Читать книгу No Man's Land - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 14

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On the boat Draycott hardly realised. For the first week of the three he spent in England he hardly realised—he was too excited. He was going out; that was all that mattered; until one morning his eyes were opened to his personal case. It is easy to see things where others are concerned; but in one’s own case....

He was at home on three days’ leave, and the girl was there too.

“Good Lord!” he remarked at breakfast; “Jerry Thornton gone too.” His eye was running down the casualty list. “Whole battalion must have taken it in the neck—five officers killed, fourteen wounded. I wish to heaven——” He looked up, and the words died away on his lips.

“I didn’t realise what war meant to women.” His remarks at the Gare de Lyon hit him like a blow. For he had seen the look in the girl’s eyes; he had seen the look in his mother’s. Blotted out at once, it is true; effaced the instant they had realised he was watching them; but—too late. He had seen.

“Was that Major Thornton, dear?” His mother was speaking. “The one who shot so well?” Her voice was casual; her acting superb. And God! how they can act—these women of ours.

For a moment something stuck in his throat. He saw just such another breakfast room, with a woman staring with dull eyes at the laconic name in the paper: a name which so baldly confirmed the wire she had had three days before. Stunned, still dazed by the shock, she sat silently, apathetically; as yet she could hardly feel the blow which Fate had dealt her. In time perhaps; just now—well, it couldn’t be; there must be some mistake. Other men had died—true; but—not hers. He was different; there must be some mistake....

For each and every name in that list Clive Draycott of a sudden realised the same thing was occurring. And then he saw it—personally; he felt it—personally; he realised that it concerned him—personally. Those other women had looked, just as had his mother and the girl, a few weeks ago. Those other women had laughed and joked and asked casual questions to cover their true feelings, just the same. Those other women had been through it all and—— “We only see them before we go—never after.” In the theatre, at the restaurant, playing the fool with us, dancing with us—then we see them; afterwards—when the train has gone and we are looking out of the window or talking with the man opposite, then, we do not see them. And it is just as well. “Mon Dieu! Quelle vâche de guerre.” ...

Something of all this did Draycott feel at that moment; something which caught him and shook him and mocked him. Something which whispered, “You ass, you wretched ass! You think it’s you who will suffer; you think it’s you who will be acclaimed a hero. Fool! Your sufferings, your achievements, whether you live or die, are as nothing to those of these two women. You may wear the cross for a moment’s heroism: they bear it all the time. And they get no praise; they just endure.” ...

Yes; something like that struck him for the first time as being personally applicable to himself. And having looked thoughtfully out of the window for a moment, he laughed gently, and then he spoke.

“That’s the fellow,” he remarked quietly. “An’ if the tea ain’t cold I’ll take another dish. Three glasses of the old man’s port, Dolly, is enough. I had four last night.”