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blistered fiends that day! They held their fire until the Guards thought they had an open road and an easy march to Gheluvelt. When the blast was loosed, the Boches staggered, reeled, swayed, and finally stood stock still. The Major was twenty feet ahead of his men when they charged, but he paused suddenly and stood as still as a statue. The men went forward clubbing, stabbing, bayoneting, and even strangling the Germans by hand-it was a debauch of slaughter. On the way back they found the Major, standing exactly where he had stopped, smoking a cigarette and with one hand over his eyes. He was blind; a shell must have burst just after he began the counterattack. Take cover!' The Boches would reform and come back. Take cover. Steady!' But no cover for him; he stood with his hand covering his eyes, giving orders and shouting encouragements. And, sure enough, the Boches came back, in the same fool parade-ground formation, goose-step and all. But it was only rifle practice this time. The men swung the Maxims out of the trench and worked them from the open. Again the Guards staggered and the rear companies swerved toward the woods on the right flank, only to be met by an equally murderous fire. Three times the idiot officers reformed them after that and sent them forward. At one point some of them actually broke through for a moment. Then night fell. The Major still stood on the spot he reached in the first charge, one of his hands always covering his eyes, giving orders in a calm, clear voice, as if by instinct; and not till morning, when a colonel came with two relieving columns, could they get him away. According to the historians, that was the crucial action of the first year; the Prussian Guards were hammering the weakest part of the British line; if they had broken through, nothing could have saved the Channel ports, and they would have rolled up and captured the entire British and Belgian armies north of Ypres. I wonder whether they knew that a blind man foiled them.

"How does he take his blindness? Why, just as he did when the Prussian Guards were charging his line. You remember his love of music? It has become a passion; yes, a religion. He has set aside a big sum of money to endow an institution for training incapacitated soldiers as musicians. His idea is to take the blind and maimed men of the army who have any talent, form them into bands, orchestras, quartettes, and choruses,

and fit them to earn a livelihood. The fund is in the hands of trustees, who have already established a permanent home capable of accommodating more than a hundred inmates; and the first concert is to be given in Albert Hall some time during the spring. Carrington told me a queer thing, too, about that last action on the Menin-Ypres road. During the night the Major whistled, hummed, or sang at intervals the same tune, which a sergeant recognized as a hymn used at street meetings by the Salvation Army or some other odd dissenters; but that is preposterous with a man as fastidious and aloof as the Major; besides, he was an absolute agnostic in matters of religion. At any rate, he thinks, dreams, talks, and plays music all the while now. Yes, you must run down to see the Major."

II

Major Flemmingway lived in an ample and dignified manor house a few miles west of Canterbury. The place was as well known for its beauty as for its traditions, and the Kentish Flemmingways had held it for ages. It shrank back from the highroad with a gratuitous modesty which might have entirely shielded it from the eyes of the passer-by if stately wrought-iron gates had not piqued the curiosity and invited pause. The place was gracious in aspect and appeared venerable without looking old. It was built of red brick, mellowed by the climate to a sober tone, and clustered chimneys crowned its roof with a promise of comfort. It was set in the midst of tiny, irregular fields with dwarfed hedges and yellow-brown hayricks, yet the only view of a distant horizon was from the terrace, directly in front of the house; to the right the view was broken by a line of pollards fringing a sluggish brook, and to the left, just beyond the paddock, the outlook was obstructed by the tall vineburdened poles of a hop-garden with the quaint top of an oast showing in the background.

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I asked him how he came to be there and he a soldier. "Why, sir, I was knocked out at Zandvoorde Hill about a week before they put out the Major's lights. It was in the knee I was 'it-cracked my knee-cap open and tore a muscle in two. I was in 'ospital two months, and then they sends me 'ome with a stiff leg. Course I'eard all about the Major, and so I comes down here to do for him as I did in the service. Proud to do it, sir, too.

"Just now," Baker continued, "the Major's over to the church a-playing the organ. 'E's strong on that now. I takes him there every day at two and goes back for him at 'alf-past five. E plays on Sundays, too; but it's botheration to the choir. You see, 'e ain't bound down by any notes, so 'e just takes the sense of a piece an' then makes any formation 'e likes. Last Sunday 'e ad old Weaver-'e's the end bass-all mixed up dreadful 'cause 'e played the long-meter Doxology' like the trooping of the colors, an' you could only get the line o' the toon quite faint an occasional. It don't worrit me, though, 'cause that's 'ow I always played the concertina. It was 'cause the Major-'e was Capt'n then-'eard me doin' o' that with some Prim. toons that 'e picked me out 'er the company and let me do for him.'

"Prim. tunes?" I queried. “What are they?"

Baker was obviously in a talkative mood, and plunged into his exposition with abandon.

