Back to Life. Philip Gibbs

him at Verdun. He was killed.”

      Wickham Brand drew a sharp breath, and his voice was husky when he spoke, in English, too.

      “What cruelty it all is!”

      The girl with the pig-tail—a tall young creature with a delicate face and big brown eyes—stared at Pierre Nesle and then at Wickham Brand. She asked an abrupt question of Pierre.

      “Is my father dead?”

      Pierre Nesle stammered something. He was not sure. He had heard that the Commandant Chéri was wounded at Verdun.

      The girl understood perfectly.

      “He is dead, then? Maman will be very sorry.”

      She did not cry. There was not even a quiver of her lips. She shook hands with Brand and said: “I must go and tell maman. Will you come and see us one day?”

      “With pleasure,” said Brand.

      “Promise?”

      The girl laughed as she raised her finger.

      “I promise,” said Brand solemnly.

      The girl “collected” the small boy and girl, holding their heads close to her waist.

      “Is father dead?” said the small boy.

      “Perhaps. I believe so,” said the elder sister.

      “Then we shan’t get the toys from Paris?” said the small girl.

      “I am afraid not, coquine?”

      “What a pity!” said the boy.

      Pierre Nesle took a step forward and saluted.

      “I will go with you, if you permit it, mademoiselle. It is perhaps in a little way my duty, as I met your father in the war.”

      “Thanks a thousand times,” said the girl. “Maman will be glad to know all you can tell her.”

      She waved to Brand a merry au revoir.

      We stood watching them cross the Grande Place, that tall girl and the two little ones, and Pierre.

      Fortune touched Brand on the arm.

      “Plucky, that girl,” he said. “Took it without a whimper. I wonder if she cared?”

      Brand turned on him rather savagely.

      “Cared? Of course she cared. But she had expected it for four years, grown up to the idea. These war children have no illusions about the business. They know that the odds are in favour of death.”

      He raised his hands above his head with a sudden passionate gesture.

      “Christ God!” he said. “The tragedy of those people! The monstrous cruelty of it all!”

      Fortune took his hand and patted it in a funny affectionate way.

      “You are too sensitive, Wicky. ‘A sensitive plant in a garden grew’—a war-garden, with its walls blown down, and dead bodies among the little daisies-o. I try to cultivate a sense of humour and a little irony. It’s a funny old war, Wicky, believe me, if you look at it in the right light.”

      Wickham groaned.

      “I see no humour in it, nor light anywhere.”

      Fortune chanted again the beginning of his anthem:

      “Blear-eyed Bill, the Butcher of the Boche.”

      As usual there was a crowd about us, smiling, waving handkerchiefs and small flags, pressing forward to shake hands and to say “Vivent les Anglais!”

      It was out of that crowd that a girl came and stood in front of us, with a wave of her hand.

      “Good morning, British officers! I’m English—or Irish, which is good enough. Welcome to Lille.”

      Fortune shook hands with her first and said very formally, in his mocking way: “How do you do? Are you by chance my long-lost sister? Is there a strawberry-mark on your left arm?” She laughed with a big, open-mouthed laugh, on a contralto note that was good to hear.

      “I’m everybody’s sister who speaks the English tongue, which is fine to the ears of me after four years in Lille. Eileen O’Connor, by your leave, gentlemen.”

      “Not Eileen O’Connor of Tipperary?” asked Fortune gravely. “You know the Long Long Way, of course?”

      “Once of Dublin,” said the girl, “and before the war, of Holland Street, Kensington, in the village of London. Oh, to hear the roar of ‘buses in the High Street and to see the glint of sunlight on the Round Pond!”

      She was a tall girl, shabbily dressed in an old coat and skirt with a bit of fur round her neck and hat, but with a certain look of elegance in the thin line of her figure and the poise of her head. Real Irish, by the look of her dark eyes and a rather irregular nose and humorous lips. Not pretty in the English way, but spirited, and with some queer charm in her.

      Wickham Brand was holding her hand.

      “Good Lord! Eileen O’Connor? I used to meet you, years ago, at the Wilmots—those funny tea-parties in Chelsea.”

      “With farthing buns and cigarettes, and young boys with big ideas!”

      The girl laughed with a kind of wonderment, and stood close to Wickham Brand, holding his Sam Brown belt and staring up into his face.

      “Why, you must be—you must be—— you are—the tall boy who used to grow out of his grey suits and wrote mystical verse and read Tolstoy, and growled at civilisation and smoked black pipes, and fell in love with elderly artists’ models. Wickham Brand!”

      “That’s right,” said Brand, ignoring the laughter of Fortune and myself. “Then I went to Germany and studied their damned philosophy, and then I became a briefless barrister, and after that took to writing unsuccessful novels. Here I am, after four years of war, ashamed to be alive when all my pals are dead.”

      He glanced at Fortune and me, and said, “Or most of ’em.

      “It’s the same Wicky I remember,” said the girl, “and at the sight of you I feel I’ve gone back to myself as a tousled-haired thing in a short frock and long black stockings. The good old days before the war. Before other things and all kinds of things.”

      “Why on earth were you in Lille when the war began?” asked Brand.

      “It just happened. I taught painting here. Then I was caught with the others. We did not think They would come so soon.”

      She used the word “They” as we all did, meaning the grey men.

      “It must have been hell,” said Brand.

      “Mostly hell,” said Miss O’Connor brightly. “At least, one saw into the gulfs of hell, and devilishness was close at hand. But there were compensations, wee bits of heaven. On the whole I enjoyed myself.”

      “Enjoyed yourself?”

      Brand was startled by that phrase.

      “Oh, it was an adventure. I took risks—and came through. I lived all of it—every minute. It was a touch-and-go game with the devil and death, and I dodged them both. Dieu soit merci!” She laughed with a little throw-back of the head, showing a white full throat above the ragged bit of fur. A number of French women pressed about her. Some of them patted her arms, fondled her hands. One woman bent down and kissed her shabby jacket.

      “Elle était merveilleuse, la demoiselle,” said an old Frenchman by my side. “She was marvellous, sir. All that she did for the wounded, for your prisoners, for many men who owe their lives to her, cannot be told in a little while. They tried to catch her. She was nearly caught. It is a miracle that she was