....

All this on the surface of her mind: underneath, her whole soul was crying out to him, “Justin!—Justin!” calling his name, passionately, with insistent iteration, as a bird calls to its delaying mate.

And he, as if he heard, turned to her—

“Laura——”

“Yes, Justin?”

After all, he was very fond of her.... She belonged in.... The war had swept away so much ... only the bare verities survived—duty—sleep—home—and Laura.... Surely he meant Laura too, when he thought, out there, of coming home? Suppose he came home one day and found her gone?...

His keen annoyance at the notion was queerly familiar. He had utterly forgotten the incidents of their engagement-day, and that she had ever told him that she might leave Brackenhurst; but he was certainly aware of an old annoyance, and of something newer, stronger than annoyance—a chill, snaky pang that was very like fear.

Laura gone?

Flower o’ the quince.... How the catches rang in his head!

Oh, if it came to that!

He must have spoken aloud, for she lifted her eyes. She was startled to see him coming to her across the room, hard-pressed, in desperate fashion, like a man who would shake off his own shadow. She half rose. She was suddenly frightened. She put out her hands, fending him off.

“Justin—Justin—be sure——”

She fell back in her chair because he was so near.

“Justin—wait. Be sure. Be very, very sure.” Her lips trembled childishly. “You must be sure. If you found out, afterwards——I couldn’t stand it—twice.”

It was so unlike her that he was shocked. He thought she must have suffered beyond belief to say such a thing to him. Sure? He would show her!... For an instant he was a man enlightened—forgetting all himself in an impulse of pure tenderness. He would show her!...

“Laura——”

‘One! two! three! four!’ The clock chimed in—sweet, icy, maliciously sedate. ‘And your train, Justin? And your train?’ Its echoes were lost in the crunch of the punctual wheels on the drive.

His hands dropped again, between impatience and relief.

Laura rose hastily. It was pitiful to watch Martha ousting Mary in her face. She was the old Laura, the wistful, anxious Laura again, full of words and plannings and solicitudes.

“You must go. I had forgotten. I had forgotten the war. It isn’t the time. You mustn’t lose your train, Justin. Will you go quickly to your mother? Your bag—your mackintosh—I’ll see to your things. I’m coming with you. I want to come with you. Your umbrella——Of course! Soldiers don’t have umbrellas.”

She followed him into the hall, and while he ran upstairs, went out on to the steps where old Robert and the dog-cart awaited him. She spoke quickly.

“You can get down, Robert. I am driving Mr. Justin.”

Robert, with a tall fighting son of his own, was tenacious of his crack with the young master. He expostulated respectfully. There had never been so fresh a mare as the mare between the shafts of the dog-cart.

But Miss Laura—courteous, thoughtful Miss Laura—cut inexorably through his suggestions.

“I’m driving Mr. Justin, Robert. He won’t be a moment.”

She took the reins from his unwilling hand and springing up, settled herself quickly in his rightful place. He might have been a chauffeur, a hired chauffeur, from her tone. He retired to the back seat, outraged.

They said nothing at all during their short drive. Laura’s eyes, and for all Justin knew her thoughts, were on the mare’s ears, a-prick for an excuse to shy. And his thoughts had travelled ahead of him. He was wondering where he should find his men, and how.... In a way he shouldn’t be sorry to get back.... One never knew what might happen when one left the show to other people.... Yet how he hated leaving it all ... his mother ... and the quiet ... and his own den ... and Laura.... As for Laura—he was glad—he was sorry—that their talk had broken where it had.... But Laura was right.... It wasn’t the time.... He had seen, as in a crystal, a blurred glimpse of what the future might hold for him—Fair Haven or Fata Morgana—but which he could not tell ... he had not time to tell....

Fair Haven ... his home—his wife—his children, his own children—a slip of a daughter, maybe—a fierce, rain-drenched imp with eyes like diamonds—with eyes like Laura’s....

Fair Haven? Fata Morgana? How was he to know? Good Lord, how was he to know?...

And then, resentfully——Why couldn’t Laura—no, that wasn’t fair—she wasn’t that sort—but why couldn’t Life leave him alone? He was doing his job—he was fighting. Why couldn’t Life leave it at that?... Life, oblivious of wars and peaces, sitting like a spider in her great web, spinning entanglements.... But he would not be involved in her cobwebbery of commingling lives.... Why shouldn’t he be on his own?...

His own life for each!... There—there was common sense at last, behind the fever and the glamour!... His own life for each....

And yet—one was lonely sometimes....

Oh, well—he must think things out.... But not now.... Laura was right—it wasn’t the time. He clung to the comfortable phrase. That was the best of Laura.... She was a reasonable woman ... never worried you.... It was worth while to be at peace with Laura....

How the week had flown! He wished he had had time to go to London again.... There was that play he had wanted to see.... It must wait for his next leave.... His next leave! He was as bad as Laura! And he had forgotten to order—but he had given Laura the list.... Laura would see to all that.... It would be a great relief to be able to write to Laura again ... he hated worrying his mother.... And Laura didn’t mind the bother.... It was comical—he really believed she enjoyed it.... Women were amazing creatures....