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Why, sir, over 'ere we've got a religion wot's called Primitive Methodism. It ain't related to the Church in any way as I can see. But it's all right, an' it acts like scouts in the servicegoes out into the 'ighways and 'edges, 'olds meetin's in the streets, and 'as grand rolling 'ymns. My old dad was snatched from the ale-'ouse by the Prims.—some call them Ranters up our way-an' they made 'im a local preacher; 'e was spiffin on the 'ymns, but not much on the preachin', though sometimes 'e 'ad liberty, as 'e called it, at camp-meetin's."

"The Major-Captain then, sir-e took a fancy to them old Prim. toons when 'e 'eard 'em first in the Delhi cantonment; said they 'ad real body to 'em, and that Bach would ha' made his top-notch fugue out o' one called Sovereignty,' wot 'as grand bass runs in it wot sound like drum-fire from the artillery when you're 'way back safe in rest billets. No thin Sankey Gospel 'ymn things them, wot whistle like snipers' bullets, but reg'lar company rapid-fire volley kind with a "eavy, steady roll to 'em. Lots of 'em he liked, but there were one stuck by 'im, wot 'e used to whistle 'imsel' when things got messy or nasty. I don't know the proper name o' the toon; we always called it by the words o' the chorus:

"For the Lion of Judah shall break every chain,
And give us the victory again and again.'

"It was my old dad's favorite, 'cause when the drink demon got a-pullin' at 'is throat when 'e went by a pub 'e would just 'um that toon. 'E said nice sweet spittle filled 'is mouth an' trickled adown 'is throat then, an' 'e didn't want 'is ale. Well, the Major, 'e liked The Lion of Judah."

"When we was in the worst fight we ever 'ad-it was somewhere near Cambrai, I think, but we moved back so fast from Mons, fighting rear-guard actions every day and marchin' every night, that I can't well remember the exact whereabouts o' all the tussles we gave them 'Uns, but, howsomever, it was getting dark an' our men were all fagged and fed up with killing, with the dead scattered round everywhere the Major said to me, "Give us the "Lion of Judah," Baker. Yes, sir, I carried that concertina all the way down nigh to Paris and then back again to Ypres. Well, I played the old Prim. toon then an' there. An' when I comes to victory again and again' the Major laughed right out loud and said, I 'ope those damned 'Uns 'ear that.' It's a spiffin toon, sir, an' the chorus is like a charge of the Dublin Fusiliers after a rum ration, beggin' pardon to the toon, seeing as 'ow The Lion of Judah' is a religious 'ymn. "You must excuse me now, sir; it's time to go for the Major." III

development of an entailed spiritual estate, upon which his forebears had always worked honestly and in the cultivation of which his own honor was involved.

The evening was propitious, windless, and with a high, full moon, and we sat in the breakfast-room close to the open French windows leading to the terrace. A nightingale sang from some sapling alders growing just beyond the kitchen garden. For fully half an hour the song was continuous, and I found myself waiting eagerly for the recurrence of certain unusual notes, and if they failed to come I felt defrauded. When the bird ceased, the Major rang for Baker and said we would walk.

"Yes, sir. Which way, sir?"

"By the Petham Lane wood, across the common and back by the inn."

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Yes, sir; very well, sir."

:

Baker was exceedingly skillful in guiding his blind master; he had reduced physical and vocal suggestion to a fine art. He never touched the Major with his hand, but contrived nearly always to be by his side, near enough to give a slight pressure to the Major's elbow with his own. As we walked, Baker would drop apparently casual remarks indicative of the location "Shouldn't wonder if Watson would put a gate 'ere instead of a stile;" "Don't 'ear the owl to-night in the old oast;""County council ought'er buy this 'ere cottage o' Wade's and make the corner safe for motor cars;"" Vicar ain't a-doin' much with 'is glebe this year; war sartinly do make a difference and so on, until we reached Petham Lane wood. There was no need to mark the place by human voice; the nightingales did that in a riotous symphony. It was impossible to tell how many songsters there were in the chorus, but at times the volume of music rose to such a crescendo that it seemed as if every twig on every tree in the spinney must be bending under the weight of a performer. There was one burst of such unpremeditated harmony that I felt the perspiration spring to my forehead, as one does under sudden and inarticulate emotion.

When returning, we came to an old inn which had once been a post-house. Its glory at one time must have been great, but its honor was now so tarnished that only the slender patronage of local farm laborers and the annual rush of cockney hop-pickers gave it an excuse for continuance. In a casual voice, as if quite familiar with such things, the Major mentioned that it was haunted. The moon was throwing unusual shadows upon the timber-seamed walls; a faint puff of wind made the signboard squeak ever so slightly but weirdly; the outline of a gaunt form moved unsteadily upon the lighted window, lifting a monstrously huge mug to his bearded mouth; a chain rattled in the barnyard; and when an owl hooted from a tree that stood in the coppice across the road, my imagination slipped its leash. What kind of a ghost could it be? A knight in armor? A pilgrim with a heavy wallet bound for the shrine of St. Thomas? A fat abbot slain in the roistering times of old King Hal? The house was not ancient enough for such venerable shades. Then a gaudy young cavalier of Prince Rupert breed? A lady of quality hasting to Sandwich or Dover with her lover and overtaken by her father and brother-a duel and a dripping rapier and a hasty burial?

