THE LAURELS OF THE BRAVE

Shewas a thin, tall, “willowy” woman, long-necked, auburn-haired (“Titian Gloire,” hercoiffeurcalled it on the bottle), and dark-eyed, with a carefully got-up complexion and an expensive way of wearing her clothes. She never paid less than six guineas for a pair of corsets, thirty guineas for a “plain” morning gown, and ten guineas for a “simple” hat. The prices of the various other articles of her attire may thus, by these little items, be dimly guessed at. Whenever she moved, shook her silk skirts, or played with her handkerchief, a faint odour was exhaled from her person,—an odour supposed to be “violets,” but more like the last trail of a musk-rat. She passed for being very romantic andspirituelle, owing to a trick she had of clasping her hands and looking up at the sky or the ceiling in a sudden ecstasy. She would do this, often without warning, in the middle of an ordinary commonplace conversation, greatlydisconcerting everyone else who happened to be present. Good-natured people said it was her “soul-forces” that got too strong for her on these occasions,—others shook their heads darkly and hinted that she had “too much brain.” As a matter of fact, however, neither soul-forces nor brain-power were concerned in her composition, and the rapt “pose” which she found so effective was the chief stock-in-trade of the “leading lady” at one of the theatres, from whom she had carefully copied it. Few women studied “histrionic” attitudes as arduously as she did, and the chief object with which she ever attended a play at all was that she might take mental note of the languishing movements, the roll of the painted eyes, and the airs and graces generally of the newest fashionable heroine of the footlights,—not because the said heroine was an Actress, for that she never is by any chance nowadays,—but simply that she might copy her “poses” and her gowns. Yet with all the trouble she took, and all the nervous excitement she suffered lest any “other” woman of her particular style and contour should turn up and compete with her on her own lines of conquest, she was not so much in the “social swim” as she craved to be. No.There was some fatality about it. She—“the beautiful Mrs. Arteroyd,” as she was occasionally called in society paragraphs (she having paid the modest sum of Five Pounds for this distinction to the enterprising lady journalist who “arranged” for such special items of interest)—was not yet where she fain would be. She had made a poor marriage,—or so she considered it. Her husband was only a Colonel in the British army—just a man with a V.C. Other women, older and plainer, had “caught” or bought real live Russian princes. They—the said princes—had not any V.C., but then their wives were princesses and went everywhere, and everybody said, “There is the Princess Rumstuffski!” or, “How charming the Princess Numskullskoff is looking!” Why was she not a Princess Rumstuffski? Why had an unkind fate elected her to be the wife of a mere British officer with a V.C. won in the prime of his manhood? And with absolutely no fortune! Though, when she first fell in love with him—(what a stupid thing to fall in love!)—she had considered him very well off, and herself very lucky. He was the only son of a saving father who had left him an income of about three thousand a year, theresult of capital soundly and safely invested. But what was three thousand a year to aspirituellecreature of super-sensitive intelligence who wore six-guinea corsets? Nothing!—absolutely nothing! Especially at such a time as the present, when excessive ostentation, vulgar, brazen wealth is the only pass-key into what is called “society.” Poor Mrs. Arteroyd! She had tried all sorts of ways to obtain a firm footing on that slippery ladder which, like the magic Bean-Stalk of the fairy-tale, is supposed to lead aspiring Jacks and Jills to that mysterious region variously entitled “The Upper Ten” and “the top of the tree,”—but what success she had won was too perilously like failure to be altogether gratifying. Sitting in her cosy boudoir, she thought it all over, the while she read the morning papers sulkily,—they were full of war-news,—nothing but war—war—war! How sick she was of the war!—how tired of all the deaths and wounds, and blunders and casualties and botherments generally! She skimmed quickly through the list of “killed and wounded,” just to see whether her husband was among them,—not that her heart beat one pulse more anxiously during the search,—she was only interested in sofar as that if he were killed she would have to go into mourning.

“And I look my worst in black,” she commented, as she glanced from name to name of all those included in the terrible “Death Roll of Honour.” But no—Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., was not mentioned as either slain or wounded or sick of fever—there was no allusion to him anywhere as being in or out of action, and when she had made herself quite sure of this, she breathed more freely. There was no occasion for her to “look her worst” just yet.

“Poor old Jack!” she said—“I’m glad he’s all right so far! I don’t know why I look for his name in the papers at all, I’m sure,—for of course I should hear direct from the War Office if—if anything had happened. But I dare say he’s really as happy as the day is long. He was mad to go to the Transvaal, and now he’s there I hope he likes it. He was made for active service—but at home—Oh dear!—what a bore he is!”

Her hard brown eyes flashed coldly up and down the columns of news again, like sharp bits of steel getting ready to cut through the insensiblepaper,—what a number of extraordinary things were being associated with the war, she thought,—and what an exceptionally “good time” some of the “leaders” of society were making for themselves out of “Tommy Atkins”!

“Fancy!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she caught sight of a paragraph placed prominently among other items of “court and society” gossip—“There’s that horrible little fat woman, the Marquise Dégagée, pushing herself everywhere, all because she’s getting up a Babies’ Fund! What an idea! ‘To provide feeding-bottles and perambulators for all infants under twelve months, whose fathers are at the front.’ And she’s actually going to have a ‘Royal Fancye Faire’ forthat!”

In her excitement she jumped up and went to the window to read the objectionable announcement over again.