They were none too soon at the station. Laura had barely time to settle him in a carriage with his ticket and his paper and his pipe, when a black and burly voice interposed between her and the carriage door—

“Stand back, please—stand back now, please!”

The train began to move.

Justin thrust out a friendly hand.

“Well—good-bye, Laura.”

“Good-bye, Justin.”

She kept pace for a moment with the gathering speed of the train.

“Justin—take care! You will take care? Don’t bother about V.C.s. and things.”

He laughed at that. She could do so little for him, but at least she could always make him laugh.

The train carried away Justin laughing.

She watched it dwindle to a toy and vanish in the tunnel, and still stood watching till the track wavered and danced, as she fought her blinding tears and petitioned the skies for Justin.

“Keep him safe, God. O God, keep him safe. Let him come back to me. O God, let him come back to me.”

One voice of a thousand thousand, uplifted daily, hourly, in that cry—how shall it be preferred?

Yet I believe, I cannot help believing, that in the fulness of time he will come back to her.

Well, Collaborator—do you like it? You are sitting so silently in your big chair, and your knitting has dropped to the floor——

Collaborator, don’t look so solemn! They’re not real people! They’re not real troubles! Only marionettes that we have set a-jig-jigging up and down our mantelpiece to make us laugh o’ nights, and forget the unending war. And now we will send them jigging up and down printed pages, to do the same, if they can, for other poor folk.

Do you know how late it is, Collaborator? Rake out the fire, if you please, and come to bed.

What is the matter? You feel cheated? We have seen the completion of Laura, you say—but only the beginning of Justin? But that is the story! It was to be a comedy of growth—not a drama of maturity. First the blade, then the ear—I never promised you the full corn.

Still you are not satisfied? You protest that you are a practical person who calls a spade a spade, and you want to know, and you want to know, and you want to know——?

Why, then you must go on with the book by yourself, Collaborator, and in your own way. I’m at the end of my inventions. I’m tired. I want to go to bed. I know no more of Justin Cloud and Laura Valentine.

February 1916-October 1917.

Regiment of Women

“A striking novel ... its descriptive and psychological brilliancy equals that of the best work offered in modern fiction.”—American Review of Reviews.

“Its types are so individually alive, its psychology is so well dramatized and so little dissected, and its tragedy dissolves so naturally into a glad denouement, that its ‘too much’ is distinctly that of a good thing.”—Life.

“‘Regiment of Women’ is a remarkable novel. It places the author immediately among the leading fiction writers of England.”—New York Globe.

“‘Regiment of Women’ introduces a very remarkable character ... one of the most powerfully drawn figures in contemporary literature. Miss Dane has made a vivid story, well calculated to hold the reader’s attention from the very beginning and to command his praise at the end.”—Morning Telegraph.

“The author has been daring in confining her tale so long to women, but she has succeeded.... She has a distinct sense of style and much of the value of the novel, which is interesting because of its perverseness, is due to the entire adequacy of its diction.”—Boston Transcript.

“Written in an exceedingly graphic and vital way ... done with a fine restrained, always significant touch that reveals in the author an artist of power, taste, knowledge and skill.”—New York Times.

The Tree of Heaven

“Thoughtful, dramatic, vivid, always well and at times beautifully written, full of real people skilfully analyzed and presented, “The Tree of Heaven” is one of the few great books which have as yet come out of the war.”—New York Times.

“Miss Sinclair’s genius consists in being able to combine great art with a popular story-telling gift. All her detail, the many little miracles of observation and understanding, are not dead nor catalogued, but are merged into the living body of her continuously interesting narrative.”—New York Globe.

“Genius illumines every page of one of the most impressive works of fiction of today. It is a novel of extraordinary power and worth ranking assuredly among the novels of our time which will make a lasting mark on literature and upon human thought and life.”—New York Tribune.

“Miss Sinclair has written nothing that so perfectly represents the chaotic spirit of England during the past twenty years. The story contains much of matters that have nothing to do with the war and in all of them she has portrayed the English character to the life.”—Boston Transcript.

“The Book of the day is ‘The Tree of Heaven.’ It is a war novel—a gripping one. The story does not take us out of England except in a few letters written from the battlefields towards the close of the book, but it shows powerfully the effect of war on England, as represented by a typical group of people, a most loveable family, and their varied connections and friends.”—Philadelphia Telegraph.

“Stands out at once, and emphatically, from the common run of books because it is a work of art.... A work of sheer artistry, well worth the doing, and done at the full strength and compass of skilled workmanship, it ranks fairly among the best work of its kind in modern fiction; among the very best.”—New York Sun.

The Martial Adventures of Henry and Me

What happened to these two when the work of the Red Cross took them from their quiet newspaper offices in Kansas, and suddenly plunged them into the turmoil of the war makes a fascinating narrative.

There is an irresistible humor in the adventures of the two fat, bald middle aged, inland Americans, as they go through war-ridden Europe, watching the romance of the “Eager Soul” and the “Gilded Youth” and the “Young Doctor.” And there is much keenness and sympathy in the description of the cities they visit and the people they talk to.