He went into the orderly-room, and presently returned to take in Bourne. The Colonel was sitting at his table, which was covered by the invariable blanket, and apparently Bourne’s business was only one of many matters engaging his attention. He seemed thoughtful and preoccupied, rather than tired, and he looked at Bourne with his inflexible blue-grey eyes, while he questioned him about himself and his life. His manner seemed to grow a little kindlier, without ceasing to be detached, as he proceeded. Then, without asking any more questions, he gave Bourne some advice which did not differ substantially from the regimental’s.

‘I shall make you a lance-corporal,’ he said in conclusion. ‘It may be some weeks before the matter goes through; and you will have to go before the Brigadier-General for his approval. I think they’re very lucky to get you, as I feel sure you will make a good officer.’

Bourne thanked him, saluted, and left. Outside, he waited for the regimental in a curious state of pleasurable excitement. The Colonel’s praise and encouragement filled him with gratitude, but something warred against his elation; he felt through all his excitement some intractable regret, and could only say to himself what he had said through all the past months: One is bound to try, one is not bound to succeed. Then the regimental came out to him.

‘Sir,’ said Bourne, ‘as I may be going away at any time now, I asked Sergeant-Major Tozer, and Sergeant Hope, and Corporal Jakes to have a drink with me tonight; and I should be very glad of your company too. I have got a bottle of Scotch whiskey.’

The regimental wondered how he had got it, and noticing Bourne’s anxiety, he concealed a smile with a hand stroking his moustache.

‘I suppose it’s an exceptional occasion,’ he said, quietly. ‘I’ll come along at eight. After all, a bottle of whiskey will do less harm to five men than to four.’

He walked into the dusk, and Bourne went to his hut.

‘How did you get on with the C.O.?’ said Sergeant Hope. ‘There’s a letter there for you.’

Bourne picked up the letter with a shock of surprise. It was a cheap, shiny envelope with a thin black edge to it, addressed in a woman’s handwriting, which was old-fashioned, precise, and easily recognized. He saw the post-mark, Squelesby.

‘Oh, all right,’ he said absently.

‘Is the regimental coming in tonight?’ Hope asked him.

‘Yes,’ he answered, even forgetting to add the customary ‘sergeant’.

Hope looked at him curiously, and said nothing more. Bourne, getting closer to the candle, opened the letter and read it. It was from Mrs Martlow.

He returned it to its envelope and buttoned it into his breastpocket. Martlow had told his mother all about him, even that he would miss him when he went ‘to be made an officer’; and Bourne found himself remembering the walk back to Reclinghem from Vincly, and the old priest, hatless in the twilight, and the reproach in the boy’s voice as he asked him whether what Sergeant-Major Robinson had said were true. Presently he got up, and walked out between the trees for a little while. He felt restless. The extraordinary reserve and courage in this woman’s letter, the painful way in which she reached out for Bourne, piecing him together out of her son’s letters, as though he kept something of him which she had lost, that, too, seemed a reproach to him. He had heard nothing of Shem. Shem was in a hospital somewhere, recovering from his wound; but he had vanished completely, so completely that Bourne did not even expect to hear from him again. Men passed out of sight like that, and seemed to leave very little trace. Their term had been completed. Martlow, for some reason he could not grasp, persisted in his memory, seemed to be only out of sight, behind the hut, as it were, or even just on the point of coming through the doorway. Bourne went back and sat with Hope.