“Not a mention of Me anywhere!” she said, with a pettish stamp of her foot—“it’s too bad! And I’m sure the woman who writes these things actually lives on me. Drops in to lunch,—makes me ask her to dinner,—takes me to dressmakers who of course payherfor bringingme,—and yet with all my good-nature she isn’ta bit grateful—she does nothing for me. The fact is, I must do something for myself. But what shall it be?”

She sat down—or rather she “dropped” languidly into a chair, with that particular scented rustle of herself which she had long practised and loved,—and meditated. Taking up one of the fashionable “weeklies” which cater especially for the feminine world, her brows puckered vexedly, as on its first page she saw the “idealized” picture of a lady with a turned-up nose, and a tiara, labelled “The Marquise Dégagée,” and read the following interesting article.

“TOMMY’S BABY.“The Marquise Dégagée, who is such a well-known favourite in aristocratic circles” (“What a lie!” ejaculated Mrs. Arteroyd—“She was never heard of till last season, when Lady Pawpurse started ‘running her’!”) “is organizing a charming ‘Fancye Faire’ which will take place in the rooms of the Hotel Beaumonde early next month. The object of the festival is to raise an ‘Infants’ Fund’ which will provide feeding-bottles, bone-rings, teething-pads and other necessaries, including perambulators, for all infantsunder twelve months, whose fathers are at the front. Royalty, always ready whenever a kind action is concerned, has extended its gracious patronage to the function, and Herr Bunkumopf, violinist of His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel, will give his valuable services to the entertainment gratuitously. Some of the prettiest ladies of thecorps de balletof the Imperial Smoke-House will preside over tea and coffee stalls and will distribute the programmes, and His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel has signified his intention of being present at the opening ceremony. In order not to delay the useful progress of this deserving charity, all mothers in need of feeding-bottles, ‘prams,’ and other baby-comforts are requested to send in their names, together with a copy of their marriage certificates, and the number of their husbands’ regiments to the Hon. Secretary, Miss Jane Muddleup, at the residence of the Marquise Dégagée, Belgrave Square. The Marquise Dégagée is, as everybody knows, a true daughter of the old French nobility, and this generous interest of hers in ‘Tommy’s Baby’ will do much to improve the somewhat strained relations existing just now between France andEngland. The Marquise has written a touching poem for the occasion, and one of the special features of the ‘Fancye Faire’ will be her own recitation of it, in that pretty broken English which, as hosts of her social friends are aware, makes her conversation so peculiarly charming. We are permitted to produce one verse of this dainty and delicately humorous lyric:—“TOMMY’S BEBE!”“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!What will its muzzer do?It is sans la bouteilleWhich it suck all ze day through!Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!It can do nozing but cry!For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”“We must not forget to mention that Messrs. Shrewd and Sly, makers of perambulators to the Royal Family, have kindly given one of their ‘Empire Model Prams’ to be raffled for, for the benefit of the Fund. Anyone sending a postal order for One Shilling will receive an elegantly mounted photograph of ‘Tommy’s Pram,’ together with a beautiful copy, printedin mezzotint, with a specially designed “Art” cover, of the Marquise Dégagée’s appealing verses. We recommend the public to lose no time in sending their shillings to Miss Jane Muddleup, who will, as far as possible, attend to each applicant in turn. No loyal mother and mistress of an English home should be without the picture of ‘Tommy’s Pram’ and the inspiring lyric of ‘Tommy’s Bébé.’”

“TOMMY’S BABY.

“The Marquise Dégagée, who is such a well-known favourite in aristocratic circles” (“What a lie!” ejaculated Mrs. Arteroyd—“She was never heard of till last season, when Lady Pawpurse started ‘running her’!”) “is organizing a charming ‘Fancye Faire’ which will take place in the rooms of the Hotel Beaumonde early next month. The object of the festival is to raise an ‘Infants’ Fund’ which will provide feeding-bottles, bone-rings, teething-pads and other necessaries, including perambulators, for all infantsunder twelve months, whose fathers are at the front. Royalty, always ready whenever a kind action is concerned, has extended its gracious patronage to the function, and Herr Bunkumopf, violinist of His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel, will give his valuable services to the entertainment gratuitously. Some of the prettiest ladies of thecorps de balletof the Imperial Smoke-House will preside over tea and coffee stalls and will distribute the programmes, and His Serene Highness Prince Dummer-Esel has signified his intention of being present at the opening ceremony. In order not to delay the useful progress of this deserving charity, all mothers in need of feeding-bottles, ‘prams,’ and other baby-comforts are requested to send in their names, together with a copy of their marriage certificates, and the number of their husbands’ regiments to the Hon. Secretary, Miss Jane Muddleup, at the residence of the Marquise Dégagée, Belgrave Square. The Marquise Dégagée is, as everybody knows, a true daughter of the old French nobility, and this generous interest of hers in ‘Tommy’s Baby’ will do much to improve the somewhat strained relations existing just now between France andEngland. The Marquise has written a touching poem for the occasion, and one of the special features of the ‘Fancye Faire’ will be her own recitation of it, in that pretty broken English which, as hosts of her social friends are aware, makes her conversation so peculiarly charming. We are permitted to produce one verse of this dainty and delicately humorous lyric:—

“TOMMY’S BEBE!”

“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!What will its muzzer do?It is sans la bouteilleWhich it suck all ze day through!Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!It can do nozing but cry!For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”

“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!