Whether at the Major's suggestion or mine, I do not remember, but we went inside. The place was not different from any old wayside tavern-a bar on the right of the entrance, parallel to the hall, and a large room opposite with sanded floor and a long deal table running down the center. Two or three clodhoppers were smoking clay pipes over empty pewter pots, a sheep-dog lay asleep on the hearth, and the only ornament on the mantelpiece, a stuffed pheasant, was lusterless, sooty, and tailless. A square cottage organ, or harmonium, stood in one corner. The room was so cheerless and forlorn that we turned away after a glance. The rest of the house was unlighted; the landlord looked sullen and embarrassed by our entrance, and we passed out quickly into the road.

The story the Major told as we walked slowly along toward the manor was so unusual and disturbed me to such a degree that I wrote it down the moment courtesy permitted me to retire. IV

At the close of the Crimean War an Irish sergeant returning via France wooed a young femme de chambre and brought her

as a bride to England. They established themselves in the inn we have just visited. Near the close of the first year a child was born to them, a girl, and within a week the mother died. The only voluntary obligation the father ever assumed was to have the babe baptized under her mother's name, Jeanne. She grew up as wild as a nettle and with a temper as quick and sharp as a nettle's sting. Unkempt, ungoverned, and unable to read or write, she took her place in human society, or rather on the outer edge of it, with hands and feet and tongue always read y to strike. That was the only lesson she had learned from her father. What else she knew, the stars, the seasons, the trees, and the creatures had told her. Whenever her work as kitchen slut of the tavern permitted, she roamed the lanes and fields and woods, letting the love of her little starved heart go out to the birds, but in a furtive, stealthy way, as though it were a crime. She hated men and doubted women and was afraid of the sunlight. But at night, as soon as the last customer had gone and her father had climbed the stairs with maudlin uncertainty, she slipped from the house and made her way to some familiar spot where she might listen to the nightingales pouring out their throbbing song. Gradually she became known to the whole countryside, from Stelling Minnis to Boughton, as an uncanny, evil-possessed child, and simply on the evidence of her nocturnal wanderings the old women gossiped about her scandalously.

When Jeanne was about sixteen years of age, a sailor from Hythe came to the inn as general helper. He proved to be a paying addition to the establishment, as he was musical, after sailor fashion, and could play lively airs upon the harmonium. He taught Jeanne to play. She was an odd pupil, quick to learn, but refractory, refusing to follow the sailor's well-known tunes, and preferring chiefly to improvise for herself. She would sit at the wheezy instrument, her head bent forward and slightly turned, her fingers moving slowly over the keys, finding chords. When one pleased her, she laughed aloud and repeated it many times in triumph. This so irritated her father that finally he commanded her never to touch it again. He drove the sailor from the house. Only the nightingales were left, and as long as they sang she stole out into the woods; when they ceased with the season, she used her unspent strength in gibe and taunt and curse for any who crossed her path.

Two or three years passed in that way. Then she heard of the Christmas Festival soon to be held in the Cathedral; how she heard none knew, unless it had been from a chance customer, for no one in those parts ever thought to speak a friendly word to the strange, wild creature. And if she had been told that the choir were to sing Handel's oratorio, "The Messiah," she would have been not a whit the wiser, for she could not have known what meaning to put upon the words "choir," "Handel," "oratorio," and "Messiah." She had been to Canterbury once or twice, but it lay far out of her world. It stood for all the things she hated and feared. But when the day arrived she dropped her work, threw a tattered Paisley shawl over her head, and walked to the city.

It was true, there was music in the Cathedral; it seemed to stream out through those wonderful windows as she crossed the close from the Christ Church gate to the porch. As she passed through the door into the nave, waves of glorious sound flowed down through the dim pillar-broken depths from the organ above the choir. Jeanne was afraid; she dared not advance beyond a few paces, and there crouched in the shadow of the first great column. She was like a bird beaten down by a fierce storm; she was dazed and stupefied. Later she crept stealthily to another column nearer to the music.

Almost imperceptibly a voice breathed the first subdued notes of "Comfort ye my people, saith your God," rising into the purest intensity of confidence that "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill made low."

Jeanne trembled with joy; and, fearful lest any one should notice and order her from the place, she knelt and made herself as small as she could. She wondered whether she was awake, whether she was alive, whether that was the beginning or the end of the music. A peal of joyful voices then rang out of the shadowy distance-" And the glory of the Lord"—and Jeanne lifted herself to her knees; then there broke such a torrent of sound as the chorus picked up the altos—“ And the