Short Fiction by Arthur Machen

Author:Arthur Machen
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: War stories, Horror tales, Paranormal fiction, Supernatural -- Fiction, English, World War, 1914-1918 -- Fiction
Publisher: Standard Ebooks
Published: 2015-09-20T03:11:01+00:00

The Soldiers’ Rest

The sol­dier with the ugly wound in the head opened his eyes at last, and looked about him with an air of pleas­ant sat­is­fac­tion.

He still felt drowsy and dazed with some fierce ex­per­i­ence through which he had passed, but so far he could not re­col­lect much about it. But—an agree­able glow began to steal about his heart—such a glow as comes to people who have been in a tight place and have come through it bet­ter than they had ex­pec­ted. In its mild­est form this set of emo­tions may be ob­served in pas­sen­gers who have crossed the Chan­nel on a windy day without be­ing sick. They tri­umph a little in­tern­ally, and are suf­fused with vague, kindly feel­ings.

The wounded sol­dier was some­what of this dis­pos­i­tion as he opened his eyes, pulled him­self to­gether, and looked about him. He felt a sense of de­li­cious ease and re­pose in bones that had been racked and weary, and deep in the heart that had so lately been tor­men­ted there was an as­sur­ance of com­fort—of the battle won. The thun­der­ing, roar­ing waves were passed; he had entered into the haven of calm wa­ters. After fa­tigues and ter­rors that as yet he could not re­col­lect he seemed now to be rest­ing in the easi­est of all easy chairs in a dim, low room.

In the hearth there was a glint of fire and a blue, sweet-scen­ted puff of wood smoke; a great black oak beam roughly hewn crossed the ceil­ing. Through the leaded panes of the win­dows he saw a rich glow of sun­light, green lawns, and against the deep­est and most ra­di­ant of all blue skies the won­der­ful far-lif­ted towers of a vast, Gothic cathed­ral—mys­tic, rich with im­agery.

“Good Lord!” he mur­mured to him­self. “I didn’t know they had such places in France. It’s just like Wells. And it might be the other day when I was go­ing past the Swan, just as it might be past that win­dow, and asked the ost­ler what time it was, and he says, ‘What time? Why, sum­mer­time’; and there out­side it looks like sum­mer that would last forever. If this was an inn they ought to call it the Sol­diers’ Rest.”

He dozed off again, and when he opened his eyes once more a kindly look­ing man in some sort of black robe was stand­ing by him.

“It’s all right now, isn’t it?” he said, speak­ing in good Eng­lish.

“Yes, thank you, sir, as right as can be. I hope to be back again soon.”

“Well well; but how did you come here? Where did you get that?” He poin­ted to the wound on the sol­dier’s fore­head.

The sol­dier put his hand: up to his brow and looked dazed and puzzled.

“Well, sir,” he said at last, “it was like this, to be­gin at the be­gin­ning. You know how we came over in August, and there we were in the thick of it, as you might say, in a day or two. An aw­ful time it was, and I don’t know how I got through it alive.

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