What will its muzzer do?

It is sans la bouteille

Which it suck all ze day through!

Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!

It can do nozing but cry!

For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!

Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”

“We must not forget to mention that Messrs. Shrewd and Sly, makers of perambulators to the Royal Family, have kindly given one of their ‘Empire Model Prams’ to be raffled for, for the benefit of the Fund. Anyone sending a postal order for One Shilling will receive an elegantly mounted photograph of ‘Tommy’s Pram,’ together with a beautiful copy, printedin mezzotint, with a specially designed “Art” cover, of the Marquise Dégagée’s appealing verses. We recommend the public to lose no time in sending their shillings to Miss Jane Muddleup, who will, as far as possible, attend to each applicant in turn. No loyal mother and mistress of an English home should be without the picture of ‘Tommy’s Pram’ and the inspiring lyric of ‘Tommy’s Bébé.’”

Mrs. Arteroyd gave a short contemptuous laugh.

“Inspiring lyric! Stuff and rubbish! Absolute gibberish!”

She read the “appealing” stanza again.

“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!What will its muzzer do?It is sans la bouteilleWhich it suck all the ze day through!Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!It can do nozing but cry!For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”

“Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!

What will its muzzer do?

It is sans la bouteille

Which it suck all the ze day through!

Hélas!—Le pauvre bébé!

It can do nozing but cry!

For its fazer, ze ‘Tommy’ has gone!

Saying ‘adieu!’ bye-bye!”

She threw down the journal in a rage—a real rage this time.

“Detestable little cat!” she said—“I can see her at it! Dressed by Worth, of course,and with all her diamonds on, reciting her trash before that ridiculous old Dummer-Esel, who doesn’t know the difference between verse and prose,—smirking and smirking and giving herself all the airs of a Paris stage soubrette! And Royalty is going to takeherup, is it? Not if I know it! It shall take me up first!”

Her eyes flashed, and for once her cheeks were a fine crimson without the aid of rouge. She looked at herself in the glass,—ran her white fingers through her “Titian Gloire” hair, and pulled it over on either side of her ears till it looked wild and wonderful,—opened her eyelids wide,—blinked them to note the effect of her long eyelashes,—then smiled languishingly at her own reflection and said,—

“I will do a poem!”

In this observation she strictly preserved her honesty. She did not say even to herself that she would “think” a poem, or “write” a poem. She said she would “do” a poem. And she did. She shut herself up in her room all day and went to work. She happened to have an unusually large collection of music-hall ditties and “soldiers’ songs,” which had been sung in happier times by her absent husband. Sheturned these over, perused them carefully, and eliminated “bits” therefrom. It was hard work, but she persevered, and like a child piecing a puzzle together, she fitted in lines and halves of lines until, by dint of close consideration and painstaking study of the music-hall “models,” she hit out something like a feeble imitation. And finally, after making herself quite feverish and thirsty with worry and fatigue and the confusion of brain resulting from “variety” ballad-mixtures, she succeeded in “arranging” the following colloquial and effective stanzas, much to her own satisfaction.

“Hullo, Tommy! Wheer’ye off to?”“I’m a leavin’ old England’s shore,—I’m ordered on active service,An’ mebbe I’ll come back no more—I’m bound to polish off Kruger—’Twill be a tough job, old pal!—I don’t want to give no trouble—But—just look after my gal!REFRAIN“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“Hullo, Tommy! Wheer’ye off to?”

“I’m a leavin’ old England’s shore,—

I’m ordered on active service,

An’ mebbe I’ll come back no more—

I’m bound to polish off Kruger—

’Twill be a tough job, old pal!—

I don’t want to give no trouble—

But—just look after my gal!

REFRAIN

“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“Just look after my gal, will ye?

While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—

Like a good old pal, look after my gal—

An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“That will do as a beginning!” said Mrs. Arteroyd, nibbling anxiously at the pencil with which she had “produced” these lines. “It suggests love and a spice of immorality. His ‘gal’—one of the silly creatures who walk out with him, not ‘on the strength,’ of course. It’s a change, and it’s sure to go down! Not his wife,—and not his baby—ugh! you little wretch! (this was a side apostrophe to the absent and unconscious Marquise Dégagée)—but his ‘gal’! Old Dummer-Esel will appreciatethat!”

She bit her pencil again and thought,—then glanced over a few more music-hall songs, and went on—

“She’s a weak an’ a lovin’ creetur!Not ‘on the strength,’ you bet!An’ ’tis ’ard to be leavin’ her lonely,Though I hopes we’ll be married yet,—But there’s death lurkin’ down in they kopjes,And graves in the golden Transvaal—Never mind!—it’s for king and country—But—just look after my gal!REFRAIN“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“She’s a weak an’ a lovin’ creetur!

Not ‘on the strength,’ you bet!

An’ ’tis ’ard to be leavin’ her lonely,

Though I hopes we’ll be married yet,—

But there’s death lurkin’ down in they kopjes,

And graves in the golden Transvaal—

Never mind!—it’s for king and country—

But—just look after my gal!

REFRAIN

“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“Just look after my gal, will ye?

While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—

Like a good old pal, look after my gal—

An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

Having got thus far, Mrs. Arteroyd paused and considered. She looked at the clock and saw that its hands pointed to five, nearly the time for afternoon tea. And she had been “making verses” ever since mid-day with only a brief interval for lunch! Her face was hot and feverish, her lips dry,—her brain—her brain?—yes, her brain was actually getting “fagged.” She knew now what literary geniuses suffered when they overtaxed their nervous forces.

“Positively I look quite tired!” she said, gazing at herself in the convenient mirror to which she always turned in moments of harassment. “I have worked hard! I don’t think I’ll do any more Tommy-poetry now,—I can finish it to-morrow. I’d better go and see Mrs. Long-Adder at once. She’s ‘off work,’ and as sick as she can be of not showing herself. I’m sure she’ll be glad of a chance to come forward with ‘Tommy’s Gal.’ ‘Tommy’s Gal!’—that must be the title of the thing, of course! That, and no other!” She wrote it down and smiled at it admiringly. “Isn’t it splendid! ‘Tommy’s Gal!’ Won’t it just ‘draw’! All the horrid men who have their own ‘gals’ onthe sly will cough with emotion over it,—and all the idiotic women who have managed to get ‘left’ by Tommies, civil and military, will cry,—that is, if Mrs. Long-Adder can be persuaded to recite it. Oh, shemustdo it! With that long peaky face of hers, and monstrous Chinese eyes, and thick wedges of all-coloured hair coming over her ears, and her wibbly-wobbly way of swinging her hips about, she will be asuccès d’enthousiasme! And so shall I!”

Her smile widened into an open dazzle of white teeth which irritable and unimpressionable persons might have called a triumphant grin,—and enveloping herself in a mysterious and wonderful cloak, all frills, old lace, sable-tails and musk-rat odour, she drove off in a quick hansom to a certain dubious little “flat” somewhere about Victoria Street, which for the moment was the residence of the heart-enslaving, eye-fascinating, purse-emptying, cheque-demanding “caprice” of the stage, Mrs. Long-Adder. Much of the charm of this lady consisted in the delicious vagueness and mystery of her surroundings. She came “from America.” What part of America she came from did not transpire. She had a husband,—somewhere,—but whohe was, and how he “fixed up” things for himself, also did not transpire. Suffice it to say of him that he was never seen with his wife. Much may be comprehended in that brief statement. Mrs. Long-Adder was by way of being an actress,—that is to say she could not act. She wore gowns and glided about on the stage in them. London went mad over her. TheSpread Eagle Conqueror, a society journal published in New York, called her “our matchless American beauty,” like a new sort of cigarette. And she who was “not received” in the intelligent circles of American culture, had a distinctly “good time” of it in England. Mrs. Arteroyd found her reclining in a long sofa-chair or chair-sofa, whatever the piece of “Art” furniture may be called, arrayed in a serpentine tea-gown of “diamanté” lace over satin “rayonnant,”—and if Mrs. Arteroyd smelt like one musk-rat, Mrs. Long-Adder smelt like two. The celebrated stage-siren rose as her visitor entered, and extended a white hand, admirably manicured, and loaded with sparkling rings, the offerings of “homage” from various adorers. And then both perfumed ladies embraced,—that sisterly embrace of social feeling, in whichthe one woman looks gracefully over the shoulder of the other and breathes a gentle “Cat!” to the neutral air.

“How sweet of you to come!” murmured Mrs. Long-Adder cooingly,—“I have beensodull! Alone all day! Such an unusual thing forme!”

And her sinuous form vibrated with a tremor of triumphant coquetry.

Mrs. Arteroyd smiled discreetly, but said nothing. Sitting down by the chair-sofa she critically studied the woman, who was reported in club parlance to “have old Dummer-Esel under her thumb.”

“Not a bit good-looking really,” she commented inwardly—“It’s all her get-up. Put her hair quite plain and dress her like an ordinary respectable matron and she’ll be downright ugly. Two of her front teeth are false, I see—and her skin is simplycovered,—coveredwith that new Paris mixture which “defies detection.” Her hair is certainlyquitewonderful—she must have tried all the new tints on it in turn. I suppose it’s the Chinese eyes that “take”—horrid Mongolian things! They work long-wise into slits,—and that corner-look always fetches themen. Anyway, she’s the only person possible formybusiness.”

And, forthwith, putting on all her own airs and graces, and talking in softly confidential tones, she “plucked out the heart of her mystery” at once, and asked Mrs. Long-Adder to recite publicly the “poem” she had written on “Tommy’s Gal.”

Mrs. Long-Adder looked at her in a sort of innocent childlike wonder.

“Youhave written a poem?” she said, with just the faintest unkind emphasis on the pronoun “you.”

Mrs. Arteroyd flushed and bit her lip. Then she laughed sweetly.

“Yes! It’s so easy, you know, to write about Tommy! Everybody can do it!”

Mrs. Long-Adder laughed too. Not because she was particularly moved to laughter, but because she wanted to show how much more artistic and melodiousherlaugh was in comparison to Mrs. Arteroyd’s.

“That is quite true!” she said, half-closing her “Mongolian” eyes in an apparent voluptuous dream. “And ‘Tommy’s Gal’ is a good title. I like it!”

She gently rolled herself to and fro on her sofa-chair or chair-sofa. She was one of those women who glory in going without corsets, and she had a marvellous way of writhing and twisting her figure under a tea-gown, suggestive of the first stirrings of a snake in long grass. She had paralyzed and stricken His Highness of Dummer-Esel into a fatuous condition of senile rapture by that special twist of herself, and had caused his little swine-like eyes to almost tumble out on his fat cheeks with the intensity of his admiring leer. She did that twist just now, and Mrs. Arteroyd instantly wondered whether she could imitate it.

“Have you the poem with you?” she asked in rich drowsy accents, broken by a half sigh.

“Only two verses,” answered Mrs. Arteroyd. “I thought it better to see if you liked them before doing any more. But I can easily turn out half a dozen—”

“Oh no! Please, no! Four will be quite sufficient,” said Mrs. Long-Adder—“The public,—especially the cultured public—will never stand more than four verses of anything. Let me hear the first two!”

Thus adjured, Mrs. Arteroyd began, as stagily as she could—

“Hullo, wheer’ye off to, Tommy?”

And Mrs. Long-Adder lay back among her silken cushions and listened, blinking sleepily through her long black lashes, the while a faint half-satiric, half-pleased expression came and went on the face which certain of her admirers called “soweirdlybeautifully!” Before the second verse was ended, she rose up to her full height in a dramatic attitude of inspired resolution, while the “satin rayonnant” and the “diamanté lace” fell around her in sweeping, glorious, glittering folds. She saw her game and was prepared to play it.

“That will do!” she said. “Yes!—it has every chance of a draw. I think I can manage it!”

She moved to and fro, softly and swishingly.

“Yes! Finish it!” And through the tangles of her hair she smiled a bewildering smile. “There’s a Bazaar going to be held at the Gilded Rooms for the benefit of Tommy next week—I’ll offer to recite it there—dressed in khaki!”

“You will!” cried Mrs. Arteroyd, rapidlyconsidering how that “weird” lady would look “in khaki,” and as rapidly deciding that she must have her own way anyhow—“You really will! And do you think that your friend, the German prince—”

“Dummer-Esel? Of course! He will do anything to please me!” said Mrs. Long-Adder—“You may be quite surehewill come and hear me. But you know you must give me a hundred guineas for the job.”

“Must I?” And Mrs. Arteroyd’s face fell a little.

“Why of course you must! You must payme, and I shall give the money to the Fund. That’s how these things are done.”

“Oh, very well!” said Mrs. Arteroyd hurriedly—“I don’t mind—”

“I should think you didn’t!” And again the temporary favorite of Prince Dummer-Esel smiled—“It will be a splendid advertisement for you—I mean for your pretty poem! Now do please go home and finish it as charmingly as you have begun,—get it type-written and send it to me at once, with your cheque. I’ll manage all the rest for you! It will be an immense success—simply immense!”

“Do you really think so?” asked Mrs. Arteroyd eagerly, as she rose to go.

“I am sure of it! By the way, your husband is at the front, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Jack is somewhere near Ladysmith, I believe.”

“Ah! That makes it all the more interesting! Nowdogo home and finish ‘Tommy’s Gal.’ My recitation of it will quite take the colour of the Marquise Dégagée’s ‘Fancye Faire’!”

“Ah—h—h—h!” and Mrs. Arteroyd drew a sharp breath.

Mrs. Long-Adder’s Chinese eyes glittered—she laughed.

“I hate that Marquise! Don’t you?”

For the moment Mrs. Arteroyd felt that she loved Mrs. Long-Adder. But she was discreet.

“She is very—er—very—er—well!—pushing!” she said cautiously.

“Pushing! Oh, that’s nothing! I admire push. Youmustpush nowadays if you want to be anywhere. But she is so—sovulgar! Soverytheatrical in private life! Yes!—your poem is lovely! Good-bye, dear! What an exquisite cloak!”

Moved by their mutual detestation of the Marquise Dégagée, these dear women kissed each other again—this time without looking over each other’s shoulders, and Mrs. Arteroyd departed in high satisfaction, leaving Mrs. Long-Adder to roll gently and voluptuously on her sofa-chair and to laugh to herself as she thought of the “effect” she would make on the mind of Prince Dummer-Esel, when dressed “in khaki”!

In a few days everything was arranged as triumphantly as the most ambitious advertisement-seeker could desire. Mrs. Arteroyd finished her “poem” effectively thus:—

“I ain’t much given to blubberin’,But a somethin’ blinded my eyeWhen that there gal came to the stationLast night to wish me good-bye!And now ’ere I am at Southampton,Under orders from bloomin’ Pall-Mall,An’ we sails in a hour for Capetown—So—just look after my gal!REFRAIN“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!“If I fall, of course I’ll fall fightin’For the honour an’ name of the Flag—An’ I’ll only be one of ten thousand,Who’ll die for that rummy old rag!But we’re off—Good-bye, England!—I’ll trust ye—The great British Nation’s my pal!Pass the hat round!—and say when I’m done for,‘We’ll all look after his gal!’REFRAIN“Yes, England, look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe,Be a faithful pal, and look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“I ain’t much given to blubberin’,

But a somethin’ blinded my eye

When that there gal came to the station

Last night to wish me good-bye!

And now ’ere I am at Southampton,

Under orders from bloomin’ Pall-Mall,

An’ we sails in a hour for Capetown—

So—just look after my gal!

REFRAIN

“Just look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—Like a good old pal, look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!

“Just look after my gal, will ye?

While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe—

Like a good old pal, look after my gal—

An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!

“If I fall, of course I’ll fall fightin’For the honour an’ name of the Flag—An’ I’ll only be one of ten thousand,Who’ll die for that rummy old rag!But we’re off—Good-bye, England!—I’ll trust ye—The great British Nation’s my pal!Pass the hat round!—and say when I’m done for,‘We’ll all look after his gal!’

“If I fall, of course I’ll fall fightin’

For the honour an’ name of the Flag—

An’ I’ll only be one of ten thousand,

Who’ll die for that rummy old rag!

But we’re off—Good-bye, England!—I’ll trust ye—

The great British Nation’s my pal!

Pass the hat round!—and say when I’m done for,

‘We’ll all look after his gal!’

REFRAIN

“Yes, England, look after my gal, will ye?While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe,Be a faithful pal, and look after my gal—An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

“Yes, England, look after my gal, will ye?

While I’m frontin’ the fire an’ the foe,

Be a faithful pal, and look after my gal—

An’ Gawd bless ye wheerever I go!”

When Mrs. Long-Adder heard the final verse, her delight knew no bounds. She at once saw what capital could be made out of calling the “great British Nation” the “pal” of Tommy Atkins, and of giving his “gal” in trust to England. What a point for patriotic pathos! She practised the inflexions of her voice before a mirror.

“Pass the hat round!” This, with demanding fervour, accompanied by the instant action of lifting the hat from the head, and holding it out to the audience. “And say when I’m donefor.” Tears in the voice here, with a quickly effective droop of the head and a faint gasp. Then with a burst of enthusiasm and tenderness—“We’ll all look after his gal!”

“It will go like wildfire!” said Mrs. Long-Adder to herself, as she got into her tights, and tried her “khaki” uniform—“Simply like wildfire! That woman Arteroyd is too stupid for anything. She thinks she has worked out a good trick for herself, and so she has, in a way, but she doesn’t seem to see one bit what a first-rate business she is startingmeon!Won’tI fool old Dummer-Esel!He’llhave to look afterhis‘gal,’ you bet, or my name isn’t Myrtle Long-Adder!”

And acting on this resolve, she very soon set the ball rolling. London, like a big child waiting to be amused, rose to the occasion, and the forthcoming bazaar at the Gilded Rooms, when “the beautiful Mrs. Long-Adder” would recite “an exquisite poem by the gifted Mrs. Arteroyd, whose gallant husband, Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., was now fighting for England’s glory in South Africa,” became the talk of the town. The Marquise Dégagée heard of it and nearly fainted. The Bazaar would actually takeplace before her “Fancye Faire,”—before she could have the chance of reciting “Tommy’s Bébé!” in the presence of Prince Dummer-Esel! This was an unlooked-for catastrophe. And the “strained relations between France and England” were not improved by the contretemps. However, there was no help for it,—and the deeply disappointed authoress of “Tommy’s Bébé!” had to conceal her chagrin under an appearance of indifference to the world of fashion, which poured into her rooms in the kindly way the world of fashion has, to tell her of her existing rival,—of the splendour of the preparations at the Gilded Rooms,—how “poor old Dummer-Esel” was really quite off his head with excitement,—what interest he was taking in the affair! How Her Highness of Gottenken was going!—how the Countess of Tiddlywinks would be there!—how the Duchess of Gloriosa would have a stall!—how that delightful dancer (not proper, my dear, but so clever!), that delightful dancer who must be nameless, because so very very bad, would assist in the selling of cigarettes—and Mrs. Long-Adder!—oh yes!—Mrs. Long-Adder’s recitation would be “the thing of the day!”

“And Mrs. Arteroyd,” said the breathless gossips, “is simply wonderful!Shewrote the poem that Mrs. Long-Adder is to recite!—fancy that! And that poor man of hers at the front! And she’s got a gown from Paris that’s perfectly gorgeous;—and I know the man who does her hair, and he told me the other day that he was sure she was going to be a social favourite, as she had just bought three new tails of hair! Think of that!—three new tails! And such a gown! My dear, it makes one’s mouth water! And where she gets the money heaven knows! For that poor man at the front has only got three thousand a year!”

“He may be dead by this time!” said the Marquise with a pretty little shudder. “Poor ting! He may be dead!”

For a moment there was silence. The crowd of fashionable chatterers felt distinctly uncomfortable.

The Marquise smiled,—she had made an effect and she was pleased.

“Yes, he may be dead!” she repeated. “And if ze news come while ze bazaar go on—hélas!Come and have some tea!”

The noisy voices and laughter broke out again—thesudden spell of horror was dispersed. And a week later on the society throng “rushed” to the bazaar at the Gilded Rooms,—to see and to be seen—to watch Prince Dummer-Esel with slavish zeal,—to criticise the lovely Mrs. Long-Adder—and to congratulate Mrs. Arteroyd on “Tommy’s Gal!” And truly Mrs. Arteroyd was in her glory. She was quite clever enough to perceive that Mrs. Long-Adder meant to make capital for herself out of the business, and she had previously determined that, having paid a hundred guineas to be “talked about,” talked about she would be. And she spared no pains to win her object. Her dress was a “creation” of some wonderful clinging stuff of delicate amber shades softly interwoven, and impressing the eye with the suggestion of early primroses,—it fitted like a glove, and displayed the contour of the six-guinea corsets to perfection. Men said—poor, dear, deluded men!—“a fine figure of a woman!”—and women eyed her with that casual contempt which is the greatest compliment ill-dressed dames can pay to a well-dressed one. When presented to Prince Dummer-Esel, she curtsied with a fine carelessness, and gave him an upward smile of childlike questioninginnocence,—whereat His Highness chuckled and scented fresh game.

“We are going to give you a wreath of laurels, Mrs. Arteroyd,” he graciously observed—“He—he—he—ha—ha! We are going to present you with the symbol of fame!—ha—ha! Pretty idea, isn’t it—he—he!—Mrs. Long-Adder suggested it—ha—ha!—woman of ideas, Mrs. Long-Adder—a woman of ideas! Hum—ha! We shall have a collection for ‘Tommy’s Gal’ in Mrs. Long-Adder’s hat, after your poem has been recited—in her hat—ha—ha!—the regular South African hat, you know, that goes with the khaki uniform—he—he! I shall put a Tenner into the hat—yes!—ha—ha! Mrs. Long-Adder’s hat!—he—he—he—he! And instead of a bouquet we shall give you a laurel wreath! You can keep it, you see—he—ha! hang it up in the drawing-room at home, till your husband comes back—ha—ha! He’ll have some laurels too, then, I dare say! Got a V.C., has he? Good—good! Yes, very good! ha—ha!”

And with these intelligent and distinguished remarks, he took his seat in front of the audience, and Mrs. Arteroyd had the satisfaction ofbeing invited to sit beside him. Then there was a flourish of trumpets—a bit of “Soldiers of the King,” played by the band—and then—and then—amid a burst of frantic applause, Mrs. Long-Adder stepped upon a platform, gorgeous with palms and exotics, and showed herself unblushingly, arrayed in “khaki” uniform as “Tommy” bound for the front! The plaudits were deafening. Mrs. “Tommy” Long-Adder “saluted.” Prince Dummer-Esel grew apoplectically crimson with enthusiasm, and she turned one of her “Mongolian” eyes sideways upon him with a killing brilliancy. Then she began the doggerel lines, “Hullo, Tommy, wheer’ye off to!” reciting them with all the vulgar emphasis of that cheap, forced, sham sentiment which is the only emotional quality that succeeds nowadays in winning the attention of that still more vulgar, cheap, forced sham institution known as “smart society.”

Away in South Africa, far removed from all social hypocrisies, out on the bare brownveldt, and under the sickening scorch of a pitilessly hot sun, two men, friends and comrades-in-arms, were exploring the ground together and anxiouslysurveying the Boer position. They had made their way cautiously along as extemporized scouts from the British camp to one particular spot which seemed a sheltered coign of vantage, to see if they could form any idea as to the extent of the enemy’s defences. One of them, dark and broad-shouldered, lay flat, chest downwards on the grass, rifle in hand, looking up at his companion, who, tall and fair, and of an imposing figure, stood erect, gazing out far ahead with something of a dreamy expression softening the light of his keen grey eyes.

“I say, Arteroyd, hadn’t you better lie low?” said the recumbent man. “You need not make yourself a target for any marksman who may be inclined to try his aim.”

“They have ceased firing for the present,” and Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C., calmly took out his field glasses and prepared to adjust them. “That ridge opposite is deserted.” As he spoke he glanced down at his friend and smiled. “Dandy Ferrers knows how to make himself comfortable, I think, even under possible fire! I shall have to report you at home as a funk! Lie low, indeed! However, you’re no safer than I am, if a shell comes our way.”

Captain James Ferrers, called “Dandy” by all his friends at home, on account of his somewhat curious and capricious taste in neckties, laid down his rifle and took out his cigar-case.

“I suppose,” he said slowly as he lit a precious “Havana,” one of the last he had or would have, till he returned to England (if ever he returned)—“I suppose you really wouldn’t care much? You’ve got the V.C.”

“Yes, I’ve got the V.C.” And Colonel Arteroyd unscrewed and polished his field glasses with scrupulous attention. “It’s the best thing a soldier can have. But it isn’t everything.”

Dandy Ferrers reddened with a quick sense of compunction.

“No—of course!—I forgot—there’s your wife—”

Arteroyd looked at him steadfastly.

“Yes,—there’s my wife. And she is the very reason why—as you say—I shouldn’t care much.”

“Isn’t she good to you, old chap?” queried Dandy sympathetically.

Colonel Arteroyd smiled a trifle sadly.

“Good to me? Oh yes, I suppose so! But—yousee—when I married her—I—I loved her. That is what she didn’t understand. When a manlovesa woman—reallylovesher, you know—”

Dandy nodded gravely.

“Well—then, he likes to think of her as something altogether sacred—something removed and different to himself. We don’t want women to be angels—no,—but something very near it. I wanted my wife to love me as I loved her—I wanted to feel that she was proud of me, and that if I could do a good thing at any time, she would be glad. A sort of giving her my laurels, you know, if I got any. Well—I soon found out she never would be gladthatway. She wanted everything I couldn’t get. She went in for society,—I hate society. I can’t smile when I’m told to. I can’t tell lies thirteen to the dozen. And unless you can do that sort of thing, society doesn’t want you. Then our little child—a boy—died when he was two. He was a jolly little chap,—he got very fond of me—used to play with my moustache and kiss me with all his little might—” Here Arteroyd paused and put his field glasses up to his eyes. DandyFerrers puffed a big blue ring of cigar smoke up into the burning sky and thought it likely that the Colonel was not taking a particularly clear sight for the moment.

“Yes—that ridge is deserted,” resumed Arteroyd coolly—“I thought I saw a moving speck—but I was mistaken. I believe they’ve got no more ammunition up there.”

“Go on with your story,” said Ferrers softly.

“Oh, my story! It isn’t much of a story, old chap! The little kiddie died, as I said. That rather knocked me up,—left me a bit lonely. Then my wife—well, she was all the time anxious to be a great figure in society. I wanted a home,—she didn’t care about it. She said that housekeeping was a bore, and that she liked hotels better. And I—well!—I felt myself rather in her way. So I was glad to be ordered out on active service. You see, I wantherto be happy,—for me, nothing matters.”

Ferrers was silent.

“I have often thought,” went on Arteroyd musingly, “especially since I’ve been out here on these great bare stretches of burnt-up land, without a tree in sight, that death isn’t the worst part of life. There’s a God somewhere, Dandy!”

“Of course there is!” answered Dandy promptly. “It’s only the parsons that make us doubt it.”

“When all the colour and gladness have gone out of the world for a man,” said Arteroyd, talking to himself more than to his friend—“when he does not see any hope or beauty anywhere,—and when the one thing—the best thing of all—love—has failed him—and with it all he’s done a bit of service to his country and lived as straight as he can—then I think death is often sent to him just in the nick of time—to save him from growing hard and mean and bitter—and to take his soul to his Maker while it’s fairly clean and sweet—”

Ps—st! A sharp report—a sudden hiss through the air—a small but vivid flash of flame—a smothered cry—

“Look out, Dandy!—Take care of yourself! Good-bye!”

And Arteroyd’s tall figure, erect a moment before, rolled over and over on the ground, and then lay motionless.

Reckless of all danger for himself, Ferrers rushed to his side.

“Jack!”

Silence! A peaceful smile rested on the lips of his fallen comrade, but no sound came from them,—no sound would ever come from them again. Shot straight through the heart, death had been instantaneous, and Ferrers, dropping on his knees by the slain man, broke out sobbing, and was not ashamed of his tears. He cared nothing if the same Boer marksman who had “picked out” one of the King’s bravest officers with such deadly aim should make for him as well. Almost he hoped for the same fate, and once or twice looked longingly towards the ridge from whence the fatal bullet had sped. But there was not a creature in sight,—whoever it was that had hit his mark so well had retired, apparently satisfied,—and the unkind sun blazed fierce and furnace-like through clear and smokeless ether. With the salt drops of sorrow blistering his cheeks, poor “Dandy” reverently composed the limbs of the dead, and, crossing the yet warm hands upon the breast, unsheathed the sword that had so often flashed aloft in fight, as a signal of courage and of victory, and laid it, hilt heart-wards, between the stiffening fingers. Then planting his own rifle upright in the ground to mark and guard the spot till he couldreturn with help to bear the body into camp, he paused.

“Good-bye, Jack!” he said hoarsely—and with a simple boyish tenderness he kissed the dead man’s forehead—“Good-bye! You said you didn’t care much—and—considering everything—I don’t suppose you did. But you got your V.C.! And God knows you deserved it!”

The same evening that saw the Colonel’s body wrapped in a soldier’s blanket and committed to a South African grave, “the beautiful Mrs. Arteroyd,” as she was now admittedly and eagerly entitled, owing to the proud fact of having been seen seated next to His Highness of Dummer-Esel, scored a great “social” success. Her verses, “Tommy’s Gal,” were received with hysterical enthusiasm, and the collection made in Mrs. Long-Adder’s hat after the recitation amounted to two or three hundred pounds. An enterprising newspaper proprietor offered to buy the manuscript and “run it up to auction” for one of the Tommy-Funds, which offer Mrs. Arteroyd condescendingly accepted. And then, a classic wreath of laurels,tied with the English colours, was presented to her by Prince Dummer-Esel himself with his own hands, accompanied by the gracious words—

“You must keep your laurels for your husband, Mrs. Arteroyd! Add them to his V.C.!—ha—ha—! Add them to his V.C.!”

It was a proud moment! Expanding with her inward sense of elation, she received the garland with a studied affectation of graceful humility, and curtsied beneath the sunshine of the princely smile. Then, swinging the wreath picturesquely on one arm, she raised her head, flashed her eyes, and glanced round with an air of amused indifference on all the unsuccessful and discomfited women present, and in honey-sweet tones accepted an invitation to a private little supper-party at which His Highness of Dummer-Esel—with Mrs. Long-Adder—would be present, on a certain evening in the coming week. But—

Unfortunately there is always a “but.” And it most often comes in when it is least wanted. Solomon’s lament on the vanity of human wishes is the universal daily moan. And the disappointments which sometimes (though nothalf often enough) fall to the lot of society-schemers and notoriety-hunters, almost call for a new Solomon to bewail them. Only two days after her triumph, when “the beautiful Mrs. Arteroyd” was just pleasantly engaged in reading a glowing description of herself and her gown in a favourite pictorial “weekly,” a telegram, not of the appearance of every-day telegrams, was handed to her. Its envelope was red. Her heart gave a sudden leap of fear as she tore it open. Its contents were brief, and were dated from the War Office.

“Deeply regret—Colonel John Arteroyd, V.C. Killed. Ladysmith.”

And Colonel John Arteroyd’s widow stood rigid and tearless. Her “society” laurels were withered. She would have to “look her worstin black” after all!

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