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diff --git a/18056-h/18056-h.htm b/18056-h/18056-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..270480f --- /dev/null +++ b/18056-h/18056-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,21632 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1"> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Tin Soldier, by Temple Bailey</title> +<style type="text/css"> +BODY { color: Black; + background: White; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: medium; + font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; + text-align: justify } + +P {text-indent: 4% } + +P.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +P.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: small } + +P.letter {font-size: small } + + hr.full { width: 100%; + height: 5px; } + a:link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none; } + link {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none; } + a:visited {color:#0000ff; + text-decoration:none; } + a:hover {color:#ff0000; + text-decoration: underline; } + pre {font-size: 75%; } + +</style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 align="center">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Tin Soldier, by Temple Bailey</h1> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The Tin Soldier</p> +<p>Author: Temple Bailey</p> +<p>Release Date: March 27, 2006 [eBook #18056]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIN SOLDIER***</p> +<br><br><center><h3>E-text prepared by Al Haines</h3></center><br><br> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT=""I shall come back for more"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="395" HEIGHT="584"> +<H4> +[Frontispiece: "I shall come back for more"] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE TIN SOLDIER +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BY +</H3> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +TEMPLE BAILEY +</H2> + +<BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +AUTHOR OF +<BR> +GLORY OF YOUTH, CONTRARY MARY, ETC. +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ILLUSTRATIONS BY +<BR> +F. VAUX WILSON +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +NEW YORK +<BR> +GROSSET & DUNLAP +<BR> +PUBLISHERS +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +COPYRIGHT 1918 BY +<BR> +THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +First printing November, 1916.<BR> +Second printing January, 1919.<BR> +Third printing March, 1919.<BR> +Fourth printing May, 1919.<BR> +Sixth printing September, 1919. +</H5> + +<BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +The Tin Soldier +</H5> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +CONTENTS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK ONE +<BR> +ON THE SHELF +</H3> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%">CHAPTER</TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="80%"> </TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">I </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap01">THE TOY SHOP</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">II </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap02">CINDERELLA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">III </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap03">DRUSILLA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap04">THE QUESTION</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">V </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap05">THE SLACKER</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap06">THE PROMISE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap07">HILDA</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">VIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap08">THE SHADOWED ROOM</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">IX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap09">ROSE-COLOR!</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">X </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap10">A MAN WITH MONEY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap11">HILDA WEARS A CROWN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap12">WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap13">ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS?</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap14">SHINING SOULS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap15">HILDA BREAKS THE RULES</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap16">JEAN-JOAN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XVII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap17">THE WHITE CAT</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK TWO +<BR> +THROUGH THE CRACK +</H3> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%">XVIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="80%"> +<A HREF="#chap18">THE BROAD HIGHWAY</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XIX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap19">HILDA SHAKES A TREE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap20">THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap21">DERBY'S WIFE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap22">JEAN PLAYS PROXY</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK THREE +<BR> +THE BUGLE CALLS +</H3> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="20%">XXIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top" WIDTH="80%"> +<A HREF="#chap23">THE EMPTY HOUSE</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap24">THE SINGING WOMAN</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXV </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap25">WHITE VIOLETS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVI </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap26">THE HOPE OF THE WORLD</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap27">MARCHING FEET</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXVIII </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap28">SIX DAYS</A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR> +<TD ALIGN="right" VALIGN="top">XXIX </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" VALIGN="top"> +<A HREF="#chap29">"HE CAME TO THE WARS!"</A></TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +ILLUSTRATIONS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-front"> +"I shall come back for more" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-074"> +"I haven't anything left—for you" +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-248"> +"If anything should happen, you will remember?" +</A> +</H3> + +<H3> +<A HREF="#img-442"> +"These are my jewels" +</A> +</H3> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK ONE +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ON THE SHELF +</H3> + + +<P> +"I cannot bear it," the Tin Soldier said, standing on the shelf, "I +cannot bear it. It is so melancholy here. Let me rather go to the +wars and lose my arms and legs." +<BR><BR> +HANS ANDERSEN: <I>The Old House</I>. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +THE TIN SOLDIER +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER I +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE TOY SHOP +</H3> + +<P> +The lights shining through the rain on the smooth street made of it a +golden river. +</P> + +<P> +The shabby old gentleman navigated unsteadily until he came to a +corner. A lamp-post offered safe harbor. He steered for it and took +his bearings. On each side of the glimmering stream loomed dark +houses. A shadowy blot on the triangle he knew to be a church. Beyond +the church was the intersecting avenue. Down the avenue were the small +exclusive shops which were gradually encroaching on the residence +section. +</P> + +<P> +The shabby old gentleman took out his watch. It was a fine old watch, +not at all in accord with the rest of him. It was almost six. The +darkness of the November afternoon had come at five. The shabby old +gentleman swung away from the lamppost and around the corner, then +bolted triumphantly into the Toy Shop. +</P> + +<P> +"Here I am," he said, with an attempt at buoyancy, and sat down. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," said the girl behind the counter, "you are wet." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I said I'd come, didn't I? Rain or shine? In five minutes I +should have been too late—shop closed—" He lurched a little towards +her. +</P> + +<P> +She backed away from him. "You—you are—wet—won't you take cold—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Never take cold—glad to get here—" He smiled and shut his eyes, +opened them and smiled again, nodded and recovered, nodded and came to +rest with his head on the counter. +</P> + +<P> +The girl made a sudden rush for the rear door of the shop. "Look here, +Emily. Poor old duck!" +</P> + +<P> +Emily, standing in the doorway, surveyed the sleeping derelict +scornfully. "You'd better put him out. It is six o'clock, Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +"He was here yesterday—and he was furious because I wouldn't sell him +any soldiers. He said he wanted to make a bonfire of the Prussian +ones—and to buy the French and English ones for his son," she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you told him they were not for sale." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But he insisted. And when he went away he told me he'd come +again and bring a lot of money—" +</P> + +<P> +The shabby old gentleman, rousing at the psychological moment, threw on +the counter a roll of bills and murmured brokenly: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'Ten little soldiers fighting on the line,<BR> +One was blown to glory, and, then there were nine—!'"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +His head fell forward and again he slept. +</P> + +<P> +"Disgusting," said Emily Bridges; "of course we've got to get him out." +</P> + +<P> +Getting him out, however, offered difficulties. He was a very big old +gentleman, and they were little women. +</P> + +<P> +"We might call the police—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Emily—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, if you can suggest anything better. We must close the shop." +</P> + +<P> +"We might put him in a taxi—and send him home." +</P> + +<P> +"He probably hasn't any home." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be so pessimistic—he certainly has money." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know where he got it. You can't be too careful, Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +The girl, touching the old man's shoulder, asked, "Where do you live?" +</P> + +<P> +He murmured indistinctly. +</P> + +<P> +"Where?" she bent her ear down to him. +</P> + +<P> +Waking, he sang: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Two little soldiers, blowing up a Hun—<BR> +The darned thing—exploded—<BR> +And then there was—One—"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Emily, did you ever hear anything so funny?" +</P> + +<P> +Emily couldn't see the funny side of it. It was tragic and it was +disconcerting. "I don't know what to do. Perhaps you'd better call a +taxi." +</P> + +<P> +"He's shivering, Emily. I believe I'll make him a cup of chocolate." +</P> + +<P> +"Dear child, it will be a lot of trouble—" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd like to do it—really." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well." Emily was not unsympathetic, but she had had a rather +wearing life. Her love of toys and of little children had kept her +human, otherwise she had a feeling that she might have hardened into +chill spinsterhood. +</P> + +<P> +As Jean disappeared through the door, the elder woman moved about the +shop, setting it in order for the night. It was a labor of love to put +the dolls to bed, to lock the glass doors safely on the puffy rabbits +and woolly dogs and round-eyed cats, to close the drawers on the +tea-sets and Lilliputian kitchens, to shut into boxes the tin soldiers +that their queer old customer had craved. +</P> + +<P> +For more than a decade Emily Bridges had kept the shop. Originally it +had been a Thread and Needle Shop, supplying people who did not care to +go downtown for such wares. +</P> + +<P> +Then one Christmas she had put in a few things to attract the children. +The children had come, and gradually there had been more toys—until at +last she had found herself the owner of a Toy Shop, with the thread and +needle and other staid articles stuck negligently in the background. +</P> + +<P> +Yet in the last three years it had been hard to keep up the standard +which she had set for herself. Toys were made in Germany, and the men +who had made them were in the trenches, the women who had helped were +in the fields—the days when the bisque babies had smiled on happy +working-households were over. There was death and darkness where once +the rollicking clowns and dancing dolls had been set to mechanical +music. +</P> + +<P> +Jean, coming back with the chocolate, found Emily with a great white +plush elephant in her arms. His trappings were of red velvet and there +was much gold; he was the last of a line of assorted sizes. +</P> + +<P> +There had always been a white elephant in Miss Emily's window. +Painfully she had seen her supply dwindle. For this last of the herd, +she had a feeling far in excess of his value, such as a collector might +have for a rare coin of a certain minting, or a bit of pottery of a +pre-historic period. +</P> + +<P> +She had not had the heart to sell him. "I may never get another. And +there are none made like him in America." +</P> + +<P> +"After the war—" Jean had hinted. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily had flared, "Do you think I shall buy toys of Germany after +this war?" +</P> + +<P> +"Good for you, Emily. I was afraid you might." +</P> + +<P> +But tonight a little pensively Miss Emily wrapped the old mastodon up +in a white cloth. "I believe I'll take him home with me. People are +always asking to buy him, and it's hard to explain." +</P> + +<P> +"I should say it is. I had an awful time with him," she indicated the +old gentleman, "yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +She set the tray down on the counter. There was a slim silver pot on +it, and a thin green cup. She poked the sleeping man with a tentative +finger. "Won't you please wake up and have some chocolate." +</P> + +<P> +Rousing, he came slowly to the fact of her hospitality. "My dear young +lady," he said, with a trace of courtliness, "you shouldn't have +troubled—" and reached out a trembling hand for the cup. There was a +ring on the hand, a seal ring with a coat of arms. As he drank the +chocolate eagerly, he spilled some of it on his shabby old coat. +</P> + +<P> +He was facing the door. Suddenly it opened, and his cup fell with a +crash. +</P> + +<P> +A young man came in. He too, was shabby, but not as shabby as the old +gentleman. He had on a dilapidated rain-coat, and a soft hat. He took +off his hat, showing hair that was of an almost silvery fairness. His +eyebrows made a dark pencilled line—his eyes were gray. It was a +striking face, given a slightly foreign air by a small mustache. +</P> + +<P> +He walked straight up to the old man, laid his hand on his shoulder, +"Hello, Dad." Then, anxiously, to the two women, "I hope he hasn't +troubled you. He isn't quite—himself." +</P> + +<P> +Jean nodded. "I am so glad you came. We didn't know what to do." +</P> + +<P> +"I've been looking for him—" He bent to pick up the broken cup. "I'm +dreadfully sorry. You must let me pay for it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no." +</P> + +<P> +"Please." He was looking at it. "It was valuable?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Jean admitted, "it was one of Emily's precious pets." +</P> + +<P> +"Please don't think any more about it," Emily begged. "You had better +get your father home at once, and put him to bed with a hot water +bottle." +</P> + +<P> +Now that the shabby youth was looking at her with troubled eyes, Emily +found herself softening towards the old gentleman. Simply as a +derelict she had not cared what became of him. But as the father of +this son, she cared. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, I will. We must be going, Dad." +</P> + +<P> +The old gentleman stood up. "Wait a minute—I came for tin +soldiers—Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +"They are not for sale," Miss Emily stated. "They are made in Germany. +I can't get any more. I have withdrawn everything of the kind from my +selling stock." +</P> + +<P> +The shabby old gentleman murmured, disconsolately. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Emily," said the girl behind the counter, "don't you think we +might—?" +</P> + +<P> +Derry Drake glanced at her with sudden interest. She had an unusual +voice, quick and thrilling. It matched her beauty, which was of a rare +quality—white skin, blue eyes, crinkled hair like beaten copper. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see," he said, smiling for the first time, "what Dad wants of +tin soldiers." +</P> + +<P> +"To make 'em fight," said the shabby old man, "we've got to have some +fighting blood in the family." +</P> + +<P> +The smile was struck from the young man's face. Out of a dead silence, +he said at last, "You were very good to look after him. Come, Dad." +His voice was steady, but the flush that had flamed in his cheeks was +still there, as he put his arm about the shaky old man and led him to +the door. +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you both again," he said from the threshold. Then, with his +head high, he steered his unsteady parent out into the rain. +</P> + +<P> +It was late when the two women left the shop. Miss Emily, struggling +down the block with her white elephant, found, in a few minutes, harbor +in her boarding house. But Jean lived in the more fashionable section +beyond Dupont Circle. Her father was a doctor with a practice among +the older district people, who, in spite of changing administrations +and fluctuating populations, had managed, to preserve their family +traditions and social identity. +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie did not always dine at home. But tonight when Jean came +down he was at the head of the table. He was a big, handsome man with +crinkled hair like his daughter's, copper-colored and cut close to his +rather classic head. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda Merritt was also at the table. She was a trained nurse, who, +having begun life as the Doctor's office-girl, had, gradually, after +his wife's death, assumed the management of his household. Jean was +not fond of her. She had repeatedly begged that her dear Emily might +take Miss Merritt's place. +</P> + +<P> +"But Hilda is much younger," her father had contended, "and much more +of a companion for you." +</P> + +<P> +"She isn't a companion at all, Daddy. We haven't the same thoughts." +</P> + +<P> +But Hilda had stayed on, and Jean had sought her dear Emily's company +in the little shop. Sometimes she waited on customers. Sometimes she +worked in the rear room. It was always a great joke to feel that she +was really helping. In all her life her father had never let her do a +useful thing. +</P> + +<P> +The table was lighted with candles, and there was a silver dish of +fruit in the center. The dinner was well-served by a trim maid. +</P> + +<P> +Jean ate very little. Her father noticed her lack of appetite, "Why +don't you eat your dinner, dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"I had chocolate at Emily's." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think she ought to go there so often," Miss Merritt complained. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" Jean's voice was like the crack of a whip. +</P> + +<P> +"It is so late when you get home. It isn't safe." +</P> + +<P> +"I can always send the car for you, Jean," her father said. "I don't +care to have you out alone." +</P> + +<P> +"Having the car isn't like walking. You know it isn't, Daddy, with the +rain against your cheeks and the wind—" +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie's quick imagination was fired. His eyes were like Jean's, +lighted from within. +</P> + +<P> +"I suppose it is all right if she comes straight up Connecticut Avenue, +Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +Miss Merritt had long white hands which lay rather limply on the table. +Her arms were bare. She was handsome in a red-cheeked, blond fashion. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course if you think it is all right, Doctor—" +</P> + +<P> +"It is up to Jean. If she isn't afraid, we needn't worry." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not afraid of anything." +</P> + +<P> +He smiled at her. She was so pretty and slim and feminine in her white +gown, with a string of pearls on her white neck. He liked pretty +things and he liked her fearlessness. He had never been afraid. It +pleased him that his daughter should share his courage. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps, if I am not too busy, I will come for you the next time you +go to the shop. Would walking with me break the spell of the wind and +wet?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know it wouldn't. It would be quite—heavenly—Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +After dinner, Doctor McKenzie read the evening paper. Jean sat on the +rug in front of the fire and knitted for the soldiers. She had made +sweaters until it seemed sometimes as if she saw life through a haze of +olive-drab. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going to knit socks next," she told her father. +</P> + +<P> +He looked up from his paper. "Did you ever stop to think what it means +to a man over there when a woman says 'I'm going to knit socks'?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean nodded. That was one of the charms which her father had for her. +He saw things. It was tired soldiers at this moment, marching in the +cold and needing—socks. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, having no vision, remarked from the corner where she sat with +her book, "There's no sense in all this killing—I wish we'd kept out +of it." +</P> + +<P> +"Wasn't there any sense," said little Jean from the hearth rug, "in +Bunker Hill and Valley Forge?" +</P> + +<P> +Hilda evaded that. "Anyhow, I'm glad they've stopped playing the +'Star-Spangled Banner' at the movies. I'm tired of standing up." +</P> + +<P> +Jean voiced her scorn. "I'd stand until I dropped, rather than miss a +note of it." +</P> + +<P> +Doctor McKenzie interposed: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,<BR> +'To talk of many things,<BR> +Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—<BR> +Of cabbages—and kings—'"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Daddy," Jean reproached him, "I should think you might be serious." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not just twenty—and I have learned to bank my fires. And you +mustn't take Hilda too literally. She doesn't mean all that she says, +do you, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +He patted Miss Merritt on the shoulder as he went out. Jean hated +that. And Hilda's blush. +</P> + +<P> +With the Doctor gone, Hilda shut herself up in the office to balance +her books. +</P> + +<P> +Jean went on with her knitting, Hilda did not knit. When she was not +helping in the office or in the house, her hands lay idle in her lap. +</P> + +<P> +Jean's mind, as she worked, was on those long white hands of Hilda's. +Her own hands had short fingers like her father's. Her mother's hands +had been slender and transparent. Hilda's hands were not slender, they +had breadth as well as length, and the skin was thick. Even the +whiteness was like the flesh of a fish, pale and flabby. No, there was +no beauty at all in Hilda's hands. +</P> + +<P> +Once Jean had criticised them to her father. "I think they are ugly." +</P> + +<P> +"They are useful hands, and they have often helped me." +</P> + +<P> +"I like Emily's hands much better." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you and your Emily," he had teased. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Jean's words came back to the Doctor the next night, as he sat in +the Toy Shop waiting to escort his daughter home. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily was serving a customer, a small boy in a red coat and baggy +trousers. A nurse stood behind the small boy, and played, as it were, +Chorus. She wore a blue cape and a long blue bow on the back of her +hat. +</P> + +<P> +The small boy was having the mechanical toys wound up for him. He +expressed a preference for the clowns, but didn't like the colors. +</P> + +<P> +"I want him boo'," he informed Miss Emily, "he's for a girl, and she +yikes boo'." +</P> + +<P> +"Blue," said the nurse austerely, "you know your mother doesn't like +baby talk, Teddy." +</P> + +<P> +"Ble-yew—" said the small boy, carefully. +</P> + +<P> +"Blue clowns," Miss Emily stated, sympathetically, "are hard to get. +Most of them are red. I have the nicest thing that I haven't shown +you. But it costs a lot—" +</P> + +<P> +"It's a birfday present," said the small boy. +</P> + +<P> +"Birthday," from the Chorus. +</P> + +<P> +"Be-yirthday," was the amended version, "and I want it nice." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily brought forth from behind the glass doors of a case a small +green silk head of lettuce. She set it on the counter, and her fingers +found the key, then clickety-click, clickety-click, she wound it up. +It played a faint tune, the leaves opened—a rabbit with a wide-frilled +collar rose in the center. He turned from side to side, he waggled his +ears, and nodded his head, he winked an eye; then he disappeared, the +leaves closed, the music stopped. +</P> + +<P> +The small boy was entranced. "It's boo-ful—" +</P> + +<P> +"Beautiful—" from the background. +</P> + +<P> +"Be-yewtiful—. I'll take it, please." +</P> + +<P> +It was while Miss Emily was winding the toy that Dr. McKenzie noticed +her bands. They were young hands, quick and delightful hands. They +hovered over the toy, caressingly, beat time to the music, rested for a +moment on the shoulders of the little boy as he stood finally with +upturned face and tied-up parcel. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm coming adain," he told her. +</P> + +<P> +"Again—." +</P> + +<P> +"Ag-yain—," patiently. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you will." Miss Emily held out her hand. She did not kiss +him. He was a boy, and she knew better. +</P> + +<P> +When he had gone, importantly, Emily saw the Doctor's eyes upon her. +"I hated to sell it," she said, with a sigh; "goodness knows when I +shall get another. But I can't resist the children—" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. "You are a miser, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +He had known her for many years. She was his wife's distant cousin, +and had been her dearest friend. She had taught in a private school +before she opened her shop, and Jean had been one of her pupils. Since +Mrs. McKenzie's death it had been Emily who had mothered Jean. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor had always liked her, but without enthusiasm. His +admiration of women depended largely on their looks. His wife had +meant more to him than that, but it had been her beauty which had first +held him. +</P> + +<P> +Emily Bridges had been a slender and diffident girl. She had kept her +slenderness, but she had lost her diffidence, and she had gained an air +of distinction. She dressed well, her really pretty feet were always +carefully shod and her hair carefully waved. Yet she was one of the +women who occupy the background rather than the foreground of men's +lives—the kind of woman for whom a man must be a Columbus, discovering +new worlds for himself. +</P> + +<P> +"Yon are a miser," the Doctor repeated. +</P> + +<P> +"Wouldn't you be, under the same circumstances? If it were, for +example, surgical instruments—anaesthetics—? And you knew that when +they were gone you wouldn't get any more?" +</P> + +<P> +He did not like logic in a woman. He wanted to laugh and tease. "Jean +told me about the white elephant." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what of it? I have him at home—safe. In a big box—with +moth-balls—" Her lips twitched. "Oh, it must seem funny to anyone +who doesn't feel as I do." +</P> + +<P> +The door of the rear room opened, and Jean came in, carrying in her +arms an assortment of strange creatures which she set in a row on the +floor in front of her father. +</P> + +<P> +"There?" she asked, "what do you think of them?" +</P> + +<P> +They were silhouettes of birds and beasts, made of wood, painted and +varnished. But such ducks had never quacked, such geese had never +waddled, such dogs had never barked—fantastic as a nightmare—too +long—too broad—exaggerated out of all reality, they might have +marched with Alice from Wonderland or from behind the Looking Glass. +</P> + +<P> +"I made them, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"You—." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, do you like them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't they a bit—uncanny?" +</P> + +<P> +"We've sold dozens; the children adore them." +</P> + +<P> +"And you haven't told me you were doing it. Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted you to see them first—a surprise. We call them the Lovely +Dreams, and we made the ducks green and the pussy cats pink because +that's the way the children see them in their own little minds—" +</P> + +<P> +She was radiant. "And I am making money, Daddy. Emily had such a hard +time getting toys after the war began, so we thought we'd try. And we +worked out these. I get a percentage on all sales." +</P> + +<P> +He frowned. "I am not sure that I like that." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't I give you money enough?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. But this is different." +</P> + +<P> +"How different?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is my own. Don't you see?" +</P> + +<P> +Being a man he did not see, but Miss Emily did. "Any work that is +worth doing at all is worth being paid for. You know that, Doctor." +</P> + +<P> +He did know it, but he didn't like to have a woman tell him. "She +doesn't need the money." +</P> + +<P> +"I do. I am giving it to the Red Cross. Please don't be stuffy about +it, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"Am I stuffy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +He tried to redeem himself by a rather tardy enthusiasm and succeeded. +Jean brought out more Lovely Dreams, until a grotesque procession +stretched across the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Tomorrow," she announced, triumphantly, "we'll put them in the window, +and you'll see the children coming." +</P> + +<P> +As she carried them away, Doctor McKenzie said to Emily, "It seems +strange that she should want to do it." +</P> + +<P> +"Not at all. She needs an outlet for her energies." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, does she?" +</P> + +<P> +"If she weren't your daughter, you'd know it." +</P> + +<P> +On the way home he said, "I am very proud of you, my dear." +</P> + +<P> +Jean had tucked her arm through his. It was not raining, but the sky +was full of ragged clouds, and the wind blew strongly. They felt the +push of it as they walked against it. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," she said, with her cheek against his rough coat, "are you proud +of me because of my green ducks and my pink pussy cats?" +</P> + +<P> +But she knew it was more than that, although he laughed, and she +laughed with him, as if his pride in her was a thing which they took +lightly. But they both walked a little faster to keep pace with their +quickened blood. +</P> + +<P> +Thus their walk became a sort of triumphant progress. They passed the +British Embassy with the Lion and the Unicorn watching over it in the +night; they rounded the Circle and came suddenly upon a line of motor +cars. +</P> + +<P> +"The Secretary is dining a rather important commission," the Doctor +said; "it was in the paper. They are to have a war feast—three +courses, no wine, and limited meats and sweets." +</P> + +<P> +They stopped for a moment as the guests descended from their cars and +swept across the sidewalk. The lantern which swung low from the arched +entrance showed a spot of rosy color—the velvet wrap of a girl whose +knot of dark curls shone above the ermine collar. A Spanish comb, +encrusted with diamonds, was stuck at right angles to the knot. +</P> + +<P> +Beside the young woman in the rosy wrap walked a young man in a fur +coat who topped her by a head. He had gray eyes and a small upturned +mustache—Jean uttered an exclamation. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter?" her father asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, nothing—" she watched the two ascend the stairs. "I thought for +a moment that I knew him." +</P> + +<P> +The great door opened and closed, the rosy wrap and the fur coat were +swallowed up. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it couldn't be," Jean decided as she and her father +continued on their wonderful way. +</P> + +<P> +"Couldn't be what, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"The same man, Daddy," Jean said, and changed the subject. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER II +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CINDERELLA +</H3> + + +<P> +The next time that Jean saw Him was at the theater. She and her father +went to worship at the shrine of Maude Adams, and He was there. +</P> + +<P> +It was Jean's yearly treat. There were, of course, other plays. But +since her very-small-girlhood, there had been always that red-letter +night when "The Little Minister" or "Hop-o'-my-Thumb" or "Peter Pan" +had transported her straight from the real world to that whimsical, +tender, delightful realm where Barrie reigns. +</P> + +<P> +Peter Pan had been the climax! +</P> + +<P> +<I>Do you believe in fairies?</I> +</P> + +<P> +Of course she did. And so did Miss Emily. And so did her father, +except in certain backsliding moments. But Hilda didn't. +</P> + +<P> +Tonight it was "A Kiss for Cinderella"—! The very name had been +enough to set Jean's cheeks burning and her eyes shining. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you remember, Daddy, that I was six when I first saw her, and she's +as young as ever?" +</P> + +<P> +"Younger." It was at such moments that the Doctor was at his best. +The youth in him matched the youth in his daughter. They were boy and +girl together. +</P> + +<P> +And now the girl on the stage, whose undying youth made her the +interpreter of dreams for those who would never grow up, wove her magic +spells of tears and laughter. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until the first satisfying act was over that Jean drew a +long breath and looked about her. +</P> + +<P> +The house was packed. The old theater with its painted curtain had +nothing modern to recommend it. But to Jean's mind it could not have +been improved. She wanted not one thing changed. For years and years +she had sat in her favorite seat in the seventh row of the parquet and +had loved the golden proscenium arch, the painted goddesses, the red +velvet hangings—she had thrilled to the voice and gesture of the +artists who had played to please her. There had been "Wang" and "The +Wizard of Oz"; "Robin Hood"; the tall comedian of "Casey at the Bat"; +the short comedian who had danced to fame on his crooked legs; Mrs. +Fiske, most incomparable Becky; Mansfield, Sothern—some of them, alas, +already gods of yesterday! +</P> + +<P> +At first there had been matinées with her mother—"The Little +Princess," over whose sorrows she had wept in the harrowing first act, +having to be consoled with chocolates and the promise of brighter +things as the play progressed. +</P> + +<P> +Now and then she had come with Hilda. But never when she could help +it. "I'd rather stay at home," she had told her father. +</P> + +<P> +"But—why—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because she laughs in the wrong places." +</P> + +<P> +Her father never laughed in the wrong places, and he squeezed her hand +in those breathless moments where words would have been desecration, +and wiped his eyes frankly when his feelings were stirred. +</P> + +<P> +"There is no one like you, Daddy," she had told him, "to enjoy things." +And so it had come about that he had pushed away his work on certain +nights and, sitting beside her, had forgotten the sordid and suffering +world which he knew so well, and which she knew not at all. +</P> + +<P> +As her eyes swept the house, they rested at last with a rather puzzled +look on a stout old gentleman with a wide shirt-front, who sat in the +right-hand box. He had white hair and a red face. +</P> + +<P> +Where had she seen him? +</P> + +<P> +There were women in the box, a sparkling company in white and silver, +and black and diamonds, and green and gold. There was a big +bald-headed man, and quite in the shadow back of them all, a slender +youth. +</P> + +<P> +It was when the slender youth leaned forward to speak to the vision in +white and silver that Jean stared and stared again. +</P> + +<P> +She knew now where she had seen the old gentleman with the wide shirt +front. He was the shabby old gentleman of the Toy Shop! And the youth +was the shabby son! +</P> + +<P> +Yet here they were in state and elegance! As if a fairy godmother had +waved a wand—! +</P> + +<P> +The curtain went up on a feverish little slavey with her mind set on +going to the ball, on Our Policeman wanting a shave, on the orphans in +boxes, on baked potato offered as hospitality by a half-starved +hostess, on a waiting Cinderella asleep on a frozen doorstep. +</P> + +<P> +And then the ball—and Mona Lisa, and the Duchess of Devonshire, and +The Girl with the Pitcher and the Girl with the Muff—and Cinderella in +azure tulle and cloth-of-gold, dancing with the Prince at the end like +mad—. +</P> + +<P> +Then the bell boomed—the lights went out—and after a little moment, +one saw Cinderella, stripped of her finery, staggering up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +Jean cried and laughed, and cried again. Yet even in the midst of her +emotion, she found her eyes pulled away from that appealing figure on +the stage to those faintly illumined figures in the box. +</P> + +<P> +When the curtain went down, her father, most surprisingly, bowed to the +old gentleman and received in return a genial nod. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, do you know him?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. It is General Drake." +</P> + +<P> +"Who are the others?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am not sure about the women. The boy in the back of the box is his +son, DeRhymer Drake." +</P> + +<P> +Derry! +</P> + +<P> +"Oh,"—she had a feeling that she was not being quite candid with her +father—"he's rather swank, isn't he, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Heavens, what slang! I don't see where you get it. He is rich, if +that's what you mean, and it's a wonder he isn't spoiled to death. His +mother is dead, and the General is his own worst enemy; eats and drinks +too much, and thinks he can get away with it." +</P> + +<P> +"Are they very rich—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Millions, with only Derry to leave it to. He's the child of a second +wife." +</P> + +<P> +Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely Cinderella, could your godmother do more +than this? To endow two rained-on and shabby gentlemen with pomp and +circumstance! +</P> + +<P> +Jean tucked her hand into her father's, as if to anchor herself against +this amazing tide of revelation. Then, as the auditorium darkened, and +the curtain went up, she was swept along on a wave of emotions in which +the play world and the real world were inextricably mixed. +</P> + +<P> +And now Our Policeman discovers that he is "romantical." Cinderella +finds her Prince, who isn't in the least the Prince of the fairy tale, +but much nicer under the circumstance—and the curtain goes down on a +glass slipper stuck on the toes of two tiny feet and a cockney +Cinderella, quite content. +</P> + +<P> +"Well," Jean drew a long breath. "It was the loveliest ever, Daddy," +she said, as he helped her with her cloak. +</P> + +<P> +And it was while she stood there in that cloak of heavenly blue that +the young man in the box looked down and saw her. +</P> + +<P> +He batted his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +Of course she wasn't real. +</P> + +<P> +But when he opened them, there she was, smiling up into the face of the +man who had helped her into that heavenly garment. +</P> + +<P> +It came to him, quite suddenly, that his father had bowed to the +man—the big man with the classic head and the air of being at ease +with himself and the world. +</P> + +<P> +He did things to the velvet and ermine wrap that he was holding, which +seemed to satisfy its owner, then he gripped his father's arm. "Dad, +who is that big man down there—with the red head—the one who bowed to +you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie, Bruce McKenzie, the nerve specialist—" +</P> + +<P> +Of course it was something to know that, but one didn't get very far. +</P> + +<P> +"Let's go somewhere and eat," said the General, and that was the end of +it. Out of the tail of his eye, Derry Drake saw the two figures with +the copper-colored heads move down the aisle, to be finally merged into +the indistinguishable stream of humanity which surged towards the door. +</P> + +<P> +Jean and her father did not go to supper at the big hotel around the +corner as was their custom. +</P> + +<P> +"I've got to get to the hospital before twelve," the Doctor said. "I +am sorry, dear—" +</P> + +<P> +"It doesn't make a bit of difference. I don't want to eat," she +settled herself comfortably beside him in the car. "Oh, it is snowing, +Daddy, how splendid—" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. "You little bundle of—ecstasy—what am I going to do with +you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Love me. And isn't the snow—wonderful?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But everybody doesn't see it that way." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad that I do. I should hate to see nothing in all this +miracle, but—slush tomorrow—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yet a lot of life is just—slush tomorrow—. I wish you need never +find that out—." +</P> + +<P> +When Jean went into the house, and her father drove on, she found Hilda +waiting up for her. +</P> + +<P> +"Father had to go to the hospital." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you have anything to eat?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I might cook some oysters." +</P> + +<P> +"I am really not hungry." Then feeling that her tone was ungracious, +she tried to make amends. "It was nice of you to think of it—" +</P> + +<P> +"Your father may like them. I'll have them hot for him." +</P> + +<P> +Jean lingered uncertainly. She didn't want the food, but she hated to +leave the field to Hilda. She unfastened her cloak, and sat down. +"How are you going to cook them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Panned—with celery." +</P> + +<P> +"It sounds good—I think I'll stay down, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"As you wish." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor, coming in with his coat powdered with snow, found his +daughter in a big chair in front of the library fire. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you'd be in bed." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda has some oysters for us." +</P> + +<P> +"Fine—I'm starved." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him, meditatively, "I don't see how you can be." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, on such a night as this, Daddy? Food seems superfluous." +</P> + +<P> +He sat down, smiling. "Don't ever expect to feed any man over forty on +star-dust. Hilda knows better, don't you, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +Hilda was bringing in the tray. There was a copper chafing-dish and a +percolator. She wore her nurse's outfit of white linen. She looked +well in it, and she was apt to put it on after dinner, when she was in +charge of the office. +</P> + +<P> +"You know better than to feed a man on stardust, don't you?" the Doctor +persisted. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda lifted the cover of the chafing-dish and stirred the contents. +"Well, yes," she smiled at him, "you see, I have lived longer than +Jean. She'll learn." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to learn," Jean told her hotly. "I want to believe +that—that—" Words failed her. +</P> + +<P> +"That men can live on star-dust?" her father asked gently. "Well, so +be it. We won't quarrel with her, will we, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +The oysters were very good. Jean ate several with healthy appetite. +Her father, twinkling, teased her, "You see—?" +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged, "All the same, I didn't need them." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, putting things back on the tray, remarked: "There was a message +from Mrs. Witherspoon. Her son is on leave for the week end. She +wants you for dinner on Saturday night—both of you." +</P> + +<P> +Doctor McKenzie tapped a finger on the table thoughtfully, "Oh, does +she? Do you want to go, Jeanie?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I am not sure. I should like to build a fence about you, my dear, and +never let a man look over. Ralph Witherspoon wants to marry her, +Hilda, what do you think of that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why not?" Hilda laid her long hands flat on the table, leaning +on them. +</P> + +<P> +Jean felt little prickles of irritability. "Because I don't want to +get married, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda gave her a sidelong glance, "Of course you do. But you don't +know it." +</P> + +<P> +She went out with her tray. Jean turned, white-faced, to her father, +"I wish she wouldn't say such things—" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, I am afraid you don't quite do her justice." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, well, we won't talk about her. I've got to go to bed, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +She kissed him wistfully. "Sometimes I think there are two of you, the +one that likes me, and the one that likes Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +With his hands on her shoulders, he gave an easy laugh. "Who knows? +But you mustn't have it on your mind. It isn't good for you." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall always have you on my mind—." +</P> + +<P> +"But not to worry about, baby. I'm not worth it—." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda came in with the evening paper. "Have you read it, Doctor?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." He glanced at the headlines and his face grew hard. "More +frightfulness," he said, stormily. "If I had my way, it should be an +eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. For every man they have tortured, +there should be one of their men—tortured. For every child mutilated, +one of theirs—mutilated. For every woman—." +</P> + +<P> +He stopped. Jean had caught hold of his arm. "Don't, Daddy," she said +thickly, "it makes me afraid of you." She covered her face with her +hands. +</P> + +<P> +He drew her to him and smoothed her hair in silence. Over her head he +glanced at Hilda. She was smiling inscrutably into the fire. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER III +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DRUSILLA +</H3> + + +<P> +The thing that Derry Drake had on his mind the next morning was a +tea-cup. There were other things on his mind—things so heavy that he +turned with relief to the contemplation of cups. +</P> + +<P> +Stuck all over the great house were cabinets of china—his father had +collected and his mother had prized. Derry, himself, had not cared for +any of it until this morning, but when Bronson, the old man who served +him and had served his father for years, came in with his breakfast, +Derry showed him a broken bit which he had brought home with him two +nights before. "Have we a cup like this anywhere in the house, +Bronson?" +</P> + +<P> +"There's a lot of them, sir, in the blue room, in the wall cupboard." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought so, let me have one of them. If Dad ever asks for it, send +him to me. He broke the other, so it's a fair exchange." +</P> + +<P> +He had it carefully wrapped and carried it downtown with him. The +morning was clear, and the sun sparkled on the snow. As he passed +through Dupont Circle he found that a few children and their nurses had +braved the cold. One small boy in a red coat ran to Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are you going, Cousin Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Down town." +</P> + +<P> +"To-day is Margaret-Mary's birf-day. I am going to give her a +wabbit—." +</P> + +<P> +"Rabbit, Buster. You'd better say it quick. Nurse is on the way." +</P> + +<P> +"Rab-yit. What are you going to give her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, must I give her something?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Mother said you'd forget it. I wanted to telephone, and +she wouldn't let me." +</P> + +<P> +"Would a doll do?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't like a doll. But she is littler. And you mustn't spend +much money. Mother said I spent too much for my rab-yit. That I ought +to save it for Our Men. And you mustn't eat what you yike—we've got a +card in the window, and there wasn't any bacon for bref-fus." +</P> + +<P> +"Breakfast." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. An' we had puffed rice and prunes—" +</P> + +<P> +Nurse, coming up, was immediately on the job. "You are getting mud on +Mr. Derry's spats, Teddy. Stand up like a little gentleman." +</P> + +<P> +"He is always that, Nurse, isn't he? And I should not have on spats at +this hour in the morning." +</P> + +<P> +Derry smiled to himself as he left them. He knew that Nurse did not +approve of him. He had a way as it were of aiding and abetting Teddy. +</P> + +<P> +But as he went on the smile faded. There were many soldiers on the +street, many uniforms, flags of many nations draping doorways where +were housed the men from across the sea who were working shoulder to +shoulder with America for the winning of the war—. Washington had +taken on a new aspect. It had a waked-up look, as if its lazy days +were over, and there were real things to do. +</P> + +<P> +The big church at the triangle showed a Red Cross banner. Within women +were making bandages, knitting sweaters and socks, sewing up the long +seams of shirts and pajamas. A few years ago they had worshipped a +Christ among the lilies. They saw him now on the battlefield, +crucified again in the cause of humanity. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Derry that even the civilians walked with something of a +martial stride. Men, who for years had felt their strength sapped by +the monotony of Government service, were revived by the winds of +patriotism which swept from the four corners of the earth. Women who +had lost youth and looks in the treadmill of Departmental life held up +their heads as if their eyes beheld a new vision. +</P> + +<P> +Street cars were crowded, things were at sixes and sevens; red tape was +loose where it should have been tight and tight where it should have +been loose. Little men with the rank of officer sat in swivel chairs +and tried to direct big things; big men, without rank, were tied to the +trivial. Many, many things were wrong, and many, many things were +right, as it is always when war comes upon a people unprepared. +</P> + +<P> +And in the midst of all this clash and crash and movement and +achievement, Derry was walking to a toy shop to carry a tea-cup! +</P> + +<P> +He found Miss Emily alone in the big front room. +</P> + +<P> +She did not at once recognize him. +</P> + +<P> +"You remember I was in here the other night—and you wouldn't sell—tin +soldiers—." +</P> + +<P> +She flushed a little. "Oh, with your father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He's a dear old chap—." +</P> + +<P> +It was the best apology he could make, and she loved him for it. +</P> + +<P> +He brought out the cup and set it on the counter. "It is like yours?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." But she did not want to take it. +</P> + +<P> +"Please. I brought it on purpose. We have a dozen." +</P> + +<P> +"Of these?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"But it will break your set." +</P> + +<P> +"We have oodles of sets. Dad collects—you know— There are dishes +enough in the house to start a crockery shop." +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at him curiously. It was hard to reconcile this slim young +man of fashion with the shabby boy of the other night. But there were +the lad's eyes, smiling into hers! +</P> + +<P> +"I should like, too, if you don't mind, to find a toy for a very little +girl. It is her birthday, and I had forgotten." +</P> + +<P> +"It is dreadful to forget," Miss Emily told him, "children care so +much." +</P> + +<P> +"I have never forgotten before, but I had so much on my mind." +</P> + +<P> +She brought forth the Lovely Dreams—"They have been a great success." +</P> + +<P> +He chose at once a rose-colored cat and a yellow owl. The cat was +carved impressionistically in a series of circles. She was altogether +celestial and comfortable. The owl might have been lighted by the moon. +</P> + +<P> +"But why?" Derry asked, "a rose-colored cat?" +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't a white cat pink and puffy in the firelight? And a child sees +her pink and puffy. If we don't it is because we are blind." +</P> + +<P> +"But why the green ducks and the amethyst cows?" +</P> + +<P> +"The cows are coming tinkling home in the twilight—the green ducks +swim under the willows. And they are longer and broader because of the +lights and shadows. That's the way you saw them when you were six." +</P> + +<P> +"By Jove," he said, staring, "I believe I did." +</P> + +<P> +"So there's nothing queer about them to the children—you ought to see +them listen when Jean tells them." +</P> + +<P> +Jean—! +</P> + +<P> +"She—she tells the children?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Charming stories. I am having them put in a little pamphlet to +go with the toys." +</P> + +<P> +"She's Dr. McKenzie's daughter, isn't she? I saw her last night at the +play." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Such a dear child. She is usually here in the afternoon." +</P> + +<P> +He had hoped until then that Jean might be hidden in that rear room, +locked up with the dolls in a drawer, tucked away in a box—he had a +blank feeling of the futility of his tea-cup— +</P> + +<P> +Then, suddenly, the gods being in a gay mood, Jean arrived! +</P> + +<P> +At once his errand justified itself. She wore a gray squirrel jacket +and a hat to match—and her crinkled copper-colored hair came out from +under the hat and over her ears. She carried a little muff. Her +eyes—the color of her cheeks! A man might walk to the world's end for +less than this—! +</P> + +<P> +He was buying, he told her, pink pussy cats and yellow owls. Had she +liked the play last night? He was glad that she adored Maude Adams. +He adored—Maude Adams. Did she remember "Peter Pan"? Yes, he had +gone to everything—glorified matinées—glorified everything! Wasn't +it remarkable that his father knew her father? And she was Jean +McKenzie, and he was Derry Drake! +</P> + +<P> +At last there was no excuse for him to linger. "I shall come back for +more—Lovely Dreams," he told Miss Emily, and got away. +</P> + +<P> +Alone in the shop the two women looked at each other. Then Emily said, +"Jean, darling, how dreadful it must be for him." +</P> + +<P> +"Dreadful—." +</P> + +<P> +"With such a father—." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you mean—the other night." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He isn't happy, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has lonesome eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he has, and it must be dreadful." +</P> + +<P> +How dreadful it was neither of them could really know. Derry, having +lunched with a rather important committee, went to Drusilla Gray's in +the afternoon for a cup of tea. He was called almost at once to the +telephone. Bronson was at the other end. "I am sorry, Mr. Derry, but +I thought you ought to know—" +</P> + +<P> +Derry, with the sick feeling which always came over him with the +knowledge of what was ahead, said steadily, "That's all right, +Bronson—which way did he go?" +</P> + +<P> +"He took the Cabin John car, sir. I tried to get on, but he saw me, +and sent me back, and I didn't like to make a scene. Shall I follow in +a taxi?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes; I'll get away as soon as I can and call you up out there." +</P> + +<P> +He went back to Drusilla. "Sing for me," he said. Drusilla Gray lived +with her Aunt Marion in an apartment winch overlooked Rock Creek. +Marion Gray occupied herself with the writing of books. Drusilla had +varying occupations. Just now she was interested in interior +decoration and in the war. +</P> + +<P> +She was also interested in trying to flirt with Derry Drake. "He won't +play the game," she told her aunt, "and that's why I like it—the game, +I mean." +</P> + +<P> +"You like him because he hasn't surrendered." +</P> + +<P> +"No. He is a rather perfect thing of his kind, like a bit of jewelled +Sèvres or <I>Sang de boeuf</I>. And he doesn't know it. And that's another +thing in his favor—his modesty. He makes me think of a little +Austrian prince I once met at Palm Beach; who wore a white satin shirt +with a high collar of gold embroidery, and white kid boots, and +wonderful rings—and his nails long like a Chinaman's. At first we +laughed at him—called him effeminate—. But after we knew him we +didn't laugh. There was the blood in him of kings and rulers—and +presently he had us on our knees. And Derry's like that. When you +first meet him you look over his head; then you find yourself looking +up—" +</P> + +<P> +Marion smiled. "You've got it bad, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +"If you think I am in love with him, I'm not. I'd like to be, but it +wouldn't be of any use. He's a Galahad—a pocket-edition Galahad. If +he ever falls in love, there'll be more of romance in it than I can +give him." +</P> + +<P> +It was to this Drusilla that Derry had come. He liked her immensely. +And they had in common a great love of music. +</P> + +<P> +She had tea for him, and some rather strange little spiced cakes on a +red lacquer tray. There was much dark blue and vivid red in the room, +with white woodwork. Drusilla herself was in unrelieved red. The +effect was startling but stimulating. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not sure that I like it," she said, "the red and white and blue, +but I wanted to see whether I could do it. And Aunt Marion doesn't +care. The red things can all be taken out, and the rest toned down. +But I have a feeling that a man couldn't sit in this room and be a +slacker." +</P> + +<P> +"No, he couldn't," Derry agreed. "You'd better hang out a recruiting +sign, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +"I should if they would let me. The best I can do is ask them to tea +and sing for them." +</P> + +<P> +It was right here that Bronson's message had broken in, and Derry, +coming back from the telephone, had said, "Sing for me." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla lighted two red candles on the piano in the alcove. She began +with a medley of patriotic songs. With her voice never soaring above a +repressed note, she managed to give the effect of culminating emotion, +so that when she reached a climax in the Marseillaise, Derry rose, +thrilled, to his feet. +</P> + +<P> +She whirled around and faced him. "They all do that," she said, with a +glowing air Of triumph. "It's when I get them." +</P> + +<P> +"Why did you give the Marseillaise last?" +</P> + +<P> +"It has the tramp in it of marching men—I love it." +</P> + +<P> +"But why not the 'Star Spangled Banner'?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's for sacred moments. I hate to make it common—but I'll sing +it—now—" +</P> + +<P> +Still standing, he listened. Drusilla held her voice to that low note, +but there was the crash of battle in the music that she made, the hush +of dawn, the cry of victory— +</P> + +<P> +"Dear girl, you are a genius." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I am not. But I can feel things—and I can make others feel—" +</P> + +<P> +She rose and went to the window. "There's a new moon," she said, "come +and see—" +</P> + +<P> +The curtains were not drawn, and the apartment was high up, so that +they looked out beyond the hills to a sky in which the daylight blue +had faded to a faint green, and saw the little moon and one star. +</P> + +<P> +"Derry," Drusilla said, softly. "Derry, why aren't you fighting?" +</P> + +<P> +It was the question he had dreaded. He had seen it often in her eyes, +but never before had she voiced it. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell you, Drusilla, but there's a reason—a good one. God +knows I would go if I could." +</P> + +<P> +The passion in his voice convinced her. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you know I'd be in it if I had my way. But I've got to stay on +the shelf like the tin soldier in the fairy tale. Do you remember, +Drusilla? And people keep asking me—why?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't have asked it, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"You couldn't know. And you had a right to ask—everybody has a +right—and I can't answer." +</P> + +<P> +She laid her hand on his shoulder. "When I was a little girl," she +said, softly, "I used to cry—because I was so sorry for the—tin +soldier—" +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sorry for me, Drusilla?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dreffly sorry." +</P> + +<P> +They stood in silence among the shadows, with only the red candles +burning. Then Derry said, heartily, "You are the best friend that a +fellow ever had, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +And that was as far as he would play the game! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE QUESTION +</H3> + + +<P> +Whatever else might be said of General Drake, his Bacchanalian +adventures were those of a gentleman. Not for him were the sinister +streets and the sordid taverns of the town. When his wild moods came +upon him, he struck out straight for open country. Up hill and down +dale he trudged, a knight of the road, finding shelter and refreshment +at wayside inns, or perchance at some friendly farm. +</P> + +<P> +The danger lay in the lawless folk whom he might meet on the way. +Unshaven and unshorn he met them, travelling endlessly along the +railroad tracks, by highways, through woodland paths. They slept by +day and journeyed by night. By reversing this program, the General as +a rule avoided them. But not always, and when the little lad Derry had +followed his strange quests, he had come now and then upon his father, +telling stories to an unsavory circle, lord for the moment of them all. +</P> + +<P> +"Come, Dad," Derry would say, and when the men had growled a threat, he +had flung defiance at them. "My mother's motor is up the road with two +men in it. If I don't get back in five minutes they will follow me." +</P> + +<P> +The General had always been tractable in the hands of his son. He +adored him. It was only of late that he had found anything to +criticise. +</P> + +<P> +Derry, driving along the old Conduit road in the crisp darkness, +wondered how long that restless spirit would endure in that ageing +body. He shuddered as he thought of the two men who were his +father—one a polished gentleman ruling his world, by the power of his +keen mind and of his money, the other a self-made vagabond—pursuing an +aimless course. +</P> + +<P> +The stars were sharp in a sable sky, the river was a thin line of +silver, the bills were blotted out. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson was waiting by the big bridge. "He is singing down there," he +said, "on the bank. Can you hear him?" +</P> + +<P> +Leaning over the parapet, Derry listened. The quavering voice came up +to him. +</P> + +<P> +"_He has sounded forth the—trumpet—that shall never call—retreat—<BR> +He is sifting out the—hearts of men—before his judgment—<BR> +Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him! Be jubilant, my feet—'_"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Poor old soldier, beating time to the triumphant tune, stumbling over +the words—held pathetically to the memory of those days when he had +marched in the glory of his youth, strength and spirit given to a +mighty cause! +</P> + +<P> +The pity of it wrung Derry's heart. "Couldn't you do anything with +him, Bronson?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir, I tried, but he sent me home. Told me I was discharged." +</P> + +<P> +They might have laughed over that, but it was not the moment for +laughter. In the last twenty years, the General had discharged Bronson +more than once, always without the least idea of being taken at his +word. To have lost this faithful servant would have broken his heart. +</P> + +<P> +"I see. It won't do for you to show yourself just now. You'd better +go home, and have his hot bath ready." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you sure you can bring him, Mr. Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure, Bronson, thank you." +</P> + +<P> +Bronson walked a few steps and came back. "It is freezing cold, sir, +you'd better take the rug from the car." +</P> + +<P> +Laden thus, Derry made his way down. His flashlight revealed the +General, a humped-up figure on the bank of a little frozen stream. +</P> + +<P> +"Go home, Derry," he said, as he recognized his son. "I want to sit by +myself." +</P> + +<P> +His tone was truculent. +</P> + +<P> +Derry attempted lightness. "You'll be a lump of ice in the morning, +Dad. We'd have to chip you off in chunks." +</P> + +<P> +"You go home with Bronson, son, He is up there. Go home—" +</P> + +<P> +He had once commanded a brigade. There were moments when he was hard +pushed that he remembered it. +</P> + +<P> +"Go home, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"Not till you come with me." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not coming." +</P> + +<P> +Derry spread his rug on the icy ground. "Sit on this and wrap up your +legs—you'll freeze out here." +</P> + +<P> +His father did not move. "I am puf-feckly comfa'ble." +</P> + +<P> +The General rarely got his syllables tangled. Things at times happened +to his legs, but he usually controlled his tongue. +</P> + +<P> +"I am puf-feckly comfa'ble—go home, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't leave you, Dad." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to be left." +</P> + +<P> +He had never been quite like this. There had been moods of rebellion, +but usually he had yielded himself to his son's guidance. +</P> + +<P> +"Dad, be reasonable." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather sit here and freeze—than go home with a—coward." +</P> + +<P> +It was out at last. It struck Derry like a whiplash. He sprang to his +feet. "You don't mean that, Dad. You can't mean it." +</P> + +<P> +"I do mean it." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not a coward, and you know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why don't you go and fight?" +</P> + +<P> +Silence! The only sound the chuckle of living waters beneath the ice +of the little stream. +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you go and fight like other men?" +</P> + +<P> +The emphasis was insulting. Derry had only one idea—to escape from +that taunting voice. "You'll be sorry for this, Dad," he flung out at +white heat, and scrambled up the bank. +</P> + +<P> +When he reached the bridge, he paused. He couldn't leave that old man +down there to die of the cold—the wind was rising and rattled in the +bare trees. +</P> + +<P> +But Derry's blood was boiling. He sat down on the parapet, thick +blackness all about him. Whatever had been his father's shortcomings, +they had always clung together—and now they were separated by words +which had cut like a knife. It was useless to tell himself that his +father was not responsible. Out of the heart the mouth had spoken. +</P> + +<P> +And there were other people who felt as his father did—there had been +Drusilla's questions, the questions of others—there had been, too, +averted faces. He saw the little figure in the cloak of heavenly blue +as she had been the other night,—in her gray furs as she had been this +morning—; would her face, too, be turned from him? +</P> + +<P> +Words formed themselves in his mind. He yearned to toss back at his +father the taunt that was on his lips. To fling it over the parapet, +to shout it to the world—! +</P> + +<P> +He had never before felt the care of his father a sacrifice. There had +been humiliating moments, hard moments, but always he had been +sustained by a sense of the rightness of the thing that he was doing +and of its necessity. +</P> + +<P> +Then, out of the darkness, came a shivering old voice, "Derry, are you +there?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Dad." +</P> + +<P> +"Come down—and help me—" +</P> + +<P> +The General, alone in the darkness, had suffered a reaction. He felt +chilled and depressed. He wanted warmth and light. +</P> + +<P> +Mounting steadily with his son's arm to sustain him, he argued +garrulously for a sojourn at the nearest hostelry, or for a stop at +Chevy Chase. He would, he promised, go to bed at the Club, and thus be +rid of Bronson. Bronson didn't know his place, he would have to be +taught— +</P> + +<P> +Arriving at the top, he was led to Derry's car. He insisted on an +understanding. If he got in, they were to stop at the Club. +</P> + +<P> +"No," Derry said, "we won't stop. We are going home." +</P> + +<P> +Derry had never commanded a brigade. But he had in him the blood of +one who had. He possessed also strength and determination backed at +the moment by righteous indignation. He lifted his father bodily, put +him in the car, took his seat beside him, shut the door, and drove off. +He felt remarkably cheered as they whirled along at top speed. +</P> + +<P> +The General, yielding gracefully to the inevitable, rolled himself up +in the rugs, dropped his head against the padded cushions and, soothed +by the warmth, fell asleep. +</P> + +<P> +He waked to find himself being guided up his own stairway by Bronson +and the butler. +</P> + +<P> +"Put him into a hot bath, Bronson," Derry directed from the threshold +of his father's room, and, the General, quite surprisingly, made no +protest. He had his bath, hot drinks to follow, and hot water bags in +his bed. When he drifted off finally, into uneasy dreams, he was +watched over by Bronson as if he had been a baby. +</P> + +<P> +Derry, looking at his watch, was amazed to find that the evening was +yet early. He had lived emotionally through a much longer period than +that marked by the clocks. +</P> + +<P> +He had no engagements. He had found himself of late shrinking a little +from his kind. The clubs and the hotels were crowded with officers. +Private houses, hung with service flags, paid homage to men in uniform. +He was aware that he was, perhaps, unduly sensitive, but it was not +pleasant to meet the inquiring glance, the guarded question. He was +welcomed outwardly as of old. But, then, he had a great deal of money. +People did not like to offend his father's son. But if he had not been +his father's son? What then? +</P> + +<P> +He dined alone and in state in the great dining room. The portraits of +his ancestors looked down on him. There was his mother's grandfather, +who had the same fair hair and strongly marked brows. He had been an +officer in the English army, and wore the picturesque uniform of the +period. There were other men in uniform—ancestors—. +</P> + +<P> +But of what earthly use was an ancestor in uniform to the present +situation? It would have been better to have inherited Quaker blood. +Derry smiled whimsically as he thought how different he might have felt +if there had been benignant men in gray with broad-brimmed hats, +staring down. +</P> + +<P> +But to grant a man an inheritance of fighting blood, and then deny him +the opportunity to exercise his birthright, was a sort of grim joke +which he could not appreciate. +</P> + +<P> +For dessert a great dish of fruit was set before him. He chose a peach! +</P> + +<P> +Peaches in November! The men in the trenches had no peaches, no +squabs, no mushrooms, no avacados—for them bully beef and soup cubes, +a handful of dates, or by good luck a bit of chocolate. +</P> + +<P> +He left the peach untasted—he had a feeling that he might thus, +vicariously, atone for the hardships of those others who fought. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner he walked downtown. Passing Dr. McKenzie's house he was +constrained to loiter. There were lights upstairs and down. Was Jean +McKenzie's room behind the two golden windows above the balcony? Was +she there, or in the room below, where shaded lamps shone softly among +the shadows? +</P> + +<P> +He yearned to go in—to speak with her—to learn her thoughts—to read +her heart and mind. As yet he knew only the message of her beauty. He +fancied her as having exquisite sensibility, sweetness, gentleness, +perceptions as vivid as her youth and bloom. +</P> + +<P> +The front door opened, and Jean and her father came out. Derry's heart +leaped as he heard her laugh. Then her clear voice, "Isn't it a +wonderful night to walk, Daddy?" and her father's response, "Oh, you +with your ecstasies!" +</P> + +<P> +They went briskly down the other side of the street. Derry found +himself following, found himself straining his ear for that light +laugh, found himself wishing that it were he who walked beside her, +that her hand was tucked into his arm as it was tucked into her +father's. +</P> + +<P> +Their destination was a brilliantly illumined palace on F Street, once +a choice little playhouse, now given over to screen productions. The +house was packed, and Jean and her father, following the flashlight of +the usher, found harbor finally in a box to the left of the stage. +Derry settled himself behind them. He was an eavesdropper and he knew +it, but he was loath to get out of the range of that lovely laughter. +</P> + +<P> +Yet observing the closeness of their companionship he felt himself +lonely—they seemed so satisfied to be together—so sufficient without +any other. Once Dr. McKenzie got up and went out. When he came back +he brought a box of candy. Derry heard Jean's "Oh, you darling—" and +thrilled with a touch of jealousy. +</P> + +<P> +He wondered a little that he should care—his experiences with women +had heretofore formed gay incidents in his life rather than serious +epochs. He had carried in his heart a vision, and the girl in the Toy +Shop had seemed to make that vision suddenly real. +</P> + +<P> +The play which was thrown on the screen had to do with France; with +Joan of Arc and the lover who failed her, with the reincarnation of the +lover and his opportunity, after long years, to redeem himself from the +blot of cowardice. +</P> + +<P> +In the stillness, Derry heard the quick-drawn breath of the girl in +front of him. "Daddy, I should hate a man like that." +</P> + +<P> +"But, my dear—" +</P> + +<P> +"I should hate him, Daddy." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The play was over. +</P> + +<P> +The lights went up, and Jean stood revealed. She was pinning on her +hat. She saw Derry and smiled at him. "Daddy," she said, "it is Mr. +Drake—you know him." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie held out his hand. "How do you do? So you young people +have met, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"In Emily's shop, Daddy. He—he came to buy my Lovely Dreams." +</P> + +<P> +The two men laughed. "As if any man could buy your dreams, Jeanie," +her father said, "it would take the wealth of the world." +</P> + +<P> +"Or no wealth at all," said Derry quickly. +</P> + +<P> +They walked out together. As they passed the portal of the gilded +door, Derry felt that the moment of parting had come. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, look here, Doctor," he said, desperately, "won't you and your +daughter take pity on me—and join me at supper? There's dancing at +the Willard and all that—Miss McKenzie might enjoy it, and it would be +a life-saver for me." +</P> + +<P> +Light leaped into Jean's eyes. "Oh, Daddy—" +</P> + +<P> +"Would you like it, dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know I should. So would you. And you haven't any stupid +patients, have you?" +</P> + +<P> +"My patients are always stupid, Drake, when they take me away from her. +Otherwise she is sorry for them." He looked at his watch. "When I get +to the hotel I'll telephone to Hilda, and she'll know where to find us." +</P> + +<P> +It was the Doctor who talked as they went along—the two young people +were quite ecstatically silent. Jean was between her father and Derry. +As he kept step with her, it seemed to him that no woman had ever +walked so lightly; she laughed a little now and then. There was no +need for words. +</P> + +<P> +While her father telephoned, they sat together for a moment in the +corridor. She unfastened her coat, and he saw her white dress and +pearls. "Am I fine enough for an evening like this?" she asked him; +"you see it is just the dress I wear at home." +</P> + +<P> +"It seems to me quite a superlative frock—and I am glad that your hat +is lined with blue." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your cloak last night was heavenly, and now this—it matches your +eyes—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh." She sat very still. +</P> + +<P> +"Shouldn't I have said that? I didn't think—" +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad you didn't think—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I hate people who weigh their words—" The color came up finely +into her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +When Dr. McKenzie returned, Derry found a table, and gave his order. +</P> + +<P> +Jean refused to consider anything but an ice. "She doesn't eat at such +moments," Doctor McKenzie told his young host. "She lives on +star-dust, and she wants me to live on star-dust. It is our only +quarrel. She'll think me sordid because I am going to have broiled +lobster." +</P> + +<P> +Derry laughed, yet felt that it was after all a serious matter. His +appetite, too, was gone. He too wanted only an ice! The Doctor's +order was, however, sufficiently substantial to establish a balance. +</P> + +<P> +"May I dance with her?" Derry asked, as the music brought the couples +to their feet. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't usually let her. Not in a place like this. But her eyes are +begging—and I spoil her, Drake." +</P> + +<P> +Curious glances followed the progress of the young millionaire and his +pretty partner. But Derry saw nothing but Jean. She was like +thistledown in his arms, she was saying tremendously interesting things +to him, in her lovely voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I cried all through the scene where Cinderella sits on the door-step. +Yet it really wasn't so very sad—was it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think it was sad. She was such a little starved thing—starved for +love." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. It must be dreadful to be starved for love." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced down at her. "You have never felt it?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, except after my mother died—I wanted her—" +</P> + +<P> +"My mother is dead, too." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor sat alone at the head of the table and ate his lobster; he +ate war bread and a green salad, and drank a pot of black coffee, and +was at peace with the world. Star-dust was all very well for those +young things out there. He laughed as they came back to him. "Each to +his own joys—the lobster was very good, Drake." +</P> + +<P> +They hardly heard him. Jean had a rosy parfait with a strawberry on +top. Derry had another. +</P> + +<P> +They talked of the screen play, and the man who had failed. If he had +really loved her he would not have failed, Jean said. +</P> + +<P> +"I think he loved her," was Derry's opinion; "the spirit was willing, +but the flesh was weak." +</P> + +<P> +Jean shrugged. "Well, Fate was kind to him—to give him another +chance. Oh, Daddy, tell him the story the little French woman told at +the meeting of the Medical Association." +</P> + +<P> +"You should have heard her tell it—but I'll do my best. Her eloquence +brought us to our feet. It was when she was in Paris—just after the +American forces arrived. She stopped at the curb one morning to buy +violets of an ancient dame. She found the old flower vendor +inattentive and, looking for the cause, she saw across the street a +young American trooper loitering at a corner. Suddenly the old woman +snatched up a bunch of lilies, ran across the street, thrust them into +the hands of the astonished soldier. 'Take them, American,' she said. +'Take the lilies of France and plant them in Berlin.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't that wonderful?" Jean breathed. +</P> + +<P> +"Everything is wonderful to her," the Doctor told Derry, "she lives on +the heights." +</P> + +<P> +"But the lilies of France, Daddy—! Can't you see our men and the +lilies of France?" +</P> + +<P> +Derry saw them, indeed,—a glorious company—! +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, if I were a man," Jean said, and stopped. She stole a timid +glance at him. The question that he had dreaded was in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +They fell into silence. Jean finished her parfait. Derry's was +untouched. +</P> + +<P> +Then the music brought them again to their feet, and they danced. The +Doctor smoked alone. Back of him somebody murmured, "It is Derry +Drake." +</P> + +<P> +"Confounded slacker," said a masculine voice. Then came a warning +"Hush," as Derry and Jean returned. +</P> + +<P> +"It is snowing," Derry told the Doctor. "I have ordered my car." +</P> + +<P> +Late that night when the Doctor rode forth again alone in his own car +on an errand of mercy, he thought of the thing which he had heard. +Then came the inevitable question: why wasn't Derry Drake fighting? +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER V +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SLACKER +</H3> + + +<P> +It was at the Witherspoon dinner that Jean McKenzie first heard the +things that were being said about Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't understand," someone had remarked, "why Derry Drake is staying +out of it." +</P> + +<P> +"I fancy he'll be getting in," Ralph Witherspoon had said. "Derry's no +slacker." +</P> + +<P> +Ralph could afford to be generous. He was in the Naval Flying Corps. +He looked extremely well in his Ensign's uniform, and he knew it; he +was hoping, in the spring, for active service on the other side. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see why Derry should fight. I don't see why any man should. +I never did believe in getting into other people's fusses." +</P> + +<P> +It was Alma Drew who said that. Nobody took Alma very seriously. She +was too pretty with her shining hair and her sea-green eyes, and her +way of claiming admiration. +</P> + +<P> +Jean had recognised her when she first came in as the girl she had seen +descending from her motor car with Derry Drake on the night of the +Secretary's dinner. Alma again wore the diamond-encrusted comb. She +was in sea-green, which matched her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"If I were a man," Alma pursued, "I should run away." +</P> + +<P> +There was a rustle of uneasiness about the table. In the morning +papers had been news of Italy—disturbing news; news from +Russia—Kerensky had fled to Moscow—there had been pictures of our men +in gas masks! It wasn't a thing to joke about. Even Alma might go too +far. +</P> + +<P> +Ralph relieved the situation. "Oh, no, you wouldn't run away," he +said; "you don't do yourself justice, Alma. Before you know it you +will be driving a car over there, and picking me up when I fall from +the skies." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, that would be—compensation—." Alma's lashes flashed up and +fluttered down. +</P> + +<P> +But she turned her batteries on Ralph in vain. Jean McKenzie was on +the other side of him. It would never be quite clear to him why he +loved Jean. She was neither very beautiful nor very brilliant. But +there was a dearness about her. He hardly dared think of it. It had +gone very deep with him. +</P> + +<P> +He turned to her. Her eyes were blazing. "Oh," she said, under her +breath, "how can she say things like that? If I knew a man who would +run away, I'd never speak to him." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. That's why I fell in love with you—because you had red +blood in your veins." +</P> + +<P> +It was the literal truth. The first time that Ralph had seen Jean +McKenzie, he had been riding in Rock Creek Park. She, too, was on +horseback. It was in April. War had just been declared, and there was +great excitement. Jean, taking the bridle path over the hills, had +come upon a band of workers. A long-haired and seditious orator was +talking to them. Jean had stopped her horse to listen, and before she +knew it she was answering the arguments of the speaker. Rising a +little in her stirrups, her riding-crop uplifted to emphasize her +burning words, her cheeks on fire, her eyes shining, her hair blowing +under her three-cornered hat, she had clearly and crisply challenged +the patriotism of the speaker, and she had presented to Ralph's +appreciative eyes a picture which he was never to forget. +</P> + +<P> +She had not been in the least embarrassed by his arrival, and his +uniform had made him seem at once her ally. "I am sure this gentleman +will be glad to talk to you," she had said to her little audience. +"I'll leave the field to him," and with a nod and a smile she had +ridden off, the applause of the men following her. +</P> + +<P> +Ralph, having put the long-haired one to rout, had asked the men if +they knew the young lady who had talked to them. They had, it seemed, +seen her riding with Dr. McKenzie. They thought she was his daughter. +It had been easy enough after that to find Jean on his mother's +visiting list. Mrs. Witherspoon and Mrs. McKenzie had exchanged calls +during the life-time of the latter, but they had lived in different +circles. Mrs. Witherspoon had aspired to smartness and to the +friendship of the new people who brought an air of sophistication to +the staid and sedate old capital. Mrs. McKenzie had held to old +associations and to old ideals. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Witherspoon was a widow and charming. Dr. McKenzie was a widower +and an addition to any dinner table. In a few weeks the old +acquaintance had been renewed. Ralph had wooed Jean ardently during +the short furloughs which had been granted him, and from long distance +had written a bit cocksurely. He had sent flowers, candy, books and +then, quite daringly; a silver trench ring. +</P> + +<P> +Jean had sent the ring back. "It was dear of you to give it to me, but +I can't keep it." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" he had asked when he next saw her. +</P> + +<P> +"Because—" +</P> + +<P> +"Because is no reason." +</P> + +<P> +She had blushed, but stood firm. She was very shy—totally +unawakened—a little dreaming girl—with all of real life ahead of +her—with her innocence a white flower, her patriotism a red one. If +only he might wear that white and red above his heart. +</P> + +<P> +As a matter of fact, Jean resented, sub-consciously, his air of +possession, the certainty with which he seemed to see the end of his +wooing. +</P> + +<P> +"You can't escape me," he had told her. +</P> + +<P> +"As if I were a rabbit," she had complained afterwards to her father. +"When I marry a man I don't want to be caught—I want to run to him, +with my arms wide open." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't," her father advised; "not many men would be able to stand it. +Let them worship you, Jeanie, don't worship." +</P> + +<P> +Jean stuck her nose in the air. "Falling in love doesn't come the way +you want it. You have to take it as the good Lord sends it." +</P> + +<P> +"Who told you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Emily—" +</P> + +<P> +"What does Emily know of love?" +</P> + +<P> +He had laughed and patted her hand. He was cynical generally about +romance. He felt that his own perfect love affair with his wife had +been the exception. He looked upon Emily as a sentimental spinster who +knew practically nothing of men and women. +</P> + +<P> +He did not realize that Emily knew a great deal about dolls that +laughed and cried when you pulled a string. And that the world in +Emily's Toy Shop was not so very different from his own. +</P> + +<P> +Alma, having turned a cold shoulder to Ralph, was still proclaiming her +opinion of Derry Drake to the rest of the table. "He is rich and young +and he doesn't want to die—" +</P> + +<P> +"There are plenty of rich young men dying, Alma," said Mrs. +Witherspoon, "and it is probably as easy for them as for the poor +ones—" +</P> + +<P> +"The poor ones won't mind being muddy and dirty in the trenches," said +Alma, "but I can't fancy Derry Drake without two baths a day—" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't quite fancy him a slacker." There was a hint of satisfaction +in Mrs. Witherspoon's voice. Her son and Derry Drake had gone to +school together and to college. Derry had outdistanced Ralph in every +way; but now it was Ralph who was leaving Derry far behind. +</P> + +<P> +Jean wished that they would stop talking. She felt as she might had +she seen a soldier stripped of sword and stripes and shamed in the eyes +of his fellows. +</P> + +<P> +"Wasn't he in the draft?" she asked Ralph. +</P> + +<P> +"Too old. He doesn't look it, does he? It's a bit hard for the rest +of us fellows to understand why he keeps out—" +</P> + +<P> +"Doesn't he ever try to—explain?" +</P> + +<P> +Ralph shook his head. "Not a word. And he's beginning to stay away +from things. You see, he knows that people are asking questions, and +you hear what they are calling him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," said Jean, "a coward." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, not exactly that—" +</P> + +<P> +"There isn't much difference, is there?" +</P> + +<P> +And now Alma's cool voice summed up the situation. "A man with as much +money as that doesn't have to be brave. What does he care about public +opinion? After the war everybody will forgive and forget." +</P> + +<P> +Coolly she challenged them to contradict her. "You all know it. How +many of you would dare cut the fellow who will inherit his father's +millions?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Witherspoon tried to laugh it off; but it was true, and Alma was +right. They might talk about Derry Drake behind his back, but they'd +never omit sending a card to him. +</P> + +<P> +Jean ate her duckling in flaming silence, ate her salad, ate her ice, +drank her coffee, and was glad when the meal ended. +</P> + +<P> +The war from the beginning had been for her a sacred cause. She had +yearned to be a man that she might stand in the forefront of battle. +She had envied the women of Russia who had formed a Battalion of Death. +Her father had laughed at her. "You'd be like a white kitten in a dog +fight." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed intolerable that tongues should be busy with this talk of +young Drake's cowardice. He had seemed something so much more than +that. And he was a man—with a man's right to leadership. What was +the matter with him? +</P> + +<P> +The night before she had slept little—Derry's voice—Derry's eyes! +She had gone over every word that he had said. She had risen early in +the morning to write in her memory book, and she had drawn a most +entrancing border about the page, with melting strawberry ice, lilies +of France, Cinderella slippers, and red-ink lobsters, rather +nightmarishly intermingled! +</P> + +<P> +He had seemed so fine—so—she fell back on her much overworked word +<I>wonderful</I>—her heart had run to meet him, and now—it would have to +run back again. How silly she had been not to see. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner they danced in the Long Room, which was rather famous from +a decorative point of view. It was medieval in effect, with a balcony +and tapestries, and some precious bits of armor. There was a lion-skin +flung over the great chair where Mrs. Witherspoon was enthroned. +</P> + +<P> +Between dances, Jean and Ralph sat on the balcony steps, and talked of +many things which brought the red to Jean's cheeks, and a troubled +light into her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +And it was from the balcony-steps that, as the evening waned, she saw +Derry Drake standing in the great arched doorway. +</P> + +<P> +There was a black velvet curtain behind him which accentuated his +fairness. He did not look nineteen. Jean had a fleeting vision of a +certain steel engraving of the "Princes in the Tower" which had hung in +her grandmother's house. Derry was not in the least like those lovely +imprisoned boys, yet she had an overwhelming sense of his kinship to +them. +</P> + +<P> +As young Drake's eyes swept the room, he was aware of Jean on the +balcony steps. She was in white and silver, with a touch of that +heavenly blue which seemed to belong to her. Her crinkled hair was +combed quaintly over her ears and back from her forehead. He smiled at +her, but she apparently did not see him. +</P> + +<P> +He made his way to Mrs. Witherspoon. "I was so sorry to get here late. +But my other engagements kept me. If I could have dined at two places, +you should have had at least a half of me." +</P> + +<P> +"We wanted the whole. You know Dr. McKenzie, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +The two men shook hands. "May I dance with your daughter?" Derry said, +smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. She is up there on the stairs." +</P> + +<P> +Jean saw him coming. Ever since Derry had stood in the door she had +been trying to make up her mind how she would treat him when he came. +Somebody ought to show him that his millions didn't count. She hadn't +thought of his millions last night. If he had been just the shabby boy +of the Toy Shop, she would have liked his eyes just as much, and his +voice! +</P> + +<P> +But a slacker was a slacker! A coward was a coward! All the money in +the world couldn't take away the stain. A man who wouldn't fight at +this moment for the freedom of the world was a renegade! She would +have none of him. +</P> + +<P> +He came on smiling. "Hello, Ralph. Miss McKenzie, your father says +you may dance with me—I hope you have something left?" +</P> + +<P> +The blood sang in her ears, her cheeks burned. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't anything left—for you—" The emphasis was unmistakable. +</P> + +<A NAME="img-074"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-074.jpg" ALT=""I haven't anything left for you."" BORDER="2" WIDTH="388" HEIGHT="584"> +<H4> +[Illustration: "I haven't anything left for you."] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Even then he did not grasp what had happened to him. "Ralph will let +me have one of his—be a good sport, Ralph." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I like that," Ralph began. Then Jean's crisp voice stopped him. +"I am not going to dance any more—my head aches. I—I shall ask Daddy +to take me—home—" +</P> + +<P> +It was all very young and obvious. Derry gave her a puzzled stare. +Ralph protested. "Oh, look here, Jean. If you think you aren't going +to dance any more with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm not. I am going home. Please take me down to Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed a long time before the blurred good-byes were said, and Jean +was alone with her father in the cozy comfort of the closed car. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you love me, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"My darling, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"May I live with you always—to the end of my days?" +</P> + +<P> +He chuckled. "So that was it? Poor Ralph!" +</P> + +<P> +"You know you are not sorry for him, Daddy. Don't be a hypocrite." +</P> + +<P> +He drew her close to him. "I should be sorry for myself if he took you +from me." +</P> + +<P> +She clung to him. "He is not going to take me away." +</P> + +<P> +"Was that what you were telling him on the balcony stairs?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And he said I was too young to know my own mind. That I was a +sleeping Princess—and some day he would wake me—up—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh." +</P> + +<P> +"And he is not the Prince, Daddy. There isn't any Prince." +</P> + +<P> +She had shut resolutely away from her the vision of Derry Drake as she +had seen him on the night of Cinderella. She would have no +white-feathered knight! Princes were brave and rode to battle! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE PROMISE +</H3> + + +<P> +It was Alma who gave Derry Drake the key to Jean's conduct. +</P> + +<P> +"Did your ears burn?" she asked, as they danced together after Jean and +her father had gone. +</P> + +<P> +"When?" +</P> + +<P> +"We were talking about you at dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you said nice things." +</P> + +<P> +"I did, of course." Her lashes flashed up and fluttered down as they +had flashed and fluttered for Ralph. Every man was for Alma a possible +conquest. Derry was big game, and as yet her little darts had not +pierced him. She still hoped, however. "I did, but the rest didn't." +</P> + +<P> +He shrank from the things which she might tell him. "What did they +say?" His voice caught. +</P> + +<P> +"I shan't tell you. But it was about the war, and your not fighting. +As if it made any difference. You are as brave as any of them." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced down at her with somber eyes. Quite unreasonably he hated +her for her defense of him. If all women defended men who wouldn't +fight, what kind of a world would it be? Women who were worth anything +girded their men for battle. +</P> + +<P> +He knew now the reason for Jean's high head and burning cheeks, and in +spite of his sense of agonizing humiliation, he was glad to think of +that high-held head. +</P> + +<P> +For such women, for such women men died! +</P> + +<P> +But not for women like Alma Drew! +</P> + +<P> +He got away from her as soon as possible. He got away from them all. +He had a morbid sense of whispering voices and of averted glances. He +fancied that Mrs. Witherspoon touched his hand coldly as he bade her +"good-night." +</P> + +<P> +Well, he would not come again until he could meet their eyes. +</P> + +<P> +It was a perfectly clear night, and he walked home. With his face +turned up to the stars, he told himself that the situation was +intolerable—tomorrow morning, he would go to his father. +</P> + +<P> +When he reached home, his father was asleep. Derry looked in on him +and found Bronson sitting erect and wide-eyed beside a night lamp which +threw the rest of the room into a sort of golden darkness. The General +was in a great lacquered bed which he had brought with him years ago +from China. Gilded dragons guarded it and princes had slept in it. +Heavy breathing came from the bed. +</P> + +<P> +"I think he has caught cold, sir," Bronson whispered. "I'm a bit +afraid of bronchitis." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's voice lacked sympathy. "I shouldn't worry, Bronson. He +usually comes around all right." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. I hope so, sir," and Bronson's spare figure rose to a +portentous shadow, as he preceded Derry to the door. +</P> + +<P> +On the threshold he said, "Dr. Richards has gone to the front. Shall I +call Dr. McKenzie if we need someone—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Has he been left in charge?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +Derry stood for a moment undecided. "I suppose there's no reason why +you shouldn't call McKenzie. Do as you think best, Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +On his way to his own room, Derry paused for a moment at the head of +the great stairway. His mother's picture hung on the landing. The +dress in which she was painted had been worn to a dinner at the White +House during the first Cleveland Administration. It was of white +brocade, with its ostrich feather trimming making it a rather regal +robe. It had tight sleeves, and the neck was square. Around her +throat was a wide collar of pearls with diamond slides. Her fair hair +was combed back in the low pompadour of the period, and there were +round flat curls on her temples. The picture was old-fashioned, but +the painted woman was exquisite, as she had always been, as she would +always be in Derry's dreams. +</P> + +<P> +The great house had given to the General's wife her proper setting. +She had trailed her satins and silks up and down the marble stairway. +Her slender hands, heavy with their rings, had rested on its +balustrade, its mirrors had reflected the diamond tiara with which the +General had crowned her. In the vast drawing room, the gold and jade +and ivory treasures in the cabinets had seemed none too fine for this +greatest treasure of them all. In the dining room the priceless +porcelains had been cheapened by her greater worth. The General had +travelled far and wide, and he had brought the wealth of the world to +lay at the feet of his young wife. He adored her and he adored her son. +</P> + +<P> +"It is just you and me, Derry," the old man had said in the first +moment of bereavement; "we've got to stick it out together—" +</P> + +<P> +And they had stuck it out until the war had come, and patriotism had +flared, and the staunch old soldier had spurned this—changeling. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Derry that if his mother could only step down from the +picture she might make things right for him. But she would not step +down. She would go on smiling her gentle painted smile as if nothing +really mattered in the whole wide world. +</P> + +<P> +Thus, with his father asleep in the lacquered bed, and his mother +smiling in her gilded frame, the son stood alone in the great shell of +a house which had in it no beating heart, no throbbing soul to answer +his need. +</P> + +<P> +Derry's rooms were furnished in a lower key than those in which his +father's taste had been followed. There were gray rugs and gray walls, +some old mahogany, the snuff-box picture of Napoleon over his desk, a +dog-basket of brown wicker in a corner. +</P> + +<P> +Muffin, Derry's Airedale, stood at attention as his master came in. He +knew that the length of his sojourn depended on his manners. +</P> + +<P> +A bright fire was burning, a long chair slanted across the hearthrug. +Derry got into a gray dressing gown and threw himself into the chair. +Muffin, with a solicitous sigh, sat tentatively on his haunches. His +master had had no word for him. Things were very bad indeed, when +Derry had no word for his dog. +</P> + +<P> +At last it came. "Muffin—it's a rotten old world." +</P> + +<P> +Muffin's tail beat the rug. His eager eyes asked for more. +</P> + +<P> +It came—"Rotten." +</P> + +<P> +Derry made room among the pillows, and Muffin curled up beside him in +rapturous silence. The fire snapped and flared, flickered and died. +Bronson tiptoed in to ask if Derry wanted him. Young Martin, who +valeted Derry when Bronson would let him, followed with more proffers +of assistance. +</P> + +<P> +Derry sent them both away. "I am going to bed." +</P> + +<P> +But he did not go to bed. He read a letter which his mother had +written before she died. He had never broken the seal until now. For +on the outside of the envelope were these words in fine feminine +script: "Not to be opened until the time comes when my boy Derry is +tempted to break his promise." +</P> + +<P> +It began, "Boy dear—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I wonder if I shall make you understand what it is so necessary that +you should understand? It has been so hard all of these years when +your clear little lad's eyes have looked into mine to feel that some +day you might blame—me. Youth is so uncompromising, Derry, dear—and +so logical—so demanding of—justice. And life isn't logical—or +just—not with the sharp-edged justice which gives cakes to the good +little boys and switches to the bad ones. And you have always insisted +on the cakes and switches, Derry, and that's why I am afraid of you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Even when you were only ten and I hugged you close in the night—those +nights when we were alone, Derry, and your father was out on some wild +road under the moonlight, or perhaps with the snow shutting out the +moon, you used to whisper, 'But he oughtn't to do it, Mother—' And I +knew that he ought not, but, oh, Derry, I loved him, and do you +remember, I used to say, 'But he's so good to us, Laddie,—and perhaps +we can love him enough to make him stop.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"But you are a man now, Derry. I am sure you will be a man before you +read this, for my little boy will obey me until he comes to man's +estate, and then he may say 'She was only a foolish loving woman, and +why should I be bound?' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I know when that moment comes that all your father's money will not +hold you. You will not sell your soul's honor for your inheritance. +Haven't I known it all along? Haven't I seen you a little shining +knight ready to do battle for your ideals? And haven't I seen the +clash of those ideals with the reality of your father's fault? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Well, there's this to think of now, Derry, now that you are a +man—that life isn't white and black, it isn't sheep and goats—it +isn't just good people and bad people with a great wall between. Life +is gray and amethyst, it is a touch of dinginess on the fleece of the +whole flock, and the men and women whom you meet will be those whose +great faults are balanced by great virtues and whose little meannesses +are contradicted by unexpected generosities. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am putting it this way because I want you to realize that except for +the one fault which has shadowed your father's life, there is no flaw +in him. Other men have gone through the world apparently untouched by +any temptation, but their families could tell you the story of a +thousand tyrannies, their clerks could tell you of selfishness and +hardness, their churches and benevolent societies could tell you of +their lack of charity. Oh, there are plenty of good men in the world, +Derry, strong and fine and big, I want you to believe that always, but +I want you to believe, too, that there are men who struggle continually +with temptation and seem to fail, but they fight with an enemy so +formidable that I, who have seen the struggle, have shut my +eyes—afraid to look—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And now I shall go back to the very beginning, and tell you how it all +happened. Your father was only a boy when the Civil War broke out. He +came down from Massachusetts with a regiment which had in it the blood +of the farmers who fired the shot heard round the world—. He felt +that he was fighting for Freedom—he had all of your ideals, Derry; +plus, perhaps, a few of his own. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"You know how the war dragged, four years of it—and much of the time +that Massachusetts regiment was in swamp and field, on the edge of +fever-breeding streams, never very well fed, cold in winter, hot in +summer. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"They were given for medicine quinine and—whiskey. It kept them +alive. Sometimes it kept them warm, sometimes it lifted them above +reality and granted them a moment's reckless happiness. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"It was all wrong, of course. I am making no plea for its rightness; +and it unchained wild beasts in some of the men. Your father for many +years kept his chained, but the beasts were there. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"He was almost fifty when I married him, and he was not a General. +That title was given to him during the Spanish War. I was twenty when +I came here a bride. There was no deception on your father's part. He +told me of the dragon he fought—he told me that he hoped with God's +help and mine to conquer. And I hoped, too, Derry. I did more than +that. I was so sure of him—my King could do no wrong. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"But the day came when he went on one of those desolate pilgrimages +where you and I so often followed in later years. I am not going to +try to tell you how we fought together, Derry; how I learned with such +agony of soul that a man's will is like wax in the fire of +temptation—oh, Derry, Derry—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am telling you this for more reasons than one. What your father has +been you might be. With all your ideals there may be in you some +heritage of weakness, of appetite. Wild beasts can conquer you, too, +if you let them in. And that's why I have preached and prayed. That's +why I've kept you from that which overcame your father. You are no +better, no stronger, than he was in the glory of his youth. But I have +barred the doors against the flaming dragon. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I have no words eloquent enough to tell you of his care of me, his +consideration, his devotion. Yet nothing of all this helped in those +strange moods that came upon him. Then you were forgotten, I was +forgotten, the world was forgotten, and he let everything go—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I have kept what I have suffered to some extent from the world. If +people have pitied they have had the grace at least not to let me see. +The tragedy has been that you should have been sacrificed to it, your +youth shadowed. But what could I do? I felt that you must know, must +see, and I felt, too, that the salvation of the father might be +accomplished through the son. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And so I let you go out into the night after him, I let you know that +which should, perhaps, have been hidden from you. But I loved him, +Derry—I loved you—I did the best I could for both of you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And now because of the past, I plead for the future. I want you to +stay with him, Derry. No matter what happens I beg that you will +stay—for the sake of the boy who was once like you, for the sake of +the man who held your mother always close to his heart, for the sake of +the mother who in Heaven holds you to your promise." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The great old house was very still. Somewhere in a shadowed room an +old man slept heavily with his servant sitting stiff and straight +beside him, at the head of the stairway a painted bride smiled in the +darkness, the dog Muffin stirred and whined. +</P> + +<P> +Derry's head was buried deep in the cushion. His hands clutched the +letter which had cut the knot of his desperate decision. +</P> + +<P> +No—one could not break a promise to a mother in Heaven.… +</P> + +<P> +He waked heavily in the morning. Bronson was beside his bed. "I am +sorry to disturb you, sir, but Dr. McKenzie would like to speak to you." +</P> + +<P> +"McKenzie?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. I had to call him last night. Your father was worse." +</P> + +<P> +"Bring him right in here, Bronson, and have some coffee for us." +</P> + +<P> +When Dr. McKenzie was ushered into Derry's sitting room, he found a +rather pale and languid young man in the long chair. +</P> + +<P> +"I hated to wake you, Drake. But it was rather necessary that I should +talk your father's case over with you." +</P> + +<P> +"Is he very ill?" +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't that—there are complications that I don't care to discuss +with servants." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean he has been drinking?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Heavily. You realize that's a rather serious thing for a man of +his age." +</P> + +<P> +"I know it. But there's nothing to be done." +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you say that?" +</P> + +<P> +"We've tried specialists—cures. I've been half around the world with +him." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor nodded. "It's hard to pull up at that age." +</P> + +<P> +"My mother's life was spent in trying to help him. He's a dear old +chap, really." +</P> + +<P> +"There is, of course, the possibility that he may get a grip on +himself." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's languor left him. "Do you think there's the least hope of it? +Frankly? No platitudes?" +</P> + +<P> +"We are making some rather interesting +experiments—psycho-analysis—things like that—" +</P> + +<P> +He stood up. He was big and breezy. "What's the matter with you this +morning? You ought to be up and out." +</P> + +<P> +Derry flushed. "Nothing—much." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor sat down again. "I'd tell most men to take a cold shower +and a two hours' tramp, but it's more than that with you—." +</P> + +<P> +"It's a ease of suspended activity. I want to get into the war—" +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't leave Dad. Surely you can see that." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see it. He must reap, every man must." +</P> + +<P> +"But there's more than that. My mother tied me by a promise. And +people are calling me a coward—even Dad thinks I am a slacker, and I +can't say to him, 'If you were more than the half of a man I might be a +whole one.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Your mother couldn't have foreseen this war." +</P> + +<P> +"It would have made no difference. Her world was centered in him. You +know, of course, Doctor, that I wouldn't have spoken of this to anyone +else—" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow, I am father confessor to half of my patients." The +Doctor's eyes were kind. "My lips will be sealed. But if you want my +advice I should throw the old man overboard. Let him sink or swim. +Your life is your own." +</P> + +<P> +"It has never been my own." He went to a desk and took out an +envelope. "It's a rather sacred letter, but I want you to read it—I +read it for the first time last night." +</P> + +<P> +When at last the Doctor laid the letter down, Derry said very low, "Do +you blame me?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow; she had no right to ask it." +</P> + +<P> +"But having asked—?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is a moving letter, and you loved her—but I still contend she had +no right to ask." +</P> + +<P> +"I gave my sacred word." +</P> + +<P> +"I question whether any promise should stand between a man and his +country's need of him." +</P> + +<P> +They faced each other. "I wonder—" Derry said, "I—I must think it +over, Doctor." +</P> + +<P> +"Give yourself a chance if you do. We can go too far in our sacrifice +for others—." He resumed his brisk professional manner. "In the +meantime you've a rather sick old gentleman on your hands. You'd +better get a nurse." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HILDA +</H3> + + +<P> +The argument came up at breakfast two days before Thanksgiving. It was +a hot argument. Jean beat her little hands upon the table. Hilda's +hands were still, but it was an irritating stillness. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you think, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda is right. There is no reason why we should go to extremes." +</P> + +<P> +"But a turkey—." +</P> + +<P> +"Nobody has said that we shouldn't have a turkey on Thanksgiving—not +even Hoover." Hilda's voice was as irritating as her hands. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we have consciences, Hilda. And a turkey would choke me." +</P> + +<P> +"You make so much of little things." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it a little thing to sacrifice our appetites?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think it is a very big thing." The office bell rang, and +Hilda rose. "If I felt as you do I should sacrifice something more +than things to eat. I'd go over there and nurse the wounded. I could +be of real service. But you couldn't. With all your big ideas of +patriotism you couldn't do one single practical thing." +</P> + +<P> +It was true, and Jean knew that it was true, but she fired one more +shot. "Then why don't you go?" she demanded fiercely. +</P> + +<P> +"I may," Hilda said slowly. "I have been thinking about it. I haven't +made up my mind." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie glanced at her in surprise. "I didn't dream you felt that +way." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I do mean it in the way you mean. I should go because +there was something worth doing—not as a grandstand play." +</P> + +<P> +She went out of the room. Jean stared after her. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor laughed. "She got you there, girlie." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, she did. Do you really think she intends to go, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is news to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Good news?" +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head. "She is a very valuable nurse. I should hate to +lose her." He sat for a moment in silence, then stood up. "I +shouldn't hold out for a turkeyless Thanksgiving if I were you. It +isn't necessary." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you taking Hilda's part, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, my dear, of course not." He came over and kissed her. "Will you +ride with me this morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes—how soon?" +</P> + +<P> +"In ten minutes. After I see this patient." +</P> + +<P> +In less time than that she was ready and waiting for him in her +squirrel coat and hat and her little muff. +</P> + +<P> +Her father surveyed her. "Such a lovely lady." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you like me, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"What a question—I love you." +</P> + +<P> +Safe in the car, with the glass screen shutting away the chauffeur, +Jean returned to the point of attack. +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda makes me furious, Daddy. I came to talk about her." +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you came because you wanted to ride with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I did. But for this, too." +</P> + +<P> +Over her muff, her stormy eyes surveyed him. "You think I am +unreasonable about meatless and wheatless days. But you don't know. +Hilda ignores them, Daddy—you should see the breadbox. And the other +day she ordered a steak for dinner, one of those big thick ones—and it +was Tuesday, and I happened to go down to the kitchen and saw it—and I +told the cook that we wouldn't have it, and when I came up I told +Hilda, and she laughed and said that I was silly. +</P> + +<P> +"And I said that if she had that steak cooked I would not eat it, and I +should ask you not to eat it, and she just stood with her hands flat on +your desk, you know the way she does—I hate her hands—and she said +that of course if I was going to make a fuss about it she wouldn't have +the steak, but that it was simply a thing she couldn't understand. The +steak was there, why not eat it? And I said it was because of the +psychological effect on other people. And she said we were having too +much psychology and not enough common sense in this war! +</P> + +<P> +"Well, after that, I went to my Red Cross meeting at the church. I +expected to have lunch there, but I changed my mind and came home. +Hilda was at the table alone, and, Daddy, she was eating the steak, the +whole of it—." She paused to note the effect of her revelation. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"She was eating it when all the world needs food! She made me think of +those dreadful creatures in the fairy books. She's—she's a ghoul—" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear." +</P> + +<P> +"A ghoul. You should have seen her, with great chunks of bread and +butter." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda has a healthy appetite." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you defend her." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear child—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh you do, Daddy, always, against me—and I'm your daughter—" +</P> + +<P> +She wept a tear or two into her muff, then raised her eyes to find him +regarding her quizzically. "Are you going to spoil my ride?" +</P> + +<P> +"You are spoiling mine." +</P> + +<P> +"We won't quarrel about it. And we'll stop at Small's. Shall it be +roses or violets, to-day, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +She chose violets, as more in accord with her pensive mood, lighting +the bunch, however, with one red rose. The question of Hilda was not +settled, but she yielded as many an older woman has yielded—to the +sweetness of tribute—to man's impulse to make things right not by +justice but by the bestowal of his bounty. +</P> + +<P> +From the florist's, they went to Huyler's old shop on F Street, where +the same girl had served Jean with ice-cream sodas and hot chocolate +for fifteen years. Administrations might come and administrations go, +but these pleasant clerks had been cup-bearers to them all—Presidents' +daughters and diplomats' sons—the sturdy children of plain +Congressmen, the scions of noble families across the seas. +</P> + +<P> +It was while Jean sat on a high stool beside her father, the sunshine +shining on her through the wide window, that Derry Drake, coming down +Twelfth, saw her! +</P> + +<P> +Well, he wanted a lemonade. And the fact that she was there in a gray +squirrel coat and bunch of violets with her copper-colored hair shining +over her ears wasn't going to leave him thirsty! +</P> + +<P> +He went in. He bowed to the Doctor and received a smile in return. +Jean's eyes were cold above her chocolate. Derry bought his check, +went to a little table on the raised platform at the back of the room, +drank his lemonade and hurried out. +</P> + +<P> +"A nice fellow," said the Doctor, watching him through the window. "I +wonder why he didn't stop and speak to us?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad he didn't." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, why?" +</P> + +<P> +"I've found out things—" +</P> + +<P> +"What things?" +</P> + +<P> +"That he's a—coward," with tense earnestness. "He won't fight." +</P> + +<P> +"Who told you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Everybody's saying it." +</P> + +<P> +"Everybody is dead wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"What I have just said. Everybody is dead wrong." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"A doctor knows a great many things which he is not permitted to tell. +I am rather bound not to tell in this case." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, but you could tell me." +</P> + +<P> +"Hardly—it was given in confidence." +</P> + +<P> +"Did he? Oh, Daddy, did he tell you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"And he isn't a slacker?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"I knew it—." +</P> + +<P> +"You didn't. You thought he was a coward." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I ought to have known better. He looks brave, doesn't he?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't call him exactly a heroic figure." +</P> + +<P> +"Shouldn't you?" +</P> + +<P> +She finished her chocolate in silence, and followed him in silence to +his car. They sped up F Street, gay with its morning crowd. +</P> + +<P> +Then at last it came. "Isn't it a wonderful day, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +He smiled down at her. "There you go." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it is wonderful." She fell again into silence, then again +bestowed upon him her raptures. "Wouldn't it be dreadful if we had +loveless days, Daddy, as well as meatless ones and wheatless?" +</P> + +<P> +That night, after Jean had gone to bed, the Doctor, having dismissed +his last patient, came out of his inner office. Hilda, in her white +nurse's costume, was busy with the books. He stood beside her desk. +His eyes were dancing. "Jean told me about the steak." +</P> + +<P> +"I knew she would—I suppose it was an awful thing to do. But I was +hungry, and I hate fish—" She smiled at him lazily, then laughed. +</P> + +<P> +He laughed back. He felt that it would be unbearable for Hilda to go +hungry, to spoil her red and white with abstinence. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear girl," he said, "what did you mean when you spoke of going +away?" +</P> + +<P> +"Haven't you been thinking of going?" +</P> + +<P> +The color came up in his cheeks. "Yes, but how did you know it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, a woman knows. Why don't you make up your mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"There's Jean to think of." +</P> + +<P> +"Emily Bridges could take care of her. And you ought to go. Men are +seeing things over there that they'll never see again. And women are." +</P> + +<P> +"If my country needs me—" +</P> + +<P> +Hilda was cold. "I shouldn't go for that. As I told Jean, I am not +making any grand stand plays. I should go for all that I get out of +it, the experience, the adventure—." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her with some curiosity. Jean's words of the afternoon +recurred to him. "She's a ghoul—" +</P> + +<P> +Yet there was something almost fascinating in her frankness. She tore +aside ruthlessly the curtain of self-deception, revealing her motives, +as if she challenged him to call them less worthy than his own. +</P> + +<P> +"If I go, it will be because I want to become a better nurse. I like +it here, but your practice is necessarily limited. I should get a +wider view of things. So would you. There would be new worlds of +disease, men in all conditions of nervous shock." +</P> + +<P> +"I know. But I'd hate to think I was going merely for selfish ends." +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged. "Why not that as well as any other?" +</P> + +<P> +He had a smouldering sense of irritation. +</P> + +<P> +"When I am with Jean she makes me feel rather big and fine; when I am +with you—" He paused. +</P> + +<P> +"I make you see yourself as you are, a man. She thinks you are more +than that." +</P> + +<P> +All his laughter left ham. "It is something to be a hero to one's +daughter. Perhaps some day I shall be a little better for her thinking +so." +</P> + +<P> +She saw that she had gone too far. "You mustn't take the things I say +too seriously." +</P> + +<P> +The bell of the telephone at her elbow whirred. She put the receiver +to her ear. "It is General Drake's man; he thinks you'd better come +over before you go to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid I might have to go. He is in rather bad shape, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +She packed his bag for him competently, and telephoned for his car. +"I'll have a cup of coffee ready for you when you get back," she said, +as she stood in the door. "It is going to be a dreadful night." +</P> + +<P> +The streets were icy and the sleet falling. "You'd better have your +overshoes," Hilda decided, and went for them. +</P> + +<P> +As he put them on, she stood under the hall light, smiling. "Have you +forgiven me?" she asked as he straightened up. +</P> + +<P> +"For telling me the truth? Of course. You take such good care of me, +Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +Upstairs in her own room Jean was writing a letter. It was a very +pretty room, very fresh and frilly with white dimity and with much pink +and pale lavender. The night-light which shone through the rose +taffeta petticoats of a porcelain lady was supplemented at the moment +by a bed-side lamp which flung a ring of gold beyond Jean's blotter to +the edge of the lace spread. For Jean was writing in bed. All day her +mind had been revolving around this letter, but she had had no time to +write. She had spent the afternoon in the Toy Shop with Emily, and in +the evening there had been a Red Cross sale. She had gone to the sale +with Ralph Witherspoon and his mother. She had not been able to get +out of going. All the time she had talked to Ralph she had thought of +Derry. She had rather hoped that he might be there, but he wasn't. +</P> + +<P> +The letter required much thought. She tore up, extravagantly, several +sheets of note-paper with tiny embossed thistles at the top. Doctor +McKenzie was intensely Scotch, and he was entitled to a crest, but he +was also intensely American, and would have none of it. He had +designed Jean's note-paper, and it was lovely. But it was also +expensive, and it was a shame to waste so much of it on Derry Drake. +</P> + +<P> +The note when it was finished seemed very simple. Just one page in +Jean's firm, clear script: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"Dear Mr. Drake:— +</P> + +<P> +"Could you spare me one little minute tomorrow? I shall be at home at +four. It is very important—to me at least. Perhaps when you hear +what I have to say, it will seem important to you. I hope it may. +</P> + +<P CLASS="noindent"> +"Very sincerely yours, +<BR> +"JEAN MCKENZIE." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She read it over several times. It seemed very stiff and inadequate. +She sealed it and stamped it, then in a panic tore it open for a +re-reading. She was oppressed by doubts. Did nice girls ask men to +come and see them? Didn't they wait and weary like Mariana of the +Moated Grange—? "He cometh not, she said?" +</P> + +<P> +New times! New manners! She had branded a man as a coward. She had +condemned him unheard. She had slighted him, she had listened while +others slandered—why should she care what other women had done? Would +do? Her way was clear. She owed an apology to Derry Drake, and she +would make it. +</P> + +<P> +So with a new envelope, a new stamp, the note was again sealed. +</P> + +<P> +It had to be posted that night. She felt that under no circumstance +could she stand the suspense of another day. +</P> + +<P> +She had heard her father go out. Hilda was coming up, the maids were +asleep. She waited until Hilda's door was shut, then she slipped out +of bed, tucked her toes into a pair of sandals, threw a furry motor +coat around her, and sped silently down the stairs. She shrank back as +she opened the front door. The sleet rattled on the steps, the +pavements were covered with white. +</P> + +<P> +The mail-box was in front of the house. She made a rush for it, +dropped in the precious letter, and gained once more the haven of the +warm hall. +</P> + +<P> +She was glad to get back to her room. As she settled down among her +pillows, she had a great sense of adventure, as if she had travelled +far in a few moments. +</P> + +<P> +As a matter of fact, she had made her first real excursion into the +land of romance. She found her thoughts galloping. +</P> + +<P> +At the foot of the bed her silver Persian, Polly Ann, lay curled on her +own gray blanket. +</P> + +<P> +"Polly Ann," Jean said, "if he doesn't come, I shall hate myself for +writing that note." +</P> + +<P> +Polly Ann surveyed her sleepily. +</P> + +<P> +"But it would serve me right if he didn't, Polly Ann." +</P> + +<P> +She turned off the light and tried to sleep. Downstairs the telephone +rang. It rang, too, in Hilda's room. Hilda's door opened and shut. +She came across the hall and tapped on Jean's door. "May I come in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Your father has just telephoned," Hilda said from the threshold, "that +General Drake's nurse is not well, and will have to be taken off the +case. I shall have to go in her place. There is a great shortage at +the hospital. Will you be afraid to stay alone, or shall I wake up +Ellen and have her sleep on the couch in your dressing room?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I am not afraid, Hilda. Nothing can happen until father +comes back." +</P> + +<P> +As Hilda went away, Jean had a delicious feeling of detachment. She +would be alone in the house with her thoughts of Derry. +</P> + +<P> +She got out of bed to say her prayers. With something of a thrill she +prayed for Derry's father. She was not conscious as she made her +petitions of any ulterior motive. Yet a placated Providence would, she +felt sure, see that the General's sickness should not frustrate the +plans which she had quite daringly made for his son. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER VIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SHADOWED ROOM +</H3> + + +<P> +Derry had dined that night with his cousin, Margaret Morgan. +Margaret's husband was somewhere in France with Pershing's divisions. +Margaret was to have news of him this evening, brought by a young +English officer, Dawson Hewes, who had been wounded at Ypres, and who +had come on a recruiting mission, among his countrymen in America. +</P> + +<P> +The only other guest was to be Drusilla Gray. +</P> + +<P> +Derry had gone over early to have the twilight hour with Margaret's +children. There was Theodore, the boy, and Margaret-Mary, on the edge +of three. They had their supper at five in the nursery, and after that +there was always the story hour, with nurse safely downstairs for her +dinner, their mother, lovely in a low-necked gown, and father coming in +at the end. For several months their father had not come, and the best +they could do was to kiss his picture in the frame with the eagle on +it, to put flowers in front of it, and to say their little prayers for +the safety of men in battle. +</P> + +<P> +It was Cousin Derry who dropped in now at the evening hour. He was a +famous story-teller, and they always welcomed him uproariously. +</P> + +<P> +Margaret Morgan, perhaps better than any other, knew in those days what +was in Derry's heart. She knew the things against which he had +struggled, and she had rebelled hotly, "Why should he be sacrificed?" +she had asked her husband more than once during the three years which +had preceded America's entrance into the war. "He wants to be over +there driving an ambulance—doing his bit. Aunt Edith always idealized +the General, and Derry is paying the price." +</P> + +<P> +"Most women idealize the men they love, honey-girl." Winston Morgan +was from the South, and he drew upon its store of picturesque +endearments to express his joy and pride in his own Peggy. "And if +they didn't where should we be?" +</P> + +<P> +She had leaned her head against him. "I don't need to idealize you," +she had said, comfortably, "but the General is different. Aunt Edith +made Derry live his father's life, not his own, and it has moulded him +into something less than he might have been if he had been allowed more +initiative." +</P> + +<P> +Winston had shaken his head. "Discipline is a mighty good thing in the +Army, Peggy, and it's a mighty good thing in life. Derry Drake is as +hard as steel, and as finely tempered. If he ever does break loose, +he'll be all the more dynamic for having held himself back." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret, conceding all that, was yet constrained to pour out upon +Derry the wealth of her womanly sympathy. It was perhaps the knowledge +of this as well as his devotion to her children which brought him often +to her door. +</P> + +<P> +Tonight she was sitting on a low-backed seat in front of the fire with +a child on each side of her. She was in white, her dark hair in a +simple shining knot, a little pearl heart which had been Captain +Morgan's parting gift, her only ornament. +</P> + +<P> +"Go on with your story," he said, as he came in. "I just want to +listen and do nothing." +</P> + +<P> +She glanced up at him. He looked tired, unlike himself, depressed. +</P> + +<P> +"Anything the matter?" +</P> + +<P> +"Father isn't well. Dr. McKenzie has taken the case. Richards has +gone to the front. Bronson will call me if there are any unfavorable +developments." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret-Mary, curled up like a kitten in the curve of Cousin Derry's +arm, was exploring his vest pocket. She found two very small squares +of Washington taffy wrapped in wax paper, one for herself and one for +Teddy. It was Derry's war-time offering. No other candies were +permitted by Margaret's patriotism. Her children ate molasses on their +bread, maple sugar on their cereal. Her soldier was in France, and +there were other soldiers, not one of whom should suffer because of the +wanton waste of food by the people who stayed softly at home. +</P> + +<P> +"You tell us a story, Uncle Derry," Teddy pleaded as he ate his taffy. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather listen to your mother." +</P> + +<P> +"They are tired of me," Margaret told him. +</P> + +<P> +"We are not ti-yard," her small son enunciated carefully, "but you said +you had to fix the f'owers." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I have. May I turn them over to you, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"For a minute. But you must come back." +</P> + +<P> +She came back presently, to find the lights out and only the glow of +the fire to illumine faintly the three figures on the sofa. She stood +unseen in the door and listened. +</P> + +<P> +"And so the Tin Soldier stood on the shelf where the little boy had put +him, and nothing happened in the old, old house. There was just an +old, old man, and walls covered with old, old portraits, and knights in +armor, and wooden trumpeters carved on the door who blew with all their +might, 'Trutter-a-trutt, Trutter-a-trutt'—. But the old man and the +portraits and the wooden trumpeters had no thought for the Tin Soldier +who stood there on the shelf, alone and longing to go to the war. And +at last the Tin Soldier cried out, 'I can't stand it. I want to go to +the wars—I want to go to the wars!' But nobody listened or cared." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor 'itte sing," Margaret-Mary crooned. +</P> + +<P> +"If I had been there," Teddy proclaimed, "I'd have put him on the floor +and told him to run and run and run!" +</P> + +<P> +"But there was nobody to put him on the floor," said Derry, "so at last +the Tin Soldier could stand it no longer. 'I will go to the wars, I +will go to the wars,' he cried, and he threw himself down from the +shelf." +</P> + +<P> +The story stopped suddenly. "Go on, go on," urged the little voices in +the dark. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps you think that was the end of it, and that the Tin Soldier ran +away to the wars, to help his country and save the world from ruin. +But Fate wasn't as kind to him as that. For when the little boy came +again to the old house, he looked for the Tin Soldier. But he wasn't +on the shelf. And he looked and looked and, the old man looked, and +the wooden trumpeters blew out their cheeks, 'Trutter-a-trutt, +trutter-a-trutt—where is the Tin Soldier?—trutter-a-trutt—.' +</P> + +<P> +"But they did not find him, for the Tin Soldier had fallen through a +crack in the floor, and there he lay as in an open grave." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla's voice was heard in the lower hall, and the deeper voice of +Captain Hewes. Margaret sped down to meet them, leaving the story, +reluctantly, in that moment of heart-breaking climax. +</P> + +<P> +When later Derry followed her, she had a chance to say, "I hope you +gave it a happy ending." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, did you hear? Yes. They found him in time to send him away to +war. But Hans Andersen didn't end it that way. He knew life." +</P> + +<P> +She stared at him in amazement. Was this the Derry whose supply of +cheerfulness had seemed inexhaustible? Whose persistent optimism had +been at times exasperating to his friends? +</P> + +<P> +Throughout the evening she was aware of his depression. She was aware, +too, of the mistake which she had made in bringing Derry and Captain +Hewes together. +</P> + +<P> +The Captain had red hair and a big nose. But he was a gentleman in the +fine old English sense; he was a soldier with but one idea, that every +physically able man should fight. Every sentence that he spoke was +charged with this belief, and every sentence carried a sting for Derry. +</P> + +<P> +More than once Peggy found it necessary to change the subject +frantically. Drusilla supplemented her efforts. +</P> + +<P> +But gradually the Captain's manner froze. With a sort of military +sixth sense, he felt that he had been asked to break bread and eat salt +with a slacker, and he resented it. +</P> + +<P> +After dinner Drusilla sang for them. Sensitive always to atmosphere, +she soothed the Captain with old and familiar songs, "Flow gently, +sweet Afton," and "Believe me if all those endearing young charms." +</P> + +<P> +Then straight from these to "I'm going to marry 'Arry on the Fifth of +January." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I say—Harry Lauder," was Captain Hewes' eager comment. "I heard +him singing to the chaps in the trenches just before I sailed—a little +stocky man in a red kilt. He'd laugh, and you'd want to cry." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla gave them "Wee Hoose among the Heather," with the touch of +pathos which the little man in the red kilt had imparted to it as he +had sung it in October in New York before an audience which had wept as +it had welcomed him. +</P> + +<P> +"Queer thing," Captain Hewes mused, "what the war has done to him, set +him preaching and all that." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it isn't queer," Margaret was eager. "That is one of the things +the war is doing, bringing men back to—God—" A sob caught in her +throat. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla's hands strayed upon the keys, and into the Battle Hymn of the +Republic. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps,<BR> +They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps,<BR> +I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,<BR> +His day is marching on—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was an old tune, but the words were new to Captain Hewes—as the +girl chanted them, in that repressed voice that yet tore the heart out +of him. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat,<BR> +He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat,<BR> +Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him, be jubilant my feet,<BR> +Our God is marching on—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His face was illumined. +</P> + +<P> +"By Jove," he ejaculated, "that's topping!" +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and sang without music. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea—<BR> +With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me,<BR> +As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,<BR> +While God is marching on—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She wore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a red rose in her +hair—her white arms, her white neck, the blue and red, youth and fire, +strength and purity. +</P> + +<P> +When she finished the room was very still. The big Englishman had no +words for such a moment. The music had swept him up to unexpected +heights of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed for the first +time the meaning of democracy, he had seen, indeed, in a great and +lofty sense, for the first time—America. +</P> + +<P> +Among the shadows a young man shrank in his seat. His vision was not +of Democracy, but of a freezing night—of a ragged old voice rising +from the blackness of a steep ravine— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Oh, be swift, my soul—to answer—Him—<BR> +Be jubilant my feet—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Why had Drusilla chosen that of all songs? Oh, why had she sung at all? +</P> + +<P> +A maid came in to say that Mr. Drake was wanted at the telephone. The +message was from Dr. McKenzie. The General was much worse. It might +be well for Derry to come home. +</P> + +<P> +So Derry, with a great sense of relief, got away from the frigid +Captain, and from the flaming Drusilla, and from Peggy with her flushed +air of apology, and went out into the stormy night. He had preferred +to walk, although his shoes were thin. "It isn't far," he had said +when Margaret expostulated, "and I'll send my car for Drusilla and +Captain Hewes." +</P> + +<P> +The sleet drove against his face. His feet were wet before he reached +the first corner, the wind buffeted him. But he felt none of it. He +was conscious only of his depression and of his great dread of again +entering the big house where a sick man lay in a lacquered bed and +where a painted lady smiled on the stairs. Where there was nothing +alive, nothing young, nothing with lips to welcome him, or with hands +to hold out to him. +</P> + +<P> +He found when at last he arrived that the Doctor had sent for Hilda +Merritt. +</P> + +<P> +She came presently, in her long blue cloak and small blue bonnet. +Hilda made no mistakes in the matter of clothes. She realized the +glamour which her nurse's uniform cast over her. In evening dress she +was slightly commonplace. In ordinary street garb not an eye would +have been turned upon her, but the nun's blue and white of her uniform +added the required spiritual effect to her rather full-blown beauty. +</P> + +<P> +As she passed the painted lady at the head of the stairway she gave her +a slight glance. Then on and up she went to her appointed task. +</P> + +<P> +"It is pneumonia," Dr. McKenzie told Derry; "that's why I wanted Miss +Merritt. She is very experienced, and in these days of war it is hard +to get good nurses." +</P> + +<P> +Derry found his voice shaking. "Is there any danger?" +</P> + +<P> +"Naturally, at his age. But I think we are going to pull him through." +</P> + +<P> +Derry went into the shadowed room. His father was breathing heavily. +Something clutched at the boy's heart—the fear of the Thing which +lurked in the darkness—a chill and sinister figure with a skeleton +hand. +</P> + +<P> +He could not have his father die. He would feel as if his thoughts had +killed him—a murderer in intention if not in deed. Not thus must the +Obstacle be removed. He raised haggard eyes to the Doctor's face. +"You—you mustn't think that I store things up against him. He's all I +have." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor's keen glance appraised him. "Don't get morbid over it; he +has everything in his favor—and Miss Merritt is famous in such cases." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda took his praise with downcast eyes. Her manner with the Doctor +when others were present was professionally deferential. It was only +when they were alone that the nurse was submerged in the woman. +</P> + +<P> +With her bonnet off and a white cap in its place, she moved about the +room. "I shall be very comfortable," she said, when Derry inquired if +anything could be done for her. +</P> + +<P> +"We haven't any women about the place but Cook," he explained. "She +has been in our family forever—" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll put a day nurse on tomorrow," the Doctor said, "but I want Hilda +with him at night; she can call me up if there's any change, and I'll +come right over." +</P> + +<P> +When the Doctor had gone, Derry, seeking his room, found Muffin +waiting. Bronson bustled in to see that his young master got out of +his wet clothes and into a hot bath. "All the time the Doctor was +talking to you, I was worrying about your shoes. Your feet are soaked, +sir. Whatever made you walk in the rain?" +</P> + +<P> +"I couldn't ride—I couldn't." +</P> + +<P> +The old man on his knees removing the wet shoes looked up. "Restless, +sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. There are times, Bronson, when I want my mother." +</P> + +<P> +He could say it in this room to Bronson and Muffin—to the gray old dog +and the gray old man who adored him. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his blankets in a basket +by the hot water pipes, opened the windows wide, said "God bless you," +and went away. +</P> + +<P> +"Sweet dreams, Muffin," said Derry from the big bed. +</P> + +<P> +The old dog whuffed discreetly. +</P> + +<P> +It was their nightly ceremony. +</P> + +<P> +The sleet came down in golden streaks against the glow of the street +lights. Derry lay watching it, and it was a long time before he slept. +Not since his mother's death had he been so weighed down with heaviness. +</P> + +<P> +He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining to dance with him; on +the high stool at the confectioner's, her eyes cold above her +chocolate; the English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, basely +excusing him; Drusilla, in her red and blue and white—singing—! +</P> + +<P> +He waked in the morning with a sore throat. Young Martin came in to +light the fire and draw the water for his bath. Later Bronson brought +his breakfast and the mail. +</P> + +<P> +"You'd better stay in bed, Mr. Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"I think I shall. How is Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"The nurse says he is holding his own." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad of that." +</P> + +<P> +Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muffin, ventured an opinion, "I +am not sure that I like the nurse, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's not exactly a lady, and she's not exactly a nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"I see." Derry, having glanced over a letter or two, had picked up an +envelope with embossed thistles on the flap. "But she is rather +pretty, Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"Pretty is as pretty does," sententiously. +</P> + +<P> +Silence. Bronson looked across at the young man propped up among the +pillows. He was rereading the letter with the thistles on the flap. +The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his lips were smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I'll get up." +</P> + +<P> +"Changed your mind, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." He threw back the covers. "I've a thousand things to do." +</P> + +<P> +But there was just one thing which he was going to do which stood out +beyond all others. Neither life nor death nor flood nor fire should +keep him from presenting himself at four o'clock at Jean McKenzie's +door, in response to the precious note which in a moment had changed +the world for him. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER IX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ROSE-COLOR! +</H3> + + +<P> +Jean found the day stretching out ahead of her in a series of exciting +events. At the breakfast table her father told her that Hilda would +stay on General Drake's case, and that she had better have Emily +Bridges up for a visit. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like to have you alone at night, if I am called away." +</P> + +<P> +"It will be heavenly, Daddy, to have Emily—" +</P> + +<P> +And how was he to know that there were other heavenly things to happen? +She had resolved that if Derry came, she would tell her father +afterwards. But he might not come, so what was the use of being +premature? +</P> + +<P> +She sallied down to the Toy Shop in high feather. "You are to stay +with us, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, am I? How do you know that I can make it convenient?" +</P> + +<P> +"But you will, darling." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's state of mind was beatific. She painted Lovely Dreams with a +touch of inspiration which resulted in a row of purple camels: +"Midnight on the Desert," Jean called them. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Emily," she said, "we must have them in the window on Christmas +morning, with the Wise Men and the Star—" +</P> + +<P> +Emily, glancing at the face above the blue apron, was struck by the +radiance of it. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it because Hilda is away?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Is what—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Your—rapture." +</P> + +<P> +Jean laughed. "It is because Hilda is away, and other things. But I +can't tell you now." +</P> + +<P> +Then for fear Emily might be hurt by her secrecy, she flew to kiss her +and again call her "Darling." +</P> + +<P> +At noon she put on her hat and ran home, or at least her heart ran, and +when she reached the house she sought the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +"I am having company for tea, Ellen—at four. And I want +Lady-bread-and-butter, and oh, Ellen, will you have time for little +pound cakes?" +</P> + +<P> +She knew of course that pound cakes were—<I>verboten</I>. She felt, +however, that even Mr. Hoover might sanction a fatted calf in the face +of this supreme event. +</P> + +<P> +She planned that she would receive Derry in the small drawing room. It +was an informal room which had been kept by her mother for intimate +friends. There was a wide window which faced west, a davenport in deep +rose velvet, some chairs to match, and there were always roses in an +old blue bowl. +</P> + +<P> +Jean knew the dress she was going to wear in this room—of blue to +match the bowl, with silver lace, and a girdle of pink brocade. +</P> + +<P> +Alone in her room with Polly-Ann to watch proceedings, she got out the +lovely gown. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I do want to be pretty, Polly-Ann," she said with much wistfulness. +</P> + +<P> +Yet when she was all hooked and snapped into it, she surveyed herself +with some dissatisfaction in the mirror. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" she asked the mirror. "Why shouldn't I wear it?" +</P> + +<P> +The mirror gave back a vision of beauty—but behind that vision in the +depths of limitless space Jean's eyes discerned something which made +her change her gown. Quite soberly she got herself into a little nun's +frock of gray with collars and cuffs of transparent white, and above it +all was the glory of her crinkled hair. +</P> + +<P> +Neither then nor afterwards could she analyze her reasons for the +change. Perhaps sub-consciously she was perceiving that this meeting +with Derry Drake was to be a serious and stupendous occasion. +Throughout the world the emotions of men and women were being quickened +to a pace set by a mighty conflict. Never again would Jean McKenzie +laugh or cry over little things. She would laugh and cry, of course, +but back of it all would be that sense of the world's travail and +tragedy, made personal by her own part in it. +</P> + +<P> +Julia, the second maid, was instructed to show Mr. Drake into the +little drawing room. Jean came down early with her knitting, and sat +on the deep-rose Davenport. The curtains were not drawn. There was +always the chance of a sunset view. Julia was to turn on the light +when she brought in the tea. +</P> + +<P> +There was the whir of a bell, the murmur of voices. Jean sat tense. +Then as her caller entered, she got somewhat shakily on her feet. +</P> + +<P> +But the man in the door was not Derry Drake! +</P> + +<P> +In his intrusive and impertinent green, pinched-in as to waist, and +puffed-out as to trousers, his cheeks red with the cold, his brown eyes +bright with eagerness, Ralph Witherspoon stood on the threshold. +</P> + +<P> +"Of all the good luck," he said, "to find you in." +</P> + +<P> +She shook hands with him and sat down. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought you had gone back to Bay Shore. You said yesterday you were +going." +</P> + +<P> +"I got my orders in the nick of time. We are to go to Key West. I am +to join the others on the way down." +</P> + +<P> +"How soon?" +</P> + +<P> +He sat at the other end of the davenport. "In three days, and anything +can happen in three days." +</P> + +<P> +He moved closer. She had a sense of panic. Was he going to propose to +her again, in this room which she had set aside so sacredly for Derry +Drake? +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you have some tea?" she asked, desperately. "I'll have Julia +bring it in." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather talk." +</P> + +<P> +But she had it brought, and Julia, wheeling in the tea-cart, offered a +moment's reprieve. And Ralph ate the Lady-bread-and-butter, and the +little pound cakes with the nuts and white frosting which had been +meant for Derry, and then he walked around the tea-cart and took her +hand, and for the seventh time since he had met her he asked her to +marry him. +</P> + +<P> +"But I don't love you." She was almost in tears. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know what love is—I'll teach you." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to be taught." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't know what it means to be taught—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean had a stifling sense as of some great green tree bending down to +crush her. She put out her hand to push it away. +</P> + +<P> +In the silence a bell whirred—. +</P> + +<P> +Derry Drake, ushered in by Julia, saw the room in the rosy glow of the +lamp. He saw Ralph Witherspoon towering insolently in his aviator's +green. He saw Jean, blushing and perturbed. The scene struck cold +against the heat of his anticipation. +</P> + +<P> +He sat down in one of the rose-colored chairs, and Julia brought more +tea for him, more Lady-bread-and-butter, more pound cakes with nuts and +frosting. +</P> + +<P> +Ralph was frankly curious. He was also frankly jealous. He was aware +that Derry had met Jean for the first time at his mother's dinner +dance. And Derry's millions were formidable. It did not occur to +Ralph that Derry, without his millions, was formidable. Ralph's idea +of a man's attractiveness for women was founded on his belief in their +admiration of good looks, and their liking for the possession of, as he +would himself have expressed it, "plenty of pep" and "go." From +Ralph's point of view Derry Drake was not handsome, and he was utterly +unaware that back of Derry's silver-blond slenderness and apparent +languidness were banked fires which could more than match his own. +</P> + +<P> +And there was this, too, of which he was unconscious, that Derry's +millions meant nothing to Jean. Had he remained the shabby son of the +shabby old man in the Toy Shop, her heart would still have followed him. +</P> + +<P> +So, fatuously hopeful, Ralph stayed. He stayed until five, until +half-past five. Until a quarter of six. +</P> + +<P> +And he talked of the glories of war! +</P> + +<P> +Derry grew restless. As he sat in the rose-colored chair, he fingered +a tassel which caught back one of the curtains of the wide window. It +was a silk tassel, and he pulled at one strand of it until it was +flossy and frayed. He was unconscious of his work of destruction, +unconscious that Jean's eyes, lifted now and then from her knitting, +noted his fingers weaving in and out of the rosy strands. +</P> + +<P> +Ralph talked on. With seeming modesty he spoke of the feats of other +men, yet none the less it was Ralph they saw, poised like a bird at +incredible heights, looping the loop, fearless, splendid—beating the +air with strong wings. +</P> + +<P> +Six o'clock, and at last Ralph rose. Even then he hesitated and hung +back, as if he expected that Derry might go with him. But Derry, stiff +and straight beside the rose-colored chair, bade him farewell! +</P> + +<P> +And now Derry was alone with Jean! +</P> + +<P> +They found themselves standing close together in front of the fire. +The garment of coldness and of languor which had seemed to enshroud +Derry had dropped from him. The smile which he gave Jean was like warm +wine in her veins. +</P> + +<P> +"Well—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I asked you to come—to say—that I am,—sorry—," her voice breaking. +"Daddy told me that he knew why—you couldn't fight—" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't intend that he should tell." +</P> + +<P> +"He didn't," eagerly, "not your reasons. He said it was a—confidence, +and he couldn't break his word. But he knew that you were brave. That +the things the world is saying are all wrong. Oh, I ought to go down +on my knees." +</P> + +<P> +Her face was white, her eyes deep wells of tears. +</P> + +<P> +"It is I," he said, very low, "who should be on my knees—do you know +what it means to me to have you tell me this?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wasn't sure that I ought to write. To some men I couldn't have +written—" +</P> + +<P> +His face lighted. "When your note came—I can't tell you what it meant +to me. I shouldn't like to think of what this day would have been for +me if you had not written. Everybody is calling me—a coward. You +know that. You heard Witherspoon just now pitying me, not in words, +but his manner." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ralph," how easily she disposed of him. "Ralph crows, like +a—rooster." +</P> + +<P> +They looked at each other and tried to laugh. But they were not +laughing in their hearts. +</P> + +<P> +He lifted her hand and kissed it—then he stood well away from her, +anchoring himself again to the silken tassel. "Now that you know a +part," he said, from that safe distance, "I'd like to tell you all of +it, if I may." +</P> + +<P> +As he talked her fingers were busy with her knitting, but there came +moments when she laid it down and looked up at him with eyes that +mirrored his own earnestness. +</P> + +<P> +"It—it hasn't been easy," he said in conclusion, "but—but if you will +be my friend, nothing will be hard." +</P> + +<P> +She tried to speak—was shaken as if by a strong wind, and her knitting +went up as a shield. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, you are crying," he said, and was on his knees beside her. +</P> + +<P> +And now they were caught in the tide of that mighty wave which was +sweeping the world! +</P> + +<P> +When at last she steadied herself, he was again anchored to the +rose-colored tassel. +</P> + +<P> +"You—you must forgive me—but—it has been so good to talk it out—to +some one—who cared. I had never dreamed until that night in the Toy +Shop of anybody—like you. Of anybody so—adorable. When your note +came this morning, I couldn't believe it. But now I know it is true. +And that night of Cinderella you were so—heavenly." +</P> + +<P> +It was a good thing that Miss Emily came in at that moment—for his +eloquence was a burning flood, and Jean was swept up and on with it. +</P> + +<P> +The entrance of Emily, strictly tailored and practical, gave them pause. +</P> + +<P> +"You remember Mr. Drake, don't you, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +Emily did, of course. But she had not expected to see him here. She +held out her hand. "I remember that he was coming back for more of +your Lovely Dreams." +</P> + +<P> +"I want all of her dreams," said Derry, and something in the way that +he said it took Miss Emily's breath away. "Please don't sell them to +anyone else. You have a wholesale order from me." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily looked from one to the other. She was conscious of +something which touched the stars—something which all her life she had +missed, something which belongs to youth and ecstasy. +</P> + +<P> +"Wholesale orders are not in my line," she said. "You can settle that +with Jean." +</P> + +<P> +She surveyed the tea-wagon. "I'm starved. And if I eat I shall spoil +my dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"I can ring for hot water, Emily, and there are more of the pound +cakes." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, no. I must go upstairs and dress. Your father sent for my +bag, and Julia says it is in my room." +</P> + +<P> +She bade Derry a cheerful good-bye, and left them alone. +</P> + +<P> +"I must go, too," said Derry, and took Jean's hand. He stood looking +down at her. "May I come tomorrow?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh,—yes—" +</P> + +<P> +"There's one thing that I should like more than anything, if we could +go to church together—to be thankful that—that we've found each +other—" +</P> + +<P> +Tears in the shining eyes! +</P> + +<P> +"Why are you crying?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because it is so—sweet." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll go?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'd love it." +</P> + +<P> +He dropped her hand and got away. She was little and young, so +divinely innocent. He felt that he must not take unfair advantage of +that mood of exaltation. +</P> + +<P> +He drove straight downtown and ordered flowers for her. Remembering +the nun's dress, he sent violets in a gray basket, with a knot on the +handle of heavenly blue. +</P> + +<P> +The flowers came while Jean was at dinner. Emily was in Hilda's place, +a quiet contrast in her slenderness and modest black to Hilda's +opulence. Dr. McKenzie had not had time to dress. +</P> + +<P> +"I am so busy, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"But you love the busy-ness, don't you? I can't imagine you without +the hours crammed full." +</P> + +<P> +"Just now I wish that I could push it away as Richards pushed it—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean looked up. "But Dr. Richards went to France, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"I envy him." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, do you—?" Then her flowers came, and she forgot everything else. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor whistled as Julia set the basket in front of Jean. "Ralph +is generous." +</P> + +<P> +Jean had opened the attached envelope and was reading a card. A wave +of self-conscious color swept over her cheeks. "Ralph didn't send +them. It—it was Derry Drake." +</P> + +<P> +"Drake? How did that happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"He was here this afternoon for tea, and Ralph, and Emily—only Emily +was late, and the tea was cold—" +</P> + +<P> +"So you've made up?" +</P> + +<P> +"We didn't have to make up much, Daddy, did we?" mendaciously. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily came to the rescue. "He seems very nice." +</P> + +<P> +"Splendid fellow. But I am not sure that I want him sending flowers to +my daughter. I don't want anyone sending flowers to her." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily took him up sharply. "That's your selfishness. Life has +always been a garden where you have wandered at will. And now you want +to shut the gate of that garden against your daughter." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, there are flowers that I shouldn't care to have her pluck." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you know her well enough to understand that she'll pluck only +the little lovely blooms?" +</P> + +<P> +His eyes rested on Jean's absorbed face. "Yes, thank God. And thank +you, too, for saying it, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +After dinner they sat in the library. Doctor McKenzie on one side of +the fire with his cigar, Emily on the other side with her knitting. +Jean between them in a low chair, a knot of Derry's violets fragrant +against the gray of her gown, her fingers idle. +</P> + +<P> +"Why aren't you knitting?" the Doctor asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't have to set a good example to Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"And you do to Hilda?" He threw back his head and laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't laugh. Isn't it comfy with Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is." He glanced at the slender black figure. He was still feeling +the fineness of the thing she had said about Jean. "But when she is +here I am jealous." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"And I am never jealous of Hilda. If you had Emily all the time you'd +love her better than you do me." +</P> + +<P> +He chuckled at their hot eyes. "If you are teasing," Jean told him, +"I'll forgive you. But Emily won't, will you, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." Emily's voice was gay, and he liked the color in her cheeks. +"He doesn't deserve to be forgiven. Some day he is going to be +devoured by a green-eyed monster, like a bad little boy in a Sunday +School story." +</P> + +<P> +Her needles clicked, and her eyes sparkled. There was no doubt that +there was a sprightliness about Emily that was stimulating. +</P> + +<P> +"But one's only daughter, Emily. Isn't jealousy pardonable?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not in you." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well," with obvious reluctance, "you're too big for it." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh," he was more pleased than he was willing to admit, "did you hear +that, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +But Jean, having drifted away from them, came back with, "I am going to +church with him tomorrow." +</P> + +<P> +"Him? Whom?" +</P> + +<P> +"Derry Drake, Daddy, and may I bring him home to dinner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think a man like that goes begging for invitations? He has +probably been asked to a dozen places to eat his turkey." +</P> + +<P> +"He can't eat it at a dozen places, Daddy. And anyhow I should like to +ask him. I—I think he is lonely—" +</P> + +<P> +"A man with millions is never lonely." +</P> + +<P> +She did not attempt to argue. She felt that her father could not +possibly grasp the truth about Derry Drake. Her own understanding of +his need had been a blinding, whirling revelation. He had said, "I +wanted some one—who cared—." Not for a moment since then had the +world been real to her. She had seemed in the center of a +golden-lighted sphere, where Derry's voice spoke to her, where Derry's +smile warmed her, where Derry, a silver-crested knight, knelt at her +feet. +</P> + +<P> +Julia came in to say that Miss Jean was wanted at the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +Miraculously Derry's voice came over the wire. Was she going to the +dance at the Willard? The one for the benefit of the Eye and Ear +Hospital? The President and his wife would be there—the only ball +they had attended this season—everybody would be there. Could he come +for Jean and her father? And he'd bring Drusilla and Marion Gray. She +knew Drusilla? +</P> + +<P> +Jean on tiptoe. Oh, yes. But she was not sure about her father. +</P> + +<P> +"But you—you—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll ask." +</P> + +<P> +She flew on winged feet and explained excitedly. +</P> + +<P> +"Tonight? <I>Tonight</I>, Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"But what time is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Only ten. He'll come at eleven—" +</P> + +<P> +"But you can't leave Emily alone, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Emily won't mind—darling—will you, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not. I am often alone." +</P> + +<P> +It was said quietly, without bitterness, but Dr. McKenzie was quite +suddenly and unreasonably moved by the thought of all that Emily had +missed. He felt it utterly unfair that she should sit alone by an +empty hearth while he and Jean frivolled. He had never thought of +Hilda by an empty hearth—and she had been often alone—but there was +this which made the difference, he would not have asked Hilda to meet +his daughter's friends. She had her place in his household, but it was +not the place which Emily filled. +</P> + +<P> +Yet he missed her. He missed her blond picturesqueness at the dinner +table, her trim whiteness as she served him in his office. +</P> + +<P> +He came back to the question of Emily. "You can tell Drake we will go, +if Emily can accompany us." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Doctor, I'd rather not." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not included in the invitation." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be self-conscious." +</P> + +<P> +"And I haven't anything to wear." +</P> + +<P> +"You never looked better than you do at this moment. And Jean can get +you that scarf of her mother's with the jet and spangles." +</P> + +<P> +"The peacocky one—oh, yes, Daddy." Jean danced back to the telephone. +</P> + +<P> +Derry was delighted to include Miss Bridges. "Bring a dozen if you +wish." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want a dozen. I want just Daddy and Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"And me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course—silly—" +</P> + +<P> +Laughter singing along the wire. "May I come now?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have to change my dress." +</P> + +<P> +"In an hour, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't really believe that we are going together!" +</P> + +<P> +"Together—" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER X +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +A MAN WITH MONEY +</H3> + + +<P> +White and silver for Jean, the peacocky scarf making Emily shine with +the best of them, Dr. McKenzie called away at the last moment, and +promising to join them later; Derry catching his breath when he saw his +violets among Jean's laces; Drusilla wondering a little at this +transfigured Derry; Marion Gray settling down to the comfort of a chat +with Emily—what had these to do with a Tin Soldier on a shelf? +</P> + +<P> +"How is your father, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Better, Drusilla. He has a fine nurse. Dr. McKenzie sent her." +</P> + +<P> +"And I have Emily," Jean sang from the corner of the big car where +Derry had her penned in, with the fragrance of her violets sweeping +over him as he sat next to her. "I want Emily always, but Daddy has to +have a nurse in the office, and Emily won't give up her toys. And in +the meantime Hilda and I are ready to scratch each other's eyes out. +Please keep her as long as you can on your father's case, Mr. Drake." +</P> + +<P> +"Say 'Derry,'" he commanded under cover of the light laughter of the +women. +</P> + +<P> +"Not before—-everybody—" +</P> + +<P> +"Whisper it, then." +</P> + +<P> +"Derry, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +His pulses pounded. During the rest of the drive, he spoke to his +other guests and seemed to listen, but he heard nothing—nothing but +the whisper of that beloved voice. +</P> + +<P> +As Derry had said, all the world of Washington was at the ball. The +President and his wife in a flag-draped box, she in black with a +turquoise fan, he towering a little above her, more than President in +these autocratic days of war. They looked down on men in the uniforms +of the battling world—Scot and Briton and Gaul—in plaid and khaki and +horizon blue—. +</P> + +<P> +They looked down on women knitting. +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Witherspoon and a party of young people sat in a box adjoining +Derry's. Ralph was there and Alma Drew, and Alma was more than ever +lovely in gold-embroidered tulle. +</P> + +<P> +Ralph knew what had happened when he saw Jean dancing with Derry. +There was no mistaking the soft raptures of the youthful pair. In the +days to come Ralph was to suffer wounds, but none to tear his heart +like this. And so when he danced with Jean a little later he did not +spare her. +</P> + +<P> +"A man with money always gets what he wants." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what you mean." +</P> + +<P> +"I think you do. You are going to marry Derry Drake." +</P> + +<P> +She shrank at this. She had in her meetings with Derry never looked +beyond the bliss of the moment. To have Ralph's rough fingers tearing +at the veil of her future was revolting. +</P> + +<P> +She breathed quickly. "I shan't dance with you, if you speak of it +again." +</P> + +<P> +"You shall dance with me," grimly, "this moment is my own—" +</P> + +<P> +She was like wax in his strong arms. "Oh, how dare you." She was cold +with auger. "I want to stop." +</P> + +<P> +"And I could dance forever. That's the irony of it—that I cannot make +you. But if I had Drake's money, I'd make you." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think it is his money?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not. But the world will think it." +</P> + +<P> +"If—if he wanted me, I'd marry him if he were a beggar in the streets." +</P> + +<P> +"Has it gone as far as that? But you wouldn't marry a beggar. A +troubadour beneath your balcony, yes. But not a beggar. You'd want +him silken and blond and singing, and staying at home while other men +fought—" +</P> + +<P> +She stopped at once. "If you knew what you were talking about; I'd +never speak to you again. But because I was fool enough once to +believe that Derry Drake was a coward, I am going to forgive you. But +I shall not dance with you again; ever—" +</P> + +<P> +Making her way back alone to the box, she saw with a throb of relief +that her father had joined Emily and Marion Gray. +</P> + +<P> +He uttered a quick exclamation as she came up. "What's the matter, +daughter?" +</P> + +<P> +Her throat was dry. "I can't tell you now—there are too many people. +It was Ralph. I hate him, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear—" +</P> + +<P> +"I do." +</P> + +<P> +"But why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Please, I don't want to talk about it—wait until we get home." +</P> + +<P> +Looking out over the heads of the swaying crowd, she saw that Derry was +dancing with Alma Drew. And it was Alma who had said at the +Witherspoon dinner, "Everybody will forgive a man with money." +</P> + +<P> +And that was what Ralph had thought of her, that she was like +Alma—that money could buy her—that she would sell the honor of her +country for gold—. +</P> + +<P> +But worse than any hurt of her own was the hurt of the thing for Derry. +Ralph Witherspoon had dared to point a finger of scorn at him—other +people had dared— +</P> + +<P> +She suffered intensely, not as a child, but as a woman. +</P> + +<P> +Alma, out on the floor, was saying to Derry, "I saw you dancing with +Jean McKenzie. She's a quaint little duck." +</P> + +<P> +"Not a duck, Alma," he was smiling, "a white dove—or a silver swan." +The look that he sent across the room to Jean was a revelation. +</P> + +<P> +Like Ralph, she grew hateful. "So that's it? Well, a man with money +can get anything." +</P> + +<P> +He had no anger for her. Jean might blaze in his defense, but his own +fires were not to be fanned by any words of Alma Drew. If he lost his +fortune, Jean would still care for him. It was fore-ordained, as fixed +as the stars. +</P> + +<P> +So he went back to her, and when she saw him coming, the burden of her +distress fell from her. The world became once more hers and Derry's, +with everybody else shut out. When they had supper with the +Witherspoon party joining them, and Ralph palely repentant beside her, +she even, to the utter bewilderment of her father, smiled at him, and +talked as if their quarrel had never been. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla watched her with more than a tinge of envy. She was aware +that her own vivid charm was shadowed and eclipsed by the white flame +of Jean's youth and innocence. "And he loves her," she thought with a +tug of her heartstrings; "he loves her, and there'll never be anything +like it for him again." +</P> + +<P> +She sat rather silently between Captain Hewes and Dr. McKenzie. Dr. +McKenzie had always admired Drusilla, but tonight his attention was +rather more than usual fixed upon her by a remark which Captain Hewes +had made when the two men had stood alone together watching the +dancers. "I have seen very little of American women—but to me +Drusilla Gray seems the supreme type." +</P> + +<P> +"She is very attractive." +</P> + +<P> +"She is more than that. She is inspiring, the embodiment of your best +ideals. When she sings one wonders that all men have not fought for +democracy." +</P> + +<P> +That was something to say of a woman. Doctor McKenzie wondered if it +could be said of his own daughter. Set side by side with Drusilla, +Jean seemed a childish creature, unstable, swayed by the emotion of the +moment. Yet her fire matched Drusilla's, her dreams outran Drusilla's +dreams. +</P> + +<P> +Two officers passed the table. +</P> + +<P> +"How any man can keep out of it," Drusilla said. "Some day I shall put +on a uniform and pass for a boy—" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not go over as you are?" +</P> + +<P> +"They won't let me now. But some day they will. I can drive a +car—there ought to be a place for me." +</P> + +<P> +"There is one for me," he said, "and my decision must be made tonight. +They are asking me to head a hospital staff in France. A letter came +this morning, and I've got to answer it." +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes went to the flame-white maiden on the other side of the table. +"What does Jean say?" +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't asked her. She wouldn't keep me back. But I am all she +has, and it would hurt." +</P> + +<P> +"It would hurt. But you are not all that she has—you might as well +try to sweep back the sea as to stop what is going on over there. I +have been sitting here green with envy. Oh, if love might only come to +me like that." +</P> + +<P> +"Like what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Heaven-sent—never a doubt, never a speculation; just knowing and +believing—souls stripped bare of all pretence." +</P> + +<P> +How splendid she was—how beautiful! He bent down to her. "Why +shouldn't it come to you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Men don't love me that way. They admire and respect and then love. +But Jean? She's a moon maiden, luring them to—madness." She smiled +up at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Captain Hewes says you are the supreme type—the perfect American." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but he thinks of me as a type. Some day perhaps he will think of +me as a woman." +</P> + +<P> +She brought the conversation back to Jean. "You need not let the +thought of her loneliness trouble you." +</P> + +<P> +"You think then that I am going to lose her?" +</P> + +<P> +"You have lost her already." +</P> + +<P> +Sparks burned in the Doctor's eyes. "I don't believe it. She has +known him a few days—and I've given her my whole life." +</P> + +<P> +"'Forsaking all others,'" murmured Drusilla. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet she loves me." +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't that she loves you less—she loves him more." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't," he lifted his hand. "I am not sure that I can stand it." +</P> + +<P> +"It makes your way clear. That's why I have said it. There will be +nothing now to keep you back from France." +</P> + +<P> +Once upon a time she had said to Derry, "I can feel things, and I can +make others feel." She had, perhaps, tonight, been a little cruel, but +she had been cruel with a purpose. +</P> + +<P> +All the way home Doctor McKenzie was very silent. When he kissed his +daughter before she went upstairs, he held her close and smoothed her +hair, but not a word did he say of the thing which had come to him. +</P> + +<P> +He asked Emily, however, to wait a moment. "I have a letter to answer. +I should like your advice." +</P> + +<P> +Wondering a little, she sat down by the fire. The peacocky scarf gave +out glittering lights of blue and green. She was tired and there were +shadows under her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +He came at once to his proposition. "I am thinking of going to France, +Emily. If I do, can you stay with Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +She turned her startled gaze upon him. "To France? Why?" +</P> + +<P> +He told her. "They have been writing to me for weeks, and now the +moment for my decision has come. I haven't said anything to Jean. But +she won't keep me back. You know how she feels. But unless you can +come, I can't leave her." +</P> + +<P> +"I should have to be all day in my shop." +</P> + +<P> +"I know, but you could be here in the evening and at night, and she +could, of course, be with you in the shop, she likes that—and it would +keep her from brooding. Or, if you will give up the shop, I should +like to make it financially possible for you, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. "No. You will be coming back, and then my +occupation would be gone." She hesitated. "But if I come—what of +Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +"She may decide to go over, too, as a nurse. We work well together." +</P> + +<P> +She was silent, searching for the words which she felt that she ought +to say. So that was it? They would go together, and the tongues of +the world would wag. And Hilda would know that they were wagging, and +would not care. But he, with his mind on bigger things, would never +know, and would blunder unseeing into the net which was set for him. +She felt that she ought to warn him, that the good friendship which +existed between them demanded it. Yet it was a hard thing to say, and +she hated it. So the moment passed. +</P> + +<P> +It was he who spoke first—of Jean and Derry. "What do you think of +it, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"He is very much in love with her." +</P> + +<P> +"And Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I think you know. You saw her tonight." +</P> + +<P> +He felt a sudden sense of age and loneliness. "She won't miss me, +then?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think that anyone could make up to your little Jean for the +loss of her father?" +</P> + +<P> +He covered his face with his hand. "You are feeling it like that?" she +asked, gently. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. She is all I have, Emily. And I am +jealous—desperately—desperately." +</P> + +<P> +She searched for words to comfort him, and at last they came. "She +will be very proud of her Daddy in France." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think she will?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it." +</P> + +<P> +"And yet—I am not really worthy of all that she gives—" +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward, her white hands in her lap. Jean's comment echoed +once more in his ears. "I like Emily's hands much better than +Hilda's." They seemed, indeed, to represent all that was lovely in +Emily, her refinement, her firmness, her gentle spirit. +</P> + +<P> +"Bruce," she said—she rarely called him that—"your dear wife would +never have loved you if you hadn't been worthy of love." +</P> + +<P> +"I need her—to hold me to my best." +</P> + +<P> +"Hold yourself to it, Bruce—" She stood up. "I must go to bed, and +so must you. We have busy days before us." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke impulsively. "You are a good woman, Emily—there's no one in +the world that I would trust to stay with Jean but you." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled a little wistfully as she went upstairs. She had perhaps +comforted him, but she had left unsaid the words she should have +spoken. "You must not take Hilda with you. If you take her with you, +will your Jean be proud of her Daddy in France?" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HILDA WEARS A CROWN +</H3> + + +<P> +At two o'clock on Thanksgiving morning the light burned low in the +General's room. Hilda, wide awake, was reading. Derry stopped at the +door. +</P> + +<P> +She rose at once and went to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Is he all right, Miss Merritt?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He's sound asleep." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you think he's better?" +</P> + +<P> +"Much better." +</P> + +<P> +"Good. I hope you can stay on the case. Dr. McKenzie says it is all +because of your splendid care of him. I just left McKenzie, by the +way. I took him and his daughter to the ball at the Willard. We had a +corking time." +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes saw a change in him. This was not the listless Derry with +whom she had talked the day before—here were flushed cheeks and +shining eyes—gay youth and gladness—. +</P> + +<P> +"A corking time," Derry reiterated. "The President was there, and his +wife—and we danced a lot—and—" he caught himself up. "Well, +good-night, Miss Merritt." +</P> + +<P> +"Good-night." She went back to the shadowed room. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson, following Derry, came back in a half hour with a dry, "Is +there anything I can do for you, Miss Merritt?" and then the house was +still. +</P> + +<P> +And now Hilda was alone with the old man in the lacquered bed. There +would be no interruptions until morning. It was the moment for which +she had waited ever since the hour when the General had sent her into +his wife's room for a miniature of Derry, which was locked in the safe. +</P> + +<P> +The suite which had belonged to Mrs. Drake consisted of three rooms—a +sitting room, a bedroom and a sun-parlor which had been Derry's +nursery. Nothing had been changed since her death. Every day a maid +cleaned and dusted, and at certain seasons the clothes in the presses +were brushed and aired and put back again. In a little safe in the +wall were jewels, and the key was on the General's ring. He had given +the key to Hilda when he had sent her for the miniature. His fever had +been high, and he had not been quite himself. Even a nurse with a +finer sense of honor might have argued, however, that her patient must +be obeyed. So she knew now where his treasure was kept—behind a +Chinese scroll, which when rolled up revealed the panel which hid the +safe. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda had never worn a jewel of value in her life. She possessed, it +is true, a few trinkets, a gold ring with her monogram engraved in it, +a string of Roman pearls, and a plain wrist watch. But such brilliance +as that which met her startled eyes when she had first looked into the +safe was beyond anything conceived by her rather limited imagination. +</P> + +<P> +She opened the door between the rooms quietly, and went in, leaving a +crack that she might hear any movement on the part of her patient. She +crossed the sitting room in the dark. Reaching the bedroom she pulled +the chain of the lamp, then set a screen to hide any ray of light which +might escape. +</P> + +<P> +The room was furnished with a feeling for delicate color—gold and +ivory—Japanese prints—pale silks and crêpes—a bit of jade—a cabinet +inlaid with mother-of-pearl. But Hilda's eyes were not for these. +Indeed, she knew nothing of their value, nothing, indeed, of the value +of the Chinese scroll which so effectually hid the panel in the wall. +</P> + +<P> +Within the safe was a large velvet box, and several smaller ones. It +was from the big box that Hilda had taken the miniature, and it +contained also the crown which she yearned to wear. +</P> + +<P> +She called it a crown! It was a tiara of diamonds, peaked up to a +point in front. There was, also, the wide collar of pearls with the +diamond slides which had been worn by the painted lady on the stairs. +In the smaller boxes were more pearls, long strings of them; sapphires +like a midnight sky, opals, fire in a mist; rubies, emeralds—. They +should have been locked in a vault at the General's bank, but he had +wanted nothing taken away, nothing disturbed. Yet with that touch of +fever upon him he had given the key to Hilda. +</P> + +<P> +She took off her cap and turned in the neck of her white linen gown. +The pearl collar was a bit small for her, but she managed to snap the +three slides. She set the sparkling circlet on her head. +</P> + +<P> +Then she stood back and surveyed herself in the oval mirror! +</P> + +<P> +Gone was the Hilda Merritt whom she had known, and in her place was a +queen with a crown! She smiled at her reflection and nodded. For once +she was swayed from her stillness and stolidity. She loaded her long +hands with rings, and held them to her cheeks; then, struck by the +contrast of her white linen sleeve, she rummaged in one of the big +closets, and threw on the bed a drift of exquisite apparel. +</P> + +<P> +The gowns were all too small for her, but there was a cloak of velvet +and ermine. The General's wife had worn it to the White House dinner +over the gown in which she had been painted. Hilda drew the cloak +about her shoulders, and laughed noiselessly. She could look like +this, and she had never known it! But now that she knew—! +</P> + +<P> +There was the soft click of the telephone in the General's room. +Fearful lest the sound should waken her patient, she tore off the +tiara, turned up the neck of her dress to hide the shining collar, +dropped the cloak, pulled the chain of the lamp, then sped breathless +to the shadowed room. +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie was at the other end of the wire. +</P> + +<P> +"I am coming over, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"You need not,"—her voice was a whisper—"he is sound asleep." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to see you for a moment. It is very important." +</P> + +<P> +She hesitated. "It is very late." +</P> + +<P> +"Has young Drake arrived?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He has gone to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll be there in ten minutes. You can meet me downstairs." +</P> + +<P> +The General stirred. "Miss Merritt." +</P> + +<P> +She hung up the receiver and went to him at once. +</P> + +<P> +"Has the Doctor come?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. But he has just telephoned. He will be here shortly." +</P> + +<P> +His sick old eyes surveyed her. "I never saw you before without your +cap—" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"You are very pretty." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled down at him. "It is nice of you to say it." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't wear your cap again, I don't like uniforms for women." +</P> + +<P> +"But when I am on duty I must wear it. You know enough of discipline +to understand that I must." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But women don't need discipline, God bless 'em." His old eyes +twinkled. "Has Derry come in?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, and gone to bed. He asked after you." +</P> + +<P> +"And it's Thanksgiving morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"And no turkey for me. But you'll get me a glass of wine?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not sure. I'll ask the Doctor." +</P> + +<P> +She sat beside him until he again dozed. Then made her way once more +to the room where the lovely gowns were piled high on the bed, and the +jewels sparkled on the dressing-table. Quickly and noiselessly she put +them in place. Then she tried to take off the collar, but the snaps +held. She tugged and pressed, but with no result. She was afraid to +pull too hard lest she break the snaps. +</P> + +<P> +At last she was forced to button the collar of her linen gown above it. +She smoothed her hair and put on her cap. The room as she surveyed it +showed no sign of her occupation. She put out the light and returned +to her patient. +</P> + +<P> +She was at the front door to let the Doctor in when he arrived. +</P> + +<P> +"The General is awake, and wants to see you. I'll come down when you +go, and we can talk." +</P> + +<P> +As they entered the shadowed room together, the old man opened his +eyes. "Hello, McKenzie. Nurse, what made you put on your cap? I +don't like it." +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't dare leave it off when the Doctor's here." +</P> + +<P> +"Does she have to take your orders or mine, McKenzie?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mine," smiling; "that's one of the perquisites of my profession, to +have all the nurses under my thumb." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you try to please your patients?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then tell her to leave off her cap." +</P> + +<P> +He began to cough. The Doctor bent over him. Hilda helped to make the +old man comfortable. +</P> + +<P> +When at last the General drifted into slumber, the two went down +together. The hall clock pointed to four. +</P> + +<P> +They stood at the foot of the great stairway. From the landing the +painted lady smiled at them. +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda, I am going to France." +</P> + +<P> +She expressed no surprise. "When did you make up your mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"In a sense it is not made up. I think I am waiting for you to confirm +my decision. They want me at the head of a hospital staff, to deal +with cases of shock. I should like to have you in charge of my nurses." +</P> + +<P> +She meditated. "I am not sure that I care to go." +</P> + +<P> +He showed his surprise. "I understood that if I went, you would go—" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think I said that." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not. But it didn't occur to me that you would back out." His +voice showed the irritation of a man balked in the thing he wants. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't backed out. I don't know what I want to do. I have to +think it over." +</P> + +<P> +He ran his fingers through his hair. "What made you change your mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"I like to be comfortable. And it isn't comfortable over there." +</P> + +<P> +"For Heaven's sake, Hilda—don't make yourself out as selfish as that." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not any more selfish than other people, but I am honest. I don't +go around deceiving myself with the idea that if I go I shall be doing +something wonderful. But you—that's why you are going—to be +wonderful in your own eyes, and Jean's eyes and in the eyes of the +world." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't think it is that," he said soberly. "I hope not. I have +tried to see straight. I sometimes think it is you who are seeing +crooked, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +They faced each other squarely. Her chin was slightly lifted. He +caught the gleam of jewels at her throat. +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda," he said, sharply, "where did you get those diamonds?" +</P> + +<P> +Her hand flew up to them. She was not in the least disconcerted. "I +might as well tell you. They belonged to the General's wife. I didn't +have anything to do tonight, so I've been trying them on. There isn't +any harm in that, is there?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's rather dangerous," slowly; "why didn't you take the collar off?" +</P> + +<P> +"The snap caught just as you came, and I couldn't unfasten it." +</P> + +<P> +"Did the General know that you tried them on?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not. He was asleep." +</P> + +<P> +"Bend your head down, and let me look at the snap." +</P> + +<P> +She leaned towards him, bringing her neck against his hand. The little +curls of bright hair sprang up towards his fingers as he worked at the +obstinate catch. But he did his work steadily, and as she straightened +up again, he dropped the collar into her hand. +</P> + +<P> +"If you will take my advice," he said, "you won't do a thing like that +again. People might not understand." +</P> + +<P> +"You mean that they might think I had stolen it? I am not a thief, +Doctor—" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not. Do you think you have to tell me that? And are we +quarrelling, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +She swung back to her normal calm. "I am tired and cross—" +</P> + +<P> +"I know you are tired. I hope the day nurse will relieve you. I can +get two nurses, and let you off entirely." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. "I'll stay here. I am interested in the case. +And I want to see it through. By the way, he has asked again for wine." +</P> + +<P> +"He can't have it, I told you. You must say that my orders are strict." +</P> + +<P> +He held out his hand. "Then you won't go to France with me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Let me sleep on it,"—her fingers were firm on his own—"and don't +scold me any more." +</P> + +<P> +"Did I scold?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"I am sorry." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled at him. The slow smile which transformed her. "I'll +forgive you. Call me up in the morning, please." +</P> + +<P> +She let him out, and went silently up the stairs. The General was +again awake. "I want to talk," he told her; "take off your cap, and +sit where I can look at you." +</P> + +<P> +He was still feverish, still not quite responsible for what he might +say. +</P> + +<P> +She sat with the light falling full upon her. She never made an +unnecessary movement, and her stillness soothed him. She was a good +listener, and he grew garrulous. +</P> + +<P> +At last he spoke of his wife. "Sometimes I think she is here and I +find myself speaking. A little while ago, I thought I heard her moving +in her room, but when I opened my eyes you were bending over me. +Sometimes I seem to hear her singing—there is never a moment that I do +not miss her. If I were good enough I might hope to meet her—perhaps +the Lord will let the strength of my love compensate for the weakness +of my will." +</P> + +<P> +So on and on in the broken old voice. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson came at six, and Hilda went away to have some sleep. While the +General drowsed she had put the collar safely away behind the Chinese +scroll. +</P> + +<P> +As she passed through the hall, she stopped for a moment at the head of +the stairs. The painted lady smiled at her, the painted lady who was +loved by the old man in the shadowed room. +</P> + +<P> +No, Hilda was not a thief. Yet as she stood there, in the cold dawn of +that Thanksgiving morning, she had it in her mind to steal from the +painted lady things more precious than a pearl collar or an ermine +cloak or the diamonds in a crown! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHEN THE MORNING STARS SANG +</H3> + + +<P> +Jean was having her breakfast in bed. Emily had slipped downstairs to +drink an early cup of coffee with the Doctor and to warn him, "Don't +tell her to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"It will spoil her feast. Derry Drake is coming to dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"The robber—" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really feel that way about it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know how I feel." +</P> + +<P> +He rose and went to the window. "It's a rotten morning." +</P> + +<P> +"It is Thanksgiving." +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't much to be thankful for," moodily. "I am, you tell me, +about to lose my daughter. I am, also, it would seem, to part company +with my best nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I wanted her to take charge of things for me in France. She +elects to stay here." +</P> + +<P> +"But why?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's a—woman." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean that. And I must say that I am rather glad that she is +not going." +</P> + +<P> +It was out at last! She had a feeling as if she had taken a cold +plunge and had survived it! +</P> + +<P> +"Glad? What do you mean, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"Every time I waked in the night, I thought of Jean and of how she +would feel if Hilda went with you. Do you realize that if she goes, +there are things that the world will say?" +</P> + +<P> +His face was stern. "You are very brave to tell me that, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"It had to be said, and last night I shirked it." +</P> + +<P> +"But Hilda is a very good nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think of her only as a—good nurse?" +</P> + +<P> +He turned that over in his mind. "No. In a sense she's rather +attractive. She satisfies a certain side of me—." +</P> + +<P> +"The best side?" +</P> + +<P> +He avoided an answer to that. "When she is away I miss her." +</P> + +<P> +And now Miss Emily, shaking a little, but not showing it, made him face +the situation squarely. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you ever thought that, missing her, you might want to marry her?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have thought of it. Why not, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"Have you thought that it would make her your Jean's—mother—?" +</P> + +<P> +His startled look met her steadfast one. His mind flew back to Hilda +as she had bent down to him the night before, that he might unfasten +the necklace. He thought of the evil that her eyes saw in him, and in +the rest of the world. He thought of Jean, and of her white young +dreams. +</P> + +<P> +"No," he said, as if to himself, "not that—" +</P> + +<P> +She laid her hand on his arm, "Go by yourself—there's a big work over +there, and you can do it best—alone." +</P> + +<P> +He looked down at her, smiling a little, but smiling sadly. "If Jean's +mother had lived I should not have been such a weathercock. Will you +write to me—promise me that you will write." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," cheerfully. "Oh, by the way, Julia tells me that dinner +will be at three, and that two soldier boys are coming. I rather think +I shall like that." +</P> + +<P> +He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "What a lot you get out +of life, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you say that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Little things count so much with you. You are like Jean. She is in +seventh Heaven over a snowstorm—or a chocolate soda. It's the youth +in her—and it's the youth, too, in you—" +</P> + +<P> +She liked that, and flushed a little. "Perhaps it is because there +have been so few big things, Bruce, that the little ones look big." +</P> + +<P> +He had a fleeting sense of what Emily would be like with some big thing +in her life—how far would it swing her from her sedate course? +</P> + +<P> +"You have done me a lot of good," he said heartily when she left him to +go upstairs to Jean. +</P> + +<P> +Jean was still in bed. "I must run down to the shop," Emily informed +her. "But I'll be back in plenty of time to dress for dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"Darling—" Jean reminded her, "you must go to church." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. I shall stop on my way down." +</P> + +<P> +"Pray for me, Emily." She reached out her arms. Emily came to them +and they clung together. "I am so happy, darling—" Jean whispered, +"but there isn't anything to tell, not really—yet—Emily—" +</P> + +<P> +When Emily had gone, Jean got out her memory books. She had made of +breakfast a slight affair. How could one eat in the face of such +astounding events. Already this morning flowers had arrived for her, +heather and American Beauties. And Derry had written on his card, "The +heather because of you—the roses because of the day—" +</P> + +<P> +There were two hours on her hands before church. She could dress in +one—the intervening time must be filled. +</P> + +<P> +Her memory books were great fat volumes kept on a shelf by themselves, +and forming a record of everything that had happened to her since her +first day at boarding school. They were in no sense diaries, nor could +they be called scrap-books. They had, rather, been compiled with an +eye to certain red-letter events—and their bulkiness had been enhanced +by the insertion between the leaves of various objects not intended for +such limited space. There was a mask which she had worn at Hallowe'en; +the tulle which had tied her roses at graduation; a little silver ring +marking a childish romance; a flattened and much-dried chocolate drop +with tender associations; dance-favors, clippings, photographs, theater +programs, each illumined and emphasized by a line or two of sentiment +or of nonsense in Jean's girlish scrawl. +</P> + +<P> +Even now, as she turned the leaves, she found herself laughing over a +rhyme which her father had cut from his daily paper, and had sent in +response to her wild plea for a box of something good to eat: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Mary had a little lamb,<BR> +A little pork, a little jam,<BR> +A little egg on toast,<BR> +A little potted roast,<BR> +A little stew with dumplings white,<BR> +A little shad,<BR> +For Mary had,<BR> +A little appetite."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +The big box had followed—how <I>dear</I> Daddy had always been—but had she +ever wanted to eat like that? +</P> + +<P> +There were letters which her father had written, pasted in, envelopes +and all, to be read in certain longing moments when she had missed him +and her mother. There were love letters from certain callow college +boys—<I>love</I>—! She laughed now as she thought of the pale passion +they had offered her. +</P> + +<P> +Derry had had no word for her the night before when he had left her at +her door. Her father had been with her, so Derry could only press her +hand and watch her as she went in. But there had been no need for +words. All the evening what they had felt had flamed between them—. +</P> + +<P> +So with the desire to preserve a record of these marvellous moments +which were crowding into her life, she chose a perfectly new book to be +devoted to Derry. And on the first page she pasted, not the faded +violet from the basket which had come to her yesterday—oh, day of +days!—not the dance program on which Derry's name was most magically +scrawled, nor the spring of heather, nor a handful of rose leaves from +the offering of the morning—no, the very first thing that went into +Jean's memory book was a frayed silken tassel that had been cut from a +rose-colored curtain! She had carried down her little scissors the +night before, and had snipped it, and here it was—an omen for her own +rose-colored future! +</P> + +<P> +Starry-eyed she lay back among her pillows. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Polly-Ann, Polly-Ann," she said tensely, to the small cat on the +cushions, "if I should ever wake up and find that it wasn't true—" +</P> + +<P> +Polly-Ann stared at her with mystical green orbs. She could offer no +help, but she served as a peg upon which Jean could hang her eloquence. +She stretched herself luxuriously and purred. +</P> + +<P> +"But it is true, Polly-Ann," Jean said, "and I am going to church with +him—wasn't it beautiful that he should think of going to church with +me on Thanksgiving morning, Polly-Ann?" +</P> + +<P> +She dressed herself presently, making a sort of sacred rite of +it—because of Derry. She was glad that she was pretty—because of +Derry. Glad that her gray fur coat was becoming—glad of the red rose +against it. +</P> + +<P> +He came in his car, but they decided to walk. +</P> + +<P> +"I always walk to church," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"There's sleet falling," said Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Nor I," said Derry. +</P> + +<P> +And so they started out together! +</P> + +<P> +It was a dismal day, but they did not know it. They knelt together in +the old church. They prayed together. And when at last the +benediction had been said and they stood together for a moment alone in +the pew, Derry looked down at her and said, "Beloved," and the morning +stars sang—! +</P> + +<P> +When they went out, the sleet was coming thick and fast, and Derry's +car was waiting. And when they were safe inside, he turned to her and +his voice exulted, "I haven't even told you that I love you—I haven't +asked you to marry me—I haven't done any of the conventional +things—it hasn't needed words, and that's the wonder of it." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"But you knew." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"From the first?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think it was from the first—" +</P> + +<P> +"In the Toy Shop?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"And you thought I was poor—and I thought you were just the girl in +the shop?" +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't it wonderful?" +</P> + +<P> +It was more wonderful than they knew. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know that my money has always been more important to some +people than I have been? I have thought they cared for me because of +it." +</P> + +<P> +"Ralph said last night that I cared—for the money." +</P> + +<P> +She would not tell him of the other things that Ralph had said. And +even as she thought of him, across the path of her rapture fell the +shadow of Ralph's scorn of Derry. +</P> + +<P> +He bent down to her. "Jean, if I had been that shabby boy that you +first saw in the shop would you have been happy with me, in a plain +little house? Would you?" +</P> + +<P> +Up the streets came the people from the churches—the crowds of people +who had thanked the Lord soberly, feeling meantime a bit bewildered as +to the workings of His Providence. Most of them were going home to +somewhat modified feasts. Many of them were having a soldier or two to +dine with them. And presently these soldiers whom they feasted would +be crossing the sea to that dread land of death and desolation. +</P> + +<P> +Should they thank the Lord for that? +</P> + +<P> +Some of the clergymen, craving light, had sought it in the Old +Testament. But one, more inspired than the rest, had found it in the +New. +</P> + +<P> +"And there was war in Heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the +dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels. And prevailed +not—neither was their place found any more in Heaven." +</P> + +<P> +Those who came from that church spoke of a Holy War, and were thankful +that there were men in America going forth to fight the Dragon. +</P> + +<P> +The two soldiers who were to dine at Dr. McKenzie's were plain young +fellows from an upper county in Maryland. They were waiting somewhat +awkwardly in the drawing-room when Jean arrived. She took them at once +to the less formal library, left Derry with them and went upstairs to +dress. +</P> + +<P> +As she came into the fresh and frilly room so identified with her child +life and her girl life, she stopped on the threshold. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, little room, little room, the child that once lived here will never +come again! +</P> + +<P> +She knelt beside the bed, her face buried in her hands. No words came, +but in her heart she was saying, "My beloved is mine—and I am his—" +</P> + +<P> +When she went down, Dr. McKenzie was there, and Emily, and the two +young soldiers had lost their awkwardness. When they found out +afterwards that the young Drake who talked to them so simply and +unaffectedly was DeRhymer Drake, the multi-millionaire, they refused to +believe it. "He was a mighty nice chap. He didn't put on a bit of +side, and the dinner was some feast." +</P> + +<P> +And how could they know that Derry was envying them their cavalry +yellow and their olive drab? +</P> + +<P> +As for Jean, throughout the afternoon they gazed upon her as upon an +enchanting vision. When they told her "Good-bye" it was the boldest +who asked, with a flush on his hard cheek, if he might have a bit of +the heather which she wore. "I am Scotch myself, and my mother was, +and it would seem a sort of mascot." +</P> + +<P> +If she hesitated for a moment it was only Derry who noticed it. And he +helped her out. "It will be a proud day for the heather." +</P> + +<P> +So she gave away a part of his gift, and thanked him with her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +It was after the boys had gone that Derry had a talk alone with Dr. +McKenzie. +</P> + +<P> +"But you haven't known her a month—" +</P> + +<P> +"I have wanted her all my life." +</P> + +<P> +"I see—how old are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Thirty-one." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't look it." +</P> + +<P> +"No. And I don't feel it. Not to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"And you think that she cares?" +</P> + +<P> +"What do you think, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor threw up his hands. "Oh, lad, lad, there's all the wonder +of it in her eyes when she looks at you." +</P> + +<P> +When Derry went at last to find Jean, she was not in the library. He +crossed the hall to the little drawing-room. His love sat by the fire +alone. +</P> + +<P> +"My darling—" +</P> + +<P> +Thus she came to his arms. But even then he held her gently, +worshipping her innocence and respecting it. +</P> + +<P> +The next morning he brought her a ring. It was such a wonderful ring +that she held her breath. She sat on the rose-colored davenport while +he put it on her finger. +</P> + +<P> +"If I had been the girl in the Toy Shop," she told him, "and you had +been the shabby boy, you would have given me a gold band with three +little stones—and I should have liked that, too." +</P> + +<P> +"You shall have the gold ring some day, and it won't have stones in +it—and it will be a wedding ring." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—" +</P> + +<P> +"And when yon wear it I shall call you—Friend Wife—" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +ARE MEN MADE ONLY FOR THIS? +</H3> + + +<P> +In the afternoon the lovers made a triumphant pilgrimage to the place +where they had first met. All the toys in the little shop stared at +them—the clowns and the dancers in pink and yellow and the bisque +babies and the glassy-eyed dogs and cats. +</P> + +<P> +The white elephant was again in the window. "He seemed so lonely," +Emily explained, "and with Christmas coming I couldn't feel comfortable +to think of him away from it all." +</P> + +<P> +Jean showed Derry her midnight camels. "I am going to do peacocks +next," she told him. "I am so proud." +</P> + +<P> +He bought all of the camels and a lot of other things. "We'll take +them to Margaret Morgan's kiddies tomorrow; I want you to meet her." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily found her lavish customer interesting, but demoralizing. +"Run away with him, Jean," she said. "I am not used to Croesuses. He +won't leave anything to sell, and then what shall I say to the people +who want to buy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Shut up your shop and go to tea with us at Chevy Chase," Derry +suggested. +</P> + +<P> +Emily smiled at him. "It is good of you to ask me, but I can't. I am +not in love, and I have my day's work to do. But I think if you would +like to take Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +"Alone?" eagerly. "Do you think I might?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was almost afraid to suggest it." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not a dragon. And there will never be a day like this for you +again." +</P> + +<P> +Jean broke in at that. "Oh, Emily, they will be wonderfuller!" +</P> + +<P> +"But not this day—" +</P> + +<P> +Derry knew what she meant. "How sweet you are." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily, flushing, was a transformed Miss Emily. "Well, old people +are apt to forget, and I have not forgotten." +</P> + +<P> +"Darling, darling," Jean chanted. "I am going to paint dragons, and +they shall all have lovely faces, and I shall call them the +Not-Forgetting Dragons." +</P> + +<P> +It was all very superlative. Miss Emily tried to send them away, but +they still lingered. Jean set the music boxes going to celebrate the +occasion, then stopped them because the only tunes they played were +German tunes. +</P> + +<P> +Derry laughed at her, then came to silence before a box of tin +soldiers. They were little French soldiers, flat on their backs, +bright with paint— +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder how they feel about it?" he asked Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"About what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Shut up in a box, doing nothing—" +</P> + +<P> +As the lovers drove away, Emily stood at the window looking after them. +There was one customer in the shop, but Miss Emily had a feeling that +he would keep himself amused until she was ready to wait on him. She +had intuitions about the people who came to buy, and this tall spare +man with the slight droop of his shoulders, his upstanding bush of gray +hair, his shell glasses on a black ribbon was, she was aware, having +the time of his life. No little boy could have spent more time over +the toys. He fingered them lovingly as he peered through his big horn +glasses. +</P> + +<P> +He saw Miss Emily looking at him and smiling. "It was the white +elephant that brought me in. He was made in Germany?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"It is not easy to get them any more?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. You see I have a little card on him 'Not for sale.'" +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. "I should like to buy him—" +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. "I have refused many offers." +</P> + +<P> +"I can understand that. Yet, perhaps if I should tell you?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a slight trace of foreign accent in his speech. She +stiffened. She felt that he was capable of calling her "Fräulein." +There was not the least doubt in her mind as to the Teutonic extraction +of this gentleman who was shamelessly trying to induce her to sell her +elephant. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't imagine any reason that would make me change my mind." +</P> + +<P> +"My father is German; he makes toys." +</P> + +<P> +She showed her surprise. "Makes toys?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He is an old man—eighty-five. He was born in Nuremberg. Until +he was twenty-five he made elephants like the one in your window. Now +do you see?" +</P> + +<P> +She was not sure that she did see. "Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"I want him for my father's Christmas present." +</P> + +<P> +"Impossible," coldly; "he is not for sale." +</P> + +<P> +He was still patient. "He will make you another—many others." +</P> + +<P> +He had her attention now. "Make—elephants?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. He needs only a pattern. There are certain things he has +forgotten. I should like to make him happy." +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily, hostilely convinced that it was not her business to +contribute to the happiness of any octogenarian Hun, shook her head, +"I'm sorry." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you won't sell him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not." +</P> + +<P> +He still lingered. "You love your toys—I have been here before, and I +have watched you. They are not just sawdust and wood and cloth and +paint to you—they are real—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"My father is like that. They are real to him. There's an old wax +doll that was my mother's. He loves her and talks to her—. Because +she was made in that Germany which is dead—" +</P> + +<P> +The fierceness in his voice, the flash of his eye; the thrust of his +hand as if it held a rapier! +</P> + +<P> +"Dead?" +</P> + +<P> +"The Germany he knew died when Prussia throttled her. Her poetry died, +her music—there is no echo now from the Rhine but that of—guns." +</P> + +<P> +"You feel—that way—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Then sit down and tell me—tell me—" She was eager. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell you what?" +</P> + +<P> +"About your father, about the toys, about the Germany that is—dead." +</P> + +<P> +He was glad to tell her. It poured forth, with now and then an +offending phrase, "Gott in Himmel, do they think we have forgotten? My +father came to America because he loved freedom—he fought in the Civil +War for freedom—he loves freedom still; and over there they are +fighting for slavery. The slavery of the little nations, the slavery +of those who love democracy. They want Prussia, and more Prussia, and +more Prussia—" He struck his hand on the counter so that all the +dolls danced. +</P> + +<P> +"They are fighting to get the whole world under an iron heel—to +crush—to grind—to destroy. My father reads it and weeps. He is an +old man, Fräulein, and his mind goes back to the Germany which sang and +told fairy tales, and made toys; do you see? +</P> + +<P> +"Yet there are people here who do not understand, who point their +fingers at him, at me. Who think because I am Ulrich Stölle that I am +not—American. Yet what am I but that?" +</P> + +<P> +He got up and walked around the room restlessly. "I am an American. +If I was not born here, can I help that? But my heart has been moulded +here. For me there is no other country. Germany I love—yes, but as +one loves a woman who has been led away—because one thinks of the +things she might have been, not of the thing she is." +</P> + +<P> +He came back to her. "Will you sell me your elephant, Fräulein?" +</P> + +<P> +She held out her hand to him. Her eyes were wet. "I will lend him to +your father. Indeed, I cannot sell him." +</P> + +<P> +He took her hand in a strong grasp. "I knew you were kind. If you +could only see my father." +</P> + +<P> +"Bring him here some day." +</P> + +<P> +"He is too old to be brought. He sticks close to his chair. But if +you would come and see him? You and perhaps the young lady who waited +on me when I came before, and who was here to-day with the young man +whose heart is singing." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you saw that?" +</P> + +<P> +"It was there for the whole world to see, was it not? A man in love +hides nothing. You will bring them then? We have flowers even in +December in our hothouses; you will like that, and you shall see my +father. I think you will love my father, Fräulein." +</P> + +<P> +After he had gone she wondered at herself. She had trusted her +precious elephant to a perfect stranger. He might be anything, a spy, +a thief, with his "Gotts in Himmel" and his "Fräuleins"—how Jean would +laugh at her for her softheartedness! +</P> + +<P> +Oh, but he wasn't a thief, he wasn't a spy. He was a poet and a +gentleman. She made very few mistakes in her estimates of the people +who came to her shop. She had made, she was sure, no mistake in +trusting Ulrich Stölle. +</P> + +<P> +Jean and Derry motoring to Chevy Chase were far away from the world of +the Toy Shop. As they whirled along the country roads the bare trees +seemed to bud and bloom for them, the sky was gold. +</P> + +<P> +The lovely clubhouse as they came into it was gay with big-flowered +curtains and warm with its roaring fires. +</P> + +<P> +As they crossed the room together, they attracted much attention. +There was about them a fine air of exaltation—. +</P> + +<P> +"Young blood, young blood," said an old gentleman in a corner. "Gad, I +envy him. Look at her eyes—!" +</P> + +<P> +But there was more than her eyes to look at. There were her cheeks, +and her crinkled copper hair under the little hat, and the flower that +she wore, and her white hands as she poured the tea. +</P> + +<P> +They drank unlimited quantities of Orange Pekoe, and ate small +mountains of toast. They were healthily happy and quite unexpectedly +hungry, and the fact that they were sitting alone at the table gave the +whole thing an enchanting atmosphere of domesticity. +</P> + +<P> +"Ralph spoiled it the other day," Jean confided, "I had everything +ready for you." +</P> + +<P> +"How I hated him when I came in." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, did you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," and then they both laughed, and the old gentleman in the +corner said to the woman who sat with him, "Let's get away. I can't +stand it." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see why." +</P> + +<P> +"You wouldn't see. But there was a time once when I loved a girl like +that." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla and Captain Hewes coming in, after a canter through the Park, +broke in upon the Paradise of the young pair. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla in riding togs still managed to preserve the picturesque +quality of her beauty—a cockade in her hat, a red flower in her lapel, +a blue tie against her white shirt. +</P> + +<P> +"And she does it so well," Derry said, as the two came towards them. +"In most women it would have an air of bad taste, but Drusilla never +goes too far—" +</P> + +<P> +Captain Hewes in tow showed himself a captured man. "I didn't know +that American women could ride until Miss Gray showed me—today. It +was rippin'." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla laughed. "It is worth more than the ride to have you say +'rippin'' like that." +</P> + +<P> +"She makes fun of me," the Captain complained; "some day I shall take +her over to England and show her how our gentle maidens look up to me." +</P> + +<P> +"Your gentle maidens," Drusilla stated, "are driving ambulances or +making munitions. When the Tommies come marching home again they will +find comrades, not clinging vines." +</P> + +<P> +"And they'll jolly well like it," said the big Englishman; "a man wants +a woman who understands—" +</P> + +<P> +This was law and gospel to Derry. "Of course. Jean, dear, may I tell +Drusilla?" +</P> + +<P> +"As if you had to tell me," Drusilla scoffed; "it is written all over +you." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it?" Derry marvelled. +</P> + +<P> +"It is. The whole room is lighted up with it. You are a lucky man, +Derry,"—for a moment her bright eyes were shadowed—"and Jean is a +lucky girl." She leaned down and kissed the woman that Derry loved. +"Oh, you Babes in the Wood—" +</P> + +<P> +"By Jove," the Captain ejaculated, much taken by the little scene, "do +you mean that they are going to be married?" +</P> + +<P> +"Rather," Drusilla mocked him. "But don't shout it from the housetops. +Derry is a public personage, and it might get in the papers." +</P> + +<P> +"It is not to get in the papers yet," Derry said. "Dr. McKenzie won't +let me tell Dad—he's too ill—but we told you because you are my good +friend, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +She might have been more than that, but he did not know it. When he +went away with Jean, she looked after him wistfully. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye, little Galahad," she said. +</P> + +<P> +The Captain stared. "Oh, I say, do you call him that?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. +</P> + +<P> +"He's a knight in shining armor—" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't understand why he's not fightin'." +</P> + +<P> +"Nobody understands. There's something back of it, and meantime people +are calling him a coward—" +</P> + +<P> +"Doesn't look like a slacker." +</P> + +<P> +"He isn't. I have sometimes thought," said wise Drusilla, "that it +might be his father. He's a gay old bird, and Derry has to jack him +up." +</P> + +<P> +"Drink?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. They say that Derry has followed him night after night—getting +him home if he could; if not, staying with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Hard lines—" +</P> + +<P> +"And yet he is asking little Jean to marry him. I wonder if she will +keep step with him." +</P> + +<P> +"Why shouldn't she?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because Derry is going to travel far and fast in the next few months," +Drusilla prophesied. +</P> + +<P> +Her face settled into tired lines. For the first time the Captain saw +her divorced from her radiance. He set himself to cheer her. +</P> + +<P> +"What is troubling you, dear woman?" +</P> + +<P> +She was very frank, and she told him the truth. "I should have been +glad to keep step with him myself." +</P> + +<P> +He laid his hand over hers. "If you had, where would I be? From the +moment I saw you, you filled my heart." +</P> + +<P> +So, after all, she had been to him from the first, not a type but a +woman. It had come to him like that, but not to her. "You're the +bravest and best man I have ever met," she told him, "but I don't love +you." +</P> + +<P> +"I should be glad to wait," said the poor Captain, "until you could +find something in me to like." +</P> + +<P> +"I find a great deal to like," she said, "but it wouldn't be fair to +give you anything less than love." +</P> + +<P> +"At least you'll let me have your friendship—to take back with me." +</P> + +<P> +She looked at him, startled. "Oh, you are going back?" +</P> + +<P> +"I may get my orders any day. There are things I can be doing over +there." +</P> + +<P> +Some day she was to see him "over there," to see him against a +background of fire and flame and smoke, to see him transfigured by +heroism, and she was to remember then with an aching heart this moment +when he had told her that he loved her. +</P> + +<P> +It was dark when Derry brought Jean home. There had been a sunset and +an afterglow, and a twilight, and an evening star to ravish them as +they rode, to say nothing of the moon—they came to the Doctor's door +quite dizzy with the joy of it. +</P> + +<P> +Derry was loath to leave. "Can't we all go to a play tonight?" he +asked Jean's father. "You and Miss Bridges and the two of us?" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not. Jean has done enough to-day. She isn't made of iron." +</P> + +<P> +"She is made of fire and dew," Derry flung at him, lightly. +</P> + +<P> +"Heavens, has it come to that? Well, she is still my daughter. I +won't have her ill on my hands." +</P> + +<P> +"But, Daddy!" +</P> + +<P> +"You are to have a quiet dinner with me, my dear, and go to bed—and +young Lochinvar may call for you in the morning—" +</P> + +<P> +Young Lochinvar was repentant. "I didn't think it would tire her." +</P> + +<P> +"Henceforth you will have to think." +</P> + +<P> +"I know, sir." +</P> + +<P> +He was so meek that the Doctor melted. "Run along and say 'Good-bye' +to her. I'll give you ten minutes." +</P> + +<P> +They wanted ten eternities. But there was, of course, tomorrow. They +comforted themselves with that. +</P> + +<P> +At dinner, the Doctor spoke of Derry's father. "All real danger is +past, but he will have to be careful." +</P> + +<P> +"When is Hilda coming back?" +</P> + +<P> +"She told me last night that she'd rather stay until there was no +further need for a nurse. The General hates a change, and he has asked +her to stay." +</P> + +<P> +"Does she like it?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is very comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"Derry says that his father is an old dear." +</P> + +<P> +"He would think so, naturally." +</P> + +<P> +There were things about the General's case which were troubling Dr. +McKenzie, and of which he could not speak. The old man had, +undoubtedly been given something to drink on Thanksgiving Day. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda had had strict orders, and the day nurse, and the only other +person who had had access to the General's room was Bronson. He had +made up his mind to speak to Derry about Bronson. +</P> + +<P> +The meal progressed rather silently. The Doctor was preoccupied, +taciturn. Miss Emily made futile efforts at conversation. Jean +dallied with her dinner. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," the Doctor commented as she pushed away her salad, "you +can't live on love." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not hungry. We had tea at the Club. Drusilla was there—and—we +told her." +</P> + +<P> +"Told her what?" +</P> + +<P> +Blushing furiously, "That Derry and I are going to be—married." +</P> + +<P> +"But you are not. Not for months. If that cub thinks he can carry you +off from under my eyes he is mistaken. You've got to get acquainted +with each other—I have seen too many unhappy marriages." +</P> + +<P> +"But we are not going to be unhappy, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +Her cheeks were blazing. Miss Emily interposed. "Don't tease her, +she's too tired." +</P> + +<P> +"If he is teasing, I don't care," Jean said, "but it always sounds as +if he meant it." +</P> + +<P> +After dinner, the Doctor laid his hand on his daughter's shoulder. "I +want to talk to you, daughter." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it about Derry, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"About myself." +</P> + +<P> +Emily, understanding, left them alone. Jean sat in her low chair in +front of the fire, her earnest eyes on her father. "Well, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +He patted her hand. It was hard for him to speak. +</P> + +<P> +She saw his emotion. "Is—is it because I am going to marry Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"That, and more than that. Jean, dear, I must go to France—" +</P> + +<P> +"To France?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. They want me to head a hospital. I don't see how I can refuse, +and keep my self-respect. But it means—leaving you." +</P> + +<P> +"Leaving me—" +</P> + +<P> +"My little girl—don't look like that." He reached out his arms to her. +</P> + +<P> +She came, and clung to him. "How soon?" +</P> + +<P> +"As soon as I can wind things up here." +</P> + +<P> +"It—it seems as if I couldn't let you." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll miss me, dearest?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know I will, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +"But you will have your Derry." His jealousy forced that. +</P> + +<P> +"As if it makes any difference about—you." +</P> + +<P> +She hid her face against his coat. She felt suddenly that the war was +assuming a new and very personal aspect. Of course men had to go. But +she and her father had never been separated—not for more than a day or +week, or a month when she was at the shore. +</P> + +<P> +"How long, Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"God knows, dearest. Until I am not needed." +</P> + +<P> +"But—" her lip trembled. +</P> + +<P> +"You are going to be my brave little girl." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll try—" the tears were running down her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"You wouldn't have me not go, would you?" +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head and sobbed on his shoulder. He soothed her and +presently she sat up. Quite gallantly she agreed that she would stay +with Emily. If he thought she was too young to marry Derry now, she +would wait. If Derry went into it, it might be easier to let him go as +a lover than as a husband—she thought it might be easier. Yes, she +would try to sleep when she went upstairs—and she would remember that +her old Daddy loved her, loved her, and she was to ask God to bless +him—and keep him—when they were absent one from the other—. +</P> + +<P> +She kissed him and clung to him and then went upstairs. She undressed +and said her prayers, put Polly-Ann on her cushion, turned off the +light, and got into bed. +</P> + +<P> +Then she lay in the dark, facing it squarely. +</P> + +<P> +The things she had said to her father were not true. She didn't want +him to go to France. She didn't want Derry to go. She was glad that +Derry's mother had made him promise. She didn't care who called him a +coward. She cared only to keep her own. +</P> + +<P> +There wasn't any sense in it, anyhow. Why should Daddy and Derry be +blown to pieces—or made blind—or not come back at all? Just because +a barbarian had brought his hordes into Belgium? Well, let Belgium +take care of herself—and France. +</P> + +<P> +She shuddered deeper down into the bed. She wasn't heroic. Hilda had +been right about that. She was willing to knit miles and miles of +wool, to go without meat, to go without wheat, to wear old clothes, to +let the furnace go out and sit shivering in one room by a wood fire, +she was willing to freeze and to starve, but she was not willing to +send her men to France. +</P> + +<P> +She found herself shaking, sobbing—. +</P> + +<P> +Hitherto war had seemed a glorious thing, an inspiring thing. She had +thrilled to think that she was living in a time which matched the days +of Caesar and Alexander and of Napoleon, of that first Richard of +England, of Charlemagne, of Nelson and of Francis Drake, of Grant and +Lee and Lincoln. +</P> + +<P> +Even in fiction there had been Ivanhoe and—and Alan Breck—and even +poor Rawdon Crawley at Waterloo—fighters all, even the poorest of +them, exalted in her eyes by their courage and the clash of arms. +</P> + +<P> +But there wasn't any glory, any romance in this war. It was machine +guns and bombs and dirt, and cold and mud; and base hospitals, and men +screaming with awful wounds—and gas, and horrors, and nerve-shock +and—frightfulness. She had read it all in the papers and in the +magazines. And it had not meant anything to her, it had been just +words and phrases, and now it was more than words and phrases—. +</P> + +<P> +When the hordes of people had swept into Washington, changing it from +its gracious calm into a seething and unsettling center of activities, +she had been borne along on the wings of enthusiasm and of high +endeavor. She had scolded women who would not work, she had scorned +mothers and wives who had sighed and sobbed because their men must go. +She had talked of patriotism! +</P> + +<P> +Well, she wasn't patriotic. Derry would probably hate her when she +told him. But she was going to tell him. She wouldn't have him blown +to pieces or made blind or not come back at all. And in the morning, +she would beg Daddy—she would beg and beg! +</P> + +<P> +As she sat up in bed and looked wildly about her, it seemed as if all +the corners of the little room were haunted by specters. A long time +ago she had seen Maude Adams in "L'Aiglon." She remembered now those +wailing voices of the dead at Wagram. And in this war millions of men +had died. It seemed to her that their souls must be pressing against +the wall which divided them from the living—that their voices must +penetrate the stillness which had always shut them out. "How dare you +go on with it? Are men made only for this?" +</P> + +<P> +She remembered now the thing that her father had said on the night +after "Cinderella." +</P> + +<P> +"If I had my way, it should be an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. +For every man that they have tortured, we must torture one of theirs. +For every child mutilated, we must mutilate a child—for every woman—" +</P> + +<P> +Her Daddy had said that. Her kind and tender Daddy. Was that what the +war made of men? Would Daddy and Derry, when they went over, do that? +Torture and mutilate? Would they, would they? And would they come +back after that and expect her to love them and live with them? +</P> + +<P> +Well, she wouldn't. She would <I>not</I>. She would be afraid of them—of +both of them. +</P> + +<P> +If they loved her, they would stay with her. They wouldn't go away and +leave her to be afraid—alone and crying in the dark, with all of those +dead voices. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +Emily tapped at the door. Came in. "My dear, my dear—. Oh, my poor +little Jean." +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +After a long time her father was there, and he was giving her a white +tablet and a drink of water. +</P> + +<P> +"It will quiet her nerves, Emily. I didn't dream that she would take +it like this." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SHINING SOULS +</H3> + + +<P> +The next morning Jean was ill. Derry, having the news conveyed to him +over the telephone, rushed in to demand tragically of Dr. McKenzie, +"Was it my fault?" +</P> + +<P> +"It was the fault of too much excitement. Seventh heaven with you for +hours, and then my news on top of it." +</P> + +<P> +"What news?" +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor explained. "It is going to tear me to pieces if she takes +it like this. She was half-delirious all night, and begged and +begged—" +</P> + +<P> +"She doesn't want you to go?" +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor ran his fingers through his hair. "Well, we've been a lot +to each other. But she's such a little sport—and patriotic—nobody +more so. She won't feel this way when she's herself again." +</P> + +<P> +Derry stood drearily at the window looking out. "You think then she +won't be able to see me for several days? I had planned such a lot of +things." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor dropped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Life has a way of +spoiling our plans, hasn't it? I had hoped for old age with Jean's +mother." +</P> + +<P> +That was something for youth to think of—of life spoiling things—of +lonely old age! +</P> + +<P> +"I wish," Derry said, after a pause, "that you'd let me marry her +before you go." +</P> + +<P> +"No, no," sharply, "she's too young, Drake. And you haven't known each +other long enough." +</P> + +<P> +"Things move rapidly in these days, sir." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor agreed. "It is one of the significant developments. We had +become material. And now fire and flame. But all the more reason why +I should keep my head. Jean will be safe here with Emily. And you may +go any day." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I might think so. I'd be there now if I weren't bound." +</P> + +<P> +"It won't hurt either of you to wait until I come back," was the +Doctor's ultimatum, and Derry, longing for sympathy, left him presently +and made his way to the Toy Shop. +</P> + +<P> +"If we were to wait ten years do you think I'd love her any more than I +do now?" he demanded of Emily. "I should think he'd understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Men never do understand," said Emily—"fathers. They think their own +romance was unique, or they forget that there was ever any romance." +</P> + +<P> +"If you could put in a word for us," ventured Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"I am not sure that it would do any good; Bruce is a Turk." +</P> + +<P> +A customer came, and Derry lingered disconsolately while Emily served +her. More customers, among them a tall spare man with an upstanding +bush of gray hair. He had a potted plant in his arms, wrapped in +tissue paper. He set it on the counter and went away. +</P> + +<P> +When Miss Emily discovered the plant, she asked Derry, "Who put it +there?" +</P> + +<P> +Derry described the man. "You were busy. He didn't stop." +</P> + +<P> +The plant was a cyclamen, blood-red and beautiful. +</P> + +<P> +Miss Emily managed to remark casually that she had loaned his father an +elephant, perhaps he had felt that he ought to make some return—but he +needn't—. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>An elephant</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not a real one. But the last of my plush beauties." +</P> + +<P> +She set the cyclamen on a shelf, and wrapped up the parcel of toys +which Derry had bought the day before, "I may as well take them to +Margaret Morgan's kiddies," he told her. "I want to tell her about +Jean." +</P> + +<P> +After Derry had gone, Miss Emily stood looking at the cyclamen on the +shelf. It was a lovely thing, with a dozen blooms. She wished that +her benefactor had stayed to let her thank him. She was not sure that +she even knew where to send a note. +</P> + +<P> +She hunted him up in the telephone book, and found him—Ulrich Stölle. +His hot-houses were on the old Military Road. She remembered now to +have seen them, and to have remarked the house, which was peaked up in +several gables, and had quaint brightly-colored iron figures set about +the garden—with pointed caps like the graybeards in Rip van Winkle, or +the dwarf in Rumpelstiltzkin. +</P> + +<P> +When Derry's car slid up to Margaret's door, he saw the two children at +an upper window. They waved to him as he rang the bell. He waited +several moments and no one came to open the door. He turned the knob +and, finding it unlatched, let himself in. +</P> + +<P> +As he went through the hall he was aware of a strange stillness. Not a +maid was in sight. Passing Margaret's room on the second floor he +heard voices. +</P> + +<P> +The children were alone in the nursery. He was flooded with sunlight. +Margaret-Mary's pink wash frock, Teddy's white linen—yellow jonquils +in a blue bow—snowy lambs gambolling on a green frieze—Bo-peeps, +flying ribbons—it was a cheering and charming picture. +</P> + +<P> +"How gay you are," said Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"We are not gay in our hearts," Teddy told him. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mother's crying—we heard her, and then Nurse went down and left us, +and we looked out of the window and you came." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's heart seemed to stop beating. "Crying?" +</P> + +<P> +Even as he spoke, Margaret stood on the threshold. There were no +tears, but it was worse than tears. +</P> + +<P> +He started towards her, but with a gesture she stopped him. +</P> + +<P> +"I am so glad you are—here," she said. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear—what is it?" +</P> + +<P> +She put her hand up to her head. "Teddy, dearest," she asked, "can you +take care of Margaret-Mary until Cousin Derry comes back? I want to +talk to him." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy's grave eyes surveyed her. "You've been cryin'," he said, "I +told Cousin Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I have had—bad news. But—I am not going to cry—any more. +And you'll take care of sister?" +</P> + +<P> +"I tell you, old chap," said Derry resourcefully, "you and +Margaret-Mary can open my parcel, and when I come back we'll all play +together." +</P> + +<P> +Outside with Margaret, with the door shut on the children, he put his +arm about her. "Is it Win—is he—hurt?" +</P> + +<P> +"He is—oh, Derry, Derry, he is dead!" +</P> + +<P> +Even then she did not cry. "The children mustn't know. Not till I get +a grip on myself. They mustn't think of it as—sad. They must think +of it as—glorious—that he went—that way—." +</P> + +<P> +Held close in his arms, she shook with sobs, silent, hard. He carried +her down to her room. The maids were gathered there—Nurse utterly +useless in her grief. It came to Derry, as he bent over Margaret, that +he had always thought of Nurse as a heartless automaton, playing Chorus +to Teddy, yet here she was, a weeping woman with the rest of them. +</P> + +<P> +He sent all of the servants away, except Nurse, and then Margaret told +him, "He was in one of the French towns which the Germans had vacated, +and he happened to pick up a toy—that some little child might have +dropped—-and there was an explosive hidden in it—and that child's toy +killed him, Derry, killed him—" +</P> + +<P> +"My God, Margaret—" +</P> + +<P> +"They had put it there that it might kill a—child!" +</P> + +<P> +"Derry, the children mustn't know how it happened. They mustn't think +of him as—hurt. They know that something is the matter. Can you tell +them, Derry? So that they will think of him as fine and splendid, and +going up to Heaven because God loves brave men—?" +</P> + +<P> +It was a hard task that she had set him, and when at last he left her, +he went slowly up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +The children had strung the Midnight Camels across the room, the +purple, patient creatures that Jean had made. +</P> + +<P> +"The round rug is an oasis," Teddy explained, "and the jonquil is a +palm—and we are going to save the dates and figs from our lunch." +</P> + +<P> +"I want my lunch," Margaret-Mary complained. +</P> + +<P> +Derry looked at his watch. It was after twelve. The servants were all +demoralized. "See here," he said, "you sit still for a moment, and +I'll go down for your tray." +</P> + +<P> +He brought it up himself, presently, bread and milk and fruit. +</P> + +<P> +They sat on the oasis and ate, with the patient purple camels grouped +in the shade of the jonquil palm. +</P> + +<P> +Then Derry asked, "Shall I tell you the story of How the Purple Camels +Came to Paradise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," they said, and he gathered little Margaret-Mary into his arms, +and Teddy lay flat on the floor and looked up at him, while Derry made +his difficult way towards the thing he had to tell. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, the purple camels belonged to the Three Wise Men, the ones +who journeyed, after the Star—do you remember? And found the little +baby who was the Christ? And because the purple camels had followed +the Star, the good Lord said to them, 'Some day you shall journey +towards Paradise, and there you shall see the shining souls that dwell +in happiness.'" +</P> + +<P> +"Do their souls really shine?" Teddy asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because of the light in Paradise—the warm, sweet light, clearer than +the sunshine, Teddy, brighter than the moon and the stars—." +</P> + +<P> +The children sighed rapturously. "Go on," Teddy urged. +</P> + +<P> +"So the patient camels began their wonderful pilgrimage—they crossed +the desert and rounded a curve of the sea, and at last they came to +Paradise, and the gate was shut and they knelt in front of it, and they +heard singing, and the sound of silver trumpets, and at last the gate +swung back, and they saw—what do you think they saw?" +</P> + +<P> +"The shining souls," said Teddy, solemnly. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, the shining souls in all that lovely light—there were the souls +of happy little children, and of good women, but best of all," his +voice wavered a little, "best of all, there were the souls of—brave +men." +</P> + +<P> +"My father is a brave man." +</P> + +<P> +<I>Was</I>, oh, little Teddy! +</P> + +<P> +"And the purple camels said to the angels who guarded the gate, 'We +have come because we saw the little Christ in the manger.' +</P> + +<P> +"And the angel said, 'It is those who see Him who enter Paradise,' So +the patient purple camels went in and the gates were shut behind them, +and there they will live in the warm, sweet light throughout the +deathless ages." +</P> + +<P> +"What are de-yethless ages, Cousin Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Forever and ever." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is all about the camels—but not all about the shining souls." +</P> + +<P> +"Tell us the rest." +</P> + +<P> +He knew that he was bungling it, but at last he brought them to the +thought of their father in Paradise, because the dear Lord loved to +have him there. +</P> + +<P> +"But if he's there, he can't be here," said the practical Teddy. +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"I want him here. Doesn't Mother want him here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well—yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she glad to have him go to Paradise?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not exactly—glad." +</P> + +<P> +"Was that why she was crying?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Of course she will miss him, but it is a wonderful thing just +the same, Teddy, when you think of it—when you think of how your own +father went over to France because he was sorry for all the poor little +children who had been hurt, and for all the people who had suffered and +suffered until it seemed as if they must not suffer any more—and he +wanted to help them, and—and—" +</P> + +<P> +But here he stumbled and stopped. "I tell you, Teddy," he said, as man +to man, "it is going to hurt awfully, not to see him. But you've got +to be careful not to be too sorry—because there's your Mother to think +of." +</P> + +<P> +"Is she crying now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Down there on her bed. Could you be very brave if you went +down, and told her not to be sorry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Brave, like my Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret-Mary was too young to understand—she was easily comforted. +Derry sang a little song and her eyes drooped. +</P> + +<P> +But downstairs the little son who was brave like his father, sat on the +edge of the bed, and held his mother's hand. "He's in Paradise with +the purple camels, Mother, and he's a shining soul—." +</P> + +<P> +It was a week before Jean went with Derry to see Margaret. It had been +a week of strange happenings, of being made love to by Derry and of +getting Daddy ready to go away. She had reached heights and depths, +alternately. She had been feverishly radiant when with her lover. She +had resolved that she would not spoil the wonder of these days by +letting him know her state of mind. +</P> + +<P> +The nights were the worst. None of them were as bad as the first +night, but her dreams were of battles and bloodshed, and she waked in +the mornings with great heaviness of spirit. +</P> + +<P> +What Derry had told her of Margaret's loss seemed but a confirmation of +her fears. It was thus that men went away and never returned—. Oh, +how Hilda would have triumphed if she could have looked into Jean's +heart with its tremors and terrors! +</P> + +<P> +She came, thus, into the room, where Margaret sat with her children. +</P> + +<P> +"I want you two women to meet," Derry said, as he presented Jean, +"because you are my dearest—" +</P> + +<P> +"He has told me so much about you,"—Margaret put her arm about Jean +and kissed her—"and he has used all the adjectives—yet none of them +was adequate." +</P> + +<P> +Jean spoke tensely. "It doesn't seem right for us to bring our +happiness here." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? This has always been the place of happiness?" She caught +her breath, then went on quickly, "You mustn't think that I am +heartless. But if the women who have lost should let themselves +despair, it would react on the living. The wailing of women means the +weakness of men. I believe that so firmly that I am afraid to—cry." +</P> + +<P> +"You are braver than I—" slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"No. You'd feel the same way, dear child, about Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"No. I should not. I shouldn't feel that way at all. I should +die—if I lost Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +Light leaped in her lover's eyes. But he shook his head. "She'd bear +it like other brave women. She doesn't know herself, Margaret." +</P> + +<P> +"None of us do. Do you suppose that the wives and mothers of France +ever dreamed that it would be their fortitude which would hold the +enemy back?" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think it did, really?" Jean asked her. +</P> + +<P> +"I know it. It has been a barrier as tangible as a wall of rock." +</P> + +<P> +"You put an awful responsibility upon the women." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? They are the mothers of men." +</P> + +<P> +They sat down after that; and Jean listened frozenly while Margaret and +Derry talked. The children in front of the fire were looking at the +pictures in a book which Derry had brought. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, stretched at length on the rug in his favorite attitude, was +reading to Margaret-Mary. His mop of bright hair, his flushed cheeks, +his active gestures spoke of life quick in his young body—. +</P> + +<P> +And his father was—dead—! +</P> + +<P> +Oh, oh, Mothers of men—! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HILDA BREAKS THE RULES +</H3> + + +<P> +It was Dr. McKenzie who told Hilda of Jean's engagement to Derry Drake. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought it best for them not to say anything to the General until he +is better. So you may consider it confidential, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course." +</P> + +<P> +She had come to his office to help him with his books. The nurse who +somewhat inadequately supplied her place was having an afternoon off. +The Doctor had been glad to see her, and had told her so. "I am afraid +things are in an awful muddle." +</P> + +<P> +"Not so bad that they can't be straightened out in an hour or two." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see why you insist upon staying on the General's case. I +shouldn't have sent you if I had thought you'd keep at it like this." +</P> + +<P> +"I always keep at things when I begin them, don't I?" +</P> + +<P> +He knew that she did. It was one of the qualities which made her +valuable. "I believe that you are staying away to let me see how hard +it is to get along without you." +</P> + +<P> +"It wouldn't be a bad idea, but that's not the reason. I am staying +because I like the case." She shifted the topic away from herself. +</P> + +<P> +"People will say that Jean has played her cards well." +</P> + +<P> +He blazed, "What do you mean, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +"He has a great deal of money." +</P> + +<P> +"What has that to do with it?" +</P> + +<P> +Her smile was irritating. "Oh, I know you are not mercenary. But a +million or two won't come amiss in any girl's future—and two country +houses, and a house in town." +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to know all about it." +</P> + +<P> +"The General talks a lot—and anyhow, all the world knows it. It's no +secret." +</P> + +<P> +"I rather think that Jean doesn't know it. I haven't told her. She +realizes that he is rich, but it doesn't seem to have made much +impression on her." +</P> + +<P> +"Most people will think she is lucky to have caught him." +</P> + +<P> +"He is not a fish," with rising anger, "and as for Jean, she'd marry +him if he hadn't a penny, and you know it, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda considered that for a moment. Then she said, "Is it his money or +his father's?" +</P> + +<P> +"Belongs to the old man. Derry's mother had nothing but an +irreproachable family tree." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda's long hands were clasped on the desk, her eyes were upon them. +"If he shouldn't like his son's marriage, he might make things +uncomfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"Why shouldn't he like my Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"He probably will. But there's always the chance that he may not. He +may be more ambitious." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "She's good +enough for—a king." +</P> + +<P> +"You think that, naturally, but he isn't the doting father of an only +daughter." +</P> + +<P> +"If he thinks that my daughter isn't good enough for his son—" +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't shout at me like that," calmly; "but he knows as well as +you do that Derry Drake's millions could get him any girl." +</P> + +<P> +He had a flashing sense of the coarse fiber of Hilda's mental make-up. +"My Jean is a well-born and well-bred woman," he said, slowly. "It is +a thing that money can't buy." +</P> + +<P> +"Money buys a very good counterfeit. Lots of the women who come here +aren't ladies, not in the sense that you mean it, but on the surface +you can't tell them apart." +</P> + +<P> +He knew that it was true. No one knows better than a doctor what is +beneath the veneer of social convention and personal hypocrisy. +</P> + +<P> +"And as for Jean," her quiet voice analyzed, "what do you know of her, +really? You've kept her shut away from the things that could hurt her, +but how do you know what will happen when you open the gate?" +</P> + +<P> +Yet Emily had said—? His hand came down on top of the desk. "I think +we won't discuss Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"Very well, but you brought it on yourself. And now please go away, +I've got to finish this and get back—" +</P> + +<P> +He went reluctantly, and returned to say, "You'll come over again +before I sail, and straighten things out for me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't act as if you cared whether I went or not." +</P> + +<P> +"I care, of course. But don't expect me to cry. I am not the crying +kind." The little room was full of sunlight. She was very pink and +white and self-possessed. She smiled straight up into his face. "What +good would it do me to cry?" +</P> + +<P> +After she had left him he was restless. She had been for so long a +part of his life, a very necessary and pleasant part of it. She never +touched his depths or rose to his heights. She seemed to beckon, yet +not to care when he came. +</P> + +<P> +He spoke of her that night to Emily. "Hilda was here to-day and she +reminded me that people might think that my daughter is marrying Derry +Drake for his money." +</P> + +<P> +"She would look at it like that." +</P> + +<P> +"When Hilda talks to me"—he was rumpling his hair—"I have a feeling +that all the people in the world are unlovely—" +</P> + +<P> +"There are plenty of unlovely people," said Emily, "but why should we +worry with what they think?" +</P> + +<P> +She was knitting, and he found himself watching her hands. "You have +pretty hands," he told her, unexpectedly. +</P> + +<P> +She held them out in front of her. "When I was a little girl my mother +told me that I had three points of beauty—my hands, my feet, and the +family nose," she smiled whimsically, "and she assured me that I would +therefore never be common-place. 'Any woman may be beautiful,' was her +theory, 'but only a woman with good blood in her veins can have hands +and feet and a nose like yours—.' I was dreadfully handicapped in the +beginning of my life by my mother's point of view. I am afraid that +even now if the dear lady looks down from Heaven and sees me working in +my Toy Shop she will feel the family disgraced by this one member who +is in trade. It was only in the later years that I found myself, that +I realized how I might reach out towards things which were broader and +bigger than the old ideals of aristocratic birth and inherited +possessions." +</P> + +<P> +He thought of Hilda. "Yet it gave you something, Emily," he said, +slowly, "that not every woman has: good-breeding, and the ability to +look above the sordid. You are like Jean—all your world is +rose-colored." +</P> + +<P> +She was thoughtful. "Not quite like Jean. I heard a dear old bishop +ask the other day why we should see only the ash cans and garbage cans +in our back yards when there was blue sky above? I know there are ash +cans and garbage cans, but I make myself look at the sky. Jean doesn't +know that the cans are there." +</P> + +<P> +"The realists will tell you that you should keep your eyes on the cans." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe it," said Miss Emily, stoutly; "more people are made +good by the contemplation of the fine and beautiful than by the +knowledge of evil. Eve knew that punishment would follow the eating of +the apple. But she ate it. If I had a son I should tell him of the +strength of men, not of their weaknesses." +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. "I see. And yet there is this about Hilda. She does not +deceive herself;—perhaps you do—and Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps it is Hilda who is deceived. All the people in the world are +not unlovely—all of them are not mercenary and deceitful and selfish." +Her cheeks were flushed. +</P> + +<P> +"Nobody knows that better than a doctor, Emily. I am conscious that +Hilda draws out the worst in me—yet there is something about her that +makes me want to find things out, to explore life with her—" +</P> + +<P> +He was smiling into the fire. Miss Emily girded herself and gave him a +shock. "The trouble with you is that you want the admiration of every +woman who comes your way. Most of your patients worship you—Jean puts +you on a pedestal—even I tell you that you have a soul. But Hilda +withholds the admiration you demand, and you want to conquer her—to +see her succumb with the rest of us." +</P> + +<P> +"The rest of you! Emily, you have never succumbed." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes, I have. I seem to be saying, 'He may have a few weaknesses, +but back of it all he is big and fine.' But Hilda's attitude +indicates, 'He is not fine at all.' And you hate that and want to show +her." +</P> + +<P> +He chuckled. "By Jove, I do, Emily. Perhaps it is just as well that I +am getting away from her." +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't admit it if I were you. I'd rather see you face a thing +than run away." +</P> + +<P> +"If Eve had run away from the snake in the apple tree, she would not +have lost her Eden—poor Eve." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Adam—to follow her lead. He should have said, 'No, my dear, +apples are not permitted by the Food Administrator; we must practice +self-denial.'" +</P> + +<P> +"I think I'd rather have him sinning than such a prig." +</P> + +<P> +"It depends on the point of view." +</P> + +<P> +He enjoyed immensely crossing swords with Emily. There was never any +aftermath of unpleasantness. She soothed him even while she criticised. +</P> + +<P> +They spoke presently of Jean and Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"They want to get married." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"She's too young, Emily. Too ignorant of what life means—and he may +go to France any day. He is getting restless—and he may see things +differently—that his duty to his country transcends any personal +claim—and then what of Jean?—a little wife—alone." +</P> + +<P> +"She could stay with me." +</P> + +<P> +"But marriage, <I>marriage</I>, Emily—why in Heaven's name should they be +in such a hurry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why should they wait, and miss the wonder of it all, as I have missed +it—all the color and glow, the wine of life? Even if he should go to +France, and die, she will bear his beloved name—she will have the +right to weep." +</P> + +<P> +He had never seen her like this—the red was deep in her cheeks, her +voice was shaken, her bosom rose and fell with her agitation. +</P> + +<P> +"Emily, my dear girl—" +</P> + +<P> +"Let them marry, Bruce, can't you see? Can't you see. It is their +day—there may be no tomorrow." +</P> + +<P> +"But there are practical things, Emily. If she should have a child?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? It will be his—to love. Only a woman with empty arms knows +what that means, Bruce." +</P> + +<P> +And this was Emily, this rose-red, wet-eyed creature was Emily, whom he +had deemed unemotional, cold, self-contained! +</P> + +<P> +"Men forget, Bruce. You wouldn't listen to reason when you wooed +Jean's mother. You were a demanding, imperative lover—you wanted your +own way, and you had it." +</P> + +<P> +"But I had known Jean's mother all my life." +</P> + +<P> +"Time has nothing to do with it." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear girl—" +</P> + +<P> +"It hasn't." +</P> + +<P> +She was illogical, and he liked it. "If I let them marry, what then?" +</P> + +<P> +"They will love you for it." +</P> + +<P> +"They ought to love you instead." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall be out of it. They will be married, and you will be in +France, and I shall sell—toys—" +</P> + +<P> +She tried to laugh, but it was a poor excuse. He glanced at her +quickly. "Shall you miss me, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +Her hands went out in a little gesture of despair. "There you go, +taking my tears to yourself." +</P> + +<P> +He was a bit disconcerted. "Oh, I say—" +</P> + +<P> +"But they are not for you. They are for my lost youth and romance, +Bruce. My lost youth and romance." +</P> + +<P> +Leaning back in his chair he studied her. Her eyes were dreamy—the +rose-red was still in her cheeks. For the first time he realized the +prettiness of Emily; it was as if in her plea for others she had +brought to life something in herself which glowed and sparkled. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," he said. "I want you to write to me." +</P> + +<P> +"I am a busy woman." +</P> + +<P> +"But a letter now and then—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, now and then—" +</P> + +<P> +He was forced to be content with that. She was really very charming, +he decided as he got into his car. She was such a gentlewoman—she +created an atmosphere which belonged to his home and hearth. +</P> + +<P> +When he came in late she was not waiting up for him as Hilda had so +often waited. There was a plate of sandwiches on his desk, coffee +ready in the percolator to be made by the turning on of the +electricity. But he ate his lunch alone. +</P> + +<P> +Yet in spite of the loneliness, he was glad that Emily had not waited +up for him. It was a thing which Hilda might do—Hilda, who made a +world of her own. But Emily's world was the world of womanly +graciousness and dignity—the world in which his daughter moved, the +world which had been his wife's. For her to have eaten alone with him +in his office in the middle of the night would have made her seem less +than he wanted her to be. +</P> + +<P> +Before he went to bed, he called up Hilda. "I forgot to tell you when +you were here this afternoon that I asked young Drake about Bronson. +He says that it isn't possible that the old man is giving the General +anything against orders. You'd better watch the other servants and be +sure of the day nurse—" +</P> + +<P> +"I am sure of her and of the other servants—but I still have my doubts +about Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"But Drake says—" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't care what he says. Bronson served the General before he +served young Drake—and he's not to be trusted." +</P> + +<P> +"I should be sorry to think so; he impresses me as a faithful old soul." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, my eyes are rather clear, you know." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know. Good-night, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +She hung up the receiver. She had talked to him at the telephone in +the lower hall, which was enclosed, and where one might be confidential +without feeing overheard. +</P> + +<P> +She sat very still for a few moments in the little booth, thinking; +then she rose and went upstairs. +</P> + +<P> +The General was awake and eager. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall I read to you?" Hilda asked. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I'd rather talk." +</P> + +<P> +She shaded the light and sat beside the little table. "Did you like +your dinner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Bronson said you made the broth. It was delicious." +</P> + +<P> +"I like to cook—-when I like the people I cook for." +</P> + +<P> +He basked in that. +</P> + +<P> +"There are some patients—oh, I have wanted to salt their coffee and +pepper their cereal. You have no idea of the temptations which come to +a nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you fond of it—nursing?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. It is nice in a place like this—and at Dr. McKenzie's. But +there are some houses that are awful, with everybody quarrelling, the +children squalling—. I hate that. I want to be comfortable. I like +your thick carpets here, and the quiet, and the good service. And the +good things to eat, and the little taste of wine that we take +together." Her low laugh delighted him. +</P> + +<P> +"The wine? You are going to drink another glass with me before I go to +sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But it is our secret. Dr. McKenzie would kill me if he knew, +and a nurse must obey orders." +</P> + +<P> +"He need never know. And it won't hurt me." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not. But he has ideas on the subject." +</P> + +<P> +"May I have it now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Wait until Bronson goes to bed." +</P> + +<P> +"Bronson has nothing to do with it. A servant has neither ears nor +eyes." +</P> + +<P> +"It might embarrass him if the Doctor asked him. And why should you +make him lie?" +</P> + +<P> +Bronson, pottering in, presently, was told that he would not be needed. +"Mr. Derry telephoned that he would be having supper after the play at +Miss Gray's. You can call him there if he is wanted." +</P> + +<P> +"Thank you, Bronson. Good-night." +</P> + +<P> +When the old man had left them, she said to the General, "Do you know +that your son is falling in love?" +</P> + +<P> +"In love?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, desperately—at first sight?" +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. "With whom?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie's daughter." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" He raised himself on his elbow. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Jean McKenzie. I am not sure that I ought to tell you, but +somehow it doesn't seem right that you are not being told—" +</P> + +<P> +He considered it gravely. "I don't want him to get married," he said +at last. "I want him to go to war. I can't tell you, Miss Merritt, +how bitter my disappointment has been that Derry won't fight." +</P> + +<P> +"He may have to fight." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I want him dragged to defend the honor of his country? +I'd rather see him dead." He was struggling for composure. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I shouldn't have told you," she said, solicitously. +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? It is my right to know." +</P> + +<P> +"Jean is a pretty little thing, and you may like her." +</P> + +<P> +"I like McKenzie," thoughtfully. +</P> + +<P> +She glanced at him. His old face had fallen into gentler lines. She +gave a hard laugh. "Of course, a rich man like your son rather dazzles +the eyes of a young girl like Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"You think then it is his—money?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't like to say that. But, of course, money adds to his +charms." +</P> + +<P> +"He won't have any money," grimly, "unless I choose that he shall. I +can stop his allowance tomorrow. And what would the little lady do +then?" +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged. "I am sure I don't know. She'd probably take Ralph +Witherspoon. He's in the race. She dropped him after she met your +son." +</P> + +<P> +The General's idea of women was somewhat exalted. He had an +old-fashioned chivalry which made him blind to their faults, the +champion of their virtues. He had always been, therefore, to a certain +extent, at the mercy of the unscrupulous. He had loaned money and used +his influence in behalf of certain wily and weeping females who had +deserved at his hands much less than they got. +</P> + +<P> +In his thoughts of a wife for Derry, he had pictured her as sweet and +unsophisticated—a bit reserved, like Derry's mother— +</P> + +<P> +The portrait which Hilda had subtly presented was of a mercenary little +creature, lured by the glitter of gold—off with the old and on with +the new, lacking fineness. +</P> + +<P> +"I can stop his allowance," he wavered. "It would be a good test. But +I love the boy. The war has brought the first misunderstandings +between Derry and me. It would have hurt his mother." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda was always restless when the name was introduced of the painted +lady on the stairs. When the General spoke of his wife, his eyes grew +kind—and inevitably his thoughts drifted away from Hilda to the days +that he had spent with Derry's mother. +</P> + +<P> +"She loved us both," he said. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda rose and crossed the room. A low bookcase held the General's +favorite volumes. There was a Globe edition of Dickens on the top +shelf, little fat brown books, shabby with much handling. Hilda +extracted one, and inserted her hand in the hollow space back of the +row. She brought out a small flat bottle and put the book back. +</P> + +<P> +"I always keep it behind 'Great Expectations,'" she said, as she +approached the bed. "It seems rather appropriate, doesn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +The old eyes, which had been soft with memories, glistened. +</P> + +<P> +She filled two little glasses. "Let us drink to our—secret." +</P> + +<P> +Then while the wine was firing his veins, she spoke again of Jean and +Derry. "It really seems as if he should have told you." +</P> + +<P> +"I won't have him getting married. He can't marry unless he has money." +</P> + +<P> +"Please don't speak of it to him. I don't want to get into trouble. +You wouldn't want to get me into trouble, would you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +She filled his glass again. He drank. Bit by bit she fed the fire of +his doubts of his son. When at last he fell asleep in his lacquered +bed he had made up his mind to rather drastic action. +</P> + +<P> +She sat beside him, her thoughts flying ahead into the years. She saw +things as she wanted them to be—Derry at odds with his father; married +to Jean; herself mistress of this great house, wearing the diamond +crown and the pearl collar; her portrait in the place of the one of the +painted lady on the stairs; looking down on little Jean who had judged +her by youth's narrow standards—whose husband would have no fortune +unless he chose to accept it at her hands. +</P> + +<P> +Thus she weighed her influence over the sleeping sick man, thus she +dreamed, calm as fate in her white uniform. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JEAN-JOAN +</H3> + + +<P> +Drusilla Gray's little late suppers were rather famous. It was not +that she spent so much money, but that she spent much thought. +</P> + +<P> +Tonight she was giving Captain Hewes a sweet potato pie. "He has never +eaten real American things," she said to Jean. "Nice homey-cooked +things—" +</P> + +<P> +"No one but Drusilla would ever think of pie at night," said Marion +Gray, "but she has set her heart on it." +</P> + +<P> +There were some very special hot oyster sandwiches which preceded the +pie—peppery and savory with curls of bacon. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope you are hungry," said Drusilla as her big black cook brought +them in. "Aunt Chloe hates to have things go back to the kitchen." +</P> + +<P> +Nothing went back. There was snow without, a white whirl in the air, +piling up at street corners, a night for young appetites to be on edge. +</P> + +<P> +"Jove," said the Captain, as he leaned back in his chair, "how I shall +miss all this!" +</P> + +<P> +Jean turned her face towards him, startled. "Miss it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I am going back—got my orders today." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla was cutting the pie. "Isn't it glorious?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean gazed at her with something like horror. Glorious! How could +Drusilla go on, like Werther's Charlotte, <I>calmly cutting bread and +butter</I>? Captain Hewes loved her, anybody with half an eye could see +that—and whether she loved him or not, he was her friend—and she +called his going "glorious!" +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid my wound might put me on the shelf," the Captain said. +</P> + +<P> +"He is ordered straight to the front," Drusilla elucidated. "This is +his farewell feast." +</P> + +<P> +After that everything was to Jean funeral baked meats. The pie deep in +its crust, rich with eggs and milk, defiant of conservation, was as +sawdust to her palate. +</P> + +<P> +Glorious! +</P> + +<P> +Well, she couldn't understand Margaret. She couldn't understand +Drusilla. She didn't want to understand them. +</P> + +<P> +"Some day I shall go over," Drusilla was saying. "I shall drive +something—it may be a truck and it may be an ambulance. But I can't +sit here any longer doing nothing." +</P> + +<P> +"I think you are doing a great deal," said Jean. "Look at the +committees you are managing." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, things like that," said Drusilla contemptuously. "Women's work. +I'm not made to knit and keep card indexes. I want a man's job." +</P> + +<P> +There was something almost boyish about her as she said it. She had +parted her hair on the side, which heightened the effect. "In the old +days," she told Captain Hewes, "I should have worn doublet and hose and +have gone as your page." +</P> + +<P> +"Happy old days—." +</P> + +<P> +"And I should have written a ballad about you," said Marion, "and have +sung it to the accompaniment of my harp—and my pot-boilers would never +have been. And we should all have worn trains and picturesque +headdresses instead of shirtwaists and sports hats, and I should have +called some man 'my Lord,' and have listened for his footsteps instead +of ending my days in single blessedness with a type-writer as my +closest companion." +</P> + +<P> +Everybody laughed except Jean. She broke her cheese into small bits +with her fork, and stared down at it as if cheese were the most +interesting thing in the whole wide world. +</P> + +<P> +It was only two weeks since they had had the news of Margaret's +husband—only a month since he had died. And Winston had been Captain +Hewes' dear friend; he had been Derry's. Would anybody laugh if Derry +had been dead only fourteen days? +</P> + +<P> +She tried, however, to swing herself in line with the others. "Shall +you go before Christmas?" she asked the Captain. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And Miss Gray had asked me to dine with her. You can see what I +am missing—my first American Christmas." +</P> + +<P> +"We are going to have a little tree," said Drusilla, "and ask all of +you to come and hang presents on it." +</P> + +<P> +Jean had always had a tree at Christmas time. From the earliest days +of her remembrance, there had been set in the window of the little +drawing room, a young pine brought from the Doctor's country-place far +up in Maryland. On Christmas Eve it had been lighted and the doors +thrown open. Jean could see her mother now, shining on one side of it, +and herself coming in, in her nurse's arms. +</P> + +<P> +There had been a star at the top, and snow powdered on the +branches—and gold and silver balls—and her presents piled +beneath—always a doll holding out its arms to her. There had been the +first Rosie-Dolly, more beloved than any other; made of painted cloth, +with painted yellow curls, and dressed in pink with a white apron. +Rosie was a wreck of a doll now, her features blurred and her head bald +with the years—but Jean still loved her, with something left over of +the adoration of her little girl days. Then there was Maude, named in +honor of the lovely lady who had played "Peter Pan," and the last doll +that Jean's mother had given her. Maude had an outfit for every +character in which Jean had seen her prototype—there were the rowan +berries and shawl of "Babbie," the cap and jerkin of "Peter Pan," the +feathers and spurs of "Chantecler"—such a trunkful, and her dearest +mother had made them all—. +</P> + +<P> +And Daddy! How Daddy had played Santa Claus, in red cloth and fur with +a wide belt and big boots, every year, even last year when she was +nineteen and ready to make her bow to society. And now he might never +play Santa Claus again—for before Christmas had come he would be on +the high seas, perhaps on the other side of the seas—at the edge of No +Man's Land. And there would be no Star, no dolls, no gold and silver +balls—for the nation which had given Santa Claus to the world, had +robbed the world of peace and of goodwill. It had robbed the world of +Christmas! +</P> + +<P> +She came back to hear the Captain saying, "I want you to sing for +me—Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +They rose and went into the other room. +</P> + +<P> +"Tired, dearest?" Derry asked, as he found a chair for her and drew his +own close to it. +</P> + +<P> +"No, I am not tired," she told him, "but I hate to think that Captain +Hewes must go." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd give the world to be going with him." +</P> + +<P> +Her hands were clasped tightly. "Would you give me up?" +</P> + +<P> +"You? I should never have to give you up, thank God. You would never +hold me back." +</P> + +<P> +"Shouldn't I, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"My precious, don't I know? Better than you know yourself." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla and the Captain were standing by the wide window which looked +out over the city. The snow came down like a curtain, shutting out the +sky. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think she loves him?" Jean asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so," heartily. +</P> + +<P> +"But to send him away so—easily. Oh, Derry, she can't care." +</P> + +<P> +"She is sending him not easily, but bravely. Margaret let her husband +go like that." +</P> + +<P> +"Would you want me to let you go like that, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Wouldn't you want me to—cry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps. Just a little tear. But I should want you to think beyond +the tears. I should want you to know that for us there can be no real +separation. You are mine to the end of all eternity, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +He believed it. And she believed it. And perhaps, after all, it was +true. There must be a very separate and special Heaven for those who +love once, and never love again. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla came away from the window to sing for them—a popular song. +But there was much in it to intrigue the imagination—a vision of the +heroic Maid—a hint of the Marseillaise—and so the nations were +singing it—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Jeanne d'Arc, Jeanne d'Arc,<BR> +Oh, soldats! entendez vous?<BR> +'Allons, enfants de la patrie,'<BR> +Jeanne d'Arc, la victoire est pour vous—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There was a new note in Drusilla's voice. A note of tears as well as +of triumph—and at the last word she broke down and covered her face +with her hands. +</P> + +<P> +In the sudden stillness, the Captain strode across the room and took +her hands away from her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Drusilla," he said before them all, "do you care as much as that?" +</P> + +<P> +She told him the truth in her fine, frank fashion. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, "I do care, Captain, but I want you to go." +</P> + +<P> +"And oh, Derry, I am so glad she cried," Jean said, when they were +driving home through the snow-storm. "It made her seem so—human." +</P> + +<P> +Derry drew her close. "Such a thing couldn't have happened," he said, +"at any other time. Do you suppose that a few years ago any of us +would have been keyed up to a point where a self-contained Englishman +could have asked a girl, in the face of three other people, if she +loved him, and have had her answer like that? It was beautiful, +beautiful, Jean-Joan—" +</P> + +<P> +She held her breath. "Why do you call me that?" +</P> + +<P> +"She lived for France. You shall live for France—and me." +</P> + +<P> +The snow shut them in. There was the warmth of the car, of the fur +rugs and Derry's fur coat, Jean's own velvet wrap of heavenly blue, the +fragrance of her violets. Somewhere far away men were fighting—there +was the mud and cold of the trenches—somewhere men were suffering. +</P> + +<P> +She tried not to think of them. Her cheek was against Derry's. She +was safe—safe. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +Captain Hewes went away that night Drusilla's accepted lover. He put a +ring on her finger and kissed her "good-bye," and with his head high +faced the months that he must be separated from her. +</P> + +<P> +"I will come back, dear woman." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall see you before that," she told him. "I am coming over." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall hate to have you in it all. But it will be Heaven to see you." +</P> + +<P> +When he had gone, Drusilla went into Marion Gray's study. +</P> + +<P> +Marion looked up from her work. She was correcting manuscript, pages +and pages of it. "Well, do you want me to congratulate you, Drusilla?" +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla sat down. "I don't know, Marion. He is the biggest and +finest man I have ever met, but—" +</P> + +<P> +"But what?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wanted love to come to me differently, as it has come to Jean and +Derry—without any doubts. I wanted to be sure. And I am not sure. I +only know that I couldn't let him go without making him happy." +</P> + +<P> +"Then is it—pity?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. He means more to me than that. But I gave way to an impulse—the +music, and his sad eyes. And then I cried, and he came up to me—fancy +a man coming up before you all like that—" +</P> + +<P> +"It was quite the most dramatic moment," said the lady who wrote. +"Quite unbelievable in real life. One finds those things occasionally +in fiction." +</P> + +<P> +"It was as if there were just two of us alone in the world," Drusilla +confessed, "and I said what I did because I simply couldn't help it. +And it was true at the moment; I think it is always going to be true. +If I marry him I shall care a great deal. But it has not come to me +just as I had—dreamed." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing is like our dreams," said Marion, and dropped her pen. +"That's why I write. I can give my heroine all the bliss for which she +yearns." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla stood up. "You mustn't misunderstand me, Marion. I am very +happy in the thought of my good friend, of my great lover. It is only +that it hasn't quite measured up to what I expected." +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing measures up to what we expect." +</P> + +<P> +"And now Jean belongs to Derry, and I belong to my gallant and good +Captain. I shall thank God before I sleep tonight, Marion." +</P> + +<P> +"And he'll thank God—." +</P> + +<P> +They kissed each other, and Drusilla went to bed, and the next morning +she wrote a letter to her Captain, which he carried next to his heart +and kissed when he got a chance. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE WHITE CAT +</H3> + + +<P> +Derry, going quietly to his room that night, did not stop at the +General's door. He did not want to speak to Hilda, he did not want to +speak to anyone, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts of Jean and +that perfect ride with her through the snow. +</P> + +<P> +He was, therefore, a little impatient to find Bronson waiting up for +him. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I told you to go to bed, Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"You did, sir, but—but I have something to tell you." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't it wait until morning?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to say it now, Mr. Derry." The old man's eyes were +anxious. "It's about your father—" +</P> + +<P> +"Father?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I told you I didn't like the nurse." +</P> + +<P> +"Miss Merritt? Well?" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I'd better get you to bed, sir. It's a rather long story, and +you'd be more comfortable." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd be more comfortable, you mean, Bronson." The impatient note had +gone out of Derry's voice. Temporarily he pigeon-holed his thoughts of +Jean, and gave his attention to this servant who was more than a +servant, more even than a friend. To Derry, Bronson wore a sort of +halo, like a good old saint in an ancient woodcut. +</P> + +<P> +Propped up at last among his pillows, pink from his bath and in pale +blue pajamas, Derry listened to what the old man had to say to him. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair with Muffin at his +knees. "From the first day I had a feeling that she wasn't +just—straight. I don't know why, but I felt it. She had one way with +the General and another with us servants. But I didn't mind that, not +much, until she went into your mother's room." +</P> + +<P> +"My mother's room?" sharply. "What was she doing there, Bronson?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's what I am going to tell you, sir. You know that place on the +third floor landing, where I sits and looks through at your father when +he ain't quite himself, and won't let me come in his room? Well, there +was one night that I was there and watched her—" +</P> + +<P> +Derry's quick frown rebuked him. "You shouldn't have done that, +Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"I had a feeling, sir, that things were going wrong, and that the +General wasn't always himself. I shouldn't ever have said a thing to +you, Mr. Derry," earnestly, "if I hadn't seen what I did." +</P> + +<P> +He cleared his throat. "That first night I saw her open the door +between your father's room and the sitting room, and she did it careful +and quiet like a person does when they don't want anybody to know. The +sitting room was dark, but I went down and stood behind the curtain in +the General's door, and I could see through, and there was a light in +your mother's room and a screen set before it." +</P> + +<P> +"I took a big chance, but I slid into the sitting room, and I could see +her on the other side of the screen, and she had opened the safe behind +the Chinese scroll, and she was trying on your mother's diamonds." +</P> + +<P> +"What!" +</P> + +<P> +Bronson nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir, she had 'em on her head and her +neck and her fingers—." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean—that she took anything." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, sir, she's no common thief. But she looked at herself in the +glass and strutted up and down, up and down, up and down, bowing and +smiling like a—fool." +</P> + +<P> +"Then the telephone rang, and I had to get out pretty quick, before she +came to answer it. I went to bed, but I didn't sleep much, and the +next night I watched her again. I watch every night." +</P> + +<P> +Derry considered the situation. "I don't like it at all, Bronson. But +perhaps it was just a woman's vanity. She wanted to see how she +looked." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she's seen—and she ain't going to be satisfied with that. +She'll want to wear them all the time—" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course, she can't, Bronson. She isn't as silly as to think she +can." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not, sir." Bronson opened his lips and shut them again. +</P> + +<P> +"There's something else, sir," he said, after a pause. "I've found out +that she's giving the General things to drink." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda?" Derry said, incredulously. "Oh, surely not, Bronson, The +Doctor has given her strict orders—." +</P> + +<P> +"She's got a bottle behind the books, and she pours him a glass right +after dinner, and another before he goes to sleep, and—and—you know +he'd sell his soul for the stuff, Mr. Derry." +</P> + +<P> +Derry did know. It had been the shame of all his youthful years that +his father should stoop to subterfuge, to falsehood, to everything that +was foreign to his native sense of honor and honesty, for a taste of +that which his abnormal appetite demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"If anyone had told me but you, Bronson, I wouldn't have believed it." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't want to tell you, but I had to. You can see that, can't you, +sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But how in the world did she know where the diamonds were?" +</P> + +<P> +"He gave her his key one day when I was there—made me get it off his +ring. He sent her for your picture—the one that your mother used to +wear. I thought then that he wasn't quite right in his head, with the +fever and all, or he would have sent me. But a woman like that—" +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie has the greatest confidence in her." +</P> + +<P> +"I know, sir, and she's probably played square with him—but she ain't +playing square here." +</P> + +<P> +"It can't go on, of course. I shall have to tell McKenzie." +</P> + +<P> +Bronson protested nervously. "If she puts her word against mine, who +but you will believe me? I'd rather you saw it yourself, Mr. Derry, +and left my name out of it." +</P> + +<P> +"But I can't sit on the steps and watch." +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir, but you can come in unexpected from the outside—when I flash +on the third floor light for you." +</P> + +<P> +Derry slept little that night. Ahead of him stretched twenty-four +hours of suspense—twenty-four hours in which he would have to think of +this thing which was hidden in the big house in which his mother had +reigned. +</P> + +<P> +In the weeks since he had met Jean, he had managed to thrust it into +the back of his mind—he had, indeed, in the midst of his happiness, +forgotten his bitterness, his sense of injustice—he wondered if he had +not in a sense forgotten his patriotism. Life had seemed so good, his +moments with Jean so transcendent—there had been no room for anything +else. +</P> + +<P> +But now he was to take up again the burden which he had dropped. He +was to consider his problem from a new angle. How could he bring Jean +here? How could he let her clear young eyes rest on that which he and +his mother had seen? How could he set, as it were, all of this +sordidness against her sweetness? Money could, of course, do much. +But his promise held him to watchfulness, to brooding care, to +residence beneath this roof. His bride would be the General's +daughter, she would live in the General's house, she would live, too, +beneath the shadow of the General's tragic fault. +</P> + +<P> +Yet—she was a brave little thing. He comforted himself with that. +And she loved him. He slept at last with a desperate prayer on his +lips that some new vision might be granted him on the morrow. +</P> + +<P> +But the first news that came over the telephone was of Jean's flitting. +"Daddy wants me to go with him to our old place in Maryland. He has +some business which takes him there, and we shall be gone two days." +</P> + +<P> +"Two days?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. We are to motor up." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't I go with you?" +</P> + +<P> +"I think—Daddy wants me to himself. You won't mind, Derry—some day +you'll have me all the time." +</P> + +<P> +"But I need you now, dearest." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you really," delightedly. "It doesn't seem as if you could—" +</P> + +<P> +"If you knew how much." +</P> + +<P> +She could not know. He hung up the receiver. The day stretched out +before him, blank. +</P> + +<P> +But it passed, of course. And Hilda, having slept her allotted number +of hours, was up in time to superintend the serving of the General's +dinner. Later, Derry stopped at the door to say that he was going to +the theater and might be called there. The General, propped against +his pillows and clothed in a gorgeous mandarin coat, looked wrinkled +and old. The ruddiness had faded from his cheeks, and he was much +thinner. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, sitting by the little table, showed all the contrast of youth +and bloom. Her long hands lay flat on the table. Derry had a +fantastic feeling, as if a white cat watched him under the lamp. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going alone, son?" the General asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"Why don't you take a girl?" craftily. +</P> + +<P> +Derry smiled. +</P> + +<P> +"The only girl I should care to take is out of town." +</P> + +<P> +The white cat purred. "Lucky girl to be the only one." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's manner stiffened. "You are good to think so." +</P> + +<P> +After Derry had gone, Hilda said, "You see, it is Jean McKenzie. The +Doctor said that he and Jean would be up in Maryland for a day or two. +She has a good time. She doesn't know what it means to be poor, not as +I know it. She doesn't know what it means to go without the pretty +things that women long for. You wouldn't believe it, General, but when +I was a little girl, I used to stand in front of shop windows and +wonder if other girls really wore the slippers and fans and parasols. +And when I went to Dr. McKenzie's, and saw Jean in her silk dressing +gowns, and her pink slippers and her lace caps, she seemed to me like a +lady in a play. I've worn my uniforms since I took my nurse's +training, and before that I wore the uniform of an Orphans' Home. I—I +don't know why I am telling you all this—only it doesn't seem quite +fair, does it?" +</P> + +<P> +He had all of an old man's sympathy for a lovely woman in distress. He +had all of any man's desire to play Cophetua. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here," he said. "You get yourself a pink parasol and a fan and a +silk dress. I'd like to see you wear them." +</P> + +<P> +She shook her head. "What should I do with things like that?" Her +voice had a note of wistfulness. "A woman in my position must be +careful." +</P> + +<P> +"But I want you to have the things," he persisted. +</P> + +<P> +"I shouldn't have a place to wear them," sadly. "No, you are very good +to offer them. But I mustn't." +</P> + +<P> +The General slept after that. Hilda read under the lamp—a white cat +watched by a little old terrier on the stairs! +</P> + +<P> +And now the big house was very still. There were lights in the halls +of the first and second floors. Bronson crouching in the darkness of +the third landing was glad of the company of the painted lady on the +stairs. He knew she would approve of what he was doing. For years he +had served her in such matters as this, saving her husband from +himself. When Derry was too small, too ignorant of evil, too innocent, +to be told things, it was to the old servant that she had come. +</P> + +<P> +He remembered a certain night. She was young then and new to her task. +She and the General had been dining at one of the Legations. She was +in pale blue and very appealing. When Bronson had opened the door, she +had come in alone. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, the General, the General, Bronson," she had said. "We've got to +go after him." +</P> + +<P> +She was shaking with the dread of it, and Bronson had said, "Hadn't you +better wait, ma'am?" +</P> + +<P> +"I mustn't. We stopped at the hotel as we came by, and he said he +would run in and get a New York paper. And we waited, and we waited, +and he didn't come out again, and at last I sent McChesney in, and he +couldn't find him. And then I went and sat in the corridor, thinking +he might pass through. It isn't pleasant to sit alone in the corridor +with the men—staring at you—at night. And then I asked the man at +the door if he had seen him, and he said, 'yes,' that he had called a +cab, and then I came home." +</P> + +<P> +They had gone out again together, with Bronson, who was young and +strong, taking the place of the coachman, McChesney, because Mrs. Drake +did not care to have the other servants see her husband at times like +these. "You know how good he is," had been her timid claim on him from +the first, "and you know how hard he tries." And because Bronson knew, +and because he had helped her like the faithful squire that he was, she +had trusted him more and more with this important but secret business. +</P> + +<P> +She had changed her dress for something dark, and she had worn a plain +dark hat and coat. She had not cried a tear and she would not cry. +She had been very brave as they travelled a beaten path, visiting the +places which the General frequented, going on and on until they came to +the country, and to a farm-house where they found him turning night +into day, having roused the amazed inmates to ask for breakfast. +</P> + +<P> +He had paid them well for it, and was ready to set forth again with the +dawn when his wife drove in. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear," he had said, courteously, as his little wife's face peered +out at him from the carriage, "you shouldn't have come." +</P> + +<P> +Sobered for the moment, he had made a handsome figure, as he stood with +uncovered head, his dark hair in a thick curl between his eyes. The +morning was warm and he carried his overcoat on his arm. His patent +leather shoes and the broadcloth of his evening clothes showed the dust +and soil of his walk through the fields. He had evidently dismissed +his cab at the edge of the city and had come crosscountry. +</P> + +<P> +His wife had reached out her little hand to him. "I came because I was +lonely. The house seems so big when you are—away—" +</P> + +<P> +It had wrung Bronson's heart to see her smiling. Yet she had always +met the General with a smile and with the reminder of her need of him. +There had been never a complaint, never a rebuke—at these moments. +When he was himself, she strove with him against his devils. But to +strive when he was not himself, would be to send him away from her. +</P> + +<P> +Her hands were clasped tightly, and her voice shook as she talked on +the way back to the husband who seemed so unworthy of the love she gave. +</P> + +<P> +Yet she had not thought him unworthy. "If I can only save him," she +had said so many times. "Oh, Bronson, I mustn't let him go down and +down, with no one who loves him to hold him back." +</P> + +<P> +In the years that had followed, Bronson had seen her grow worn and +weary, but never hopeless. He had seen her hair grow gray, he had seen +the light go out of her face so that she no longer smiled as she had +smiled in the picture. +</P> + +<P> +But she had never given up the fight. Not even at the last moment. +"You will stay with him, Bronson, and help Derry." +</P> + +<P> +And now this other woman had come to undo all the work that his beloved +mistress had done. And there in the shadowed room she was weaving her +spells. +</P> + +<P> +Outside, snug against the deadly cold in his warm closed car, Derry +waited alone for Bronson's signal. +</P> + +<P> +There was movement at last in the shadowed room. The General spoke +from the bed. Hilda answered him, and rose. She arranged a little +tray with two glasses and a plate of biscuits. Then she crossed the +room towards the bookcase. +</P> + +<P> +Bronson reached up his hand and touched the button which controlled the +lights on the third floor. He saw Hilda raise a startled head as the +faint click reached her. She listened for a moment, and he withdrew +himself stealthily up and out of sight. If she came into the hall she +might see him on the stairs. He had done what he could. He would +leave the rest to Derry. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter?" the General asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I heard a sound—but there's no one up. This is our hour, +isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +She brought the bottle out from behind the books. Then she came and +stood by the side of the bed. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you drink to my happiness, General?" +</P> + +<P> +She was very handsome. "To our happiness," he said, eagerly, and +unexpectedly, as he took the glass. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, pouring out more wine for herself, stood suddenly transfixed. +Derry spoke from the threshold. "Dr. McKenzie has asked you repeatedly +not to give my father wine, Miss Merritt." +</P> + +<P> +He was breathing quickly. His hat was in his hand and he wore his fur +coat. "Why are you giving it to him against the Doctor's orders?" +</P> + +<P> +The General interposed. "Don't take that tone with Miss Merritt, +Derry. I asked her to get it for me, and she obeyed my orders. What's +the matter with that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie said, explicitly, that you were not to have it." +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie has nothing to do with it. You may tell him that for me, +I am not his patient any longer." +</P> + +<P> +"Father—" +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not. Do you think I am going to take orders from +McKenzie—or from you?" +</P> + +<P> +"But, Miss Merritt is his nurse, under his orders." +</P> + +<P> +"She is not going to be his nurse hereafter. I have other plans for +her." +</P> + +<P> +Derry stood staring, uncomprehending. "Other plans—" +</P> + +<P> +"I have asked her to be my wife." +</P> + +<P> +Oh, lovely painted lady on the stairs, has it come to this? Have your +prayers availed no more than this? Have the years in which you +sacrificed yourself, in which you sacrificed your son, counted no more +than this? +</P> + +<P> +Derry felt faint and sick. "You can't mean it, Dad." +</P> + +<P> +"I do mean it. I—am a lonely man, Derry. A disappointed man. My +wife is dead. My son is a slacker—" +</P> + +<P> +It was only the maudlin drivel of a man not responsible for what he was +saying. But Derry had had enough. He took a step forward and stood at +the foot of the bed. "I wouldn't go any farther if I were you, Dad. +I've not been a slacker. I have never been a slacker. I am not a +coward. I have never been a coward. I am going to tell you right now +why I am not in France. Do you think I should have stayed out of it +for a moment if it hadn't been for you? Has it ever crossed your mind +that if you had been half a man I might have acted like a whole one? +Have you ever looked back at the years and seen me going out into the +night to follow you and bring you back? I am not whining. I loved +you, and I wanted to do it; but it wasn't easy. And I should still be +doing it; but of late you've said things that I can't forgive. I've +stood by you because I gave a promise to my mother—that I wouldn't +leave you. And I've stayed. But now I shan't try any more. I am +going to France. I am going to fight. I am not your son, sir. I am +the son of my mother." +</P> + +<P> +Then the General said what he would never have said if he had been +himself. +</P> + +<P> +"If you are not my son, then, by God, you shan't have any of my money." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want it. Do you think that I do? I shall get out of here +tonight, and I shan't come back. There is only one thing that I want +besides my own personal traps—and that is my mother's picture on the +stairs." +</P> + +<P> +The General was drawing labored breaths. "Your mother's picture—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it has no place here. Do you think for as instant that you can +meet her eyes?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a look of fright on the drawn old face. "I am not well, give +me the wine." +</P> + +<P> +Derry reached for the bottle. "He shall not have it." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda came up to him swiftly. "Can't you see? He must. Look at him." +</P> + +<P> +Derry looked and surrendered. Then covered his face with his hands. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +All that night, Derry, trying to pack, with Bronson in agitated +attendance, was conscious of the sinister presence of Hilda in the +house. There was the opening and shutting of doors, her low orders in +the halls, her careful voice at the telephone, and once the sound of +her padded steps as she passed Derry's room on her way to her own. The +new doctor came and went. Hilda sent, at Derry's request, a bulletin +of the patient's condition. The General must be kept from excitement; +otherwise there was not reason for alarm. +</P> + +<P> +But Derry was conscious, as the night wore on, and Bronson left him, +and he sat alone, of more than the physical evidences of Hilda's +presence; he was aware of the spiritual effect of her sojourn among +them. She had stolen from them all something that was fine and +beautiful. From Derry his faith in his father. From the General his +constancy to his lovely wife. The structure of ideals which Derry's +mother had so carefully reared for the old house had been wrecked by +one who had first climbed the stairs in the garb of a sister of mercy. +</P> + +<P> +He saw his father's future. Hilda, cold as ice, setting his authority +aside. He saw the big house, the painted lady smiling no more on the +stairs. Hilda's strange friends filling the rooms, the General's men +friends looking at them askance, his mother's friends staying away. +</P> + +<P> +Poor old Dad, poor old Dad. All personal feeling was swept away in the +thought of what might come to his father. Yet none the less his own +path lay straight and clear before him. The time had come for him to +go. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK TWO +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +Through the Crack +</H3> + +<P> +"I will go to the wars! I will go to the wars!" the Tin Soldier cried +as loud as he could, and he threw himself from the shelf.… +</P> + +<P> +What could have become of him? The old man looked, and the little boy +looked. "I shall find him," the old man said, but he did not find him. +For the Tin Soldier had fallen through a crack in the floor, and there +he lay as in an open grave. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XVIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE BROAD HIGHWAY +</H3> + +<P> +The Doctor's house in Maryland was near Woodstock, and from the rise of +the hill where it stood one could see the buildings of the old Jesuit +College, and the river which came so soon to the Bay. +</P> + +<P> +In his boyhood the priests had been great friends of Bruce McKenzie. +While of a different faith, he had listened eagerly to the things they +had to tell him, these wise men, the pioneers of missionary work in +many lands, teachers and scholars. His imagination had been fired by +their tales of devotion, and he had many arguments with his Covenanter +grandfather, to whom the gold cross on the top of the college had been +the sign and symbol of papacy. +</P> + +<P> +"But, grandfather, the things we believe aren't so very different, and +I like to pray in their chapel." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not pray in your own kirk?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's so bare." +</P> + +<P> +"There's nothing to distract your thoughts." +</P> + +<P> +"And I like the singing, and the lights and the candles—" +</P> + +<P> +"We need no candles; we have light enough in our souls." +</P> + +<P> +But Bruce had loved the smell of the incense, and the purple and red of +the robes, and, seeing it all through the golden haze of the lights, +his sense of beauty had been satisfied, as it was not satisfied in his +own plain house of worship. +</P> + +<P> +Yet it had been characteristic of the boy as it was of the man that +neither kirk nor chapel held him, and he had gone through life liking +each a little, but neither overmuch. +</P> + +<P> +Something of this he tried to express to Jean as, arriving at Woodstock +in the early afternoon, they passed the College. "I might have been a +priest," he said, "if I hadn't been too much of a Puritan or a Pagan. +I am not sure which held me back—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean shuddered. "How can people shut themselves away from the world?" +</P> + +<P> +"They have a world of their own, my dear," said the Doctor, +thoughtfully, "and I'm not sure that it isn't as interesting as our +own." +</P> + +<P> +"But there isn't love in it," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"There's love that carries them above self—and that's something." +</P> + +<P> +"It is something, but it isn't much," said his small daughter, +obstinately. "I don't want to love the world, Daddy. I want to love +Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor groaned. "I thought I had escaped him, for a day." +</P> + +<P> +"You will never escape him," was the merciless rejoinder, but she +kissed him to make up for it. +</P> + +<P> +In spite of the fact of her separation for the moment from her lover, +she had enjoyed the ride. There had been much wind, and a little snow +on the way. But now the air was clear, with a sort of silver +clearness—the frozen river was gray-green between its banks, there +were blue shadows flung by the bare trees. As they passed the College, +a few black-frocked fathers and scholastics paced the gardens. +</P> + +<P> +Jean wished that Derry were there to see it all. It was to her a place +of many memories. Most of the summers of her little girlhood had been +spent there, with now and then a Christmas holiday. +</P> + +<P> +The house did not boast a heating plant, but there were roaring open +fires in all the rooms, except in the Connollys' sitting room, which +was warmed by a great black stove. +</P> + +<P> +The Connollys were the caretakers. They occupied the left wing of the +house, and worked the farm. They were both good Catholics, and Mrs. +Connolly looked after the little church at the crossroads corner, where +the good priests came from the College every week to say Mass. She was +a faithful, hard-working, pious soul, with her mind just now very much +on her two sons who had enlisted at the first call for men, and were +now in France. +</P> + +<P> +She talked much about them to Jean, who came into the kitchen to watch +her get supper. The deep, dark, low-ceiled room was lighted by an oil +lamp. The rocking chair in which Jean sat had a turkey-red cushion, +and there was another turkey-red cushion in the rocking chair on the +other side of the cookstove. They ate their meals on the table under +the lamp. It was only when guests were in the house that the dining +room was opened. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor and Jim Connolly were at the barn, where were kept two fat +mules, a fat little horse, a fat little cow, and a pair of fat pigs. +There were also a fat house dog, and a brace of plump pussies, for the +Connollys were a plump and comfortable couple who wanted everything +about them comfortable, and who had had little to worry them until the +coming of the war. +</P> + +<P> +Yet even the war could not shake Mrs. Connolly's faith in the rightness +of things. +</P> + +<P> +"I was glad to have our country get into it, and to have my sons go. +If they had stayed at home, I shouldn't have felt satisfied." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't it nearly break your heart?" +</P> + +<P> +Mrs. Connolly, beating eggs for an omelette, shook her head. "Women's +hearts don't break over brave men, Miss Jean. It is the sons who are +weak and wayward who break their mothers' hearts—not the ones that go +to war." +</P> + +<P> +She poured the omelette into a pan. "When I have a bad time missing +them, I remember how the Mother of God gave her blessed Son to the +world. And He set the example, to give ourselves to save others. No, +I don't want my boys back until the war is over." +</P> + +<P> +Jean said nothing. She rocked back and forth and thought about what +Mary Connolly had said. One of the fat pussies jumped on her lap and +purred. It was all very peaceful, all as it had been since some other +cook made omelettes for the little aristocrat of an Irish grandmother +who would not under any circumstances have sat in the kitchen on terms +of familiarity with a dependent. The world had progressed much in +democracy since those days. Those who had fought in this part of the +country for liberty and equality had not really known it. They had +seen the Vision, but it was to be given to their descendants to realize +it. +</P> + +<P> +Jean rocked and rocked. "I hate war," she said, suddenly. "I didn't +until Daddy said he was going, and then it seemed to come—so near—all +the time I am trying to push the thought of it away. I wouldn't tell +him, of course. But I don't want him to go." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I wouldn't tell him. We women may be scared to death, but it +ain't the time to tell our men that we are scared." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you scared to death, Mrs. Connolly?" +</P> + +<P> +The steady eyes met hers. "Sometimes, in the night, when I think of +the wet and cold, and the wounded groaning under the stars. But when +the morning comes, I cook the breakfast and get Jim off, and he don't +know but that I am as cheerful as one of our old hens, and then I go +over to the church, and tell it all to the blessed Virgin, and I am +ready to write to my boys of how proud I am, and how fine they are—and +of every little tiny thing that has happened on the farm." +</P> + +<P> +Thus the heroic Mary Connolly—type of a million of her kind in +America—of more than a million of her kind throughout the +world—hiding her fears deep in her heart that her men might go cheered +to battle. +</P> + +<P> +The omelette was finished, and the Doctor and Jim Connolly had come in. +"The stars are out," the Doctor said. "After supper we'll walk a bit." +</P> + +<P> +Jean was never to forget that walk with her father. It was her last +long walk with him before he went to France, her last intimate talk. +It was very cold, and he took her arm, the snow crunched under their +feet. +</P> + +<P> +Faintly the chimes of the old College came up to them. "Nine o'clock," +said the Doctor. "Think of all the years I've heard the chimes, I have +lived over half a century—and my father before me heard them—and they +rang in my grandfather's time. Perhaps they will ring in the ears of +my grandchildren, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +They had stopped to listen, but now they went on. "Do you know what +they used to say to me when I was a little boy? +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +'The Lord watch<BR> +Between thee and—me—'"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"My mother and I used to repeat it together at nine o'clock, and when I +brought your mother here for our honeymoon—that first night we, too, +stood and listened to the chimes—and I told her what they said. +</P> + +<P> +"Men drift away from these things," he continued, with something of an +effort. "I have drifted too far. But, Jean, will you always remember +this, that when I am at my best, I come back to the things my mother +taught her boy? If anything should happen, you will remember?" +</P> + +<A NAME="img-248"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-248.jpg" ALT=""If anything should happen, you will remember?"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="388" HEIGHT="588"> +<H4> +[Illustration: "If anything should happen, you will remember?"] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +She clung to his arm. She had no words. Never again was she to hear +the chimes without that poignant memory of her father begging her to +remember the best—. +</P> + +<P> +"I have been thinking," he said, out of a long silence, "of you and +Derry. I—I want you to marry him, dear, before I go." +</P> + +<P> +"Before you go—Daddy—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Emily says I have no right to stand in the way of your +happiness. And I have no right. And some day, perhaps, oh, my little +Jean, my grandchildren may hear the chimes—" +</P> + +<P> +White and still, she stood with her face upturned to the stars. "Life +is so wonderful, Daddy." +</P> + +<P> +And this time she said it out of a woman's knowledge of what life was +to mean. +</P> + +<P> +They went in, to find that the Connollys had retired. Jean slept in a +great feather-bed. And all the night the chimes in the College tower +struck the hours— +</P> + +<P> +In the morning, Jean went over to the church with Mrs. Connolly. It +was Saturday, and things must be made ready for the services the next +day. Jean had been taught as a child to kneel reverently while Mrs. +Connolly prayed. To sit quietly in a pew while her good friend did the +little offices of the altar. +</P> + +<P> +Jean had always loved to sit there, to wonder about the rows of candles +and the crucifix, to wonder about the Sacred Heart, and St. Agnes with +the lamb, and St. Anthony who found things when you lost them, and St. +Francis in the brown frock with the rope about his waist, and why Mrs. +Connolly never touched any of the sacred vessels with bare hands. +</P> + +<P> +But most of all she had wondered about that benignant figure in the +pale blue garments who stood in a niche, with a light burning at her +feet, and with a baby in her arms. +</P> + +<P> +<I>Mary</I>— +</P> + +<P> +Faintly as she gazed upon it on this winter morning, Jean began to +perceive the meaning of that figure. Of late many women had said to +her, "Was my son born for this, to be torn from my arms—to be +butchered?" +</P> + +<P> +Well, Mary's son had been torn from her arms—butchered—her little son +who had lain in a manger and whom she had loved as much as any +less-worshipped mother,—and he had told the world what he thought of +sin and injustice and cruelty, and the world had hated him because he +had set himself against these things—and they had killed him, and from +his death had come the regeneration of mankind. +</P> + +<P> +And now, other men, following him, were setting themselves against +injustice and cruelty, and they were being killed for it. But perhaps +their sacrifices, too, would be for the salvation of the world. Oh, if +only it might be for the world's salvation! +</P> + +<P> +She walked quite soberly beside Mrs. Connolly back to the house. She +took her knitting to the kitchen. Mrs. Connolly was knitting socks. +"I don't mind the fighting as much as I do the chance of their taking +cold. And I'm afraid they won't have the sense to change their socks +when they are wet. I have sent them pairs and pairs—but they'll never +know enough to change— +</P> + +<P> +"It is funny how a mother worries about a thing like that," she +continued. "I suppose it is because you've always worried about their +taking cold, and you've never had to worry much about their being +killed. I always used to put them to bed with hot drinks and hot +baths, and a lot of blankets, and I keep thinking that there won't be +anybody to put them to bed." +</P> + +<P> +Jean knitted a long row, and then she spoke. "Mrs. Connolly, I'm going +to be married, before Daddy leaves for France." +</P> + +<P> +"I am happy to hear that, my dear." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't know it until last night—Daddy wasn't willing. I—I feel as +if it couldn't be really true—that I am going to be married, Mrs. +Connolly." +</P> + +<P> +There was a tremble of her lip and clasping of her little hands. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Connolly laid down her work. "I guess you miss your mother, +blessed lamb. I remember when she was married. I was young, too, but +I felt a lot older with my two babies, and Jim and I were so glad the +Doctor had found a wife. He needed one, if ever a man did—for he +liked his gay good time." +</P> + +<P> +"Daddy?" said Jean, incredulously. It is hard for youth to visualize +the adolescence of its elders. Dr. McKenzie's daughter beheld in him +none of the elements of a Lothario. He was beyond the pale of romance! +He was fifty, which settled at once all matters of sentiment! +</P> + +<P> +"Indeed, he was gay, my dear, and he had broken half the hearts in the +county, and then your mother came for a visit. She didn't look in the +least like you, except that she was small and slender. Her hair was +dark and her eyes. You have your father's eyes and hair. +</P> + +<P> +"But she was so pretty and so loving—and you never saw such a +honeymoon. They were married in the spring, and the orchards were in +bloom, and your father filled her room with apple blossoms, and the +first day when Jim drove them up from the station, your father carried +her in his arms over the threshold and up into that room, and when she +came down, she said, 'Mary Connolly, isn't life—wonderful?'" +</P> + +<P> +"Did she say that, Mrs. Connolly, really? Daddy always teases me when +I go into raptures. He says that I think everything is wonderful from +a sunset to a chocolate soda." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she did, too. Her husband was the most wonderful man, and her +baby was the most wonderful baby—and her house was the most wonderful +house. You make me think of her in every way. But you won't have +apple blossoms for your honeymoon, my dear." +</P> + +<P> +"No. But, oh, Mrs. Connolly—it won't make any real difference." +</P> + +<P> +"Not a bit. And if you'll come up here, Jim and I will promise not to +be in the way. Your mother said we were never in the way. And I'll +serve your meals in front of the sitting-room fire. They used to have +theirs out of doors. But you'll be just as much alone, with me and Jim +eating in the kitchen." +</P> + +<P> +It was very easy after that to tell Mrs. Connolly all about it. About +Derry, and how he had fallen in love with her when he had thought she +was just the girl in the Toy Shop. But there were things which she did +not tell, of the shabby old gentleman and of the shadow which had +darkened Derry's life. +</P> + +<P> +Then when she had finished, Mary Connolly asked the thing which +everybody asked—"Why isn't he fighting?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean flushed. "He—he made a promise to his mother." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd never make my boys promise a thing like that. And if I did, I'd +hope they'd break it." +</P> + +<P> +"Break it?" tensely. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Their honor's bigger than anything I could ever ask them. +And they know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Then you think that Derry ought to break his promise?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do, indeed, my dear." +</P> + +<P> +"But—. Oh, Mrs. Connolly, I don't know whether I want him to break +it." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +With her face hidden. "I don't know whether I could let him—go." +</P> + +<P> +"You'd let him go. Never fear. When the moment came, the good Lord +would give you strength—" +</P> + +<P> +There were steps outside. Jean leaned over and kissed Mary Connolly on +the cheek. "You are such a darling—I don't wonder that my mother +loved you." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you'll always be more than just yourself to me," said Mary. +"You'll always be your mother's baby. And after I get lunch for you +and the men I am going back to the church and ask the blessed Virgin to +intercede for your happiness." +</P> + +<P> +So it was while Mary was at church, and the two men had gone to town +upon some legal matter, that Jean, left alone, wandered through the +house, and always before her flitted the happy ghost of the girl who +had come there to spend her honeymoon. In the great south chamber was +a picture of her mother, and one of her father as they looked at the +time of their marriage. Her mother was in organdie with great balloon +sleeves, and her hair in a Psyche knot. She was a slender little +thing, and the young doctor's picture was a great contrast in its +blondness and bigness. Daddy had worn a beard then, pointed, as was +the way with doctors of his day, and he looked very different, except +for the eyes which had the same teasing twinkle. +</P> + +<P> +The window of this room looked out over the orchard, the orchard which +had been bursting with bloom when the bride came. The trees now were +slim little skeletons, with the faint gold of the western sky back of +them, and there was much snow. Yet so vivid was Jean's impression of +what had been, that she would have sworn her nostrils were assailed by +a delicate fragrance, that her eyes beheld wind-blown petals of white +and pink. +</P> + +<P> +The long mirror reflecting her showed her in her straight frock of dark +blue serge, with the white collars and cuffs. The same mirror had +reflected her mother's organdie. It, too, had been blue, Mary had told +her, but blue with such a difference! A faint forget-me-not shade, +with a satin girdle, and a stiff satin collar! +</P> + +<P> +Two girls, with a quarter of a century between them. Yet the mother +had laughed and loved, and had looked forward to a long life with her +gay big husband. They had had ten years of it, and then there had been +just her ghost to haunt the old rooms. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shivered a little as she went downstairs. She found herself a +little afraid of the lonely darkening house. She wished that Mary +would come. +</P> + +<P> +Curled up in one of the big chairs, she waited. Half-asleep and +half-awake; she was aware of shadow-shapes which came and went. Her +Scotch great-grandfather, the little Irish great-grandmother; her +copper-headed grandfather, his English wife, her own mother, pale and +dark-haired and of Huguenot strain, her own dear father. +</P> + +<P> +From each of these something had been given her, some fault, some +virtue. If any of them had been brave, there must have been handed +down to her some bit of bravery—if any of them had been cowards— +</P> + +<P> +But none of them had been cowards. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>We came to a new country," said the great-grandparents. "There were +hardships, but we loved and lived through them—</I>" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>The Civil war tore our hearts," said the grand-parents. "Brother +hated brother, and friend hated friend, but we loved and lived through +it—</I>" +</P> + +<P> +"<I>We were not tested," said her own parents. "You are our child and +test has come to you. If you are brave, it will be because we have +given to you that which came first to us—</I>" +</P> + +<P> +Jean sat up, wide-awake—"<I>I am not brave</I>," she said. +</P> + +<P> +She stood, after that, at a lower window, watching. Far down the road +a big black motor flew straight as a crow towards the hill on which the +Doctor's house stood. It stopped at the gate. A man stepped out. +Jean gave a gasp, then flew to meet him. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Derry, Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +He came in and shut the door behind him, took her in his arms, kissed +her, and kissed her again. "I love you," he said, "I love you. I +couldn't stay away—" +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to Jean quite the most wonderful thing of all the wonderful +things that had happened, that he should be here in this old house +where her parents had come for their honeymoon—where her own honeymoon +was so soon to be—. +</P> + +<P> +She saved that news for him, however. He had to tell her first of how +he had taken the wrong road after he had left Baltimore. He had gone +without his lunch to get to her quickly. No, he wasn't hungry, and he +was glad Mary Connolly was out, "I've so much to say to you." +</P> + +<P> +Then, too, she delayed the telling so that he might see the farm before +darkness fell. She wrapped herself in a hooded red cloak in which he +thought her more than ever adorable. +</P> + +<P> +The sun rested on the rim of the world, a golden disk under a +wind-blown sky. It was very cold, but she was warm in her red cloak, +he in his fur-lined coat and cap. +</P> + +<P> +She told him about her father's honeymoon, hugging her own secret +close. "They came here, Derry, and it was in May. I wish you could +see the place in May, with all the appleblooms. +</P> + +<P> +"It seems queer, doesn't it, Derry, to think of father honeymooning. +He always seems to be making fun of things, and one should be serious +on a honeymoon." +</P> + +<P> +She flashed a smile at him and he smiled back. "I shall be very +serious on mine." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. Derry, wouldn't you like a honeymoon here?" +</P> + +<P> +"I should like it anywhere—with you—" +</P> + +<P> +"Well," she drew a deep breath, "Daddy says we may—" +</P> + +<P> +"We may what, Jean-Joan?" +</P> + +<P> +"Get married—" +</P> + +<P> +"Before he goes?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward to get the full effect of his surprise, to watch the +dawn of his delight. +</P> + +<P> +But something else dawned. Embarrassment? Out of a bewildering +silence she heard him say, "I am not sure, dear, that it will be best +for us to marry before he goes." +</P> + +<P> +She had a stunned feeling that, quite unaccountably, Derry was failing +her. A shamed feeling that she had offered herself and had been +rejected. +</P> + +<P> +Something of this showed in her face. "My dear, my dear," he said, +"let us go in. I can tell you better there." +</P> + +<P> +Once more in the warm sitting room with the door shut behind them, he +lifted her bodily in his arms. "Don't you know I want it," he +whispered, tensely. "Tell me that you know—" +</P> + +<P> +When he set her down, his own face showed the stress of his emotion. +"You are always to remember this," he said, "that no matter what +happens, I am yours, yours—always, till the end of time." +</P> + +<P> +Instinctively she felt that this Derry was in some way different from +the Derry she had left the day before. There was a hint of +masterfulness, a touch of decision. +</P> + +<P> +"Will you remember?" he repeated, hands tight on her shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," she said, simply. +</P> + +<P> +He bent and kissed her. "Then nothing else will matter." He placed a +big chair for her in front of the fire, and drew another up in front of +it. Bending forward, he took her hands. "I am glad I found you alone. +What luck it was to find you alone!" +</P> + +<P> +He tried then to tell her what he had come to tell. Yet, after all +there was much that he left unsaid. How could he speak to her of the +things he had seen in his father's shadowed house? How fill that +delicate mind with a knowledge of that which seemed even to his greater +sophistication unspeakable? +</P> + +<P> +So she wondered over several matters. "How can he want to marry Hilda? +I can't imagine any man wanting Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"She is handsome in a big fine way." +</P> + +<P> +"But she is not big and fine. She is little and mean, but I could +never make Daddy see it." +</P> + +<P> +He wondered if McKenzie would see it now. +</P> + +<P> +Mary Connolly, coming in through the back door to her warm kitchen, +heard voices. Standing in the dark hall which connected the left wing +with the house, she could see through into the living room where Jean +sat with her lover. +</P> + +<P> +There was much dark wood and the worn red velvet—low bookshelves +lining the walls, a grand piano on a cover by the window. In the +dimness Jean's copper head shone like the halo of a saint. Mary +decided that Derry was "queer-looking," until gathering courage, she +went in and was warmed by his smile. +</P> + +<P> +"He hasn't had any lunch, Mary," Jean told her, "and he wouldn't let me +get any for him." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll have something in three whisks of a lamb's tail," said Mary with +Elizabethan picturesqueness, and away she went on her hospitable +mission. +</P> + +<P> +"Marrying just now," said Derry, picking up the subject, where he had +dropped it, when Mary came in, "is out of the question." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you think that I was marrying you for your money?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. But two months' pay wouldn't buy a gown like this,"—he lifted a +fold with his forefinger—"to say nothing of your little shoes." He +dropped his light tone. "Oh, my dear, can't you see?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. I can't see. Daddy would let us have this house, and I have a +little money of my own from my mother, and—and the Connollys would +take care of everything, and we should see the spring come, and the +summer." +</P> + +<P> +He rose and went and stood with his back to the fire. "But I shan't be +here in the spring and summer." +</P> + +<P> +She clasped her hands nervously. "Derry, I don't want you to go." +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean that." +</P> + +<P> +"I do. I do. At least not yet. We can be married—and have just a +little, little month or two—and then I'll let you go—truly." +</P> + +<P> +He shook his head. "I've stayed out of it long enough. You wouldn't +want me to stay out of it any longer, Jean-Joan." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I should. Other men can go, but I want to keep you—it's bad +enough to give—Daddy—. I haven't anybody. Mary Connolly has her +husband, but I haven't anybody—" her voice broke—and broke again—. +</P> + +<P> +He came over and knelt beside her. "Let me tell you something," he +said. "Do you remember the night of the Witherspoon dinner? Well, +that night you cut me dead because you thought I was a coward—and I +thanked God for the women who hated cowards." +</P> + +<P> +"But you weren't a coward." +</P> + +<P> +"I know, and so I could stand it—could stand your scorn and the scorn +of the world. But what if I stayed out of it now, Jean? +</P> + +<P> +"What if I stayed out of it now? You and I could have our little +moment of happiness, while other men fought that we might have it. We +should be living in Paradise, while other men were in Hell. I can't +see it, dearest. All these months I have been bound. But now, my +dear, my dear, do you love me enough not to keep me, but to let me go?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a beating pause. She lifted wet eyes. "Oh, Derry, darling, +I love you enough—I love you—" +</P> + +<P> +Thus, in a moment, little Jean McKenzie unlatched the gate which had +shut her into the safe and sunshiny garden of pampered girlhood and +came out upon the broad highway of life, where men and women suffer for +the sake of those who travel with them, sharing burdens and gaining +strength as they go. +</P> + +<P> +Dimly, perhaps, she perceived what she had done, but it was not given +to her to know the things she would encounter or the people she would +meet. All the world was to adventure with her, throughout the years, +the poor distracted world, dealing death and destruction, yet dreaming +ever of still waters and green pastures. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XIX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +HILDA SHAKES A TREE +</H3> + + +<P> +When Dr. McKenzie and Jim Connolly arrived, Derry said apologetically +as he shook hands with the Doctor, "You see, you can't get rid of +me—but I have such a lot of things to talk over with you." +</P> + +<P> +It was after Jean had gone to bed, however, that they had their talk, +and before that Derry and Jean had walked in the moonlight and had +listened to the chimes. +</P> + +<P> +There had, perhaps, never been such a moon. It hung in a sky that +shimmered from horizon to horizon. Against this shimmering background +the college buildings were etched in black—there was a glint of gold +as the light caught the icicles and made candles of them. +</P> + +<P> +In the months to come that same moon was to sail over the cantonment +where Derry slept heavily after hard days. It was to sail over the +trenches of France, where, perhaps, he slept not at all, or slept +uneasily in the midst of mud and vermin. But always when he looked up +at it, he was to see the Cross on the top of the College, and to hear +the chimes. +</P> + +<P> +They talked that night of the things that were deep in their hearts. +She wanted him to go—yes, she wanted him to go, but she was afraid. +</P> + +<P> +"If something should happen to you, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes I wonder," he said, in his grave, young voice, "why we are +so—afraid. I think we have the wrong focus. We want life, even if it +brings unhappiness, even if it brings suffering, even if it brings +disgrace. Anything seems better than to—die—" +</P> + +<P> +"But to have things stop, Derry." She shuddered. "When there's so +much ahead." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps they don't stop, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"If I could only believe that—" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? Do you remember 'Sherwood,' where Blondin rides through the +forest singing: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +'"Death, what is death?" he cried,<BR> +"I must ride on—"'"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +His face was lifted to the golden sky. She was never to forget the +look upon it. And with a great ache and throb of passionate +renunciation, she told herself that it was for this that the men of her +generation had been born, that they might fight against the powers of +darkness for the things of the spirit. +</P> + +<P> +She lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. Of how she had +laughed at other women, scolded, said awful things to them of how their +cowardice was holding the world back. She had thought she understood, +but she had not understood. It was giving your own—your own, which +was the test. <I>Oh, let those who had none of their own to give keep +silent</I>. +</P> + +<P> +With her breath almost stopping she thought of those glorious young +souls riding on and on through infinite space, the banner of victory +floating above them. No matter what might come to the world of defeat +or of disaster, these souls would never know it, they had given +themselves in the cause of humanity—for them there would always be the +sound of silver trumpets, the clash of cymbals, the song of triumph! +</P> + +<P> +Downstairs, Dr. McKenzie was listening with a frowning face to what +Derry had to tell him. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mean to say that Hilda was giving him—wine?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Bronson told me. But he didn't want you to depend upon his +unsupported testimony. So we fixed up a scheme, and I stayed outside +until he flashed a light for me; and then I went in and caught her." +</P> + +<P> +"It is incredible. Why should she do such a thing? She has always +been a perfect nurse—a perfect nurse, Drake." He rose and walked the +floor. "But deliberately to disobey my orders—what could have been +her object?" +</P> + +<P> +Derry hesitated. +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't told you the worst." +</P> + +<P> +Doctor McKenzie stopped in front of him. "The worst?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dad is going to marry her." +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +Derry repeated what he had said. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor dropped into a chair. "Who told you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dad." +</P> + +<P> +"And she admitted that it was—true?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +Derry gave the facts. "He wasn't himself, of course, but that doesn't +change things for me." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor in the practice of his profession had learned to conceal his +emotions. He concealed now what he was feeling, but a close observer +might have seen in the fading of the color in his cheeks, the beating +of his clenched fist on the arm of his chair, something of that which +was stirring within him. +</P> + +<P> +"And this has been going on ever since she went there. She has had it +in mind to wear your mother's jewels—" Derry had graphically described +Bronson's watch on the stairs—"to get your father's money. I knew she +was cold-blooded, but I had always thought it a rather admirable +quality in a woman of her attractive type." +</P> + +<P> +Before his eye came the vision of Hilda's attractiveness by his +fireside, at his table. And now she would sit by the General's fire, +at his table. +</P> + +<P> +"She didn't say a word," Derry's young voice went on, "when he told me +that I was no longer—his son. I can't tell you how I felt about her. +I've never felt that way about anyone before. I've always liked +people—but it was as if some evil thing had swooped down on the old +house." +</P> + +<P> +The lad saw straight! That was the thought which suddenly illumined +Dr. McKenzie's troubled mind. Hilda was not beautiful. So beauty of +body could offset the ugliness of her distorted soul. +</P> + +<P> +"And so I am poor," Derry was saying, heavily, "and I must wait to +marry Jean." +</P> + +<P> +The red surged up in the Doctor's face. He jerked himself forward in +his chair. "You shall not wait. After this you are my son, if you are +not your father's." +</P> + +<P> +He laid his hand on Derry's shoulder. "I've money enough, God knows. +And I shan't need it. It isn't a fortune, but it is enough to make all +of us comfortable for the rest of our days—and I want Jean to be +happy. Do you think I am going to let Hilda Merritt stand between my +child and happiness?" +</P> + +<P> +"It's awfully good of you, sir," Derry's voice was husky with feeling, +"but—" +</P> + +<P> +"There are no 'buts.' You must let me have my own way; I shall +consider it a patriotic privilege to support one soldier and his little +wife." +</P> + +<P> +He was riding above the situation splendidly. He even had visions of +straightening things out. "When I go back I shall tell Hilda what I +think of her, I shall tell her that it is preposterous—that her +professional reputation is at stake." +</P> + +<P> +"What will she care for her professional reputation when she is my +father's wife?" +</P> + +<P> +The thought of Hilda with the world, in a sense, at her feet was +maddening. The Doctor paced the floor roaring like an angry lion. "It +may not do any good, but I've got to tell her what I think of her." +</P> + +<P> +Derry had a whimsical sense of the meeting of the white cat and this +leonine gentleman—would she purr or scratch? +</P> + +<P> +"The sooner you and Jean are married the better. If Hilda thinks she +is going to keep you and Jean apart she is mistaken." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—did she know of the engagement?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," the Doctor confessed. "I told her the other day when she came +to fix the books." +</P> + +<P> +"Then that accounts for it." +</P> + +<P> +"For what?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dad's attitude. I thought it was queer he should fly up all in a +moment. She wanted to make trouble, Doctor, and she has made it." +</P> + +<P> +Long after Derry had gone to bed, the Doctor sat there pondering on +Hilda's treachery. He was in some ways a simple man—swayed by the +impulse of the moment. The thought of deliberate plotting was +abhorrent. In his light way he had taken her lightly. He had laughed +at her. He had teased Jean, he had teased Emily, calling their +intuition jealousy. Yet they had known better than he. And why should +not women know women better than men know them? Just as men know men +in a way that women could never know. Sex erected barriers—there was +always the instinct to charm, to don one's gayest plumage; even Hilda's +frankness had been used as a lure; she knew he liked it. Would she +have been so frank if she had not felt its stimulus to a man of his +type? And, after all, had she really been frank? +</P> + +<P> +Such a woman was like a poisonous weed; and he had thought she might +bloom in the same garden with Jean—until Emily had told him. +</P> + +<P> +He turned to the thought of Emily with relief. Thank God he could +leave Jean in her care. If Derry went, there would still be Emily with +her sweet sanity, and her wise counsels. +</P> + +<P> +He felt very old as he went upstairs. He stood for a long time in +front of his wife's picture. How sweet she had been in her +forget-me-not gown—how little and tender! Their love had burned in a +white flame—there would never be anything like that for him again. +</P> + +<P> +He waked in the morning, however, ready for all that was before him. +He was a man who dwelt little on the past. There was always the day's +work, and the work of the day after. +</P> + +<P> +His appetite for the work of the coming day was, it must be confessed, +whetted somewhat by the thought of what he would say to Hilda. +</P> + +<P> +They had an early breakfast, with Jean between her father and Derry and +eating nothing for very happiness. +</P> + +<P> +There was the start in the opal light of the early morning, with a +faint rose sky making a background for the cross on the College, and +the chimes saying "Seven o'clock." +</P> + +<P> +Jim and Mary Connolly came out in the biting air to see them off. Then +Mary went over to the church to pray for Jean and Derry. But first of +all she prayed for her sons. +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor, arriving at his office, at once called up Hilda. +</P> + +<P> +"I must see you as soon as possible." +</P> + +<P> +"What has Derry Drake been telling you?" +</P> + +<P> +"How do you know that he has told me anything?" +</P> + +<P> +"By your voice. And you needn't think that you are going to scold me." +</P> + +<P> +"I shall scold you for disobeying orders. I thought you were to be +trusted, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not a saint. You know that. And I am not sure that I want you +to come. I shall send you away if you scold." +</P> + +<P> +She hung up the receiver and left him fuming. Her high-handed +indifference to his authority sent him storming to Derry, "I've half a +mind to stay away." +</P> + +<P> +"I think I would. It won't do any good to go—" +</P> + +<P> +But the Doctor went. He still hoped, optimistically, that Hilda might +be induced to see the error of her ways. +</P> + +<P> +She received him in the blue room, where the General's precious +porcelain was set forth in cabinets. It was a choice little room which +had been used by Mrs. Drake for the reception of special guests. Hilda +was in her uniform, but without her cap. It was as if in doffing her +cap, she struck her first note of independence against the Doctor's +rule. +</P> + +<P> +He began professionally. "Doctor Bryer telephoned this morning that +his attendance of the case had been only during my absence. That he +did not care to keep it unless I definitely intended to withdraw. I +told him to go ahead. I told him also that you were a good nurse. I +had to whitewash my conscience a bit to say it, Hilda—" +</P> + +<P> +Her head went up. "I am a good nurse. But I am more than a nurse, I +am a woman. Oh, I know you are blaming me for what you think I have +done. But if you stood under a tree and a great ripe peach hung just +out of your reach, could you be blamed for shaking the tree? Well, I +shook the tree." +</P> + +<P> +She was very handsome as she gave her defense with flashing eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"The General asked me to marry him, and that's more than you would ever +have done. You liked to think that I was half in love with you. You +liked to pretend that you were half in love with me. But would you +ever have offered me ease and rest from hard work? Would you ever have +thought that I might some day be your daughter's equal in your home? +Oh, I have wanted good times. I used to sit night after night alone in +the office while you and Jean went out and did the things I was dying +to do. I wanted to go to dances and to the theater and to supper with +a gay crowd. But you never seemed to think of it. I am young and I +want pretty clothes—yet you thought I was satisfied to have you come +home and say a few careless pleasant words, and to tease me a little. +That was all you ever did for me—all you ever wanted. +</P> + +<P> +"But the General wants more than that. He wants me here in the big +house, to be his wife, and to meet his friends. He had a man come up +the other day with a lot of rings, and he bought me this." She showed +the great diamonds flashing on her third finger. "I have always wanted +a ring like this, and now I can have as many as I want. Do you blame +me for shaking the tree?" +</P> + +<P> +He sat, listening, spellbound to her sophistry. But was it sophistry? +Wasn't some of it true? He saw her for the first time as a woman +wanting things like other women. +</P> + +<P> +She swept out her hand to include the contents of the little room. "I +have always longed for a place like this. I don't know a thing about +china. But I know that all that stuff in the cabinet cost a fortune. +And it's a pretty room, and some day when I am the General's wife, I'll +ask you here to take tea with me, and I'll wear a silver gown like your +daughter wears, and I think you'll be surprised to see that I can do it +well." +</P> + +<P> +He flung up his hand. "I can't argue it, Hilda. I can't analyze it. +But it is all wrong. In all the years that you worked for me, while I +laughed at you, I respected you. But I don't respect you now." +</P> + +<P> +She shrugged. "Do you think I care? And a man's respect after all is +rather a cold thing, isn't it? But I am sorry you feel as you do about +it. I should have been glad to have you wish me happiness." +</P> + +<P> +"Happiness—" His anger seemed to die suddenly. "You won't find +happiness, Hilda, if you separate a son from his father." +</P> + +<P> +"Did he tell you that? I had nothing to do with it. His father was +angry at his—interference." +</P> + +<P> +He stood up. "We won't discuss it. But you may tell him this. That I +am glad his son is poor, for my daughter will marry now the man and not +his money." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he will marry her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. On Christmas Day." +</P> + +<P> +She wished that she might tell him the date of her own wedding, but she +did not know it. The General seemed in no hurry. He had carefully +observed the conventions; had hired a housekeeper and a maid, and there +was, of course, the day nurse. Having thus surrounded his betrothed +with a sort of feminine bodyguard, he spoke of the wedding as happening +in the spring. And he was hard to move. As has been said, the General +had once commanded a brigade. He was immensely entertained and +fascinated by the lady who was to be his wife. But he was not to be +managed by her. She found herself, as he grew stronger, quite +strangely deferring to his wishes. She found herself, indeed, rather +unexpectedly dominated. +</P> + +<P> +She came back to the Doctor. "Aren't you going to wish me happiness?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. How can I, Hilda?" +</P> + +<P> +After he had left her, she stood very still in the middle of the room. +She could still see him as he had towered above her—his crinkled hair +waving back from his handsome head. She had always liked the youth of +him and his laughter and his boyish fun. +</P> + +<P> +The rich man upstairs was—old—. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE VISION OF BRAVE WOMEN +</H3> + + +<P> +And now the Tin Soldier was to go to the wars! +</P> + +<P> +Derry, swinging downtown, found himself gazing +squarely into the eyes of the khaki-clad men whom +he met. He was one of them at last! +</P> + +<P> +He was on his way to meet Jean. The day before +they had gone to church together. They had heard +burning words from a fearless pulpit. The old man +who had preached had set no limits on his patriotism. +The cause of the Allies was the cause of +humanity, the cause of humanity was the cause of +Christ. He would have had the marching hymn +of the Americans "Onward, Christian Soldiers." His +Master was not a shrinking idealist, but a +prophet unafraid. "Woe unto thee, Chorazin! +Woe unto thee, Bethsaida!… It shall be more +tolerable for Tyre and Sidon in the day of Judgment +than for you. And thou, Capernaum, which art +exalted unto Heaven, shall be brought down to +hell …" +</P> + +<P> +"I am too old to go myself," the old man had said, +"but I have sent my sons. In the face of the +world's need, no man has a right to hold another +back. Personal considerations which might once +have seemed sufficient must now be set aside. +Things are at stake which involve not only the +honor of a nation but the honor of the individual. +To call a man a coward in the old days was to +challenge his physical courage. To know him as a +slacker in these modern times is to doubt the +quality of his mind and spirit. 'I pray thee have me +excused' is the word of one lost to the high +meanings of justice—of love and loyalty and liberty—" +</P> + +<P> +Stirring words. The lovers had thrilled to them. +Derry's hand had gone out to Jean and her own +hand clasped it. Together they saw the vision of +his going forth, a shining knight, girded for the +battle by a beloved woman—saw it through the +glamour of high hopes and youthful ardor! +</P> + +<P> +A troop of cavalry on the Avenue! Jackies in +saucer caps, infantry, artillery, aviation! Blue +and red and green cords about wide-brimmed hats. +Husky young Westerners, slim young Southerners, +square-chinned young Northerners—a great +brotherhood, their faces set one way—and he was to +share their hardships, to be cold and hungry with +the best of them, wet and dirty with the worst. It +would be a sort of glorified penance for his delay in +doing the thing which too long he had left undone. +</P> + +<P> +He was to have lunch with Jean in the House +restaurant—he was a little early, and as he +loitered through the Capitol grounds, in his ears there +was the echo of fairy trumpets—"<I>trutter-a-trutt, +trutter-a-trutt—</I>" +</P> + +<P> +The old Capitol had always been for Derry a +place of dreams. He loved every inch of it. The +sunset view of the city from the west front; the +bronze doors on the east, the labyrinthine maze of +the corridors; the tesselated floors, the mottled +marble of the balustrades; the hushed approach to the +Supreme Court; the precipitous descent into the +galleries of House and Senate, the rap of the +Speaker's gavel—the rattle of argument as political foes +contended in the legislative arena; the more +subdued squabbles on the Senate floor; the savory smell +of food rising from the restaurants in the lower +regions; the climb to the dome, the look of the sky +when one came out at the top; Statuary Hall and its +awesome echoes; the Rotunda with its fringe of +tired tourists, its frescoed frieze—Columbus, +Cortez, Penn, Pizarro—; the mammoth paintings—Pocahontas, +and the Pilgrims, De Soto, and the +Surrender of Cornwallis, the Signing of the +Declaration, and Washington's Resignation as +Commander-in-Chief—Indian and Quaker, Puritan and +Cavalier—these were some of the things which had +ravished the eyes of the boy Derry in the days when +his father had come to the Capitol to hobnob with +old cronies, and his son had been allowed to roam +at will. +</P> + +<P> +But above and beyond everything else, there were +the great mural paintings on the west wall of the +House side, above the grand marble staircase. +</P> + +<P> +"<I>Westward the Course of Empire takes its way—!</I>" +</P> + +<P> +Oh, those pioneers with their faces turned +towards the Golden West! The tired women and the +bronzed men! Not one of them without that eager +look of hope, of a dream realized as the land of +Promise looms ahead! +</P> + +<P> +Derry had often talked that picture over with his +mother. "It was such men, Derry, who made our +country—men unafraid—North, South, East and +West, it was these who helped to shape the Nation's +destiny, as we must help to shape it for those who +come after us." +</P> + +<P> +It was in front of this picture that he was to meet +Jean. He had wanted to share with her the +inspiration of it. +</P> + +<P> +She was late, and he waited, leaning on the +marble rail which overlooked the stairway. People +were going up and down passing the picture, but +not seeing it, their pulses calm, their blood cold. +The doors of the elevators opened and shut, women +came and went in velvet and fur, laughing. Men +followed them, laughing, and the picture was not for them. +</P> + +<P> +Derry wondered if it were symbolic, this +indifference of the crowd. Was the world's pageant of +horrors and of heroism thus unseen by the eyes of +the unthinking? +</P> + +<P> +And now Jean ascended, the top of her hat first—a +blur of gray, then the red of the rose that he had +sent her, a wave of her gray muff as she saw him. +He went down to meet her, and stood with her on +the landing. Beneath the painting, on one side, +ran the inscription, "No pent up Utica confines our +powers, but the boundless Continent is ours," on +the other side, "The Spirit moves in its allotted +space; the mind is narrow in a narrow sphere." +</P> + +<P> +Thousands of men and women came and went +and never read those words. But boys read them, +sitting on the stairs or leaning over the rail—and +their minds were carried on and on. Old men, +coming back after years to read them again, could +testify what the words had meant to them in the field +of high endeavor. +</P> + +<P> +Jean had seen the painting many times, but now, +standing on the upper gallery floor with Derry, it +took on new meanings. She saw a girl with hope in +her eyes, a young mother with a babe at her breast; +homely middle-aged women redeemed from the +commonplace by that long gaze ahead of them; old +women straining towards that sunset glow. She +saw, indeed, the Vision of Brave Women. "If it +could only be like that for me, Derry. Do you +see—they go with their husbands, those women, and I +must stay behind." +</P> + +<P> +"You will go with me, beloved, in spirit—" +</P> + +<P> +They fell into silence before the limitless vista. +</P> + +<P> +And now more people were coming up the stairs, +a drawling, familiar voice—Alma Drew on the +landing below. With her a tall young man. She +was turning on him all her batteries of charm. +</P> + +<P> +Alma passed the picture and did not look at it, +she passed the lovers and did not see them. And +she was saying as she passed, "I don't know why +any man should be expected to fight. I shouldn't +if I were a man." +</P> + +<P> +Jean drew a long breath. "There, but for the +grace of God, goes Jean McKenzie." +</P> + +<P> +Derry laughed. "You were never like that. +Not for the least minute. You were afraid for the +man you loved. It isn't fear with Alma." +</P> + +<P> +But the thought of Alma did not trouble them +long. There was too much else in their world +today. As they walked through the historic halls, +they had with them all the romance of the past—and +so Robert Fulton with his boats, Père +Marquette with his cross and beads, Frances Willard +in her strange old-fashioned dress spoke to them of +the dreams which certain inspired men and women +have translated into action. +</P> + +<P> +They talked of these things while they ate their +lunch. The black waiter, who knew Derry, +hovered about them. His freedom, too, had been the +culmination of a dream. +</P> + +<P> +"Men laugh at the dreamers," Derry said, "then +honor them after they are dead." +</P> + +<P> +"That's the cruelty, the sadness of it, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not to the dreamer. Do you think that Père +Marquette cared for what smaller minds might +think, or Frances Willard? They had their vision +backed by a great faith in the rightness of things, +and so Marquette followed the river and planted the +cross, and Frances Willard blazed the way for the +thing which has come to pass." +</P> + +<P> +After lunch they motored to Drusilla's. They +used one of Dr. McKenzie's cars. Derry had +ceased to draw upon his father's establishment for +anything. He lived at the club, and met his +expenses with the small balance which remained to +his credit in the bank. +</P> + +<P> +"You can give Jean whatever you think best," +he told the Doctor, "but I shall try to live on what +I have until I go, and then on my pay." +</P> + +<P> +"Your pay, my dear boy, will just about equal +what you now spend in tips." +</P> + +<P> +"I think I shall like it. It's an adventure for +rich men when they have to be poor. That's why +a lot of fellows have gone into it. They are tired +of being the last word in civilization. They want +to get down to primitive things." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Witherspoon can't imagine Derry Drake +without two baths a day." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't she? Well, Mrs. Witherspoon may find +that Derry Drake is about like the rest of the +fellows. No better and no worse. There is no +disgrace in liking to be clean. The disgrace comes +when one kicks against a thing that can't be helped." +</P> + +<P> +In the Doctor's car, therefore, they arrived at +Drusilla's. +</P> + +<P> +"We have come to tell you that we are going to +be married." +</P> + +<P> +"You Babes in the Wood!" +</P> + +<P> +"Will you come to the wedding? +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I'll come. Marion, do you hear? +They are going to be married." +</P> + +<P> +"And after that, Drusilla,"—he smiled as he +phrased it—"your Tin Soldier will go to the wars." +</P> + +<P> +Jean glanced from one to the other. "Is that +what she called you—a Tin Soldier?" +</P> + +<P> +"It is what I called myself." +</P> + +<P> +Marion having come forward to say the proper +thing, added, "Drusilla's going, too." +</P> + +<P> +"Drusilla?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, with my college unit—to run errands in a flivver." +</P> + +<P> +The next day, encountering Derry on the street, +Drusilla opened her knitting bag and brought out +a tiny parcel. "It's my wedding gift to you. I +found it in Emily's toy shop." +</P> + +<P> +It was a gay little French tin soldier. "For a +mascot;" she told him, seriously. "Derry, dear, I +shall not try to tell you how I feel about your +marriage to Jean. About your going. If I could sing +it, you'd know. But I haven't any words. It—it +seems so—perfect that the Tin Soldier should +go—to the wars—and that the girl he leaves behind +him should be a little white maid like—Jean." +</P> + +<P> +Thus Drusilla, with a shake in her voice, +renouncing a—dream. +</P> + +<P> +Derry, who was on his way to Margaret's showed +the tin soldier to Teddy and his little sister. "He +is going to the wars." +</P> + +<P> +"With you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"When are you going?" +</P> + +<P> +"As soon as I can—" +</P> + +<P> +"I should think you wouldn't like to leave us." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't. But I am coming back." +</P> + +<P> +"Daddy didn't come back." +</P> + +<P> +"But some men do." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps God doesn't love you as much as He +did Daddy, and He won't want to keep you." +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps not—" +</P> + +<P> +The things which the child had spoken stayed +with Derry all that day. His feeling about death +had always been that of a man who has long years +before him. He had rather jauntily conceded that +some men die young, but that the chances in his case +were for a green old age. He might indeed have +fifty years before him, and in fifty years one +could—get ready—age had to do with serious things, +people were peaceful and prepared. +</P> + +<P> +But to get ready now. To face the thing +squarely, saying, "I may not come back—there +are, indeed, a thousand chances that I shall not +come." Lacking those fifty years in which to grow +towards the thought of dissolution, what ought one +to do? Should a man make himself fit in some +special fashion? +</P> + +<P> +There was, too, the thought of those whom he +might leave behind. Of Jean—his wife—whom +he would leave. She would break her heart—at +first. And then—? Would she remember? +Would she forget? Would he and those millions +of others who had gone down in battle become dim +memories—pale shadows against the vivid +background of the hurrying world? +</P> + +<P> +He felt that he could not, must not speak of +these things to Jean. So he talked of them to Emily. +</P> + +<P> +"If anything should happen to me," he said, "I +couldn't, of course, expect that Jean would go +on—caring—. And if there should ever be anyone +else—I—I should want her to be happy." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't try to be magnanimous," Miss Emily +advised. "You are human, and it isn't in the heart +of man to want the woman he loves ever to turn to +another. Let the years take care of that. But you +can be very sure of one thing—that no one will +ever take your place with Jean." +</P> + +<P> +"But she may marry." +</P> + +<P> +"Why should you torture yourself with that? +You have given her something that no one else can +ever give—the wonder and rapture of first love. +And the heroes of a war like this will be in a very +special manner set apart! 'A glorious company, +the flower of men, to serve as models for the mighty +world!'" +</P> + +<P> +She laid her hand on his shoulder. "You must +think now only of love and life and of coming back to Jean." +</P> + +<P> +He reached up his hand and caught hers in a +warm clasp. "Do you know you are the nearest, +thing to a mother that I've known since I lost mine?" +</P> + +<P> +He spoke, too, rather awkwardly, of the feeling +about—getting ready. +</P> + +<P> +"I have always thought that if I tried to live +straight—I've thought, too, that it wouldn't come +until I was old—that I should have plenty of +time—and that by then, I should be more—spiritual." +</P> + +<P> +"You will never be more spiritual than you are +at this moment. Youth is nearer Heaven than age. +I have always thought that. As we grow old—we +are stricken by—fear—of poverty, of disease—of +death. It is youth which has faith and hope." +</P> + +<P> +Before he left her, he gave her a sacred charge. +"If anything happens, I know what you'll be +to—Jean—and I can't tell you what a help you've been +this morning." +</P> + +<P> +She was thrilled by that. And after he left her +she thought much about him. Of what it would +have meant to her to have a son like that. +</P> + +<P> +Women had said to her, "You should be glad +that you have no boy to send—." But she was not +glad. Were they mad, these mothers, to want to +hold their boys back? Had the days of peace held +no dangers that they should be so afraid for them now? +</P> + +<P> +For peace had dangers—men and women had +been worshipping false gods. They had set up a +Golden Calf and had bowed before it—and their +children, lured by luxury, emasculated by ease of +living, had wanted more ease, more luxury, more +time in which to—play! +</P> + +<P> +And now life had become suddenly a vivid +Crusade, with everybody marching in one direction, and +the young men were manly in the old ways of +strength and heroism, and the young women were +womanly in the old way of sending their lovers +forth, and in a new way, when, like Drusilla, they +went forth themselves to the front line of battle. +</P> + +<P> +To have children in these days, meant to have +something to give. One need not stand before +suffering humanity empty-handed! +</P> + +<P> +War was a monstrous thing, a murderous thing—but +surely this war was a righteous one—a fire +which would cleanse the world. Men and women, +because of it, were finding in themselves something +which could suffer for others, something in +themselves which could sacrifice, something which went +beyond body and mind, something which reached up +and touched their souls. +</P> + +<P> +So, in the midst of darkness, Miss Emily had a +vision of Light. After the war was over, things +could never be as they had been before. The spirit +which had sent men forth in this Crusade, which +had sent women, would survive, please God, and +show itself in a greater sense of fellowship—of +brotherhood. Might not men, even in peace, go on +praying as they were praying it now in war, the +prayer of Cromwell's men, "Oh, Lord, it's a hard +battle, but it's for the rights of the common +people—" Might not the rich young men who were +learning to be the brothers of the poor, and the +poor young men who were learning in a large sense +of the brotherhood of the rich—might these not +still clasp hands in a sacred cause? +</P> + +<P> +Yes, she was sorry that she had no son. Slim +and gray-haired, a little worn by life's struggle, her +blood quickened at the thought of a son like Derry. +The warmth of his handclasp, the glimpse of that +inner self which he had given her, these were things +to hold close to her heart. She had known on that +first night that he was—different. She had not +dreamed that she should hold him—close. +</P> + +<P> +Rather pensively she arranged her window. It +was snowing hard, and in spite of the fact that +Christmas was only three days away, customers +were scarce. +</P> + +<P> +The window display was made effective by the +use of Jean's purple camels—a sandy desert, a +star overhead, blazing with all the realism of a tiny +electric bulb behind it, the Wise Men, the Inn where +the Babe lay, and in a far corner a group of shepherds +watching a woolly flock— +</P> + +<P> +Her cyclamen was dead. A window had been left +open, and when she arrived one morning she had +found it frozen. +</P> + +<P> +She had thanked Ulrich Stölle for it, in a pleasantly +worded note. She had not dared express her +full appreciation, lest she seem fulsome. Few men +in her experience had sent her flowers. Never in all +the years of her good friendship with Bruce +McKenzie had he bestowed upon her a single bloom. +</P> + +<P> +Several days had passed, and there had been no +answer to the note. She had not really expected an +answer, but she had thought he might come in. +</P> + +<P> +He came in now, with a great parcel in his arms. +He was a picturesque figure in an enveloping cape +and a soft hat pulled down over his gray hair, and +with white flakes powdered over his shoulders. +</P> + +<P> +"Good morning, Miss Bridges," he said; "did +you think I was never coming?" +</P> + +<P> +His manner of assuming that she had expected +him quite took Emily's breath away. "I am glad +you came," she said, simply. "It is rather dreary, +with the snow, and this morning I found my +cyclamen frozen on the shelf." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced up at it. "We have other flowers," +he said, and, with a sure sense of the dramatic +effect, untied the string of his parcel. +</P> + +<P> +Then there was revealed to Miss Emily's astonished +eyes not the flowers that she had expected, +but four small plush elephants, duplicates in +everything but size of the one she had loaned to Ulrich, +and each elephant carried on his back a fragrant +load of violets cunningly kept fresh by a glass tube +hidden in his trappings. +</P> + +<P> +"There," said Ulrich Stölle, "my father sent +them. It is his taste, not mine—but I knew that +you would understand." +</P> + +<P> +"But," Miss Emily gasped, "did he make them?" +</P> + +<P> +"Most certainly. With his clever old fingers—and +he will make as many more as you wish." +</P> + +<P> +Thus came white elephants back to Miss Emily's +shelves. "It seems almost too good to be true," +she said, sniffing the violets and smiling at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing is too good to be true," he told her, +"and now I have something to ask. That you will +come and see my father." +</P> + +<P> +"With pleasure." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced around the empty shop. "Why not +now? There are no customers—and the gray +light makes things dreary—. And it is spring in +my hothouses—there are a thousand cyclamens +for the one you have lost, a thousand violets for +every one on the backs of these little elephants—narcissus +and daffodils—. Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +Why not, indeed? Why not, when Adventure +beckoned, go to meet it? She had tied herself for +so many years to the commonplace and the practical. +</P> + +<P> +And so Miss Emily closed her shop, and went in +Ulrich's car, leaving a card tucked in the shop door, +"Will reopen at three." +</P> + +<P> +It was at one o'clock that Dr. McKenzie came +and found that door shut against him. He shook +the knob with some impatience, and stamped his +foot impotently when no one answered. His +orders had come and he must leave for France +tomorrow. He had not told Jean, he had come to +Emily to ask her to break the news—. +</P> + +<P> +He stood there in the snow feeling quite unexpectedly +forlorn. Heretofore he had always been +able to put his finger on Emily when he had wanted +her. He had needed only to beckon and she had followed. +</P> + +<P> +And how could he know that she was at that very +moment following other beckonings? That she had +responded to a call that was not the call of selfish +need, but of a subtle understanding of her rare +charm. Bruce McKenzie had, perhaps, subconsciously +felt that Emily would be fortunate to have +a place by his fireside, to bask in his presence—Ulrich +Stölle leading Emily through the moist +fragrance of his hot-houses counted himself blessed by +the gods to have her there. "You see," he said, +"that here it is spring." +</P> + +<P> +It was indeed spring, with birds singing, not in +cages, but free to fly as they pleased; with the sound +of water, as a little artificial stream wound its way +over moss-covered rocks set where it might splash +and fall over them—with ferns bending down to +it and tiny flashing fish following it. +</P> + +<P> +"My father did that," Ulrich explained, "when +he was younger and stronger. But now he sits in +his chair and works at his toys." +</P> + +<P> +The workshop of Franz Stölle was entered +through the door of the last hothouse; he had thus +always a vista of splashing color—red and purples +and yellows—great stretches, and always with the +green to rest his eyes; with the door opened +between there came to him the fragrance, and the +singing of birds, and the sound of the little stream. +</P> + +<P> +He sat in a big chair, bent a little, plump and +ruddy-faced, with a fringe of white hair. He wore +horn spectacles—and a velvet coat. He rose when +Emily entered, elegant of manner, in spite of his +rotundity. +</P> + +<P> +"So it is the lady of the elephants, Ulrich? +When you telephoned I thought it was too good to +be true." +</P> + +<P> +"Your son says that nothing is too good to be +true," Emily told him, sitting down in the chair that +Ulrich placed for her, "but I have a feeling that +this will all vanish in a moment like Aladdin's +palace—" She waved her hands towards the +shelves that went around the room. "I never +expected to see such toys again." +</P> + +<P> +For there they were—the toys of Germany. +The quaint Noah's arks, the woolly dogs and the +mewing cats—the moon-faced dolls. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't see how you have made them all." +</P> + +<P> +"Many of them were made years ago, Fräulein, +and I have kept them for remembrance, but many +of them are new. When my son told me that it was +hard for you to get toys, I gathered around me a +few old friends who learned their trade in +Nuremberg. We have done much in a few days. We will +do more. We are all patriotic. We will show the +Prussians that the children of America do not lack +for toys. What does the Prussian know of play? +He knows only killing and killing and killing." +</P> + +<P> +The old man beat his fist upon the table, "Killing!" +</P> + +<P> +"You see," Ulrich said to Emily, "there are +many of us who feel that way. Yet unthinking +people cannot see that we are loyal, that our hearts +beat with the hearts of those who have English +blood and French blood and Italian blood and +Dutch blood in their veins, and who have but one +country—America." +</P> + +<P> +The old man had recovered himself. "We are +not here to talk of killing, but of what I and my +friends shall make for you. And you are to have +lunch with us? I have planned it, and I won't take +'no,' Fräulein. You and I have so much to say to +each other." +</P> + +<P> +Emily wondered if it were really her middle-aged +and prosaic self who sat later at the table, being +waited on by a very competent butler, and deferred +to by the two men as if she were a queen. +</P> + +<P> +It was she and the old man who did most of the +talking, but always she was conscious of Ulrich's +attentive eyes, of the weight of the quiet words +which he interjected now and then in the midst of +his father's volubility. +</P> + +<P> +"Germany, my mother, is dead," wailed the old +man. "I have wept over her grave; those who +wage this war against humanity are bastards, the +real sons and daughters of that sweet old Germany +are here in America—they have come to their +foster-mother, and they love her. +</P> + +<P> +"If I had been younger," he went on, "I should +have fought. My son would have fought. But as +it is we can make toys—and we shall say to the +Prussians across the sea, 'You have killed our +mother—your people are no longer our people, nor +your God our God.'" +</P> + +<P> +Ulrich took Emily home. She carried with her a +Noah's Ark, and a precious pot of cyclamen. She +had chosen the cyclamen out of all the rest. "It is +such a cheerful thing blooming in my shop." +</P> + +<P> +"There are other cheerful things in your shop," +he told her. +</P> + +<P> +As she met his smiling eyes, she smiled back, "Do +you mean that I am a cheerful thing?" +</P> + +<P> +"A rose, mein Fräulein, when your cheeks are +red, like this." +</P> + +<P> +Emily, alone at last in the Toy Shop, took off her +hat in front of the mirror and saw her red cheeks. +She set the cyclamen safely in a warm corner. +The four elephants with their fragrant freight of +violets made an exotic and incongruous addition to +the Christmas scene in the window. +</P> + +<P> +Bruce McKenzie, coming in, asked, "Where did +you get them?" +</P> + +<P> +"The elephants? Ulrich Stölle brought them. +Do you know him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But I didn't know that you did." +</P> + +<P> +"His father makes toys. I lent him my white +elephant, and he made these—" +</P> + +<P> +She spoke without self-consciousness, and +McKenzie's mind was on his own matters, so they +swept away from the subject of Ulrich Stölle. +"Emily," Bruce said, "I have my orders. +Tomorrow at twelve I must leave for France." +</P> + +<P> +She gazed at him stupidly. "Tomorrow—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"But—Jean—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I haven't told her. I don't know how to tell her." +</P> + +<P> +"You won't be here for the wedding—?" +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"It will break her heart." +</P> + +<P> +"You needn't tell me that. Don't I know it?" His +voice was sharp with the tension of suppressed emotion. +</P> + +<P> +He dropped into a chair, then jumped up and +placed one for her. "Sit down, sit down," he said, +"and don't make me forget my manners. Somehow +this thing gets me as nothing has ever gotten +me before. It isn't that I mind going—I mind +hurting—Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +"You have always hated to hurt people," Emily +said. "In some ways it's a sign of weakness." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't scold," he begged. "I know I'm not +much of a fellow, but you'll be sorry for me a little, +won't you, Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +She did not melt as he had expected to the +appeal in his voice. "The thing we have to think of +now," she said, "is not being sorry for you, but +how we can get Jean married before twelve o'clock +tomorrow—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, of course we can't." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course we can—if we make up our minds +to it, and it's the only thing to do." +</P> + +<P> +"But nothing is ready." +</P> + +<P> +"Things can be made ready. They can stand up +in the rose drawing-room at ten, and you can give +her away." +</P> + +<P> +He looked at her admiringly. "I didn't know +that you had so much initiative." +</P> + +<P> +She might have told him that it was a quality on +which she rather prided herself, but that hitherto it +had not seemed to attract him. "There are several +things as yet undiscovered by you," she remarked +casually, as she locked up her toys. +</P> + +<P> +Watching her, he wondered idly if there were +really worlds to discover in Emily. It might be +interesting to—find out—. +</P> + +<P> +"Shall you miss me?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. And now if you'll see that the back +shutters are barred, we'll be ready to go." +</P> + +<P> +Thus she checked his small attempt at sentiment, +and on the way home they talked about Jean. "If +Derry goes, you and she must live together in my +house. Let that be understood. I'd rather have +her with you than with anyone else in the whole +wide world." +</P> + +<P> +Thus again the sacred charge, but this time not +as a favor, but in lordly fashion, as one who claims +a right. +</P> + +<P> +Jean and Derry were having tea at the club, but +could not be reached by phone. "They had +probably motored out into the country," Emily decided. +"We'll have to do things before they come." +</P> + +<P> +The things that she did were stupendous. +</P> + +<P> +She had a florist up in two hours—and the +rose-colored drawing room was rosier than ever, and as +fragrant as a garden. +</P> + +<P> +She telephoned the clergyman—"At ten o'clock tomorrow." +</P> + +<P> +She telephoned the caterer—"A wedding breakfast—" +</P> + +<P> +She telephoned the dressmaker—"Miss McKenzie's gown—" +</P> + +<P> +She telephoned Margaret and Marion Gray—. +</P> + +<P> +"Is there anyone else?" she asked the Doctor. +"I suppose we really ought to tell the General." +</P> + +<P> +"Certainly not." +</P> + +<P> +"But Bronson—? Derry will want him." +</P> + +<P> +"If he can keep a secret—yes." +</P> + +<P> +Jean and Derry, arriving after dark, were swept +into a scene of excitement. +</P> + +<P> +Florists on the stairs! +</P> + +<P> +A frenzied dressmaker waiting with Jean's wedding gown! +</P> + +<P> +Maids with mops and men with vacuums! +</P> + +<P> +Julia and the cook helping at loose ends and dinner late! +</P> + +<P> +What did it all mean? +</P> + +<P> +"It means," said the Doctor, "that you are going +to be married, my dear, at ten o'clock in the morning." +</P> + +<P> +"But why, Daddy—" fear showed in her eyes— +</P> + +<P> +"Ask Emily." +</P> + +<P> +"Is he—going away,—Emily?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"But he mustn't. Derry, do you hear? He is +going to France—and he mustn't—" +</P> + +<P> +Derry took her trembling hands in his firm clasp. +"He must go, you know that, dearest." His touch +steadied her. +</P> + +<P> +He leaned down to her and sang:— +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Jeanne D'Arc, Jeanne D'Arc—<BR> +Jeanne D'Arc, la victoire est pour vous."<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Her head went up. The color came back to her cheeks. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," she said, and put away childish +things that she might measure up to the stature of +her lover's faith in her. +</P> + +<P> +And it was Jean, the Woman, who talked long +that night with her father before he went to France. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +DERRY'S WIFE +</H3> + + +<P> +It snowed hard the next morning. The General, waking, found the day +nurse in charge. Bronson came in to get him ready for his breakfast. +There was about the old man an air of suppressed excitement. He +hurried a little in his preparations for the General's bath. But +everything was done with exactness, and it was not until the General +was shaved and sitting up in his gorgeous mandarin robe that Bronson +said, "I'd like to go out for an hour or two this morning, if you can +spare me, sir—" +</P> + +<P> +"In this snow? I thought you hated snow. You've always been a perfect +pussy cat about the cold, Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir, but this is very important, sir." +</P> + +<P> +The General ran his eye over the spruce figure. +</P> + +<P> +"And you are all dressed up. I hope you are not going to be married, +Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +It was an old joke between them. Bronson was a pre-destined bachelor, +and the General knew it. +</P> + +<P> +But he liked to tease him. +</P> + +<P> +"No, sir. I'll be back in time to look after your lunch, sir." +</P> + +<P> +The General had been growing stronger, so that he spent several hours +each day in his chair. When Bronson had gone, he rose and moved +restlessly about the room. The day nurse cautioned him. "The Doctor +doesn't want you to exert yourself, General Drake." +</P> + +<P> +He was always courteous, but none the less he meant to have his own +way. "Don't worry, Miss Martin. I'll take the responsibility." +</P> + +<P> +He shuffled out into the hall. When she would have followed, he waved +her back. "I am perfectly able to go alone," he told her. +</P> + +<P> +She stood on the threshold watching him. She was very young and she +was a little afraid of him. Her eyes, as she looked upon him, saw an +obstinate old man in a gay dressing gown. And the man in the gay +dressing gown felt old until he faced suddenly his wife's picture on +the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +It had been weeks since he had seen it, and in those weeks much had +happened. Her smiling presence came to him freshly, as the spring +might come to one housed through a long winter, or the dawn after a +dark night. +</P> + +<P> +"Edith!" +</P> + +<P> +He leaned upon the balustrade. The nurse, coming out, warned him. +"Indeed, you'd better stay in your room." +</P> + +<P> +"I'm all right. Please don't worry. You 'tend to your knitting, and +I'll take care of myself." +</P> + +<P> +She insisted, however, on bringing out a chair and a rug. "Perhaps it +will be a change for you to sit in the hall," she conceded, and tucked +him in, and he found himself trembling a little from weakness, and glad +of the support which the chair gave him. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed very pleasant to sit there with Edith smiling at him. For +the first time in many weeks his mind was at rest. Ever since Hilda +had come he had felt the pressure of an exciting presence. He felt +this morning free from it, and glad to be free. +</P> + +<P> +What a wife Edith had been! Holding him always to his highest and +best, yet loving him even when he stumbled and fell. Bending above him +in her beautiful charity and understanding, raising him up, fostering +his self-respect in those moments of depression when he had despised +himself. +</P> + +<P> +What other woman would have done it? What other woman would have kept +her love for him through it all? For she had loved him. It had never +been his money with her. She would have clung to him in sickness and +in poverty. +</P> + +<P> +But Hilda loved his money. He knew it now as absolutely as if she had +said it. For the first time in weeks he saw clearly. Last night his +eyes had been opened. +</P> + +<P> +He had been roused towards morning by those soft sounds in the second +room, which he had heard more than once in the passing weeks. In his +feverish moments, it had not seemed unlikely that his wife might be +there, coming back to haunt, with her gentle presence, the familiar +rooms. There was, indeed, her light step, the rustle of her silken +garments—. +</P> + +<P> +Half-asleep he had listened, then had opened his eyes to find the +night-lamp burning, Hilda's book under it and Hilda gone! +</P> + +<P> +The minutes passed as still his ears were strained. There was not a +sound in the house but that silken rustle. He wondered if he sought +Edith if she would speak to him. He rose and reached for his dressing +gown. +</P> + +<P> +Hilda had grown careless; there was no screen in front of the second +door, and the crack was wide. The General standing in the dark saw her +before his wife's mirror, wearing his wife's jewels, wrapped in the +cloak which his wife had worn—triumphant—beautiful! +</P> + +<P> +It was that air of triumph which repelled him. It was a discordant +note in the Cophetua theme. He had liked her in her nurse's white. In +the trappings which did not belong to her she showed herself a trifle +vulgar—less than a lady. +</P> + +<P> +He had crept back to bed, and wide-awake, he had worked it all out in +his mind. It was his money which Hilda wanted, the things that he +could give her; he meant to her pink parasols and satin slippers, and +diamonds and pearls and ermines and sables, and a check-book, with +unlimited credit everywhere. +</P> + +<P> +And to get the things that she wanted, she had given him that which had +stolen away his brains, which might indeed have done more than +that—which might have killed his soul. +</P> + +<P> +He had heard her come in, but he had simulated sleep. She had seated +herself by the little table, and had gone on with her book. Between +his half-closed eyes he had studied her—seeing her with new eyes—the +hard line of her lips, the long white hands, the heaviness of her chin. +</P> + +<P> +Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day nurse on duty. He +felt that he should be glad never to see Hilda again. He dreaded the +night when he must once more speak to her. +</P> + +<P> +He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The rug had slipped from +his knees. He tried to reach for it and failed. But he did not want +to call the day nurse. He wanted some one with him who—cared. He +raised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture. He was cold and +tired. +</P> + +<P> +He wished that Bronson would come back—good old Bronson, to pull up +the rug. He wished that Derry might come. +</P> + +<P> +A door below opened and shut. Some one was ascending the stairs. Some +one who walked with a light step—some one slim and youthful, in a +white gown—! +</P> + +<P> +"Edith—?" +</P> + +<P> +But Edith's hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edith +would have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on the +top step as if afraid to advance. +</P> + +<P> +"Who are you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean—" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"Derry's wife." +</P> + +<P> +"Come here." He tried to reach out his hand to her, but could not. +His tongue felt thick—. +</P> + +<P> +She knelt beside his chair. Her head was bare. She wore no wrap. "We +were married this morning. And my own father has gone—to France—and +I wanted a father—" +</P> + +<P> +"Did Derry tell you to come?" +</P> + +<P> +"Bronson begged me. He was at the wedding—" +</P> + +<P> +"Old Bronson?" He tried to smile, but the smile was twisted. +</P> + +<P> +She was looking up at him fearfully, but her voice did not falter. "I +came to tell you that Derry loves you. He doesn't want your money, oh, +you know that he doesn't want it. But he is going away to the—war, +and he may be killed, so many men are—killed. And he—loves you—" +</P> + +<P> +"Where is he?" +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't let him come. You see, you said things which were hard for +him to forgive. I was afraid you might say such things again." +</P> + +<P> +He knew that he would never say them. "Tell him that—I love him." He +tried to sit up. "Tell him that he is—my son." +</P> + +<P> +He fell back. He heard her quick cry, "Bronson—" +</P> + +<P> +Bronson came running up the stairs, and the nurse who had watched the +scene dazedly from the threshold of the General's room ran, too. +</P> + +<P> +Weighted down by a sense of increasing numbness he lifted his agonized +eyes to Jean. "Stay with me—stay—" +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, waked by the day nurse, raged. "You should have called me at +once when he left his room. Why didn't you call me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because I felt myself competent to manage the case." +</P> + +<P> +"You see how you have managed it—I will be down in a minute. Get +everybody out—" +</P> + +<P> +Her composed manner when she came down showed nothing of that which was +seething within her. +</P> + +<P> +She found Jean in bridal-white sitting by the bed and holding the +General's hand. The doctor had been sent for, Derry had been sent +for—things were being swept out of her hands. She blamed it, still +hiding her anger under a quiet manner, on Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"He has had a stroke. It was probably the excitement of your coming." +</P> + +<P> +The day nurse intervened. "It was before she came, Miss Merritt, that +I saw him reach for the rug. I was puzzled and started to investigate, +and then I saw her on the stairs—" She smiled at Jean. Never in her +limited young life had the day nurse seen such a lovely bride, and she +did not in the least like Miss Merritt. +</P> + +<P> +Derry coming a little later held Jean's hand in his while he faced +Hilda. "What does the doctor say?" +</P> + +<P> +The truth came reluctantly. "He may be unconscious for days. He may +never wake up—" +</P> + +<P> +"I do not think we shall need your services—. I will send you a check +for any amount you may name." +</P> + +<P> +"But—" +</P> + +<P> +"Whatever claim you may have upon him will be settled when he is in a +condition to settle anything; until then, my wife and I shall stay—" +</P> + +<P> +Hilda went upstairs and packed her bag. So her house of dreams tumbled +about her. So she left behind her the tiara and the pearl collar with +the diamond slides, and the velvet cloak with the ermine collar. Poor +Hilda, with her head held high, going out of the shadowed house. +</P> + +<P> +And taking Hilda's place, oh, more than taking her place, was Jean—and +this was her wedding day. The little rose-colored drawing room had +needed all of its rose to counteract the gray of the world outside, +with the snow and Daddy's car standing ready to take him to the station. +</P> + +<P> +But always there had been the thought of Derry to uphold her, and the +wonder of their love. Nothing could rob her of that. +</P> + +<P> +He had held her in his arms the night before, and had said, "Tomorrow +we shall be in Woodstock, and shall listen to the chimes—" +</P> + +<P> +And now it was tomorrow, and they were here in this great grim house +with Death at the door. +</P> + +<P> +Quite miraculously Emily arrived, and she and Bronson made a boudoir of +Derry's sitting-room. They filled it with flowers, as was fitting for +a bridal-bower. Jean's little trunk had been sent on to Woodstock, but +there was her bag, and a supply of things which Emily brought from home. +</P> + +<P> +A new night nurse came, and Miss Martin was retained for the day. The +snow still fell, and the old man in the lacquered bed was still +unconscious, his stertorous breathing sounding through the house. +</P> + +<P> +And it was her wedding day! +</P> + +<P> +They dined in the great room where Derry's ancestors gazed down on +them. Emily was there, and it was a bridal feast, with things ordered +hurriedly. Bronson, too, had seen to that. But they ate little. +Emily talked and Derry ably supplemented her efforts. +</P> + +<P> +But Jean was silent. It was all so different from what one might +expect—! She still wore her white dress. It was a rather superlative +frock with much cobwebby lace that had been her mother's, and in the +place of her own small string of pearls was the longer string which had +been her father's last gift to her. She had worn no veil, her crinkled +copper hair in all its beauty had been uncovered. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't believe that the lovely, lovely lady at the other end of the +table is my wife," Derry told Miss Emily. +</P> + +<P> +Jean smiled at him. She felt as if she were smiling from a great +distance—and she had to look at him over a perfect thicket of orchids. +"Shall I always have to sit so far away from you, Derry?" she asked in +a very small voice. +</P> + +<P> +"My dearest, no—" and he came and stood behind her, and reached for +her little coffee cup and drank where her lips had touched, +shamelessly, before the eyes of the sympathetic and romantic Miss Emily. +</P> + +<P> +And now Emily had gone! And at last Jean and Derry were alone in the +bridal bower, and Jean was telling Derry again what his father had +said. "He begged me to stay—" +</P> + +<P> +Their eyes met. "Dearest, dearest," Derry said, "what is life doing to +me?" +</P> + +<P> +"It has given you me, Derry"—such a little, little whisper. +</P> + +<P> +"My beloved—yes." +</P> + +<P> +The next morning they talked it over. +</P> + +<P> +"What am I to do? He needs me more than ever—" +</P> + +<P> +"There must be some way out, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +But what way? The Tin Soldier had jumped from the shelf, but he had +fallen through a crack! And the war was going on without him—! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap22"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +JEAN PLAYS PROXY +</H3> + + +<P> +Christmas morning found the General conscious. He was restless until +Jean was brought to him. He had a feeling that she had saved him from +Hilda. He wanted her where he could see her. "Don't leave me," he +begged. +</P> + +<P> +She slipped away to eat her Christmas dinner with Derry and Emily and +Margaret. It was an early dinner on account of the children. They ate +in the big dining room, and after dinner there was a tree, with Ulrich +Stölle playing Father Christmas. It had come about quite naturally +that he should be asked. It had been unthinkable that Derry could +enter into the spirit of it, so Emily had ventured to suggest Ulrich. +"He will make an ideal Santa Claus." +</P> + +<P> +But it developed that he was not to be Santa Claus at all. He was to +be Father Christmas, with a wreath of mistletoe instead of a red cap. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy was intensely curious about the change. "But why isn't he Santa +Claus?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Santa Claus was—made in Germany." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" +</P> + +<P> +"But now he has joined the Allies and changed his name." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh!" +</P> + +<P> +"And he wears mistletoe, because mistletoe is the Christmas bush, and +red caps don't really mean anything, do they?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, but Mother—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" +</P> + +<P> +"If Santa Claus has joined the Allies what will the little German +children do?" +</P> + +<P> +<I>What indeed</I>? +</P> + +<P> +Jean had trimmed a little tree for the General, and the children +carried it up to him carefully and sang a carol—having first arranged +on his table, under the lamp, the purple camels, to create an +atmosphere. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'We three kings of Orient are,<BR> +Bearing gifts we traverse far<BR> +Field and fountain, moor and mountain,<BR> +Following yonder star—'"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +"Yonner 'tar," piped Margaret-Mary. +</P> + +<P> +"Yon-der-er ste-yar," trailed Teddy's falsetto. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"'Oh, star of wonder, star of might,<BR> +Star with royal beauty bright,<BR> +Westward leading, still proceeding,<BR> +Guide us to the perfect light—'"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +Twenty-four hours ago Hilda's book had lain where the purple camels now +played their little part in the great Christmas drama. In the soul of +the stricken old man on the bed entered something of the peace of the +holy season. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, 'tar of wonner—" +</P> + +<P> +"Ste-yar of wonder-er—" chimed the little voices. +</P> + +<P> +When the song was finished, Margaret-Mary made a little curtsey and +Teddy made a manly bow, and then they took their purple camels and left +the tree on the table with its one small candle burning. +</P> + +<P> +The General laid his left hand over Jean's—his right was useless—and +said to Derry: "Your mother's jewels are my Christmas gift to her. No +matter what happens, I want her to have them." +</P> + +<P> +The evening waned, and the General still held Jean's hand. Every bone +in her body ached. Never before had she grown weary in the service of +others. She told herself as she sat there that she had always been a +sort of sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice sort of person. It was +only fair that she should have her share of hardness. +</P> + +<P> +The nurse begged her in a whisper to leave the General. "He won't +know." But when Jean moved, that poor left hand tightened on hers and +she shook her head. +</P> + +<P> +Then Derry came and sat with his arm about her. +</P> + +<P> +"My darling, you must rest." +</P> + +<P> +She laid her head against her husband's shoulder, as he sat beside her. +After a while she slept, and the nurse unlocked the clinging old +fingers, and Derry carried his little wife to bed. +</P> + +<P> +And so Christmas passed, and the other days, wonderful days in spite of +the shadow which hung over the big house. For youth and love laugh at +forebodings and they pushed as far back into their minds as possible, +the thought of the thing which had to be faced. +</P> + +<P> +But at last Derry faced it. "It is my self-respect, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +They were sitting in her room with Muffin, wistful and devoted, on the +rug at Jean's feet. The old dog, having been banished at first by +Bronson, had viewed his master's wife with distrust. Gradually she had +won him over, so that now, when she was not in the room, he hunted up a +shoe or a glove, and sat with it until she came back. +</P> + +<P> +"It is my self-respect, Jean-Joan." +</P> + +<P> +She admitted that. "But—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I can't stay out of the fighting and call myself a man. It has come +to that with me." +</P> + +<P> +She knew that it had come to that. She had thought a great deal about +it. She lay awake at night thinking about it. She thought of it as +she sat by the General's bed, day after day, holding his hand. +</P> + +<P> +The doctor's report had been cautious, but it had amounted to this—the +General might live to a green old age, some men rallied remarkably +after such a shock. He rather thought the General might rally, but +then again he might not, and anyhow he would be tied for months, +perhaps for years, to his chair. +</P> + +<P> +The old man was giving to his daughter-in-law an affection compounded +of that which he had given to his wife and to his son. It was as if in +coming up the stairs in her white gown on her wedding day, Jean had +brought a bit of Edith back to him. For deep in his heart he knew that +without her, Derry would not have come. +</P> + +<P> +So he clung pathetically to that little hand, which seemed the only +anchor in his sea of loneliness. Pathetically his old eyes begged her +to stay. "You won't leave me, Jean?" And she would promise, and sit +day after day and late into the night, holding his hand. +</P> + +<P> +And as she sat with him, there grew up gradually within her a +conviction which strengthened as the days went by. She could tell the +very moment when she had first thought of it. She had left the General +with Bronson while she went to dress for dinner. Derry was waiting for +her, and usually she would have flown to him, glad of the moment when +they might be together. But something halted her at the head of the +stairs. It was as if a hand had been put in front of her, barring the +way. +</P> + +<P> +The painted lady was looking at her with smiling eyes, but back of the +eyes she seemed to discern a wistful appeal—"I want you to stay. No +matter what happens I beg that you will stay." +</P> + +<P> +But Jean didn't want to stay. All the youth in her rebelled against +the thing that she saw ahead of her. She yearned to be free—to live +and love as she pleased, not a prisoner in that shadowed room. +</P> + +<P> +So she pushed it away from her, and so there came one morning a letter +from her father. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Drusilla went over on the same boat. It was a surprising thing to +find her there. Since I landed, I haven't seen her. But I met Captain +Hewes in Paris, and he was looking for her. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I had never known how fine she was until those days on the boat. It +was wonderful on the nights when everything was darkened and we were +feeling our way through the danger zone, to have her sing for us. I +believe we should all have gone to the bottom singing with her if a +submarine had sunk us. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am finding myself busier than I have ever been before, finding +myself, indeed, facing the most stupendous thing in the world. It +isn't the wounded men or the dead men or the heart-breaking aspect of +the refugees that gets me, it is the sight of the devastated +country—made barren and blackened into hell not by devils, but by +those who have called themselves men. When I think of our own country, +ready soon to bud and bloom with the spring, and of this country where +spring will come and go, oh, many springs, before there will be bud and +bloom, I am overwhelmed by the tragic contrast. How can we laugh over +there when they are crying here? Perhaps more than anything else, the +difference in conditions was brought home to me as I motored the other +day through a country where there was absolutely no sign of life, not a +tree or a bird—except those war birds, the aeroplanes, hovering above +the horizon. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Well, as we stopped our car for some slight repairs, there rose up +from a deserted trench, a lean cat with a kitten in her mouth. Oh, +such a starved old cat, Jean, gray and war-worn. And her kitten was +little and blind, and when she had laid it at our feet, she went back +and got another. Then she stood over them, mewing, her eyes big and +hungry. But she was not afraid of us, or if she was afraid, she stood +her ground, asking help for those helpless babies. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Jean, I thought of Polly Ann. Of all the petted Polly Anns in +America, and then of this starved old thing, and they seemed so +typical. You are playing the glad game over there, and it is easy to +play it with enough to eat and plenty to wear, and away from the horror +of it all. But how could that old pussy-cat be glad, how could she be +anything but frightened and hungry and begging my help? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Well, we took her in. We had some food with us, and we gave her all +she could eat, and then she curled up on a pile of bags in the bottom +of the car, and lay there with her kittens, as happy as if we were not +going lickety-split over the shell-torn spaces. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And that your tender heart may be at rest, I may as well tell you that +she and the kittens are living in great content in a country house +where one of the officers who was in the car with us is installed. We +have named her Dolores, but it is ceasing to be appropriate. She is no +longer sad, and while she is on somewhat slim fare like the rest of us, +she is a great hunter and catches mice in the barn, so that she is +growing strong and smooth, and she is not, perhaps, to be pitied as +much as Polly Ann on her pink cushion. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And here I am writing about cats, while the only thing that is really +in my heart is—You. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Ever since the moment I left you, I have carried with me the vision of +you in your wedding gown—my dear, my dear. Perhaps it is just as well +that I left when I did, for I am most inordinately jealous of Derry, +not only because he has you, but because he has love and life before +him, while I, already, am looking back. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"My work here is, as you would say, 'wonderful.' How I should like to +hear you say it! There are things which in all my years of practice, I +have never met before. How could I meet them? It has taken this +generation of doctors to wrestle with the problem of treating men +tortured by gas, and with nerves shaken by sights and sounds without +parallel in the history of the world. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"But I am not going to tell you of it. I would rather tell you how +much I love you and miss you, and how glad I am that you are not here +to see it all. Yet I would have all Americans think of those who are +here, and I would have you help until it—hurts. You must know, my +Jean, how moved I am by it, when I ask you, whom I have always +shielded, to give help until it hurts— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I have had a letter from Hilda. She wants to come over. I haven't +answered the letter. But when I do, I shall tell her that there may be +something that she can do, but it will not be with me. I need women +who can see the pathos of such things as that starved cat and kittens +out there among the shell-holes, and Hilda would never have seen it. +She would have left the cat to starve." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Jean found herself crying over the letter. "I am not helping at all, +Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, you are." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not. I am just sitting on a pink cushion, like Polly Ann—-" +</P> + +<P> +It was the first flash he had seen for days of her girlish petulance. +He smiled. "That sounds like the Jean of yesterday." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you like the Jean of yesterday better than the Jean of to-day?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is only one Jean for me—yesterday, today and forever." +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +She stood a little away from him. "Derry, I've been thinking and +thinking—" +</P> + +<P> +He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him. "What +have you been thinking, Jean-Joan?" +</P> + +<P> +"That you must go—and I will take care of your father." +</P> + +<P> +"You?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Why not, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"I won't have you sacrificed." +</P> + +<P> +"But you want me to be brave." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But not burdened. I won't have it, my dear." +</P> + +<P> +"But—you promised your mother. I am sure she would be glad to let me +keep your promise." +</P> + +<P> +She was brave now. Braver than he knew. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't see it," he said, fiercely. "I can see myself leaving you +with Emily, in your own house—to live your own life. But not to sit +in Dad's room, day after day, sacrificing your youth as I sacrificed my +childhood and boyhood—my manhood—. I am over thirty, Jean, and I +have always been treated like a boy. It isn't right, Jean; our lives +are our own, not his." +</P> + +<P> +"It is right. Nobody's life seems to be his own in these days. And +you must go—and I can't leave him. He is so old, and helpless, Derry, +like the poor pussy-cat over there in France. His eyes are like +that—hungry, and they beg—. And oh, Derry, I mustn't be like Polly +Ann, on a pink cushion—." +</P> + +<P> +She tried to laugh and broke down. He caught her up in his arms. +Light as thistledown, young and lovely! +</P> + +<P> +She sobbed on his heart, but she held to her high resolve. He must +go—and she would stay. And at last he gave in. +</P> + +<P> +He had loved her dearly, but he had not looked for this, that she would +give herself to hardness for the sake of another. For the first time +he saw in his little wife something of the heroic quality which had +seemed to set his mother apart and above, as it were, all other women. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap23"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +BOOK THREE +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +The Bugle Calls +</H3> + + +<P> +The wooden trumpeters that were carved on the door blew with all their +might, so that their cheeks were much larger than before. Yes, they +blew "Trutter-a-trutt—trutter-a-trutt—" … +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE EMPTY HOUSE +</H3> + +<P> +Jean's world was no longer wonderful—not in the sense that it had once +been, with all the glamour of girlish dreams and of youthful visions. +</P> + +<P> +She had never thought of life as a thing like this in the days when she +had danced down to the confectioner's, intent on good times. +</P> + +<P> +But now, with her father away, with Derry away, with the city frozen +and white, and with not enough coal to go around, with many of the +rooms in the house shut that fuel might be conserved, with Margaret and +the children and Nurse installed as guests at the General's until the +weather grew warmer, with Emily transforming her Toy Shop into a +surgical dressings station, and with her father-in-law turning over to +her incredible amounts of money for the Red Cross and Liberty Bonds and +War Stamps, life began to take on new aspects of responsibility and +seriousness. +</P> + +<P> +She could never have kept her balance in the midst of it all, if Derry +had not written every day. Her father wrote every day, also, but there +were long intervals between his letters, and then they were apt to +arrive all at once, a great packet of them, to be read and re-read and +passed around. +</P> + +<P> +But Derry's letters, brought to her room every morning by Bronson, +contained the elixir which sent her to her day's work with shining eyes +and flushed cheeks. Sometimes she read bits of them to Bronson. +Sometimes, indeed, there were only a few lines for herself, for Derry +was being intensively trained in a Southern camp, working like an ant, +with innumerable other ants, all in olive-drab, with different colored +cords around their hats. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes she read bits of the letters to Margaret at breakfast, and +after breakfast she would go up to the General and read everything to +him except the precious words which Derry had meant for her very own +self. +</P> + +<P> +And then she and the General would tell each other how really +extraordinary Derry was! +</P> + +<P> +It was a never-failing subject, of intense interest to both of them. +For there was always this to remember, that if the world was no longer +a radiant and shining world, if the day's task was hard, and if now and +then in the middle of the night she wept tears of loneliness, if there +were heavy things to bear, and hard things and sad things, one fact +shone brilliantly above all others, Derry was as wonderful as ever! +</P> + +<P> +"There was never such a boy," the General would chant in his deep bass. +</P> + +<P> +"Never," Jean would pipe in her clear treble. +</P> + +<P> +And when they had chorused thus for a while, the General would dictate +a letter to Derry, for his hand was shaky, and Jean would write it out +for him, and then she would write a letter of her own, and after that +the day was blank, and the night until the next morning when another +letter came. So she lived from letter to letter. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"You have never seen Washington like this," she wrote one day in +February, "we keep only a little fire in the furnace, and I am wearing +flannels for the first time in my life. We dine in sweaters, and the +children are round and rosy in the cold. And the food steams in the +icy air of the dining room, and you can't imagine how different it all +is—with the servants bundled up like the rest of us. We keep your +father warm by burning wood in the fireplace of his room, and we have +given half the coal in the cellar to people who haven't any." +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am helping Cook with the conservation menus, and it is funny to see +how topsy-turvy everything is. It is perfectly patriotic to eat +mushrooms and lobsters and squabs and ducklings, and it is unpatriotic +to serve sausages and wheat cakes. And Cook can't get adjusted to it. +She will insist upon bacon for breakfast, because well-regulated +families since the Flood have eaten bacon—and she feels that in some +way we are sacrificing self-respect or our social status when we +refrain. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Your father is such an old dear, Derry. He has war bread and milk for +lunch, and I carry it to him myself in the pretty old porcelain bowl +that he likes so much. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"It was one day when I brought the milk that he spoke of Hilda. 'Where +is she?' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I told him that she was still in town, and that you had given her a +check which would carry her over a year or two, and he said that he was +glad—that he should not like to see her suffer. The porcelain bowl +had reminded him of her. She had asked him once what it cost, and +after she had found out, she had never used it. She evidently stood +quite in awe of anything so expensive. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Your mother and I are getting to be very good friends, dearest. When +I am dreadfully homesick for you, I go and sit on the stairs, and she +smiles at me. It is terribly cold in the hall, and I wrap myself up in +your fur coat, and it is almost like having your arms around me." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She was surely making the best of things, this little Jean, when she +found comfort in being mothered by a painted lady on the stairs, and in +being embraced by a fur coat which had once been worn by her husband! +</P> + +<P> +She kept Derry's tin soldier, which Drusilla had given him, on her +desk. "You shall have him when you go to France, but until then he is +a good little comrade, and I say; 'Good-morning' to him and +'Good-night.' Yet I sometimes wonder whether he likes it there on the +shelf, and whether he is crying, 'I want to go to the wars—'" +</P> + +<P> +She was very busy every morning in Emily's room, working on the +surgical dressings. She hated it all. She hated the oakum and the +gauze, the cotton and the compresses, the pneumonia jackets and the +split-irrigation pads, the wipes, the triangulars, the many-tailed and +the scultetus. Other women might speak lightly of five-yard rolls as +dressing for stumps, of paper-backs "used in the treatment of large +suppurating wounds." Jean shivered and turned white at these things. +Her vivid imagination went beyond the little work-room with its +white-veiled women to those hospitals back of the battle line where +mutilated men lay waiting for the compresses and the wipes and the +bandages, men in awful agony—. +</P> + +<P> +But the lesson she was learning was that of harnessing her emotions to +the day's work; and if her world was no longer wonderful in a care-free +sense, it was a rather splendid world of unselfishness and +self-sacrifice, although she was not conscious of this, but felt it +vaguely. +</P> + +<P> +She wore now, most of the time, her nun's frock of gray, which had +seemed to foreshadow something of her future on that glorified day when +Derry had first come to her. She had laid away many of her lovely +things, and one morning Teddy remarked on the change. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't dwess up any more." +</P> + +<P> +Nurse stood back of his chair. "Dress—" +</P> + +<P> +"Dur-wess." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you like this dress, Teddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I liked the boo one." +</P> + +<P> +"Blue—" +</P> + +<P> +"Ble-yew, an' the pink one, and all the shiny ones you used to wear at +night." +</P> + +<P> +"Blue dresses and pink dresses and shiny dresses cost a lot of money, +Teddy, and I shouldn't have any money left for Thrift Stamps." +</P> + +<P> +Thrift stamps were a language understood by Teddy, as he would not have +understood the larger transactions of Liberty Bonds. He and the +General held long conversations as to the best means of obtaining a +large supply of stamps, and the General having listened to Margaret who +wanted the boy to work for his offering, suggested an entrancing plan. +Teddy was to feed the fishes in the dining-room aquarium, he was to +feed Muffin, and he was to feed Polly Ann. +</P> + +<P> +It sounded simple, but there were difficulties. In the first place he +had to face Cook, and Cook hated to have children in the kitchen. +</P> + +<P> +"But you'd have to face more than that if you were grown up and in the +trenches. And Hodgson is really very kind." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she doesn't look kind, Mother." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she doesn't smile, and her face is wed." +</P> + +<P> +"Red, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Ur-ed—. And when I ask her for milk for Polly, she says 'Milk for +cats,' and when she gets it out, she slams the 'frigerator door." +</P> + +<P> +"Refrigerator, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Rif-iggerator." +</P> + +<P> +But in the main Teddy went to his task valiantly. He conserved bones +for Muffin and left-over corn-meal cakes. Polly Ann dined rather +monotonously on fish boiled with war-bread crusts, on the back of +Cook's big range. Hodgson was conscientious and salted it and cooled +it, and kept it in a little covered granite pail, and it was from this +pail that Teddy ladled stew into Polly Ann's blue saucer. "Mother says +it is very good of you, Hodgson, to take so much trouble." +</P> + +<P> +Hodgson, whose face was redder than ever, as she broiled mushrooms for +lunch, grunted, "I'd rather do it than have other people messin' +around." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy surveyed her anxiously. "You don't mind having me here, do you, +Hodgson?" +</P> + +<P> +His cheeks were rosy, his bronze hair bright, his sturdy legs planted a +trifle apart, Polly's dish in one hand, the big spoon in the other. +"No, I don't mind," she admitted, but it was some time before she +acknowledged even to herself how glad she was when that bright figure +appeared. +</P> + +<P> +Feeding the fishes presented few problems, and gradually thrift stamps +filled the little book, and there was a war stamp, and more thrift +stamps and more war stamps, and Muffin and Polly Ann waxed fat and +friendly, and were a very lion and lamb for lying down together. +</P> + +<P> +Then there came a day when Teddy, feeding the fishes in the aquarium, +heard somebody say that Hodgson's son was in the war. +</P> + +<P> +He went at once to the kitchen. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked the +cook, standing in front of her where she sat cutting chives and peppers +and celery on a little board for salad. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell you what?" +</P> + +<P> +"That your boy was in Fwance." +</P> + +<P> +Hodgson's red face grew redder, and to Teddy's consternation, a tear +ran down her cheek. +</P> + +<P> +He stood staring at her, then flew upstairs to his mother. "Cook's +cryin'." +</P> + +<P> +"Teddy—" +</P> + +<P> +"She is. Because her son is in Fwance." +</P> + +<P> +After that when he went down to get things for Muffin and Polly Ann, he +said how s'prised he was and how nice it was now that he knew, and +wasn't she pr-roud? And he fancied that Hodgson was kinder and softer. +She told him the name of her son. It was Charley, and she and Teddy +talked a great deal about Charley, and Teddy sent him some chocolate, +and Hodgson told Margaret. "He's a lovely boy, Mrs. Morgan. May you +never raise him to fight." +</P> + +<P> +"I should want him to be as brave as his father, Hodgson." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. My boy's brave, but it was hard to let him go." Then, struck by +the look on Margaret's face, she said, "Forgive me, ma'am; if mine is +taken from me, I'd like to feel as you do. You ain't makin' other +people unhappy over it." +</P> + +<P> +"I think it is because my husband still lives for me, Hodgson." +</P> + +<P> +Hodgson cried into her apron. "It ain't all of us that has your faith. +But if I loses him, I'll do my best." +</P> + +<P> +And so the painted lady on the stairs saw all the sinister things that +Hilda had brought into the big house swept out of it. She saw Hodgson +the cook trying to be brave, and bringing up Margaret's tea in the +afternoons for the sake of the moment when she might speak of her boy +to one who would understand; she saw Emily, coming home dead tired +after a hard day's work, but with her face illumined. She saw Margaret +smiling, with tears in her heart, she saw Jean putting aside childish +things to become one of the women that the world needed. +</P> + +<P> +Brave women all of them, women with a vision, women raised to heroic +heights by the need of the hour! +</P> + +<P> +The men, too, were heroic. Indeed, the General, trying to control his +appetite, was almost pathetically heroic. He had given up sugar, +although he hated his coffee without it, and he had a little boy's +appetite for pies and cakes. +</P> + +<P> +"When the war is over," he told Teddy, "we will order a cake that's as +high as a house, and we will eat it together." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy giggled. "With frostin'?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I remember when Derry was a lad that we used to tell him the +story of the people who baked a cake so big that they had to climb +ladders to reach the top. Well, that's the kind of cake we'll have." +</P> + +<P> +Yet while he made a joke of it, he confessed to Jean. "It is harder +than fighting battles. I'd rather face a gun than deny myself the +things that I like to eat and drink." +</P> + +<P> +Bronson was contributing to the Red Cross and buying Liberty Bonds, and +that was brave of Bronson. For Bronson was close, and the hardest +thing that he had to do was to part with his money, or to take less +interest than his rather canny investments had made possible. +</P> + +<P> +And Teddy, the man of his family, came one morning to his mother. +"I've just got to do it," he said in a rather shaky voice. +</P> + +<P> +"Do what, dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Send my books to the soldiers." +</P> + +<P> +She let him do it, although she knew how it tore his heart. You see, +there were the Jungle Books, which he knew the soldiers would like, and +"Treasure Island," and "The Swiss Family Robinson," and "Huckleberry +Finn." He brought his fairy books, too, and laid them on the altar of +patriotism, and "Toby Tyler," which had been his father's, and "Under +the Lilacs," which he adored because of little brown-faced Ben and his +dog, Sancho. +</P> + +<P> +He was rapturously content when his mother decided that the fairy books +and Toby and brown-faced Ben might still be his companions. "You see +the soldiers are men, dear, and they probably read these when they were +little boys." +</P> + +<P> +"But won't I wead them when I grow up, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"You may want to read older books." +</P> + +<P> +But Teddy was secretly resolved that age should not wither nor custom +stale the charms of the beloved volumes. And that he should love them +to the end. His mother thought that he might grow tired of them some +day and told him so. +</P> + +<P> +"I can wead them to my little boys," he said, hopefully, "and to their +little boys after that," and having thus established a long line of +prospective worshippers of his own special gods, he turned to other +things. +</P> + +<P> +General Drake, growing gradually better, went now and then in his warm +closed car for a ride through the Park. Usually Jean was with him, or +Bronson, and now and then Nurse with the children. +</P> + +<P> +It was one morning when the children were with him that he said to +Nurse: "Take them into the Lion House for a half hour, I'll drive +around and come back for you." +</P> + +<P> +Nurse demurred. "You are sure that you won't mind being left, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" sharply. "I am perfectly able to take care of myself." +</P> + +<P> +He watched them go in, then he gave orders to drive at once to the +Connecticut Avenue entrance. +</P> + +<P> +A woman stood by the gate, a tall woman in a long blue cloak and a +close blue bonnet. In the clear cold, her coloring showed vivid pink +and white. The General spoke through the tube; the chauffeur descended +and opened the door. +</P> + +<P> +"If you will get in," the General said to the woman, "you can tell me +what you have to say—" +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps I should not have asked it," Hilda said, hesitating, "but I +had seen you riding in the Park, and I thought of this way—I couldn't +of course, come to the house." +</P> + +<P> +"No." He had sunk down among his robes. "No." +</P> + +<P> +"I felt that perhaps you had been led to—misunderstand." She came +directly to the point. "I wanted to know—what I had done—what had +made the difference. I couldn't believe that you had not meant what +you said." +</P> + +<P> +He stirred uneasily. "I have been very ill—" +</P> + +<P> +Her long white hands were ungloved, the diamonds that he had given her +sparkled as she drew the ring off slowly. "I felt that I ought to give +you this—if it was all really over." +</P> + +<P> +"It is all over. But keep it—please." +</P> + +<P> +"I should like to keep it," she admitted frankly, "because, you see, +I've never had a ring like this." +</P> + +<P> +It was the Cophetua and Beggar Maid motif but it left him cold. +"Hilda," he said, "I saw you that night trying on my wife's jewels. +That was my reason." +</P> + +<P> +She was plainly disconcerted. "But that was child's play. I had never +had anything—it was like a child—dressing up." +</P> + +<P> +"It was not like that to me. I think I had been a rather fatuous +fool—thinking that there might be in me something that you might care +for. But I knew then that without my money—you wouldn't care—" +</P> + +<P> +"People's motives are always mixed," she told him. "You know that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I know." +</P> + +<P> +"You liked me because I was young and made you feel young. I liked you +because you could give me things." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But now the glamour is gone. You make me feel a thousand years +old, Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" in great surprise. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I know that if I had no wealth to offer you, you would see me +for what I am, an aged broken creature for whom you have no +tenderness—" +</P> + +<P> +It was time for him to be getting back to the Lion House. They stopped +again at the gate. "If you will keep the ring," he said, "I shall be +glad to think that you have it. Jean gays Derry gave you a check. If +it is not enough to buy pink parasols, will you let me give you +another?" He was speaking with the ease of his accustomed manner. +</P> + +<P> +"No; I am not an—adventuress, though you seem to think that I am, and +to condemn me for it." +</P> + +<P> +"I condemn you only for one thing—for that flat bottle behind the +books." +</P> + +<P> +"But you wanted it." +</P> + +<P> +"For that reason you should have kept it away. You should have obeyed +orders." +</P> + +<P> +"You asked me to doff my cap, so I—doffed my discipline." She was +standing on the ground, holding the door open as she talked; again he +was aware of the charm of her pink and white. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-bye, Hilda." He reached out his hand to her. +</P> + +<P> +She took it. "I am going to France." +</P> + +<P> +"When?" +</P> + +<P> +"As soon as I can." She stepped back and the door was shut between +them. As the car turned, Hilda waved her hand, and the General had a +sense of sudden keen regret as the tall cloaked figure with its look of +youth and resoluteness faded into the distance. +</P> + +<P> +When he reached the Lion House the children were waiting. "Did you +hear him roar?" Teddy asked as he climbed in. +</P> + +<P> +"No." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, he did, and we came out 'cause it fwightened Peggy." +</P> + +<P> +"Frightened—" from Nurse. +</P> + +<P> +"Fr-ightened. But I liked the leopards best." +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because they're pre-itty." +</P> + +<P> +"You can't always trust—pretty things." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't you tre-ust—leopards—General Drake?" +</P> + +<P> +The General was not sure, and presently he fell into silence. His mind +was on a pretty woman whom he could not trust. +</P> + +<P> +That night he said to Jean, "Hilda is going to France." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—how do you know?" +</P> + +<P> +"I met her in the Park." +</P> + +<P> +He was sitting, very tired, in his big chair. Jean's little hand was +in his. +</P> + +<P> +"Poor Hilda," he said at last, looking into the fire, as if he saw +there the vision of his lost dreams. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no—" Jean protested. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, my dear, there is so much that is good in the worst of us, and so +much that is bad in the best—and perhaps she struggles with +temptations which never assail you." +</P> + +<P> +Jean's lips were set in an obstinate line. "Daddy was always saying +things like that about Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we men are apt to be charitable—to beauty in distress." The +General was keenly and humorously aware that if Hilda had been ugly, he +might not have been so anxious about the pink parasol. He might not, +indeed, have pitied her at all! +</P> + +<P> +And now in Jean's heart grew up a sharply defined fear of Hilda. In +the old days there had been cordial dislike, jealousy, perhaps, but +never anything like this. The question persisted in the back of her +mind. If Hilda went to France, would she see Daddy and weave her +wicked spells. To find the General melting into pity, in spite of the +chaos which Hilda's treachery had created, was to wonder if Daddy, too, +might melt. +</P> + +<P> +She wrote to Derry about it. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I would try and see her if I knew what to say, but when I even think +of it I am scared. I never liked her, and I feel now as if I should be +glad to pin together the pages of my memory of her, as I pinned +together the pages of one of my story books when I was a little girl. +There was a shark under water in the picture and two men were trying to +get away from him. I hated that picture and shivered every time I +looked at it, so I stuck in a pin and shut out the sight of it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Your father has had two letters from her since the day when he saw her +in the Park. Bronson always brings the mail to me, and you know what a +distinctive hand Hilda writes, there is no mistaking it. Your father +dropped the letters into the fire, but she ought not to write to him, +Derry, and I should like to tell her so. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"But if I told her, she would laugh at me, and that would be the end of +it. For you can't rage and tear and rant at a thing that is as cold as +stone. Oh, my dearest, I need you so much to tell me what to do, and +yet I would not have you here— +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I met Alma Drew the other day, and she said, as lightly as you please, +'Do you know, I can't quite fancy Derry Drake in the trenches.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I looked at her for a minute before I could answer, and then I said, +'I can fancy him with his back to the wall, fighting a thousand Huns—!' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"She shrugged her shoulders, 'You're terribly in love.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"'I am,' I said, and I hope I said it calmly, 'but there's more than +love in a woman's belief in her husband's bravery—there's respect. +And it's something rather—sacred, Alma.' And then I choked up and +couldn't say another word, and she looked at me in a rather stunned +fashion for a moment, and then she said, 'Gracious Peter, do you love +him like that?' and I said, 'I do,' and she laughed in a funny little +way, and said, 'I thought it was his millions.' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I was perfectly furious. But you can't argue with such people. I +know I was as white as a sheet. 'If anything should happen to Derry,' +I said, 'do you think that all the money in the world would comfort me?' +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"She stopped smiling. 'It would comfort me,' then suddenly she held +out her hand. 'But I fancy you're different, and Derry is a lucky +fellow.' which was rather nice and human of her, wasn't it? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Life is growing more complicated than ever here in Washington. The +crowds pour in as if the Administration were a sort of Pied Piper and +had played a time, and the people who have lived here all their lives +are waking to something like activity. Great buildings are going up as +if some Aladdin had rubbed a lamp—. None of us are doing the things +we used to do. We don't even talk about the things we used to talk +about, and we go around in blue gingham and caps, and white linen and +veils, and we hand out sandwiches to the soldiers and sailors, and +drive perfectly strange men in our cars on Government errands, and make +Liberty Bond Speeches from many platforms, and all the old theories of +what women should do are forgotten in the rush of the things which must +be done by women. It is as if we had all been bewitched and turned +into somebody else. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Well, I wish that Hilda could be turned into somebody else. Into +somebody as nice as—Emily—. But she won't be. She hasn't been +changed the least bit by the war, and everybody else has, even Alma, or +she wouldn't have said that about your being lucky to have me. Are you +lucky, Derry? +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And when Hilda sets her mind on a thing—. Oh, I can't seem to talk +of anything but Hilda—when she sets her mind on anything, she gets it +in one way or another—and that's why I am afraid of her." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Derry wrote back. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Don't be afraid of anything, Jean-Joan. And it won't do any good to +talk to Hilda. I don't want you to talk to her. You are too much of a +white angel to contend against the powers of darkness. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"As for my luck in having you, it is something which transcends +luck—it just hits the stars, dearest. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I wonder what the fellows do who haven't any wives to anchor +themselves to in a time like this? Through, all the day I have this +hour in mind when I can write to you—and I think there are lots of +other fellows like that—for I can see them all about me here in the +Hut, bending over their letters with a look on their faces which isn't +there at any other time. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"By Jove, Jean-Joan, I never knew before what women meant in the lives +of men. Here we are marooned, as it were, on an island of masculinity, +yet it isn't what the other fellows think of us that counts, it is what +you think who are miles away. Always in the back of our minds is the +thought of what you expect of us and demand of us, and added to what we +demand and expect of ourselves, it sways us level. We don't talk a +great deal about you, but now and then some fellow says, 'My wife,' and +we all prick up our ears and want to hear the rest of it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"It is a great life, dearest, in spite of the hard work, in spite of +the stress and strain. And to me who have known so little of the great +human game it is a great revelation. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"In the first place, there has been brought to me the knowledge of the +joy of real labor. I shall never again be sorry for the man who toils. +You see, I had never toiled, not in the sense that a man does whose +labor counts. I was always a rather anxious and lonely little boy, +looking after my father and trying to help my mother, and feeling a bit +of a mollycoddle because I had a tutor and did not go to school with +the other chaps. In the eyes of the world I was looked upon as a lucky +fellow, but I know now what I have missed. In these days I am rubbing +elbows with fellows who have had to hustle, and I am discovering that +life is a great game, and that I have missed the game. If Dad had been +different, he might have pushed me into things, as some men with money +push their sons, making them stand on their own feet. But Dad liked an +easy life, and he was perhaps entitled to ease, for he had struggled in +his younger years. But I have never struggled. I have always had +somebody to brush my clothes and to bring my breakfast, and I think I +have had a sort of hazy idea that life was like that for everybody—or +if it wasn't, then the people who couldn't be brushed and breakfasted +by others were much to be pitied. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Oh, I've been a Tin Soldier, Jean-Joan, left out not only of the war +but of life. I've been on the shelf all these years in our big house, +with the wooden trumpets blowing, 'Trutter-a-trutt' while other men +have striven. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"When I first came here I had a sort of detached feeling. I had no +experiences to match with the experiences of other men. I had never +had to rush in the morning to catch a subway, I had never eaten, to put +it poetically, by candlelight, so that I might get to the store by +eight. I had never sold papers, or plowed fields, or stood behind a +counter. I had never sat at a desk, I had never in fact done anything +really useful, I had just been rich, and that isn't much of a +background as I am beginning to see it here—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I find myself having a rather strange feeling of exaltation as the +days go by, because for the first time I am a cog in a great machine, +for the first time I am toiling and sweating as I rather think it was +intended that men should toil and sweat. And the friends that I am +making are the sign and seal of the levelling effects of this great +war. Not one of the men of what you might call my own class interests +me half as much as Tommy Tracy, who before he entered the service drove +the car of one of Dad's business associates. I have often ridden +behind Tommy, but he doesn't know it. And I don't intend that he +shall. He rather fancies that I am a scholarly chap torn from my +books, and he patronizes me on the strength of his knowledge of +practical things. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Tommy likes to eat, and he talks a great deal about his mother's +cooking. He says there was always tripe for Sunday mornings, and +corned beef and cabbage on Mondays, and Monday was wash-day! +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I wish you could hear him tell what wash-day meant to him. It is a +sort of poem, the way he puts it. He doesn't know that it is poetry, +though Vachell Lindsay would, or Masters, or some of those fellows. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"It seems that he used to help his mother, because he was a strong +little fellow, and could turn the wringer, and they would get up very +early because he had to go to school, and in the spring and summer they +washed out of doors, under a tree in the yard, and his mother's eyes +were bright and her cheeks were red and her arms were white, and she +was always laughing. There's a memory for a man on the battlefield, +dearest, a healthy, hearty memory of the day's work of a boy, and of a +bright-eyed mother, and of a good dinner at the end of hours of toil. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Perhaps with such a mother it isn't surprising that Tommy has made so +much of himself. He has aspirations far beyond driving some other +man's car, and if he keeps on he'll have a little flivver of his own +before he knows it—when the war ends, and he can strike out, with his +energy at the boiling point. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"There are a lot of men who have belonged not to the idle rich, but to +the idle poor, and the discipline of this life is just the thing for +them as it is for me. It rather contradicts the kindergarten idea of +play as a preparation for life. These busy men, forced to be busy, are +a thousand times more self-respecting than if left to lead the listless +lives that were theirs before their country called them. I wonder if, +after all, Kipling isn't right, and that the hump and hoof and haunch +of it all isn't obedience? Not slavish obedience, but obedience +founded on a knowledge of one's place and value in the pack?" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Jean, striving to follow Derry's point of view, found herself +floundering. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am glad you like it, but I don't see how you can. And you mustn't +say that you've always been a Tin Soldier on a shelf. I won't have it. +And you have played the game of life just as bravely as Tommy Tracy, +only your problems were different—. And if you can't remember wash +days you can remember other days—. But I like to have you tell me +about it, because I can see you, listening to Tommy and laughing at +him. I adore your laugh, Derry, though I shouldn't be telling you, +should I—? I have pasted the picture you sent me of you and Tommy in +my memory book and have written under it, 'When you and I were young, +Tommy' and I've drawn a cloud of steam above Tommy, with +washboilers—and tubs—and cabbages and soap suds, and his mother's +face smiling in the midst of it all—. And in your cloud is your +mother smiling, too, with her little crown on her head, and gold spoons +for a border—and a frosted cake with candles—and a mountain of +ice-cream. Perhaps you have other memories, but I had to do the best I +could with my poor little rich boy—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was about this time that Jean's memory book! became chaotic. Most +of the things in it had to do with Derry, a bit of pine from a young +plume which Derry had sent her from the south—triangles cut from the +letter paper on which he sometimes wrote—post-cards to say +"Good-morning," telegrams to say "Good-night"—a service pin with its +one sacred star. +</P> + +<P> +There were reminders, too, of the things which were happening across +the sea, a cartoon or two, a small reproduction of a terrible Raemaeker +print; verse, much of it— +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +They have taken your bells, O God,<BR> +The bells that hung in your towers,<BR> +That cried your grace in a lovely song,<BR> +And counted the praying hours!<BR> +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +The little birds flew away!<BR> +They will tell the clouds and the wind,<BR> +Till the uttermost places know<BR> +The sin that the Hun has sinned!<BR> +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +Jean thought a great deal about the Huns. She always called them that. +She hated to think about them, but she had to. She couldn't pin the +pages together, as it were, of her thoughts. And the Huns were worse +than the sharks that had frightened her in her little girl days. Oh, +they were much worse than sharks, for the shark was only following an +instinct when it killed, and the Huns had worked out diabolically their +murderous, monstrous plan. +</P> + +<P> +In the days when she had argued with Hilda, she had been told of the +power and perfection of Prussian rule. "Everything is at loose ends in +America," had been Hilda's accusation. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what if it is?" Jean had flung back at her hotly. "Having +things in place isn't the end and aim of happiness. Just because a +house is swept and garnished isn't any sign that it is a blissful +habitation. When I was a child I used to visit my two great-aunts in +Maryland. I loved to go to Aunt Mary's, but I dreaded Aunt Anne's. +And the reason was this. Everything in Aunt Anne's house went by +clock-work, and everything was polished and scrubbed and dusted within +an inch of its life. When we arrived, we scraped our shoes before we +kissed Aunt Anne, and when we departed, we felt that she literally +swept us out—. We had hours for everything, and nobody thought of +doing as she pleased. It was always as Aunt Anne pleased, and the +meals were always on time, and nobody was ever expected to be late, and +if she was late she was scolded or punished; and nobody ever dared +throw a newspaper on the floor, or go out to the kitchen and make +fudge, or pop corn by the sitting-room fire. Yet Aunt Anne was so +efficient that her house-keeping was the admiration of the whole State. +</P> + +<P> +"But we loved Aunt Mary's. She would come smiling down the stone walk +to meet us, and she would leave the morning's work undone to wander +with us in the fields or woods. And we had some of our meals under the +trees, and some of them in the house, and when we made taffy, and it +stuck to things, Aunt Mary smiled some more and said it didn't matter. +And we loved the freedom of our life, and we went to Aunt Mary's as +often as we could, and stayed away when we could from Aunt Anne's. +</P> + +<P> +"And that's the way with America. It isn't perfect, it isn't +efficient, but it is a lovely place to live in, because in a sense we +can live as we please. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you ever know a man who wanted to go back to slavery? As a slave +he was fed and clothed and kept by his master, with no thought of +responsibility—. Yet it was freedom he wanted, even though he had to +go hungry now and then for the sake of it—" +</P> + +<P> +"I like law and order," Hilda said. "We don't always have it here." +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather be a gipsy on the road," had been Jean's passionate +declaration, "and free, than a princess with a 'verboten' sign at all +the palace gates." +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +There were wisps of gauze, too, in her memory book, a red cross, +drawings in which were caricatured some of the women who worked in the +surgical dressing rooms. +</P> + +<P> +"Emily," Jean asked, as she showed one of the pictures to her friend, +"do such women come because it's fashion or because they really feel—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I fancy their motives are mixed," said Emily, "and you mustn't think +because they wear high heels and fluff their hair out over their ears +that they haven't any hearts." +</P> + +<P> +"No, I suppose not," Jean admitted, "but I wonder what they think the +veils are for when they fluff out their hair. +</P> + +<P> +"And their rings," she went on. "You see, when they all have on white +aprons and veils you can't tell whether they are Judy O'Grady or the +Colonel's lady—so they load their hands with diamonds. As if the +hands wouldn't tell the tale themselves. Why, Emily, if you and Hilda +were hidden, all but your hands, the people would know the Colonel's +lady from Judy O'Grady." +</P> + +<P> +Emily smiled abstractedly, she was counting compresses. She stopped +long enough to ask, "Is Hilda still in town?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I saw her yesterday on the other side of the street. I didn't +speak, but some day when I get a good opportunity I am going to tell +her what I think of her." +</P> + +<P> +But when the opportunity came she did not say all that she had meant to +say! +</P> + +<P> +She went over one morning to her father's house to get some papers +which he had left in his desk. The house had been closed for weeks and +the hall, as she entered it, was cold with a chill that reached the +marrow of her bones—it was dim with the half-gloom of drawn curtains +and closed doors. Even the rose-colored drawing-room as she stood on +the threshold held no radiance—it had the stiff and frozen look of a +soulless body. Yet she remembered how it had throbbed and thrilled on +the night that Derry had come to her. The golden air had washed in +waves over her. +</P> + +<P> +She shivered and went over to the window. She pulled up a curtain and +looked out upon the grayness of the street. The clouds were low, and a +strong wind was blowing. Those who passed, bent to the wind. She was +slightly above the level of the street, and nobody looked up at her. +She might have been a ghost in the ghostly house. +</P> + +<P> +Well, she had to get the papers. She turned to face the gloom, and as +she turned she heard a sound in the room above her. +</P> + +<P> +It was the rather startling sound of muffled steps. She dared not go +into the hall. She felt comparatively safe by the window—. +If—anything came, she could open the window and call. +</P> + +<P> +But she did not call, for it was Hilda who came presently on +rubber-heels and stood in the door. +</P> + +<P> +"I thought I heard some one," she said, calmly. +</P> + +<P> +"How did you get in?" was Jean's abrupt demand. +</P> + +<P> +"I had my key. I have never given it up." +</P> + +<P> +"But this is no longer your home." +</P> + +<P> +"It was never home," said Hilda, darkly. "It was never home. I lived +here with you and your father, but it was never home." +</P> + +<P> +Jean, more than ever afraid of this woman, had a sudden sense of +something tragic in the fact of Hilda's homelessness. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't quite see what you mean," she said, slowly. +</P> + +<P> +"You couldn't see," Hilda told her, "and you will never see. Women +like you don't." +</P> + +<P> +"We didn't get on very well together," Jean said, almost timidly, "but +that was because we were different." +</P> + +<P> +"It wasn't because we were different that we didn't get on," Hilda +said. "It was because you were afraid of me. You knew your father +liked me." +</P> + +<P> +With her usual frankness she spoke the truth as she saw it. +</P> + +<P> +"I was not afraid," Jean faltered. +</P> + +<P> +"You were. But we needn't talk about that. I am going to France." +</P> + +<P> +"When?" +</P> + +<P> +"As soon as I can get there. That's why I came here. To take away +some things I wanted." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh—" +</P> + +<P> +"And one of the things I wanted was the picture of your father which +hung in your room. I have taken that. You can get more of them. I +can't. So I have taken it." +</P> + +<P> +They faced each other, this shining child and this dark woman. +</P> + +<P> +"But—but it is mine—Hilda." +</P> + +<P> +"It is mine now, and if I were you, I shouldn't make a fuss about it." +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda, how dare you!" Jean began in the old indignant way, and +stopped. There was something so sinister about it all. She hated the +thought that she and Hilda were alone in the empty house— +</P> + +<P> +"Hilda, if you go to France, shall you see Daddy?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shall try. I had a letter from him the other day. He told me not +to come. But I am going. There is work to do, and I am going." +</P> + +<P> +Jean had a stunned feeling, as if there was nothing left to say, as if +Hilda were indeed a rock, and words would rebound from her hard surface. +</P> + +<P> +"But after all, you didn't really care for Daddy—" +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you say that?" +</P> + +<P> +"You were going to marry the General." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I wanted a home. I wanted some of the things you had always +had. I'm not old, and I am tired of being a machine." +</P> + +<P> +For just one moment her anger blazed, then she laughed with something +of toleration. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you'd never understand if I talked a year. So what's the use of +wasting breath?" +</P> + +<P> +She said "Good-bye" after that, and Jean watched her go, hearing the +padded steps—until the front door shut and there was silence. +</P> + +<P> +After that, with almost a sense of panic, she sped through the empty +rooms, finding the papers after a frantic search, and gaining the +street with a sense of escape. +</P> + +<P> +Yet even then, it was sometime before her heart beat normally, and +always after that when she thought of Hilda, it was against the chill +and gloom of the empty house, with that look upon her face of dark +resentment. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap24"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE SINGING WOMAN +</H3> + + +<P> +Somewhere in France, Drusilla had found the Captain. Or, rather, he +had found her. He had come upon her one rainy afternoon, and had not +recognized her in her muddy uniform, with a strap under her chin. Then +all at once he had heard her voice, crooning a song to a badly wounded +boy whose head lay in her lap. +</P> + +<P> +The Captain had stopped in his tracks. "Drusilla—" +</P> + +<P> +The light in her eyes gave him his welcome, but she waved him away. +</P> + +<P> +The boy died in her arms. When she joined her lover, she was much +moved. "It is not my work to look after the wounded; I carry blankets +and things to refugees. But now and then—it happens. A shell burst +in the street, and that poor lad—! He asked me to sing for him—you +see, I have been singing for them as they go through, and he +remembered—" +</P> + +<P> +He was holding both of her hands in his. "Dear woman, dear woman—" +There were people all about them, but there were no conventions in war +times, and nobody cared if he held her hands. +</P> + +<P> +Her face was dirty, her hair wind-blown. She was muddy and without a +trace of the smartness for which she had been famous. She was simply a +hard-worked woman in clothes of masculine cut, yet never had she seemed +so beautiful to her lover. He bent and kissed her in the market-place. +He was an undemonstrative Englishman, but there was that in her eyes +which carried him away from self-consciousness. +</P> + +<P> +"I saw McKenzie in Paris," he said. "He told me that you were here." +</P> + +<P> +"We came over together. Did you get my letter?" +</P> + +<P> +"I have had no letters. But now that I have you, nothing matters." +</P> + +<P> +"Really? Somehow I don't feel that I deserve it." +</P> + +<P> +"Deserve what?" +</P> + +<P> +"All that you are giving me. But I have liked to think of it. It has +been a prop to lean on—" +</P> + +<P> +"Only that—?" +</P> + +<P> +"A shield and a buckler, dearest, a cross held high—" Her breath came +quickly. +</P> + +<P> + * * * * * *<BR> +</P> + +<P> +They sat side by side on the worn doorstep of a shattered building and +talked. +</P> + +<P> +"I am in a shack—a <I>baraque</I>,—they call it," Drusilla told him, "with +three other women. We have fixed up one room a little better than the +others, and whenever the men come through the town some of them drift +in and are warmed by our fire, and I sing to them; they call me 'The +Singing Woman.'" +</P> + +<P> +She did not tell him how she had mothered the lads. She was not much +older than some of them, but they had instinctively recognized the +maternal quality of her interest in them. With all her beauty they had +turned to her for that which was in a sense spiritual. +</P> + +<P> +Hating the war, Drusilla yet loved the work she had to do. There was, +of course, the horror of it, but there was, too, the stimulus of living +in a world of realities. She wondered if she were the same girl who +had burned her red candles and had served her little suppers, safe and +sound and far away from the stress of fighting. +</P> + +<P> +She wondered, too, if women over there were still thinking of their +gowns, and men of their gold. Were they planning to go North in the +summer and South in the winter? Were they still care-free and +comfortable? +</P> + +<P> +People over here were not comfortable, but how little they cared, and +how splendid they were. She had seen since she came such incredibly +heroic things—men as tender as women, women as brave as men—she had +seen human nature at its biggest and best. +</P> + +<P> +"I have never been religious," she told the Captain, earnestly; "our +family is the kind which finds sufficient outlet in a cool intellectual +conclusion that all's right with the world, and it doesn't make much +difference what comes hereafter. You know the attitude? 'If there is +future life, we shall be glad to explore, and if there isn't, we shall +be content to sleep!' +</P> + +<P> +"But since I have been over here, I have carried a little prayer-book, +and I've read things to the men, and when I have come to that part +'Gladly to die—that we may rise again,' I have known that it is true, +Captain—" +</P> + +<P> +He laid his hand over hers. "May I have your prayer-book in exchange +for mine?" He was very serious. With all his heart he loved her, and +never more than at this moment when she had thrown aside all reserves +and had let him see her soul. +</P> + +<P> +She drew the little book from her pocket. It was bound in red leather, +with a thin black cross on the cover. His own was in khaki. +</P> + +<P> +"I want something else," he said, as he held the book in his hand. +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"This." He touched a lock of hair which lay against her cheek. "A bit +of it—of you—" +</P> + +<P> +A band of <I>poilus</I>—marching through the street, saw him cut it off. +But they did not laugh. They had great respect for a thing like +that—and it happened every day—when men went away from their women. +</P> + +<P> +They separated with a promise of perhaps a reunion in Paris, if he +could get leave and if she could be spared. Then she drove away +through the mud in her little car, and he went back to his men. +</P> + +<P> +Thus they were swept apart by that tide of war which threatened to +submerge the world. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla, arriving late at her <I>baraque</I>, made tea, and sat by an +infinitesimal stove. +</P> + +<P> +She found herself alone, for the other women were away on various +errands. She uncovered all the glory of her lovely hair, and in her +little mirror surveyed pensively the ragged lock over her left ear. +</P> + +<P> +A man like that, oh, a man like that. What more could a woman +ask—than love like that? +</P> + +<P> +Yet even in the midst of her thought of him, came the feeling that she +was not predestined for happiness. She must go on riding over rough +roads on her errands of mercy. Nothing must interfere with that, not +love or matters of personal preference—nothing. +</P> + +<P> +She was very tired. But there was no time for rest. A half dozen +kilted Highlanders hailed her through the open door and asked for a +song. She gave them "Wee Hoose Amang the Heather—" standing on the +step. It was still raining, and they took with them a picture of a +girl with glorious uncovered hair, and that cut tell-tale lock against +her cheek. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla watching them go, wondered if she would ever see them again, +with their pert caps, the bare knees of them—the strong swing of their +bodies. +</P> + +<P> +She stretched her arms above her head. "Oh, oh, I'm tired—" +</P> + +<P> +She went in and poured another cup of tea. She left the door open. +Indeed it always stood open that the room might shine its welcome. +</P> + +<P> +Snatching forty winks, she waked to find a woman standing over her—a +tall woman in a blue cloak and bonnet, who held in her hand a dripping +umbrella. +</P> + +<P> +She felt that she still dreamed. "It can't be Hilda Merritt?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it is." Hilda set the umbrella in the wood box. "I knew you +were here." +</P> + +<P> +"Who told you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Dr. McKenzie." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you are with him, then?" +</P> + +<P> +"He won't have me. That's why I came to you." +</P> + +<P> +"To me?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. I want you to tell him not to—turn me away." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla showed her bewilderment. "But, surely nothing that I could +say would have more weight with him than your own arguments." +</P> + +<P> +"You are his kind. He'd listen. Things that you say count with him." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know what you mean." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I've offended him. And he won't forgive me. Not even for the +sake of the work. And I'm a good nurse, Miss Gray. But he's as hard +as nails. And—and he sent me away." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I'm sorry," Drusilla said gently. Hilda was a dark figure of +tragedy, as she sat there statuesquely in her blue cloak. +</P> + +<P> +"You could make him see how foolish it is to refuse to have a good +worker; men may die whom I could save. He thinks that—those things +don't mean anything to me, that I am arguing from a personal +standpoint. He wouldn't think that of you." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll do what I can, of course," Drusilla said slowly. She was not +sure that she wanted to get into it, but she was sorry for Hilda. +</P> + +<P> +"Won't you have a cup of tea," she said impulsively, "and take off your +cloak? I am afraid I haven't seemed a bit hospitable. I was so +surprised." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda gave a little laugh. "I'm not used to such courtesies—so I +didn't miss it. But I should like the tea, and something to eat with +it. I left Dr. McKenzie's hospital early this morning, and I haven't +eaten since—I didn't want anything to eat—" +</P> + +<P> +She watched Drusilla curiously as she set forth the food. "It must +seem strange to you to live in a room like this." +</P> + +<P> +"I like it." +</P> + +<P> +"But you have always had such an easy life, Miss Gray." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla smiled. "It may have looked easy to you. But I give you my +word that keeping up with the social game is harder than this." +</P> + +<P> +"You say that," Hilda told her crisply, "not because it's true, but +because it sounds true. Do you mean to tell me that you like to be +muddy and dirty and live in a place like this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I like it." Something flamed in the back Of Drusilla's eyes. "I +like it because it means something, and the other didn't." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I don't like it," Hilda stated. "But nursing is all I am fit +for. I came over with a lot of other nurses, and they tell me at the +hospital I am the best of the lot—and in war times you can't afford to +miss the experience. But then I am used to a hard life, and you are +not." +</P> + +<P> +"Neither are the men in the trenches used to it. That's the standard I +apply to myself—for every hard thing I am doing, it is ten times +harder for them. I wish all the people at home could see how wonderful +they are." +</P> + +<P> +"That's Jean McKenzie's word—wonderful. Everything was wonderful, and +now she has married Derry Drake." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, she has married Derry," Drusilla stood staring into the little +round stove. +</P> + +<P> +She roused herself presently. "I call them Babes in the Wood. They +seem so young, and yet Derry isn't really young—it is only that +there's such a radiant air about him." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda's bitterness broke forth. "Why shouldn't he be radiant? Life +has given him everything. It has given her everything; in a way it has +given you everything. I am the one who goes without—it looks as if I +should always go without the things I want." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't think that," Drusilla said in her pleasant fashion. "Nobody is +set apart—and some day you will see it. Did you know that Derry may +be over now at any time, and that Jean is to stay with the General?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," Hilda moved restlessly. There came to her a vision of the big +house, of the shadowed room, of the room beyond, and of herself in a +tiara, with ermine on her cloak. +</P> + +<P> +What a dream it had been, and she had waked to this! +</P> + +<P> +She rose. "If Dr. McKenzie doesn't take me back he may be sorry. Will +you write to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I shall see him Saturday—in Paris. I have promised to dine with him. +Captain Hewes is coming, too, if he can." +</P> + +<P> +Hilda, going away in the rain, dwelt moodily on Drusilla's +opportunities. If only she, too, might dine in Paris with men like Dr. +McKenzie and Captain Hewes. There were indeed, men who might ask her +to dine with them, but not as Drusilla had been asked, as an equal and +as a friend. +</P> + +<P> +The way was long, the road was muddy. There was not much to look +towards at the end. It was not that she minded the dreadfulness of +sights and sounds—she had been too much in hospitals for that. But +she hated the ugliness, the roughness, the grinding toil. +</P> + +<P> +Yet had she been with Dr. McKenzie, she would have toiled gladly for +him. There would have been the sight of his crinkled copper head, the +sound of his voice, his teasing laugh to sustain her. And now it was +Drusilla who would see him, who would sit with him at the table, who +would tempt his teasing laugh. +</P> + +<P> +Well—if he didn't take her back, he would be sorry. There had been a +patient in the hospital who in his delirium had whispered things. When +he had come to himself, she had told him calmly, "You are a spy." He +had not whitened, but had measured her with a glance. "Help me, and +you shall see the Emperor. There will be nothing too good for you." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla, after Hilda's departure, sat by her little stove and thought +it over. She divined something which did not appear on the surface. +She was glad that she had promised to plead Hilda's cause. The woman's +face haunted her. +</P> + +<P> +And now the other workers who shared Drusilla's shack returned, +bringing news of many wounded and on the way. Then came the darkness +of the night, the long line of ambulances, the ghastly procession that +trailed behind. +</P> + +<P> +And all through the night Drusilla sang to men who rested for a moment +on their weary way, out of the shadows came eager voices asking for +this song and that—then they would pass on, and she would throw +herself down for a little sleep, to rouse again and lift her voice, +while the other women poured the coffee. +</P> + +<P> +She was hoarse in the morning, and white with fatigue, but when one of +the women said, "You can't keep this up, Drusilla, you can't stand it," +she smiled. "They stand it is the trenches, and some of them are so +tired." +</P> + +<P> +She was as fresh as paint, however, on Saturday, when she met Dr. +McKenzie in Paris. "I have had two hot baths, and all my clothes are +starched and ironed and fluted by an adorable Frenchwoman who opened +her house for me," she announced as she sat down with him at a corner +table. "I never wore fluted things before, but you can't imagine how +civilizing it is after you've been letting yourself down." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor was tired, and he looked it. "No one has starched and +fluted me." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor man. I'm glad you ran away from it all for a minute with me. +Captain Hewes thought he might be able to come. But I haven't heard +from him, have you?" +</P> + +<P> +"No. But he may blow in at any moment. It seems queer, doesn't it, +Drusilla, that you and I should be over here with all the rest of them +left behind." +</P> + +<P> +She hesitated, then brought it out without prelude. "Hilda came to see +me." +</P> + +<P> +"To see you? Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"She is broken-hearted because you won't let her work with you." +</P> + +<P> +"I told her I could not. And she hasn't any heart to break." +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if you'd mind," Drusilla ventured, "telling me what's the +matter." +</P> + +<P> +"A rather squalid story," but he told it. "She wanted to marry the +General." +</P> + +<P> +"Poor thing." +</P> + +<P> +He glanced at her in surprise. "Then you defend her?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no—no. But think of having to marry to get the—the fleshpots, +and to miss all of the real meanings. I talked to Hilda for a long +time, and somehow before she left she made me feel sorry. She wants so +much that she will never have. And she will grow hard and bitter +because life isn't giving her all that she demands." +</P> + +<P> +"Did she ask you to plead her cause?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," frankly. "She feels that you ought to give her another chance." +</P> + +<P> +He ran his fingers through his crinkled hair. "I don't want her. I'm +afraid of her." +</P> + +<P> +"Afraid?" +</P> + +<P> +"She sees the worst that is in me, and brings it to the surface. And +when I protest, she laughs and insists that I don't know myself. That +I am a sort of Dr. Jekyll, with the Mr. Hyde part of me asleep—" +</P> + +<P> +"And you let her scare you like that?" +</P> + +<P> +He nodded. "Every man has a weak spot, and mine is wanting the world +to think well of me." +</P> + +<P> +"Think well of yourself. What would Jean say if she heard you talking +like this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Jean?" she was startled by the breaking up of his face into deep lines +of trouble. "Do you know what she is doing, Drusilla? She is staying +in that great old house playing daughter to the General." +</P> + +<P> +"Marion says the General's affection for her is touching—he doesn't +want her out of his sight." +</P> + +<P> +"And because he doesn't want her out of his sight, she must stay a +prisoner. I say that he hasn't done anything to deserve such devotion, +Drusilla. He hasn't done anything to deserve it." +</P> + +<P> +"You are jealous." +</P> + +<P> +"No. It isn't that. Though I'll confess that something pulls at my +heart when I think of it—. But I want her to be happy." +</P> + +<P> +"I think she is happy. Life is giving her the hard things—but you and +I would not be without the—hard things; we have reached out our hands +for them, because the world needs us. Are you going to deny your +daughter that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I suppose not. But I hate it. Women ought to be +happy—care-free, not shut up in sick rooms or running around in the +rain." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, you men, how little you know what makes a woman happy." She +stopped, and half rose from her chair. "Captain Hewes is coming." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know that I am glad, Drusilla," the Doctor turned to survey +the beaming officer, "for now you won't have eyes or ears for me." +</P> + +<P> +But she was glad. +</P> + +<P> +While the Captain held her hand in his as if he would never let her go, +she told him about being fluted and starched. "I don't look as +dishevelled as I did the other day." +</P> + +<P> +"You looked beautiful the other day," he assured her with fervor, "but +this is better, because you are rested and some of the sadness has gone +out of your eyes." +</P> + +<P> +Dr. McKenzie watched them enviously, "I realize," he reminded them, +"that I am the fifth wheel, or any other superfluous thing, but you +can't get rid of me. I am homesick—somebody's got to cheer me up." +</P> + +<P> +"We don't want to get rid of you," Drusilla told him, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +But he knew that her loveliness was all for the Captain. She was +lighted up by the presence of her betrothed, made exquisite, softer, +more womanly. Love had come slowly to Drusilla, but it had come at +last. +</P> + +<P> +When the Doctor left them, he was in a daze of loneliness. He wanted +Jean, he wanted sympathy, understanding, good-comradeship. +</P> + +<P> +For just one little moment temptation assailed him. There was of +course, Hilda. She would bring with her the atmosphere of familiar +things which he craved. There would be the easy give and take of +speech which was such a relief after his professional manner, there +would be his own teasing sense of how much she wanted, and of how +little he had to give. There would be, too, the stimulus to his vanity. +</P> + +<P> +A broken-hearted Hilda, Drusilla had said. There was something +provocative in the situation—elements of drama. Why not? +</P> + +<P> +He thought about it that night when once more back at his work he and +his head nurse discussed a case of shell shock—a pitiful case of fear, +loss of memory, complete prostration. +</P> + +<P> +The nurse was a plain little thing, very competent, very quiet. She +was, perhaps, no more competent than Hilda in the mechanics of her +profession, but she had qualities which Hilda lacked. She was not very +young, and there were younger nurses under her. Yet in spite of her +plainness and quietness, she wielded an influence which was remarkable. +The whole hospital force was feeling the effect of that influence. It +was as if every nurse had in some rather high and special way dedicated +herself—as nuns might to the conventual life, or sisters of charity to +the service of the poor. There was indeed a heroic aspect to it, a +spiritual aspect, and this plain little woman was setting the pace. +</P> + +<P> +And Hilda, coming in, would spoil it all. Oh, he knew how she would +spoil it. With her mocking laugh, her warped judgments, her skeptical +point of view. +</P> + +<P> +No, he did not want Hilda. The best in him did not want her, and +please God, he was giving his best to this cause. However he might +fail in other things, he would not fail in his high duty towards the +men who came out of battle shattered and broken, holding up their hands +to him for help. +</P> + +<P> +"I am going to let Miss Shelby have the case," the plain little nurse +was saying, "when he begins to come back. She will give him what he +needs. She is so strong and young, so sure of the eternal rightness of +things—and she's got to make him sure." +</P> + +<P> +The Doctor nodded. "Some of us are not sure—" +</P> + +<P> +She agreed gravely. "But we are learning to be sure, aren't we, over +here? Don't you feel that all the things you have ever done are little +compared to this? That men and women are better and bigger than you +have believed?" +</P> + +<P> +"If anyone could make me feel it," he said, "it would be you." +</P> + +<P> +When she had gone, he wrote letters. +</P> + +<P> +He wrote to Jean—he wrote every day to Jean. +</P> + +<P> +He wrote to Hilda. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"You are splendidly fitted for just the thing that you are doing. Men +come and go and you care for their wounds. But we have to care here +for more than men's bodies, we care for their minds and souls—we piece +them together, as it were. And we need women who believe that God's in +his Heaven. And you don't believe it, Hilda. I fancy that you see in +every man his particular devil, and like to lure it out for him to look +at—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +He stopped there. He could see her reading what he had written. She +would laugh a little, and write back: +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Are you any better than I? If I am too black to herd with the white +sheep, what of you; aren't you tarred with the same brush—?" +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +He tore up the letter and sent a brief note. Why explain what he was +feeling to Hilda? She was of those who would never know nor understand. +</P> + +<P> +And he felt the need tonight of understanding—of sympathy. +</P> + +<P> +And so he wrote to Emily. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap25"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXV +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +WHITE VIOLETS +</H3> + + +<P> +Bruce McKenzie's letter arriving in due time at the Toy Shop, found +Emily very busy. There were many women to be instructed how to do +things with gauze and muslin and cotton, so she tucked the letter in +her apron pocket. But all day her mind went to it, as a feast to be +deferred until the time came to enjoy it. +</P> + +<P> +In the afternoon Ulrich Stölle arrived, bearing the inevitable tissue +paper parcel. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know what day it is?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Thursday." +</P> + +<P> +"There are always Thursdays. But this is a special Thursday." +</P> + +<P> +"Is it?" +</P> + +<P> +"And you ask me like that? It is a Thursday for valentines." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course. But how could you expect me to remember? Nobody ever +sends me valentines." +</P> + +<P> +"My father has sent you one." It was a heart-shaped basket of pink +roses; "but mine I couldn't bring. You must come and see it. Will you +dine with us tonight?" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I am so busy." +</P> + +<P> +"You are not too busy for that. Let your little Jean take charge." +</P> + +<P> +Jean, all in white with her white veil and red crosses was more than +ever like a little nun. She was remote, too, like a nun, wrapped not +in the contemplation of her religion, but of her love. +</P> + +<P> +She still made toys, and the proceeds of the sale of Lovely Dreams had +been contributed by herself and Emily for Red Cross purposes. There +were rows and rows of the fantastic creatures behind glass doors on the +shelves, and for Valentine's Day Jean had carved and painted pale doves +which carried in their beaks rosy hearts and golden arrows and whose +wings were outspread—. +</P> + +<P> +There were also on the shelves the white plush elephants which Franz +Stölle and his friends had made, and which were, too, being sold to +swell the Red Cross fund. +</P> + +<P> +Thus had the Toy Shop come into its own. "I have enough to live on," +Emily had said, "at least for a while, and I am taking no more chances +for future living, than the men who give up everything to fight." +</P> + +<P> +So enlisted in this cause of mercy as men had enlisted in the cause of +war, Miss Emily led where others followed, and the old patriarch of all +the white elephants, who had been born in a country of blood and iron, +looked down on women working to heal the wounds which his country had +made. +</P> + +<P> +"Let your little Jean look after things," Ulrich repeated. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you mind, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Mind what, Emily—?" +</P> + +<P> +"If I go with Mr. Stölle—to see his father about the—toys." +</P> + +<P> +"Darling—no;" Jean kissed her. "I don't mind in the least, and the +ride will do you good." +</P> + +<P> +"But you are not going to see my father about toys," Ulrich told her, +twinkling, as he followed her to the back of the shop. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think I was going to tell her that?" +</P> + +<P> +She put on her coat and hat and off she went with Ulrich, leaving still +unread in the pocket of the big apron the letter which Bruce McKenzie +had written her. +</P> + +<P> +All the way out Ulrich was rather silent. It was not, however, the +silence of moodiness or dullness, it was rather as if he wanted to hear +her speak. It was, indeed, a responsive, stimulating silence, and she +glowed under his glance. +</P> + +<P> +It seemed to her, as she talked, that these adventures with Ulrich +Stölle were in every way the most splendid thing that had happened to +her. They were always unexpected, and they were packed to the brim +with pleasure of a rare quality. +</P> + +<P> +When they reached their destination, Ulrich took her at once to the +hothouses. As they passed down the fragrant aisles, she found that all +the men and gone, their day's work over; only she and Ulrich were under +the great glass roof. +</P> + +<P> +"Anton comes back later," Ulrich explained, "but at this hour the +houses are empty, and dinner will not be ready for as hour. We have it +all to ourselves, Emily." +</P> + +<P> +Her name, spoken with so much ease, without a sign of +self-consciousness, startled her. Her inquiring glance showed her that +he was utterly unaware that he had spoken it. Her breath came quickly. +</P> + +<P> +The birds sang and the stream sang, and suddenly her heart began to +sing. +</P> + +<P> +You see it had been so many years since Emily had known +romance;—indeed, she had never known it—there had always been, in her +mother's time, her sense of the proper thing, and her sense of duty, +and her sense of making the best of things—and now for the first time +in her life there was no make-believe. This was a world of realities, +with Ulrich leading the way, his hands gathering flowers for her. +</P> + +<P> +He stopped at last at the entrance of a sort of grotto where great +ferns towered—at their feet was a bed of white violets. +</P> + +<P> +"You see," he said, "I could not bring it. I came here this morning to +pick the violets—for you—to let them say, 'I love you'—" +</P> + +<P> +Even the birds seemed silent, and the little stream! +</P> + +<P> +"And suddenly they spoke to me, 'Let her see us here, where you have so +often thought of her. Tell her here that you love her—' +</P> + +<P> +"How much I love you," and now she found her hands in his, "I cannot +tell you. It seems to me that the thought of you as my wife is so +exquisite that I cannot believe it will ever come to pass. And I have +so little to offer you. Even my name is hated because it is a German +name, and my old house is German, and my father— +</P> + +<P> +"But my heart's blood is for America. You know that, and so I have +dared to ask it, not that you will love me now, but that you may come +to think of loving me, so that some day you will care a little." +</P> + +<P> +The birds were singing madly, the streams were shouting—Emily was +trembling. Nobody had ever wanted her like this—nobody had ever made +her feel so young and lovely and—wanted—. She had had a proposal or +two, but there had been always the sense that she had been chosen for +certain staid and sensible qualities; there had been nothing in it of +red blood and rapture. +</P> + +<P> +"If you should come to us, to me and my father, you would be a queen on +a throne. If you could love me just a little in return—" +</P> + +<P> +She could not answer, she just stood looking up at him, and suddenly +his arms went around her. "Tell me, beloved." +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +An hour later they went in to his father, and after that Emily was +lifted up on the wings of an enthusiasm which left her breathless, but +beatified. "I knew when I first saw you what we desired," said the old +man, "and my son knew. All that I have is yours both now and +afterwards—" +</P> + +<P> +Dinner was a candle-lighted feast, with heart-shaped ices at the end. +</P> + +<P> +"How sure you were," Emily told her lover, smiling. +</P> + +<P> +"I was not sure. But I set the stage for success. It was only thus +that I kept up my courage. There were so many chances that the curtain +might drop on darkness—," his hand went over hers. "If it had been +that way, I should have let the ices melt and the violets die—." +</P> + +<P> +After dinner they went over the house. "Why should we wait," Ulrich +had said, "you and I? There is nothing to wait for. Tell me what you +want changed in this old house, and then come to it, and to my heart." +</P> + +<P> +It was, she found, such a funny old place. It had been furnished by +men, and by German men at that. There was heaviness and stuffiness, +and all the bric-a-brac was fat and puffy, and all the pictures were +highly-colored, with the women in them blonde and buxom, and the men +blond and bold—. +</P> + +<P> +But Ulrich's room was not stuffy or heavy. The windows were wide open, +and the walls were white, and the cover on the canopy bed was white, +and there were two pictures, one of Lincoln and one of Washington, and +that was all. +</P> + +<P> +"And when I have your picture, it will be perfect," he told her. +"Where I can see you when I wake, and pray to you before I go to sleep." +</P> + +<P> +"But why," she probed daringly, "do you want my picture?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because you are so—beautiful—" +</P> + +<P> +It was not to be wondered that such worship went to Miss Emily's head. +She slipped out of the dried sheath of the years which had saddened and +aged her, and emerged lovely as a flower over which the winter has +passed and which blooms again. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to change anything," Emily told her lover as they went +downstairs, "at least not very much. I shall keep all of the lovely +old carved things—with the fat cupids." +</P> + +<P> +As she lay awake that night, reviewing it all, she thought suddenly of +Bruce McKenzie's letter in her apron pocket. The apron was in the Toy +Shop, and it was not therefore until the next morning that she read the +letter. +</P> + +<P> +In it Dr. McKenzie asked her to marry him. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I should like to think that when I come back, you will be waiting for +me, Emily. I am a very lonely man. I want someone who will sympathize +and understand. I want someone who will love Jean, and who will hold +me to the best that is in me, and you can do that, Emily; you have +always done it." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +It was a rather touching letter, and she felt its appeal strongly. +Indeed, so stern was her sense of self-sacrifice, that she had an +almost guilty feeling when she thought of Ulrich. If he had not come +into her life at the psychological moment, she might have given herself +to Bruce McKenzie. +</P> + +<P> +But the letter had come too late. Oh, how glad she was that she had +left it in her apron pocket! +</P> + +<P> +She answered it that night. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am going to be very frank with you, Bruce, because in being frank +with you I shall be frank with myself. If Ulrich Stölle had not come +into my life, I should probably have thought I cared for you. Even now +when I am saying 'no,' I realize that your charm has always held me, +and that the prospect of a future by your pleasant fireside holds many +attractions. But since you left Washington, something has happened +which I never expected, and all of my preconceived ideas of myself have +been overturned. Bruce, I am no longer the Emily you have known—a +little staid, gray-haired, with pretty hands, but with nothing else +very pretty about her; a lady who would, perhaps, fill gracefully, a +position for which her aristocratic nose fits her. I am no longer the +Emily of the Toy Shop, wearing spectacles on a black ribbon, eating her +lunches wherever she can get them. No, I am an Emily who is young and +beautiful, a sort of fairy-tale Princess, an Emily who, if she wishes, +shall sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, but who doesn't wish it +because she hates to sew, and would much rather work in her +silver-bell-and-cockle shell garden—oh, such a wonderful garden as it +is! +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And I am all this, Bruce, I am young and beautiful and all the rest, +because I am seeing myself through the eyes of my lover. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"He is Ulrich Stölle, as I have said, and you mustn't think because his +name is German that he is to be cast into outer darkness. He is as +American as you with your Scotch blood, or as I with my English blood. +And he is as loyal as any of us. He is too old to be accepted for +service, but he is giving time and money to the cause. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And he loves me rapturously, radiantly, romantically. He doesn't want +me as a cushion for his tired head, he doesn't want me because he +thinks it would be an act of altruism to provide a haven for me in my +old age, he wants me because he thinks I am the most remarkable woman +in the whole wide world, and that he is the most fortunate man to have +won me. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And you don't feel that way about it, Bruce. You know that I am not +beautiful, there is no glamour in your love for me. You know that I am +not wonderful, or a fairy Princess—. And you are right and he is +wrong. But it is his wrongness which makes me love him. Because every +woman wants to be beautiful to her lover, and to feel that she is much +desired. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"You will ask why I am telling you all this. Well, there was one +sentence in your letter which called it forth. You say that you want +me because I will hold you to the best that is in you. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Oh, Bruce, what would you gain if I held you? Wouldn't there be +moments when in spite of me you would swing back to women like Hilda? +You are big and fine, but you are spoiled by feminine worship—it is a +temptation which assails clergymen and doctors—who have, as it were, +many women at their feet. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Does that sound harsh? I don't mean it that way. I only want you to +come into your own. And if you ever marry I want you to find some +woman you can love as you loved your wife, someone who will touch your +imagination, set you on fire with dreams, and I could never do it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Yet even as I finish this letter, I am tempted to tear it up and tell +you only of my real appreciation of the honor you have conferred upon +me in asking me to be your wife. I know that you are offering me more +in many ways than Ulrich Stölle. I don't like his name, because +something rises up in me against Teuton blood and Teuton nomenclature. +But he loves me, and you do not, and because of his love for me and +mine for him, everything else seems too small to consider. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Oh, you'd laugh at his house, Bruce, but I love even the fat angels +that are carved on everything from the mahogany chests to the soup +tureens. It is all like some old fairy-tale. I shall make few +changes; it seems such a perfect setting for Ulrich and his busy old +gnome of a father. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"When you get this, pray for my happiness. Oh, I do want to be happy. +I have made the best of things, but there has been much more of gray +than rose-color, and now as I turn my face to the setting sun, I am +seeing—-loveliness and light—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +She read it over and sealed it and sent it away. It was several weeks +before it reached Doctor McKenzie. He was very busy, for the spring +drive of the Germans had begun, and shattered men were coming to him +faster than he could handle them. But he found time at last to read +it, and when he laid it down he sat quite still from the shock of it. +</P> + +<P> +And the next time he saw Drusilla he said to her, "Emily Bridges is +going to be married, and she is not going to marry me." +</P> + +<P> +"I am glad of it," Drusilla told him. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear girl, why?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because you don't love her, and you never did." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap26"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVI +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +THE HOPE OF THE WORLD +</H3> + + +<P> +The great spring drive of the Germans brought headlines to the papers +which men and women in America read with dread, and scoffed at when +they talked it over. +</P> + +<P> +"They'll never get to Paris," were the words on their lips, but in +their hearts they were asking, "Will they—?" +</P> + +<P> +Easter came at the end of March, and Good Friday found Jean working +very early in the morning on fawn-colored rabbits with yellow ears. +She worked in her bedroom because it was warmed by a feeble wood fire, +and Teddy came up to watch her. +</P> + +<P> +"The yellow in their ears is the sun shining through," Jean told him. +"We used to see them in the country on the path in front of the house, +and the light from the west made their ears look like tiny electric +bulbs." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret-Mary entranced by one small bunny with a splash of white for a +cotton tail, sang, "Pitty sing, pitty sing." +</P> + +<P> +"They don't weally lay eggs, do they?" Teddy ventured. +</P> + +<P> +"I wouldn't ask such questions if I were you, Teddy." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because you might find out that they didn't lay eggs, and then you'd +feel terribly disappointed." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, isn't it better to know?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook her head. "I'm not sure—it's nice to think that they do +lay eggs—blue ones and red ones and those lovely purple ones, isn't +it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"And if they don't lay them, who does?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hens," said Teddy, rather unexpectedly, "and the rab-yits steal them." +</P> + +<P> +"Who told you that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Hodgson. And she says that she ties them up in rags and the colors +come off on the eggs." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I wouldn't listen to Hodgson." +</P> + +<P> +"Why not? I like to listen." +</P> + +<P> +"Because she hasn't any imagination." +</P> + +<P> +"What's 'magination?" +</P> + +<P> +They were getting in very deep. Jean gave it up. "Ask your mother, +Teddy." +</P> + +<P> +So Teddy sought his unfailing source of information. "What's +'magination, Mother." +</P> + +<P> +"It is seeing things, Teddy, with your mind instead of your eyes. When +I tell you about the poor little children in France who haven't any +food or any clothes except what the Red Cross gives them, you don't +really see them with your eyes, but your mind sees them, and their cold +little hands, and their sad little faces—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." He considered that for a while, then swept on to the things +over which his childish brain puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +"Mother, if the Germans get to Paris what will happen?" +</P> + +<P> +He saw the horror in her face. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hate the Germans, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"My darling, don't ask me." +</P> + +<P> +After he had gone downstairs, Margaret got out her prayer-book, and +read the prayers for the day. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, merciful God, who hast made all men and hatest nothing that thou +hast made, nor desirest the death of a sinner, but rather that he +should be converted and live, have mercy on all Jews, Turks, infidels +and heretics, and take from them all ignorance, hardness of heart, and +contempt of Thy word, and so fetch them home, blessed Lord, to Thy +flock, that they may be saved—" +</P> + +<P> +She shut the book. No, she could not go on. She did not love her +enemies. She was not in the least sure that she wanted the Germans to +be saved! +</P> + +<P> +On Easter morning, however, Teddy was instructed to pray for his +enemies. "We mustn't have hate in our hearts." +</P> + +<P> +"Why mustn't we, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Father wouldn't want it. We hate the evil they do, but we must +pray that they will be shown their wickedness and repent." +</P> + +<P> +"If they re-pyent will they stop fighting?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dearest, yes." +</P> + +<P> +"How would they stop?" +</P> + +<P> +Jean, who was ready for church and waiting, warned, "You'd better not +try to give an answer to that, Margaret, there isn't any." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy ignored her. "How would they stop, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, they'd just stop, dear—" +</P> + +<P> +"Would they say they were sorry?" +</P> + +<P> +<I>Would William of Prussia ever be sorry</I>? +</P> + +<P> +"Can God stop it, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +Margaret wrenched her mind away from the picture which his words had +painted for her, the Kaiser on his knees! <I>Miserere mei, Deus</I>— +</P> + +<P> +With quick breath, "Yes, dear." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why doesn't He stop it, Mother?" +</P> + +<P> +<I>Why? Why? Why? Older voices were asking that question in agony</I>. +</P> + +<P> +"He will do it in His own good time, dearest. Perhaps the world has a +lesson to learn." +</P> + +<P> +With Teddy walking ahead with nurse, Jean proclaimed to Margaret, "I +shan't pray for them." +</P> + +<P> +"I know how you feel." +</P> + +<P> +"Shall you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," desperately, "I must." +</P> + +<P> +"Why must you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because of—Win," Margaret said simply. In her widow's black, with +her veil giving her height and dignity, she had never been more +beautiful. "Because of Win, I must. There are wives in Germany who +suffer as I suffer—who are not to blame. There are children, like my +children, asking the same questions—. This drive has seemed to me +like the slaughter of sheep, with a great Wolf behind them, a Wolf +without mercy, sending them down to destruction, to—death—" +</P> + +<P> +"And the Wolf—?" +</P> + +<P> +Margaret raised her hand and let it drop, "God knows." +</P> + +<P> +And now soldiers were being rushed overseas. Trains swept across the +land loaded with men who gazed wistfully at the peaceful towns as they +passed through, or chafed impotently when, imprisoned in day coaches, +they were side-tracked outside of great cities. +</P> + +<P> +And on the battle line those droves and droves of gray sheep were +driven down and down—to death—by the Wolf. +</P> + +<P> +The war was coming closer to America. A look of care settled on the +faces of men and women who had, hitherto, taken things lightly. +Fathers, who had been very sure that the war would end before their +sons should go to France, faced the fact that the end was not in sight, +and that the war would take its toll of the youth of America. Mothers, +who had not been sure of anything, but had hidden their fears in their +hearts, stopped reading the daily papers. Wives, who had looked upon +the camp experiences of their husbands as a rather great adventure, +knew now that there might be a greater adventure with a Dark Angel. +The tram-sheds in great cities were crowded with anxious relatives who +watched the troops go through, clutching at the hope of a last glimpse +of a beloved face, a few precious moments in which to say farewell. +</P> + +<P> +Yes, the war was coming near! +</P> + +<P> +Derry wrote that he might go at any moment, but hoped for a short +furlough. It was on this hope that Jean lived. She worked tirelessly, +making the much-needed surgical dressings. When Emily tried to get her +to rest, Jean would shake her head. +</P> + +<P> +"Darling, I must. They are bringing the wounded over." +</P> + +<P> +"But you mustn't get too tired." +</P> + +<P> +"I want to be tired. So that I can sleep." +</P> + +<P> +She was finding it hard to sleep. Often she rose and wrote in her +memory book, which was becoming in a sense a diary because she confided +to its pages the things she dared not say to Derry. Some day, perhaps, +she might show him what she had written. But that would be when the +war was over, and Derry had come back safe and sound. Until then she +would have to smile in her letters, and she did not always feel like +smiling! +</P> + +<P> +But that was what Derry called them, "Smiling letters!" +</P> + +<P> +"They smile up at me every morning, Jean." +</P> + +<P> +So she wrote to him bravely, cheerfully, of her busy days, of how she +missed him, of her love and longing, but not a word did she say of her +world as it really was. +</P> + +<P> +But there was no laughter in the things she said to the old memory book. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't like big houses—not houses like this, with grinning porcelain +Chinese gods at every turn of the hall, and gold dragons on the +bed-posts. There are six of us here besides the servants, yet we are +like dwarfs in a giant palace. Perhaps if we had the usual fires it +wouldn't seem quite so forlorn. But the china in the cabinets is so +cold—and the ceilings are so high—and the marble floors—. +</P> + +<P> +"Perhaps if everyone were happy it would be different. But only Emily +is happy. And I don't see how she can be. She is going to marry a +Hun! Of course, he isn't really, and he'd be a darling dear if it +weren't for his German name, and his German blood, and the German +things he has in his house. But Emily says she loves his house, that +it speaks to her of a different Germany—of the sweet old gay Germany +that waltzed and sang and loved simple things. It seems so funny to +think of Emily in love—she's so much older than people are usually +when they are engaged and married. +</P> + +<P> +"But Emily is the only happy one, except the children, and I sometimes +think that even they have the shadow on them of the dreadful things +that are happening. Margaret-Mary tries to knit, and tires her stubby +little fingers with the big needles, and Teddy, poor chap, seems to +feel that he must be the man of the family and take his father's place, +and he is pathetically careful of his mother. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder if Margaret feels as I do about it all? She is so sweet and +smiling—and yet I know how her heart weeps, and I know how she longs +for her own house and her own hearth and her own husband— +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, when my Derry comes back safe and sound—and he will come back +safe, I shall say it over and over to myself until I make it true—when +Derry comes back, we'll build a cottage, with windows that look out on +trees and a garden—and there'll be cozy little rooms, and we'll take +Polly Ann and Muffin—and live happy ever after—. +</P> + +<P> +"I wonder how father stands it to be always with people who are sick? +I never knew what it meant until now. The General is an old dear—but +sometimes when I sit in that queer room of his with its lacquer and +gold and see him in his gorgeous dressing gown, I feel afraid. It is +rather dreadful to think that he was once young and strong like Derry, +and that he will never be young and strong again. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I want the war to end—I want Derry, and sunshine and well people. +It seems a hundred years since I did anything just for the fun of doing +it. It seems a million years since Daddy and I drove downtown together +and drank chocolate sodas— +</P> + +<P> +"But then nobody is drinking chocolate sodas—at least no one is doing +it light-heartedly. You can't be light-hearted when the person you +love best in the world is going to war. You can be brave, and you can +make your lips laugh, but you can't make your heart laugh—you +can't—you can't—. +</P> + +<P> +"I talk a great deal to the women who come to Emily's Toy Shop. And I +am finding out that some of those that seem fluffy-minded are really +very much in earnest. There is one little blonde, who always wears +white silk and chiffon, she looks as if she had just stepped from the +stage. And at first I simply scorned her. I felt that she would be +the kind to leave ravellings in her wipes, and things like that. But +she doesn't leave a ravelling. She works slowly, but she does her work +well—. But now and then her hands tremble and the tears fall; and the +other day I went and sat down beside her and I found out that her +husband is flying in France, and that her two brothers are at the +front—. And one of them is among the missing; he may be a prisoner +and he may be dead—. And she is trying to do her bit and be brave. +And now I don't care if she does wear her earlocks outside of her veil +and load her hands with diamonds—she's a dear—-and a darling. But +she's scared just as I am—and as Mary Connolly is, and as all the +women are, though they don't show it—. I wonder if Joan of Arc was +afraid—in her heart as the rest of us are? Perhaps she wasn't, +because she was in the thick of it herself, and we aren't. Perhaps if +we were where we could see it and have the excitement of it all, we +should lose our fear. +</P> + +<P> +"But when women tell me that the women have the worst of it—that they +must sit at home and weep and wait, I don't believe it. We suffer—of +course, and there's the thought of it all like a bad dream, and when we +love our loved ones—it is heartbreak. But the men suffer, daily, in +all the little things. The thirst and the vermin, and the cold and +wet—and the noise—and the frightfulness. And they grow tired and +hungry and homesick,—and death is on every side of them, and horror—. +Some of the women who come to the shop sentimentalize a lot. One woman +recited, 'Break, break, break—, the other day, and the rest of them +cried into the gauze, <I>cried for themselves</I>, if you please; 'For men +must work and women must weep.' And then my little blonde told them +what she thought of them. Her name is 'Maisie,' wouldn't you know a +girl like that would be called 'Maisie'? +</P> + +<P> +"'If you think,' she said, 'that you suffer—what in God's name will +you think before the war is over? It hasn't touched you. You won't +know what suffering means until your men begin to come home. You talk +about hardships; not one of you has gone hungry yet—and the men over +there may be cut off at any moment from food supplies, and they are +always at the mercy of the camp cooks, who may or may not give them +things that they can eat. And they lie out under the stars with their +wounds, and if any of you has a finger ache, you go to bed with hot +water bottles and are coddled and cared for. But our boys,—there +isn't anyone to coddle them—they have to stick it out. And we've got +to stick it out—and not be sorry for ourselves. Oh, why should we be +sorry for ourselves!' The tears were streaming down her cheeks when +she finished, and a gray-haired woman who had wept with the others got +up and came over to her. 'My dear,' she said, 'I shall never pity +myself again. My two sons are over there, and I've been thinking how +much I have given. But they have given their young lives, their +futures—their bodies, to be broken—' And then standing right in the +middle of the Toy Shop that mother prayed for her sons, and for the +sons of other women, and for the husbands and lovers, and that the +women might be brave. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, it was wonderful—as she stood there like a white-veiled +prophetess, praying. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet a year ago she would have died rather than pray in public. She is +a conservative, aristocratic woman, the kind that doesn't wear rings or +try to be picturesque—and she has always kept her feelings to herself, +and said her prayers to herself—or in church, but never in all her +life has she been so fine as she was the other day praying in the Toy +Shop. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet in a way I am sorry for myself. Not for me as I am to-day, but +for the Jean of Yesterday, who thought that patriotism was remembering +Bunker Hill! +</P> + +<P> +"Of course in a way it is that—for Bunker Hill and Lexington and +Valley Forge are a part of us because our grandfathers were there, and +what they felt and did is a part of our feeling and doing. +</P> + +<P> +"I have always thought of those old days as a sort of picture—the +embattled farmers in their shirt-sleeves and with their hair blowing, +and the Midnight Ride, and the lantern in the old North Church—and the +Spirit of '76. And it was the same with the Civil War; there was +always the vision of cavalry sweeping up and down slopes as they do in +the movies, and of the bugles calling, and bands playing 'Marching +through Georgia' or 'Dixie' as the case might be—and flags +flying—isn't it glorious to think that the men in gray are singing +to-day, 'The Star Spangled Banner' with the rest of us? +</P> + +<P> +"But my thoughts never had anything to do with money, though I suppose +people gave it then, as they are giving now. But you can't paint +pictures of men and women making out checks, and children putting +thrift stamps in little books, so I suppose that in future the heroes +and heroines of the emptied pocket-books will go down unsung—. +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't a bit picturesque to give until it hurts, but it helps a lot. +I saw Sarah Bernhardt the other day in a wonderful little play where +she's a French boy, who dies in the end—and she dies, exquisitely, +with the flag of France in her arms—the faded, lovely flag—I shall +never forget. The tears ran down my cheeks so that I couldn't see, but +her voice, so faint and clear, still rings in my ears— +</P> + +<P> +"If she had died clutching a Liberty Bond or wearing a Red Cross +button, it would have seemed like burlesque. Yet there are men and +women who are going without bread and butter to buy Liberty Bonds, and +who are buying them not as a safe investment, as rich men buy, but +because the boys need the money. And there ought to be poems written +and statues erected to commemorate some of the sacrifices for the sake +of the Red Cross. +</P> + +<P> +"Yet I think that, in a way, we have not emphasized enough the +picturesque quality of this war, not on this side. They do it in +France—they worship their great flyers, their great generals, their +crack regiments, everything has a personality, they are tender with +their shattered cathedrals as if something human had been hurt, and the +result is a quickening on the part of every individual, a flaming +patriotism which as yet we have not felt. We don't worship anything, +we don't all of us know the words of 'The Star Spangled Banner'; fancy +a Frenchman not knowing the words of the 'Marseillaise' or an +Englishman forgetting 'God Save the King.' We don't shout and sing +enough, we don't cry enough, we don't feel enough—and that's all there +is to it. If we were hot for the triumph of democracy, there would be +no chance of victory for the Hun. Perhaps as the war comes nearer, we +shall feel more, and every day it is coming nearer—" +</P> + +<P> +It was very near, indeed. Thousands of those gray sheep were lying +dead on the plains of Picardy—the Allies fought with their backs to +the wall—Americans who had swaggered, secure in the prowess of Uncle +Sam, swaggered no longer, and pondered on the parable of the Wise and +Foolish Virgins. +</P> + +<P> +Slowly the nation waked to what was before it. In America now lay the +hope of the world. The Wolf must be trapped, the sheep saved in spite +of themselves, those poor sheep, driven blindly to slaughter. +</P> + +<P> +The General was not quite sure that they were sheep, or that they were +being driven. He held, rather, that they knew what they were +about—and were not to be pitied. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, considering this gravely, went back to previous meditations, and +asked if he prayed for his enemies. +</P> + +<P> +"Bless my soul," said the old gentleman, "why should I?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Mother says we must, and then some day they'll stop and say they +are sorry—" +</P> + +<P> +The General chuckled, "Your mother is optimistic." +</P> + +<P> +"What's 'nopt'mistic?" +</P> + +<P> +"It means always believing that nice things will happen." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you believe that nice things will happen?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes—" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you believe that the war will stop?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not until we've thrown the full force of our fighting men into it—at +what a sacrifice." +</P> + +<P> +"Can't God make it stop?" +</P> + +<P> +"He can, but He won't, not if He's a God of justice," said this staunch +old patriot, "until America has brought them to their knees—" +</P> + +<P> +"Will they say they are sorry then?" +</P> + +<P> +"It won't make very much difference what they say—" +</P> + +<P> +But Teddy, having been brought up to understand the things which belong +to an officer and a gentleman, had his own ideas on the subject. +"Well, I should think they'd ought to say they were sorry—." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap27"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +MARCHING FEET +</H3> + + +<P> +The end of April brought much rain; torrents swept down the smooth +streets, and the beauty of the carefully kept flower beds in the parks +was blurred by the wet. +</P> + +<P> +The General, limping from window to window, chafed. He wanted to get +out, to go over the hills and far away; with the coming of the spring +the wander-hunger gripped him, and with this restless mood upon him he +stormed at Bronson. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a dog's life." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," said Bronson, dutifully. +</P> + +<P> +"It is dead lonesome, Bronson, and I can't keep Jean tied here all of +the time. She is looking pale, don't you think she is looking pale?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. I think she misses Mr. Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, she'll miss him a lot more before she gets him back," grimly. +"He'll be going over soon—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"I wish I were going," the old man was wistful. "Think of it, Bronson, +to be over there—in the thick of it, playing the game, instead of +rotting here—" +</P> + +<P> +It was, of course, the soldier's point of view. Bronson, being +hopelessly civilian, did his best to rise to what was expected of him. +"You like it then, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"Like it? It is the only life. We've lost something since men took up +the game of business in place of the game of fighting." +</P> + +<P> +"But you see, sir, there's no blood—in business." Bronson tried to +put it delicately. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't there? Why, more men are killed in accidents in factories than +are killed in war—murdered by money-greedy employers." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, sir, not quite that." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, quite," was the irascible response. "You don't know what you are +talking about, Bronson. Read statistics and find out." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir. Will you have your lunch up now, sir?" +</P> + +<P> +"I'll get it over and then you can order the car for me." +</P> + +<P> +"But the rain—?" +</P> + +<P> +"I like rain. I'm not sugar or salt." +</P> + +<P> +Bronson, much perturbed, called up Jean. "The General's going out." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, but he mustn't, Bronson." +</P> + +<P> +"I can't say 'mustn't' to him, Miss," Bronson reported dismally. +"You'd better see what you can do—" +</P> + +<P> +But when Jean arrived, the General was gone! +</P> + +<P> +"We'll drive out through the country," the old man had told his +chauffeur, and had settled back among his cushions, his cane by his +side, his foot up on the opposite seat to relieve him of the weight. +</P> + +<P> +And it was as he rode that he began to have a strange feeling about +that foot which no longer walked or bore him lightly. +</P> + +<P> +How he had marched in those bygone days! He remembered the first time +he had tried to keep step with his fellows. The tune had been Yankee +Doodle—with a fife and drum—and he was a raw young recruit in his +queer blue uniform and visored cap—. +</P> + +<P> +And how eager his feet had been, how strongly they had borne him, +spurning the dust of the road—as they would bear him no more—. +</P> + +<P> +There were men who envied him as he swept past them in the rain, men +who felt that he had more than his share of wealth and ease, yet he +would have made a glad exchange for the feet which took them where they +willed. +</P> + +<P> +He came at last to one of his old haunts, a small stone house on the +edge of the Canal. From its wide porch he had often watched the slow +boats go by, with men and women and children living in worlds bounded +by weather-beaten decks. To-day in the rain there was a blur of lilac +bushes along the tow path, but no boats were in sight; the Canal was a +ruffled gray sheet in the April wind. +</P> + +<P> +Lounging in the low-ceiled front room of the stone house were men of +the type with whom he had once foregathered—men not of his class or +kind, but interesting because of their very differences—human +derelicts who had welcomed him. +</P> + +<P> +But now, for the first time he was not one of them. They eyed his +elegances with suspicion—his fur coat, his gloves, his hat—the man +whose limousine stood in front of the door was not one of them; they +might beg of him, but they would never call him "Brother." +</P> + +<P> +So, because his feet no longer carried him, and he must ride, he found +himself cast out, as it were, by outcasts. +</P> + +<P> +He ordered meat and drink for them, gave them money, made a joke or two +as he limped among them, yet felt an alien. He watched them wistfully, +seeing for the first time their sordidness, seeing what he himself had +been, more sordid than any, because of his greater opportunities. +</P> + +<P> +Sitting apart, he judged them, judged himself. If all the world were +like these men, what kind of world would it be? +</P> + +<P> +"Why aren't you fellows fighting?" he asked suddenly. +</P> + +<P> +They stared at him. Grumbled. Why should they fight? One of them +wept over it, called himself too old—. +</P> + +<P> +But there were young men among them. "For God's sake get out of +this—let me help you get out." The General stood up, leaned on his +cane. "Look here, I've done a lot of things in my time—things like +this—" his arm swept out towards the table, "and now I've only one +good foot—the other will never be alive again. But you young chaps, +you've got two good feet—to march. Do you know what that means, to +march? Left, right, left, right and step out bravely—. Yankee Doodle +and your heads up, flags flying? And you sit here like this?" +</P> + +<P> +Two of the men had risen, young and strong. The General's cane +pounded—he had their eyes! "Left, right, left, right—all over the +world men are marching, and you sit here—" +</P> + +<P> +The years seemed to have dropped from him. His voice rang with a fire +that had once drawn men after him. He had led a charge at Gettysburg, +and his men had followed! +</P> + +<P> +And these two men would follow him. He saw the dawn of their resolve +in their faces. "There's fine stuff in both of you," he said, "and the +country needs you. Isn't it better to fight than to sit here? Get +into my car and I'll take you down." +</P> + +<P> +"Aw, what's eatin' you," one of the older men growled. "What game's +this? Recruitin'?" +</P> + +<P> +But the young men asked no questions. They came—glad to come. Roused +out of a lethargy which had bound them. Waked by a ringing old voice. +</P> + +<P> +The General was rather quiet when he reached home. Jean and Bronson, +who had suffered torments, watched him with concerned eyes. And, as if +he divined it, he laid his hand over Jean's. "I did a good day's work, +my dear. I got two men for the Army, and I'm going to get more—" +</P> + +<P> +And he did get more. He went not only in the rain, but in the warmth +of the sun, when the old fruit trees bloomed along the tow path, and +the backs of the mules were shining black, and the women came out on +deck with their washing. +</P> + +<P> +And always he spoke to the men of marching feet—. Now and then he +sang for them in that thin old voice whose thinness was so overlaid by +the passion of his patriotism that those who listened found no flaw in +it. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"He has sounded forth the trumpet that has never called retreat,<BR> +He is sifting forth the hearts of men before his Judgment seat,<BR> +O be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet,<BR> +Our God is marching on—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +There was no faltering now, no fumbled words. With head up, +singing—"Be jubilant, my feet—" +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes he took Jean with him, but not always. "There are places +that I don't like to have you go, my dear, but those are where I get my +men." +</P> + +<P> +At other times when he came out to where she sat in the car there would +flash before his eyes the vision of his wife's face, as she, too, had +once sat there, waiting— +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes he took the children, and rode with them on a slow-moving +barge from one lock to another, with the limousine meeting them at the +end. +</P> + +<P> +So he travelled the old paths, innocently, as he might have travelled +them throughout the years. +</P> + +<P> +Yet if he thought of those difficult years, he said never a word. He +felt, perhaps, that there was nothing to say. He took to himself no +credit for the things he was doing. If age and infirmity had brought +to him a realization of all that he had missed, he was surely not to be +praised for doing that which was, obviously, his duty. +</P> + +<P> +Yet it gave him a new zest for life, and left Jean freer than she had +been before. It left her, too, without the fear of him, which had +robbed their relationship of all sense of security. +</P> + +<P> +"You see, I never knew," she wrote in her memory book, "what might +happen. I had visions of myself going after him in the night as Derry +had gone and his mother. I used to dream about it, and dread it." +</P> + +<P> +Yet she had said nothing of her dread to Derry in her smiling letters, +and as men think of women, he had thought of her in the sick room as a +guardian angel, shining and serene. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +And now, faint and far came to the men in the cantonments the sound of +battles across the sea. The bugles calling them each morning seemed to +say, "Soon, soon, you will go, you will go, you will go—" +</P> + +<P> +To Derry, listening, it seemed the echo of the fairy trumpets, +"<I>Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt, you will go, you will go, you will +go—</I>" +</P> + +<P> +It was strange how the thought of it drew him, drew him as even the +thoughts of Jean his bride did not draw—. He remembered that years +ago he had smiled with a tinge of tolerant sophistication over the old +lines: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"I could not love thee, dear, so much,<BR> +Loved I not honor more—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Yet here it was, a truth in his own life. A woman meaning more to him +than she could ever have meant in times of peace, because he could go +forth to fight for her, his life at stake, for her. It was for her, +and for other women that his sword was unsheathed. +</P> + +<P> +"If only they could understand it," he wrote to Jean. "You haven't any +idea what rotten letters some of the women write. Blaming the men for +going over seas. Blaming them for going into it at all. Taking it as +a personal offense that their lovers have left them. 'If you had loved +me, you couldn't have left me,' was the way one woman put it, and I +found a poor fellow mooning over it and asked him what was the matter. +'It isn't a question of what we want to do, it is a question of what +we've got to do, if we call ourselves men,' he said. But she couldn't +see that, she was measuring her emotions by an inch rule. +</P> + +<P> +"But, thank God, most of the women are the real thing—true as steel +and brave. And it is those women that the men worship. It is a +masculine trait to want to be a sort of hero in the eyes of the woman +you love. When she doesn't look at it that way, your plumes droop!" +</P> + +<P> +And now the bugles rang with a clearer note—not, "You will go, you +will go—" but, "Do not wait, do not wait, do not wait." +</P> + +<P> +The cry from abroad was Macedonian. "Come over and help us!" It was +to America that the ghosts of those fighting hordes appealed. +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"Take up our quarrel with the foe,<BR> +To you from falling hands we throw<BR> +The torch—be yours to hold it high.<BR> +If ye break faith with us who die,<BR> +We shall not sleep, though poppies grow<BR> +In Flanders' field—"<BR> +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +Gradually there had grown up in the hearts of simple men a flaming +response to that sacred charge. Men whose dreams had never reached +beyond a day's frivolity, found springing up in their souls a desire to +do some deed to match that of the other fellow who slept "in Flanders +field." +</P> + +<P> +"To you from falling hands we throw the torch—be yours to hold it +high—," the little man who had measured cloth behind a counter, the +boy who had sold papers on the streets, the bank clerk who had bent +over his books, the stenographer who had been bound to the wheel of +everlasting dictation, were lighted by the radiance of that vision, "to +hold it high—." +</P> + +<P> +"Gee, I never used to think," said Tommy Tracy, "that I might have a +chance to do a stunt like that." +</P> + +<P> +"Like what?" Derry asked. +</P> + +<P> +Tommy found it a thing rather hard to express. "Well, when you've been +just a common sort of chap, to die—for the other fellow—" +</P> + +<P> +So men's bodies grew and their muscles hardened. But their souls grew, +too, expanding to the breadth and height of the things which were +waiting for them to do across the sea. +</P> + +<P> +And one morning Derry was granted a furlough, and started home. He +sent no word ahead of him. He wanted to come upon them unawares. To +catch the light that would be on Jean's face when she looked up and saw +him. +</P> + +<P> +There was rain and more rain when at last he arrived in Washington. +The trees as his taxi traversed the wide avenues showed clear green, +melting into vistas of amethyst and gray. The parks as he passed were +starred with the bright yellow and pinks of flowering shrubs. +Washington, in spite of the rain, was as lovely as a woman whose color +blooms behind a veil. +</P> + +<P> +He came into the great house unannounced, having his key with him. The +General was out for a ride, the children with him, Margaret and Emily +and Jean away, the servants in the back of the house. +</P> + +<P> +Derry, going up the stairs, two steps at a time, stopped on the landing +with head uncovered to greet his mother. +</P> + +<P> +Oh, lovely painted lady, is this the little white-faced lad you loved, +the big bronzed man, fresh from hardships, strong in the sense of the +thing he has to do? +</P> + +<P> +No promise made to you could hold him now. He has weighed your small +demands is the balance with the world's great need. +</P> + +<P> +He did not tarry long. Straight as an eagle to its mate, he swept +through the hall and knocked at the door of Jean's room. There was no +response. He knocked again, turned the handle, entered, and found the +room empty. The tin soldier on the shelf shouted, "Welcome, +welcome—comrade," but Derry had no ears to hear. Everywhere were +signs of Jean; her fat memory book open on her desk, the ivory and gold +appointments of her dressing table, her pink slippers, her prayer +book—his own picture with flowers in front of it as before a shrine. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear, my darling," his heart said when he saw that. What, after +all, was he that she should worship him? +</P> + +<P> +Impatient, he rang for Bronson, and the old man came—bewildered, +hurried, joyful. "It's a great surprise, sir, but it's good to see +you." +</P> + +<P> +"It's good to see you, Bronson. Where's Miss Jean?" +</P> + +<P> +"At Miss Emily's shop, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"As late as this?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sometimes later. She tries to get home in time for dinner." +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Driving with the children, and the ladies are out on war work." +</P> + +<P> +A year ago women had played bridge at this hour in the afternoon, but +there was no playing now. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't tell Dad that I am here. I'll come back presently with Mrs. +Drake." +</P> + +<P> +And now down the hall came an old gray dog, wild with delight, +outracing Polly Ann, who thought it was a play and leaped after +him—Muffin had found his master! +</P> + +<P> +But Derry left Muffin, left Bronson, left Polly Ana, a wistful trio at +the front door. He must find Jean! +</P> + +<P> +The day was darkening, and a light burned far back on the Toy Shop. +Derry, standing outside, saw a room which was the very wraith of the +gay little shop as he had left it—with its white tables, its long +counters piled high with finished dressings; the white elephants in a +spectral row behind glass doors on the top shelf the only reminder of +what it once had been. +</P> + +<P> +He saw, too, a small nun-like figure behind the counter, a figure all +in white, with a white veil banded about her forehead and flowing down +behind. +</P> + +<P> +All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes were on the compresses that +she was counting. It seemed to him that there was a sharpened look on +the little face. +</P> + +<P> +He had not expected this. He had felt that he would find her glowing +as she had been on that first night when he had followed his father +through the rain—his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, of silver +and rose, of youth and laughter and lightness—. +</P> + +<P> +Her letters had been like that—gay, sparkling—there had been times +when they had seemed almost too exuberant, times when he had wondered +if she had really waked to the seriousness of the great struggle, and +the part he was to play in it. +</P> + +<P> +Yet now he saw signs of suffering. He opened the door. "Jean," he +cried. +</P> + +<P> +With the blood all drained from her face, she stared at him as if she +saw a specter—"Derry," she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +With his strong arms, he lifted her over the counter. "Jean-Joan, +Jean-Joan—" +</P> + +<P> +When at last she released herself, it was to laugh through her tears. +"Derry, pull down the shades; what will people think?" +</P> + +<P> +He cared little what people would think. And, anyway, very few people +were passing at that late hour in the rain. But he pulled them down, +and when he came back, he held her off at arm's length. "What have you +been doing to yourself, dearest? You are a feather-weight." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I've been working." +</P> + +<P> +"How does it happen that you are here alone?" +</P> + +<P> +"Emily had to go down to order supplies, and Margaret went to a Liberty +Loan meeting. I often stay like this to count and tie." +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you get dreadfully tired?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. But I think I like to get tired. It keeps me from thinking too +much." +</P> + +<P> +He drew her to him. "Take off your veil," he said, almost roughly. "I +want to see your hair." +</P> + +<P> +Divested of her headcovering, she was more like herself, but even then +he was not content. He loosed a hairpin here and there and ran his +fingers through the crinkled gold. "If you knew how I've dreamed of +it, Jean-Joan." +</P> + +<P> +But he had not dreamed of the dearness of the little face. "My +darling, you have been pining, and I didn't know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, didn't you like my smiling letters?" +</P> + +<P> +"So that was it? You've been trying to cheer me up, and letting +yourself get like this." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't want to worry you." +</P> + +<P> +"Didn't you know that I'd want to be worried with anything that +pertained to you? What's a husband for, dearest, if you can't tell him +your troubles?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, but a soldier-husband, Derry, is different. You've got to keep +smiling—" +</P> + +<P> +Her lips trembled and she clung to him. "It is so good to have you +here, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +She admitted, later, that she had confided her troubles to her memory +book. "There weren't any big things, really—just missing you and all +that—" +</P> + +<P> +He was jealous of the memory book. "I shall read every word of it." +</P> + +<P> +"Not until you come back from the war—and then we can laugh at it +together." +</P> + +<P> +They fell into silence after that. With his arms about her he thought +that he might not come back, and she clinging to him had the same +thought. But neither told the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you know," she said at last, sitting up and sticking the hairpins +into her crinkled knot. "Do you know that it's almost time for dinner, +and that the General will wonder where I am?" +</P> + +<P> +"I told Bronson not to tell him." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, really, Derry? Let's make it a great surprise." +</P> + +<P> +Providentially the General was late. He and the children came home to +find the house quite remarkably illumined, and Margaret flushed and +excited, and in white. +</P> + +<P> +"Is it a party, Mother?" Teddy asked, lending his shoulder manfully to +the General's hand, as, with the chauffeur on the other side, they +helped the old man up the stairs. +</P> + +<P> +"No, but on such a rainy night Bronson and I thought we'd have a little +feast. Don't you think that would be fun?" +</P> + +<P> +The General was tired. "I had planned not to come down again—" +</P> + +<P> +"Please do," she begged, +</P> + +<P> +Bronson, knowing his master's moods, was on tip-toe with anxiety. +"I've your things all laid out, sir." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well, I'll see." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, somewhat out of breath as they reached the top landing was +inspired to remark, "We'll be 'spointed if you don't come down—" +</P> + +<P> +"You want me, eh?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I do. There isn't any other man—" +</P> + +<P> +The General chuckled. "Well, that's reason enough—. You can count on +me, Ted, for masculine support." +</P> + +<P> +The table was laid for six. Teddy appearing presently in the dining +room pointed out the fact to Bronson, who was taking a last look. +</P> + +<P> +"Is Margaret-Mary coming down?" +</P> + +<P> +"She may later, for the sweets." +</P> + +<P> +"Those aren't her spoons and forks." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, well," said Bronson, "so they aren't"; but he did not have them +changed. +</P> + +<P> +The General in his dinner coat, perfectly groomed, immaculate, found +Jean in rose and silver waiting for him. +</P> + +<P> +"How gay we are," he said, and pinched her cheek. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy in white linen and patent leathers also approved. "You've got on +your spangly dwess, and it makes you pwetty—" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Ted, is it just my clothes that make me pretty?" +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't mean that. Only tonight you're so nice and—shining." +</P> + +<P> +She shone, indeed, with such effulgence, that it was a wonder that the +General did not suspect. But he did not, even when she said, "We have +a surprise for you." +</P> + +<P> +"For me, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. A parcel—it came this afternoon. We want you to untie the +string." +</P> + +<P> +"Where is it?" Teddy demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"On the table in the blue room." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy rushed in ahead of the rest, came back and reported, "It's a big +one." +</P> + +<P> +It was a big one, cone-shaped and tied up in brown paper. It was set +on a heavy carved table, a length of tapestry was under it and hid the +legs of the table. +</P> + +<P> +"It looks like a small tree," the General remarked. "But why all this +air of mystery?" +</P> + +<P> +He was plainly bored by the fuss they were making. He was tired, and +he wanted his dinner. +</P> + +<P> +But Jean, in an excited voice, was telling him to cut the string, and +Bronson was handing him a knife. +</P> + +<P> +And then—the paper dropped and everybody was laughing, and Teddy was +screaming wildly and he was staring at the khaki-clad upper half of a +tall young soldier whose silver-blond hair was clipped close, and whose +hand went up in salute. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Cousin Derry. It's Cousin Derry," Teddy was shouting, and +Margaret-Mary piped up, "It's Tousin Dee." +</P> + +<P> +Derry stepped out from behind the table, where leaning forward and +wrapped up he had lent himself to the illusion, and put both hands on +the General's shoulders. "Glad to see me, Dad?" +</P> + +<P> +"Glad; my dear boy—" It was almost too much for him. +</P> + +<P> +Yet as supported by his son's arm, they went a moment later into the +dining room, he had a sense of renewed strength in the youth and vigor +of this youth who was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. If his own +feet could not march here were feet which would march for him. +</P> + +<P> +There were flowers on the table, most extravagantly, for these war +times, orchids; and there were tall white candles in silver holders. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shining between the candles was a wonder for the world to gaze +upon. Derry couldn't keep his eyes off her. This was no longer a +little nun of the Toy Shop, yet he held the vision of the little nun in +his heart, lest he should forget that she had suffered. +</P> + +<P> +He talked to them all. But beating like a wave against his +consciousness was always the thought of Jean. Of the things he had to +tell her which he could tell to no one else. He knew now that he could +reveal to her the depths of his nature. He had withheld so much, +fearing to crush her butterfly wings, but she was not a butterfly. +They had been playing at cross purposes, and writing letters that +merely skimmed the surface of their emotions. It had taken those +moments in the Toy Shop to teach them their mistake. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, feeling that the occasion called for a relaxing of the +children-should-be-seen-and-not-heard rule, asked questions. +</P> + +<P> +"How long can you stay?" +</P> + +<P> +"Ten days." +</P> + +<P> +"Are you going to Fwance?" +</P> + +<P> +"I hope so." +</P> + +<P> +"Mother says I've got to pray for the Germans." +</P> + +<P> +"Teddy," Margaret admonished. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I rather think I would," Derry told him. "They need it." +</P> + +<P> +This was a new angle. "Shall you hate to kill them?" +</P> + +<P> +There was a stir about the table. The old man and the women seemed to +hang on Derry's answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I shall hate it. I hate all killing, but it's got to be done." +</P> + +<P> +He spoke presently, at length, of what many men thought of war. +</P> + +<P> +"We are red-blooded enough, we Americans, but I think we hate killing +the other man rather more than we fear being killed. It's +sickening—bayonet practice. Killing at long range is different. The +children of my generation were trained to tender-heartedness. We +looked after the birds and rescued kittens, and were told that wars +were impossible—long wars. But war is not impossible, and it has come +upon us, and we are finding that men must be brave not merely in the +face of losing their own lives, but in the face of taking the lives +of—others. I sometimes wonder what it must have seemed to those +Germans who went first into Belgium. Some of them must have been +kind—some of them must have asked to be shot rather than be set at the +work of butchery. +</P> + +<P> +"I sometimes think," he pursued, "that if we could give moving pictures +of the war just as it is—in all its horror and hideousness—show the +pictures in every little town in every country in the world, that war +would stop at once. If the Germans could see themselves in those towns +in Belgium—if the world could see them. If we could see men mowed +down—wounded, close up, as our soldiers see them. If our people +should be forced to look at those pictures, as the people of war-ridden +countries have been forced to gaze upon realities, money would be +provided and men provided in such amounts and numbers that those who +began the war would be forced to end it on the terms the world would +set for them. +</P> + +<P> +"The fact that men are going into this war in spite of their aversion +to killing shows the stuff of which they are made. It is like drowning +kittens," he smiled a little. "It has to be done or the world would be +overrun by cats." +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, wide-eyed, was listening. "Do people drown kittens?" he asked. +"Oh, I didn't think they would." It was a sad commentary on the +conditions of war that he was more heavily oppressed by the thought of +drowned little cats than by the murder of men. +</P> + +<P> +"My dear fellow," Derry said, "we won't talk about such things. I must +beg your pardon for mentioning it." +</P> + +<P> +The talk flowed on then in lighter vein. "Ralph Witherspoon is in +town," Jean vouchsafed. "He had a bad fall and was sent home to get +over it. Mrs. Witherspoon has asked me there to dine. I shall take +you with me." +</P> + +<P> +"I didn't know that people were dining out in these times." +</P> + +<P> +"Mrs. Witherspoon prides herself on her conservation menus. She says +that she serves war things, that she gives us nothing to eat that the +men need, and she likes her friends about her." +</P> + +<P> +"We shall miss Drusilla," Derry said. "I've been worried about her +since the Huns recaptured those towns in France." +</P> + +<P> +"Daddy wrote that she is not far from his hospital, doing splendid +work, and that the men adore her." +</P> + +<P> +"They would," said Derry. "She is a great-hearted creature. I can +fancy her singing to them over there. You know what a wonder she was +at that sort of thing—" +</P> + +<P> +After dinner the General was eager to have his son to himself. "The +women will excuse us while we smoke and talk." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's eyes wandered to Jean. "All right," he said with an effort. +</P> + +<P> +The General's heart tightened. His son was his son. The little girl +in silver and rose was in a sense an outsider. She had not known Derry +throughout the years, as his father had known him. How could she care +as much? +</P> + +<P> +Yet she did care. He realized how Derry's coming had changed her. He +heard her laugh as she had not laughed in all the weeks of loneliness. +She came up and stood beside Derry, and linked her arm in his and +looked up at him with shining eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Isn't he—wonderful?" she asked, with a catch of her breath. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, take her away," the old gentleman said. "Go and talk to her +somewhere." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's face brightened. "You don't mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course not," stoutly. "Bronson says that the rain has stopped. +There's probably a moon somewhere, if you'll look for it." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret went up to put the children to bed. Emily, promising to come +back, withdrew to write a letter. The old man sat alone. +</P> + +<P> +He limped into the blue room, and gazed indifferently around on its +treasures. Once he had cared for these plates and cups—his quest for +rare porcelains had been eager. +</P> + +<P> +And now he did not care. The lovely glazed things were for the eye, +not for the heart. He would have given them all for the touch of a +loving hand, for a voice that grew tender—. +</P> + +<P> +There was the patter of little feet on the polished floor. +Margaret-Mary in a diminutive blue dressing gown and infinitesimal +slippers, with her curls brushed tidily up from the back of her neck +and skewered with a hairpin, came over and laid her hand on his knee. +"Dus a 'itte 'tory?" she asked ingratiatingly. She adored stories. +</P> + +<P> +He picked her up, and she curled herself into the corner of his arm. +</P> + +<P> +Her mother found her there. "Mother's naughty little girl," she said, +"to run away—" +</P> + +<P> +"Let her stay," the General begged. "Somehow my heart needs her +tonight." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap28"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXVIII +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +SIX DAYS +</H3> + + +<P> +Four days of Derry's furlough had passed, four palpitating days, and now +the hours that the lovers spent together began to take on the poignant +quality of coming separation. Every moment counted, nothing must be +lost, nothing must be left unsaid, nothing must be left undone which +should emphasize their oneness of thought and purpose. +</P> + +<P> +They read together, they walked together, they rode together, they went +to church together. If they included the General in their plans it was +because they felt his need of them, not theirs of him. They lived in a +world created to survive for ten days and then to collapse like a pricked +bubble— +</P> + +<P> +And it was because of the dread of collapse that Jean began to plan a +structure of remembrance which should endure after Derry's departure. +</P> + +<P> +"Darling," she said, "there are only six days—What shall we do with +them?" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE FIFTH DAY +</P> + +<P> +It was Sunday, and in the morning they went dutifully to church. They +ate their luncheon dutifully with the whole family, and motored dutifully +afterwards with the General. Then at twilight they sought the Toy Shop. +</P> + +<P> +They had it all to themselves, and they had told Bronson that they would +not be home for dinner. So Jean made chocolate for Derry as she had made +it on that first night for his father. They toasted war bread on the +electric grill, and there were strawberries. +</P> + +<P> +They were charmed with their housekeeping. "It would have been like +this," Derry said—all eyes for her loveliness, "if you had been the girl +in the Toy Shop and I had been the shabby boy—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean pondered. "I wonder if a big house is ever really a home?" +</P> + +<P> +"Not ours. Mother tried to make it—but it has always been a sort of +museum with Dad's collections." +</P> + +<P> +"Do you think that some day we could have a little house?" +</P> + +<P> +"We can have whatever you want." His smile warmed her. +</P> + +<P> +"Wouldn't you want it, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"If you were in it." +</P> + +<P> +"Let's talk about it, and plan it, and put dream furniture in it, and +dream friends—" +</P> + +<P> +"More Lovely Dreams?" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, something like that—a House o' Dreams, Derry, without any gold +dragons or marble balls or queer porcelain things; just our own bits of +furniture and china, and a garden, and Muffin and Polly Ann—" Her eyes +were wistful. +</P> + +<P> +"You shall have it now if you wish." +</P> + +<P> +"Not until you can share it with me—" +</P> + +<P> +And that was the beginning of their fantastic pilgrimage. In the time +that was left to them they were to find a house of dreams, and as Jean +said, expansively, "all the rest." +</P> + +<P> +"We will start tonight," Derry declared. "There's such a moon." +</P> + +<P> +It was the kind of moon that whitened the world; one swam in a sea of +light. Derry's runabout was a fairy car. Jean's hair was molten gold, +her lover's pale silver—as with bare heads, having passed the city +limits, they took the open road. +</P> + +<P> +It was as warm as summer, and there were fragrances which seemed to wash +over them in waves as they passed old gardens and old orchards. There +was bridal-wreath billowing above stone fences, snow-balls, pale globes +among the green, beds of iris, purple-black beneath the moon. +</P> + +<P> +They forded a stream—more silver, and a silver road after that. +</P> + +<P> +"Where are we going?" Jean breathed. +</P> + +<P> +"I know a house—" +</P> + +<P> +It was a little house set on top of a hill, where indeed no little house +should be set, for little houses should nestle, protected by the slopes +back of them. But this little house was set up there for the view—the +Monument a spectral shaft, miles away, the Potomac broadening out beyond +it, the old trees of the Park sleeping between. This was what the little +house saw by night; it saw more than that by day. +</P> + +<P> +It was not an empty house. One window was lighted, a square of gold in a +lower room. +</P> + +<P> +They did not know who lived in the house. They did not care. For the +moment it was theirs. Leaving the car, they sat on the grass and +surveyed their property. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course it is ours," Jean said, "and when you are over there, you can +think of it with the moon shining on it." +</P> + +<P> +"I like the sloping roof," her lover took up the refrain, "and the big +chimney and the wide windows." +</P> + +<P> +"I can sit on the window seat and watch for you, Derry, and there will be +smoke coming out of the chimney on cold days, and a fire roaring on the +hearth when you open the door—" +</P> + +<P> +They decided that there ought to be eight rooms—, and they named them. +The Log-Fire Room; The Room of Little Feasts; the Place of Pots and Pans— +</P> + +<P> +"That's the first floor," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +The upper floor was harder—The Royal Suite; The Friendly Boom, for the +dream maid of all work; The Spare Chamber— +</P> + +<P> +"My grandmother had a spare chamber," Jean explained, "and I always liked +the sound of it, as if she kept her hospitality pressed down and running +over—" +</P> + +<P> +Derry, who had written it all by the light of the moon, held his pencil +poised. "There is one more," he said, "the little room towards the +West—" +</P> + +<P> +Jean hesitated for the breadth of a second. "Well, we may need another," +she said, and left it nameless. +</P> + +<P> +The door opened and a man came out. If he saw them, they meant nothing +to him—a pair of lovers by the wayside; there were many such. +</P> + +<P> +He paced back and forth on the gravel walk. They could hear the crunch +of it under his feet. They saw the shining tip of his cigar—smelt its +fragrance—. +</P> + +<P> +Again the door opened, to frame a woman. She called and her voice was +young. +</P> + +<P> +"Dearest, it is late. Are you coming in?" +</P> + +<P> +His young voice answered. His far-flung cigar-end trailed across the +darkness, his eager steps gave quick response—the door was shut—. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, Derry, I'd call you like that—-" +</P> + +<P> +"And I should come." +</P> + +<P> +The light went out on the lower floor, and presently in a room above a +window was illumined. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE SIXTH DAY +</P> + +<P> +A dream house must have dream furniture. There are old shops in +Alexandria, where, less often than in earlier years, one may find +treasures, bow-legged chairs and gate-legged tables, yellowed letters +written by famous pens, steel engravings which have hung in historic +halls, pewter and plate, Luster and Sèvres, Wedgwood and Willow, +Chippendale and Hepplewhite, Adams and Empire, everything linked with +some distinguished name, everything with a story, real or invented. One +may buy an ancestor for a song, or at least the portrait of one, and +silver with armorial bearings, and no one will know if you do not tell +them that your heirlooms have come from a shop. +</P> + +<P> +And Alexandria, as all the world knows, is reached from Washington by +motor and trolley, train or ferry. +</P> + +<P> +It was by ferry that the lovers preferred to go in the glory of this May +morning, feeling the breeze fresh in their faces as with a motley crowd +they stood on the lower deck and looked towards the old town. +</P> + +<P> +Thus they came to the wharves, flanked by ancient warehouses in a +straggly row along the water line. The windows of these ancient edifices +had looked down on Revolutionary heroes, the old brick walls had echoed +to the sound of fife and drum—the old streets had once been thronged by +men in blue and buff. Since those days the quaint little city had basked +in the pride of her traditions. She had tolerated nothing modern until +within this very year she had waked to find that her red-coat enemy was +now her friend, that the roads which George Washington had travelled were +being trod once more by marching men; that in the church where he had +worshipped prayers were being said once more for men in battle. +</P> + +<P> +And into the shops, with their storied antiques, drifted now men in +olive-drab and men in blue, and men in forester's green, who laughed at +the flint locks and powder horns, saluted the Father of his Country +whenever they passed his picture, gazed with reverence on ancient swords +and uniforms, dickered for such small articles as might be bought out of +their limited allowances, and paid in the end, cheerfully, prices which +would have been scorned by any discriminating buyer. +</P> + +<P> +"There must be a table for the Log-Fire Room," Jean told her husband, +"and a fire-bench, not too high, and a big chair for you, and another +chair for me—" +</P> + +<P> +"And a stool for your little feet—." +</P> + +<P> +"And a desk for you, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +"And an oval mirror with a gold frame, for me to see your face in, +Jean-Joan—" +</P> + +<P> +Then there was a four-poster bed with pineapples, and an Adams screen, an +old brass-bound chest, the most adorable things in Sheffield and crystal, +and to crown it all, a picture of George Washington—a print, faintly +colored, with the country's coat of arms carved on the frame. +</P> + +<P> +Yet not one thing did they buy except a quite sumptuous and splendid +marriage coffer which suggested itself at once as the only wedding +present for Emily. +</P> + +<P> +The price took Jean's breath away. "But, dearest—" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing is too good for Emily, Jean-Joan." +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +That night Derry drew a picture of the house in Jean's memory book. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll put a garden in front—" +</P> + +<P> +"How can you put in a garden, Derry, when there isn't one?" +</P> + +<P> +She wore a lace robe and a lace cap, and there were pink ribbons threaded +in, and her cheeks were pink. "You can't put in a garden until there is +one, Derry. When we find it, it must be a lovesome garden, with the +old-fashioned flowers, and a fountain with a cupid—and a fish-pond." +</P> + +<P> +With this settled, he proceeded, with facile pen, to furnish the house. +There was the Log-Fire Room, with the print of George Washington over the +mantel, with Jean's knitting on the table; Muffin on one side of the +fire, and Polly Ann on the other. He even started to put Jean in one of +the big chairs, but she made him rub it out. "Not yet, Derry. You see, +I am not living in it yet. I am living here, with you alive and loving—" +</P> + +<P> +He caught her to him. "When you are away from me," she whispered, "I'll +live in it—and you'll be there—and I shall never feel alone—" +</P> + +<P> +Yet later, Derry coming in unexpectedly after a talk with his father, +found her sobbing with her head on the fat old book. +</P> + +<P> +"My darling—" +</P> + +<P> +"It isn't that I am unhappy, Derry—. It is just for that one little +minute, I wanted it to be real—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE SEVENTH DAY +</P> + +<P> +It was on the morning of the seventh day that a letter came from Drusilla. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"<I>Dear Babes in the Wood</I>: +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am writing this to tell you that the next time I see Captain Hewes, I +am going to marry him. That sounds a little like a hold-up, doesn't it? +But it is the way we are doing things over here. He has wanted it for so +long, and I am beginning to know that I want it, too. It has been hard +to tell just what was really best in the face of all that is happening. +It has seemed sometimes as if it were a sacrilege to think of love and +life in the midst of death and destruction. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I shan't have any trousseau; I shan't have a wedding journey. He will +just blow in some day, and the chaplain will marry us, and the little old +curé of this village will give us his blessing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I never expected to be married like this. You know the kind of mind I +have. I must always see the picture of myself doing things, and there +had always been a sort of dream of some great church with a blur of gold +light at the far end, and myself floating up the aisle in a cloud of +white veil, and a hushed crowd and the organ playing. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And it won't be a bit like that. I shall wear a uniform and a flannel +shirt, and I'll be lucky if my boots are not splashed with mud. It will +seem queer to be married with my boots on, as men died in old romances. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"Perhaps by the time this reaches you, Drusilla Gray will be Drusilla +Hewes, and so I ask your blessing, and your prayers. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I should never have asked for your prayers a year ago. I should have +been thanking you for your wedding present of glass and silver, and +asking you to dine with me on Tuesday or Thursday as the case might be. +But now, the only thought that holds me is whether God will give my +Captain back to me, and the hope that if not, I may have the strength to +bear it—. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"I am sure that Derry will feel the sublimity of it all when he +comes—death is so near, yet so little feared; the men know that tonight +or tomorrow they may be beyond the shadows, and it holds them to +something bigger than themselves. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"But be sure of this, my dears, that when Derry goes the seas will not +part you—. Spirit touches spirit, space has nothing to do with it. +Often when I am alone, the Captain comes to me, speaks to me, cheers me; +I think if he should die in battle, he would still come. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"If ever I have a home of my own, I shall build an altar not to the +Unknown God but to the God whom I had lost and have found again. I go +into old churches here to pray, and it is no longer a matter of feeling, +no longer a matter of form, it is something more than that. +</P> + +<P CLASS="letter"> +"And now I can't ask you to dance at my wedding, but I can ask you to +wish me happiness and a long life with my lover, or failing that, the +strength to give him up—" +</P> + +<P> +She signed herself, "Always loving you both, DRUSILLA." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +"Such a dear letter," said Jean. +</P> + +<P> +"And such a different Drusilla. Do you think that the Drusilla of the +old days would have built an altar?" +</P> + +<P> +And it was because of Drusilla's letter that Derry took Jean that +afternoon to the great Library with the gold dome and guided her to a +corridor made beautiful by the brush of an artist who had painted "The +Occupations of the Day"; in one lunette a primitive man and woman knelt +before a pile of stones on which burned a sacred flame. Above them was +blue sky—flowers grew within reach of their hands—the fields stretched +beyond. +</P> + +<P> +"We must build an altar, dearest." +</P> + +<P> +"In our hearts—" +</P> + +<P> +"And in our House of Dreams—" +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE EIGHTH DAY +</P> + +<P> +There was no getting out of the Witherspoon dinner, and it was when Ralph +greeted Jean that he said to her, "You are lovelier than ever." +</P> + +<P> +She smiled at him. "It is because my heart is singing—" +</P> + +<P> +"Do you feel like that?" +</P> + +<P> +She nodded. "In three days the song will cease—the lights will go out, +and the curtain will fall—the end of the world will come." +</P> + +<P> +"Drake goes in three days?" +</P> + +<P> +"He goes back to camp. I don't expect to see him again before he sails." +</P> + +<P> +"Lucky fellow." +</P> + +<P> +"To go?" +</P> + +<P> +"To have you." +</P> + +<P> +"Please don't." +</P> + +<P> +"Let me say this—that I acted like a cad; I'd like to feel that you've +forgiven me." +</P> + +<P> +"I have forgotten, which is better, isn't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"How sweet you are—and all the sweetness is Derry's. Well, when I go +over, will you pray for me, my dear?" +</P> + +<P> +He was in dead earnest. "There are so few women—who pray—but I rather +fancy that you must—" +</P> + +<P> +All around them was surging talk. "How strange it seems," Jean said, +"that we should be speaking of such things, here—" +</P> + +<P> +"No," Ralph said, "it is not strange. I have a feeling that I shan't +come back." +</P> + +<P> +Alma Drew on the other side of him claimed his attention. "War is the +great sensational opportunity. And there are people who like patriotism +of the sound-the-trumpet-beat-the-drum variety—" +</P> + +<P> +"You said that rather cleverly, Alma," Ralph told her, "but you mustn't +forget that was the kind of patriotism our forefathers had, and it seemed +rather effective." +</P> + +<P> +"Men aren't machines," Jean said hotly. "They are flesh and blood, and +so are women—a fife and drum or a bag-pipe means more to them than just +crude music; the blood of their ancestors thrilled to the sound." +</P> + +<P> +"As savages thrill to a tom-tom." +</P> + +<P> +They stared at her. +</P> + +<P> +"It is all savage," Alma said, crisply and coolly, "We are all murderers. +We are teaching our men to run Germans through with bayonets, and trying +to make ourselves think that they aren't breaking the sixth commandment. +Yet in times of peace, when a man kills he goes to the electric chair—" +</P> + +<P> +It was Derry who answered that. "If in times of peace I heard you scream +and saw you set upon by thieves and murderers, and stood with my hands in +my pockets while you were tortured and killed, would you call my +non-interference laudable?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's different." +</P> + +<P> +"It is the same thing. The only difference lies in the fact that +thousands of defenceless women and little children are calling. Would +you have the nation stand with its hands in its pockets?" +</P> + +<P> +Alma, cold as ice, challenged him: "Why should they call to us? We'll be +sorry some day that we went into it." +</P> + +<P> +Out of a dead silence, a man said: "Not long ago, I went into a sweet +shop in England. A woman came in with two children. They were rosy +children and round. They carried muffs. +</P> + +<P> +"She bought candy for them—and when she gave it to them, I saw that they +had—no hands—" +</P> + +<P> +A gasp went round the table. +</P> + +<P> +"They were Belgian children." +</P> + +<P> +That night Jean said to Derry with a sternness which set strangely upon +her, "We must have friends in our House of Dreams. The latchstrings will +always be out for people like Emily and Marion, and Drusilla, and Ulrich +and Ralph—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes—" +</P> + +<P> +"But not for Hilda and Alma." +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE NINTH DAY +</P> + +<P> +It was on the ninth day that Derry waked his wife at dawn. "I've ordered +the car. It rained in the night, and now—oh, there was never such a +morning; there may never be such a morning for us again." +</P> + +<P> +"What time is it, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sunrise time—come and see." +</P> + +<P> +Her window faced the east, and she saw all the pearl of it, and the faint +rose and the amethyst and gold. +</P> + +<P> +"We shall eat our breakfast ten miles from town," Derry said, as their +car carried him out into the country, "and there's a lovesome garden—" +</P> + +<P> +"With old-fashioned flowers and a fountain and a Cupid?" +</P> + +<P> +"With all that—and more—" +</P> + +<P> +The garden belonged to an old woman. For years and years she had planted +flowers—-tulips and hyacinths and poppies and lilies and gladiolus and +larkspur and phlox and ladyslipper—there had always been a riot of color. +</P> + +<P> +She had an old gardener, and she would stand over him, leaning on her +silver-topped ebony cane, with a lace scarf covering her hair, and would +point out the places to plant things. +</P> + +<P> +But now in her garden she had strawberries and Swiss chard and sweet +herbs, and rows and rows of peas and young onions and potatoes, with a +place left for corn at the back, and tomatoes in every spare space. +</P> + +<P> +And there was lettuce, and an asparagus bed, and everything on this May +morning was shouting to the sun. +</P> + +<P> +"I had always thought," said the old lady to Derry, when he presented +Jean, "that a vegetable garden was uninteresting. But it is a little +world—with class distinctions of its own, if you please. All the really +useful vegetables we call common; it is the ones we can do without which +are the aristocrats. The potatoes and cabbages and onions are really +important, but I am proudest of my young peas and my peppers and +cucumbers and tomatoes, and that's the way of the world, isn't it? If +there was only an aristocracy things would stop, but the common folk +could go on alone until the end of time." +</P> + +<P> +She gave Jean a blue bowl to pick strawberries in; and Derry dug +asparagus—the creamy shoots were tipped with pale purple and pink, +deepening into green where they had stood too long in the sun. +</P> + +<P> +"Aren't there any flowers?" Jean was anxious. +</P> + +<P> +"Come and see." The old woman went ahead of them, her cane tap-tapping +on the stone flags. +</P> + +<P> +She opened a gate which was flanked by brick walls. "These," she said, +whimsically, "are my jewels." +</P> + +<A NAME="img-442"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-442.jpg" ALT=""These are my jewels."" BORDER="2" WIDTH="388" HEIGHT="580"> +<H4> +[Illustration: "These are my jewels."] +</H4> +</CENTER> + +<P> +All the sweetness which had once spread over her domain was concentrated +here, fragrance and flame—roses, iris, peonies—honeysuckle—ruby and +emerald, amethyst and gold; a Cupid riding a swan, with water pouring +from his quiver into a shallow marble basin. +</P> + +<P> +"I should not have dared keep this, if it had not been for the other—" +the old woman told them. "I am very sure that in these days God walks in +vegetable gardens—" +</P> + +<P> +For breakfast they had strawberries and radishes, thin little corn +cakes—and two fresh eggs from the chickens which most triumphantly +occupied the conservatory. +</P> + +<P> +"This is the only way I can do my bit," the old lady explained, "by +helping with the world's food supply. My eyes are bad and I cannot sew, +my fingers are twisted and I cannot knit, and Dennis is old—but we plan +the garden and plant—" +</P> + +<P> +And that night Jean said to Derry, "I am glad there were flowers to make +it lovesome—and I am glad there were vegetables to make it right." +</P> + +<P> +So he drew a waving field of corn back of the dream cottage, and tomatoes +and peas to the right and left—with onions in a stiff row along the +border, and potatoes storming the hillside. But the gate which led to +the Lovesome Garden was open wide, so that one might see the Cupid as he +rode his swan. +</P> + +<BR> + +<P> +THE LAST DAY +</P> + +<P> +It was on the tenth day that Derry said, "We have our house and the +furniture for it, and we have built an altar, and found our friends, and +we have planted a garden—what shall we do on the last day?" +</P> + +<P> +And Jean said, rather unexpectedly, "We will go to the circus." +</P> + +<P> +"To the circus?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. And take the children—they are dying to go, and Margaret can't. +It is up to you and me, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +Even Nurse was to stay behind. "We'll have them all to ourselves." +</P> + +<P> +Derry was dubious, a little hurt. "It seems rather queer, doesn't it, on +our last day?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I think I should like it better than anything else, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +And so they went. +</P> + +<P> +It was warm with a hint of showers in the air, and both of the children +were in white. Jean was also in white. They rode in the General's +limousine to where the big tent with all its flags flying covered a vast +space. +</P> + +<P> +"Cousin Derry, Mother said I might have some peanuts." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, old man." +</P> + +<P> +"And Margaret-Mary mustn't. But there are some crackers in a bag." +</P> + +<P> +It was all most entrancing, the gilded wagons, the restless beasts behind +their bars, the spotted ponies, the swaying elephants, the bands playing, +the crowds streaming—. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy held tight to Jean's hand. Margaret-Mary was carried high on +Derry's shoulder. All of her curls were bobbing, and her eyes were +shining. Now and then she dropped a light kiss on the silver blond hair +of her cavalier. +</P> + +<P> +"Tousin Dee," she murmured, affectionately. +</P> + +<P> +"She's an adorable kiddie," Derry told Jean as they found their seats. +</P> + +<P> +"Cousin Derry," Teddy reminded him, "don't forget the peanuts." +</P> + +<P> +And now the trumpets blared and the drums boomed, and the great parade +writhed like a glittering serpent around the huge circle, then broke up +into various groups as the performance began in the rings. +</P> + +<P> +After that one needed all of one's eyes. Teddy sat spellbound for a +while, but found time at last to draw a long breath. "Cousin Derry, that +is the funniest clown—" +</P> + +<P> +"The little one?" +</P> + +<P> +"The big one; oh, well, the little one, too." +</P> + +<P> +Silence again while the elephants did amazing things in one ring, with +Japanese tumblers in another, with piebald ponies beyond, and things +being done on trapezes everywhere. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy slipped his hand into Derry's. "It's—it's almost like having +Daddy," he confided. "I know he's glad I'm here." +</P> + +<P> +Derry's big hand closed over the small one. "I'm glad, too, old chap." +</P> + +<P> +Margaret-Mary having gazed her fill, slept comfortably in Jean's arms. +</P> + +<P> +"Let me hold her," Derry said. +</P> + +<P> +Jean shook her head. "I love to have her here." +</P> + +<P> +She had taken off her hat, and as she bent above the child her hair made +a halo of gold. In the midst of all the tawdriness she was a still and +sacred figure—a Madonna with a child. +</P> + +<P> +Teddy, when he reached home, told the General all about it. +</P> + +<P> +"It was be-yeutiful—but Cousin Jean cwied—-" +</P> + +<P> +"Cried?" +</P> + +<P> +"I saw a tear rwunning down her cheek, and it splashed on Margaret-Mary's +nose—" +</P> + +<P> +And that night Derry said, "My darling, what shall I draw in our book?" +</P> + +<P> +"The thing that you want most to remember, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +So he drew her all in white, bending over a child of dreams. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +The next morning, she told him "Good-bye." They had come along to the +Toy Shop for their farewell, so that there was only the old white +elephant to see her tears, and the Lovely Dreams to be sorry for her. +</P> + +<P> +Yet her head was held high at the very last, and she was not sorry for +herself. "I am glad and proud to have you go, dearest. I am glad and +proud—" +</P> + +<P> +And after he had gone, she worked until lunch time on the bandages and +wipes, and rode with the General in the afternoon, with her hand in his, +knowing that it comforted him. +</P> + +<P> +But very late that night, when every one else is the big house was fast +asleep, she crept out into the hall in her lace robe and lace cap and +pink slippers and stood beneath the picture of the painted lady. "He +will come back," she said. "He must come back—and—oh, oh, Derry's +mother in Heaven—you must tell me how to live—without him—." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap29"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +CHAPTER XXIX +</H3> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +"AND, AFTER ALL, HE CAME TO THE WARS!" +</H3> + + +<P> +A perfect day, with men lying dead by thousands on the battlefield; +twilight, with a young moon; night and the stars— +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla's throat was dry with singing—there had been so many hurt, +and she had found that it helped them to hear her, so when a moaning, +groaning, cursing ambulance load stopped a moment, she sang; when +walking wounded came through sagging with pain and dreadful weariness, +she sang; and when night fell, and an engine was stalled, and she took +in her own car a man who must be rushed to the first collecting +station, she found herself still singing—. And this time it was "The +Battle Hymn of the Republic." +</P> + +<P> +The man propped up beside her murmured, "My Captain liked that—he used +to sing it—" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" She was listening with only half an ear. There were so many +Captains. +</P> + +<P> +"He was engaged to an American." +</P> + +<P> +She listened now. "Your Captain—?" +</P> + +<P> +"Captain Hewes." +</P> + +<P> +She guided the car steadily. "Dawson Hewes?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes. Do you know him?" +</P> + +<P> +"I—I am the girl he is going to marry—" +</P> + +<P> +He froze into silence. She bent towards him. "What made you +say—<I>was</I>—?" +</P> + +<P> +"He's—gone West—" +</P> + +<P> +"Dead?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +"When?" She still drove steadily through the dark. +</P> + +<P> +"To-day." +</P> + +<P> +She looked up at the stars. So—he would never come blowing in with +the sweet spring winds. +</P> + +<P> +"I'd rather have been—shot—than to have told you that—" the man +beside her was saying, "but, you see, I didn't know you were the girl—" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course you couldn't. You mustn't blame yourself." +</P> + +<P> +She delivered her precious charge at the hospital and put up her car +for the night. Standing alone under the stars she wondered what she +should do next. There was no one to tell—the women who had worked +with her in the town which had since been recaptured by the Germans had +gone to other towns. But she had stayed as near the front as possible, +and she had never felt lonely because at any moment her lover might +come—there had always been the thought that he might come—. +</P> + +<P> +And now he would never come! +</P> + +<P> +She had a room in the house of an old woman, all of whose sons were in +the war. So far two of them had escaped death. But the old woman said +often, fatalistically, "They will not always escape—but it will be for +France." +</P> + +<P> +The old woman had soup on the fire for Drusilla's supper. The room was +faintly lighted. "What is it?" she asked, as the girl dropped down on +the doorstep. +</P> + +<P> +"My Captain is dead—" +</P> + +<P> +The old woman rose and stood over her. "It comes to all." +</P> + +<P> +"I know." +</P> + +<P> +"Will you eat your soup? When the heart fails, the body must have +strength." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla covered her face with her bands. The room was very still. +The old woman went back to her chair by the fire and waited. At last +she rose and filled a small bowl with the soup—she broke into it a +small allowance of bread. Then she came and sat on the step beside the +girl. +</P> + +<P> +"Eat, Mademoiselle," she said, with something like authority, and +Drusilla obeyed. And when she gave back the bowl, the old woman set it +on the floor, and drew the girl's head to her breast. +</P> + +<P> +And Drusilla lay there, crying softly, a lonely American mothered by +this indomitable old woman of France. +</P> + +<P> +Days passed, days in which men came and men went and Drusilla sang to +them. And now new faces were seen among the tired and war-worn ones. +Eager young Americans, pressing forward towards the front, found a +countrywoman in the little town; and they wrote home about her. "She's +a beauty, by jinks, and when she sings it pulls the heart out of you. +She's the kind you want to say your prayers to." +</P> + +<P> +So her fame went forth and took on gradually something of the +supernatural—her tall, straight slenderness, her steady eyes, her halo +of red hair grew to have a sort of sacred significance, like that of +some militant young saint. +</P> + +<P> +Then came a day when Derry's regiment marched through the town to the +trenches, spent an interval, and came back, awed by what it had seen, +but undaunted. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla, sitting on the doorstep of the stone house, saw a tall figure +striding down the street. He stopped to speak to an old woman and +doffed his hat, showing a clipped silver-blond head. +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla went flying through the dusk. "Derry, Derry!" +</P> + +<P> +He stared and stared again. "Is it you?" he asked. Nothing was vivid +now about Drusilla except her hair. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +He took her hands in his. "My dear girl." It was hard for either of +them to speak. +</P> + +<P> +"Did Bruce McKenzie tell you that my Captain has—gone West?" +</P> + +<P> +"I had a letter. I haven't seen him. His hospital isn't far from +here, I understand." +</P> + +<P> +"Just outside. He—he has been a great help—to me, Derry." +</P> + +<P> +She took him back to her doorstep and they sat down. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell me about Jean." +</P> + +<P> +He tried to tell her, wavered a little and spoke the truth. "The +hardest thing was leaving her. I don't mind the fighting. I don't +mind anything but the fact that she's over there and I'm over here. +But it had to be—of course." +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, everything had to be, Derry. I am believing that more and more. +When my Captain went—I found how much I cared. I hadn't always been +sure. But I am sure now, and I am sure, too, that he knows—" +</P> + +<P> +"Love—in these times, Derry—isn't building a nest—and singing songs +in the tree tops on a May morning; it goes beyond just the man and the +woman; it even goes beyond the child. It goes as far as the future of +mankind. What the future of the world will be depends not so much on +how much you love Jean or she loves you, or on how much I loved and was +loved, but on how much that love will mean to the world. If we can't +give up our own for the sake of the world's ideal then love hasn't +meant what it should to you and to me, Derry—" +</P> + +<P> +She rose as a group of men approached. "They want me to sing for them. +You won't mind?" +</P> + +<P> +"My dear girl, I have heard of you everywhere. I believe that some of +the fellows say their prayers to you at night—" +</P> + +<P> +She stood up and sang. Her hair caught the light from the room back of +her. She gave them a popular air or two, a hymn, "The Marseillaise—" +</P> + +<P> +He missed nothing in her then. In spite of her paleness, the old fire +was there, the passion of patriotism—there was, too, a new note of +triumphant faith. +</P> + +<P> +She needed no candles now, no red and white and blue for a +background—she did not even need her beauty, her voice was enough— +</P> + +<P> +When she sat down and the men had gone she said to Derry, "Do you +remember when I last sang the 'Marseillaise' for you?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes." +</P> + +<P> +He brought out from his pocket a tiny object and set it on the step, so +that the light from the open door shone on it. +</P> + +<P> +"You gave it to me, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, my little tin soldier." +</P> + +<P> +"And after all, he came to the wars—" +</P> + +<P> +Very proudly the little soldier shouldered his musket. +</P> + +<P> +He had indeed come to the wars, and the winds of France blew upon him, +the stars of France were over his head, the soil of France was beneath +his feet. +</P> + +<P> +<I>Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt</I>—blew all the bugles of France, and +the little tin soldier was at last content! +</P> + +<P> +Derry had, too, in his pocket a letter from Jean; he read to Drusilla +the part that belonged to her. +</P> + +<P> +"Tell Drusilla that there's a chair in our dream house for her. I +often shut my eyes and see her in it, and I see Daddy and you, Derry, +all home safe from the war and the world at peace—" +</P> + +<P> +"Safe and at home and the world at peace—. Will the time ever come, +Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +"You know it will come. It must—" +</P> + +<P> +It was three days later that Dr. McKenzie motored over for a late +supper with Drusilla and Derry. They were served by the old woman who +had mothered the lonely girl. +</P> + +<P> +"To think," the Doctor said, as they sat at their frugal board, "to +think that we three should be here in the midst of all this; and yet a +year ago I was wondering what to do with the rest of my life, Drusilla +was running around telling people what kind of pictures to put on their +walls, and what kind of draperies to put at their windows, and Derry +was trying to pretend that he was not an elegant idler; and now—we are +seeing a world made over—" +</P> + +<P> +"You are seeing the world of men made over," said Drusilla, "but the +most wonderful thing is seeing the women made over." +</P> + +<P> +"I don't want to see the women made over," the Doctor groaned. "They +are nice enough as it is. I want my little Jean gay and smiling—and +Derry tells me that she is a nun in a white veil." +</P> + +<P> +"She is more than that," Derry said, and a great light came into his +eyes. "I sometimes feel that she and Drusilla are holding hands across +the sea—two brave women in different spheres." +</P> + +<P> +Drusilla, wise Drusilla pondered. "Perhaps the war will teach men like +Bruce that women aren't playthings—" +</P> + +<P> +"Don't be too hard on me, Drusilla." +</P> + +<P> +"I am not hard. I am telling the truth." +</P> + +<P> +"I'll forgive you, because in these weeks you've taught me a lot—" +Bruce McKenzie's world would not have recognized in this tired and +serious gentleman its twinkling, teasing man of medicine. Weary feet +on the stones— +</P> + +<P> +"I must go to them," Drusilla said. +</P> + +<P> +She went out on the step. They saw the men cluster about her—French +and English, Scotch—a few Americans. +</P> + +<P> +Her voice soared: +</P> + +<P CLASS="poem"> +"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,<BR> +With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me.<BR> +As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free—<BR> +While God is marching on—"<BR> +</P> + +<P> +</P> + +<P> +"Look," said the Doctor. "Do you see their faces, Derry?" +</P> + +<P> +Gazing up at her as if they drank her in, the men listened. She was +the daughter of a nation of dreamers, the daughter of a nation <I>which +made its dreams come true</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Tired and spent, they saw in her hope personified. They saw America +coming fresh and unworn to fight a winning battle to the end. So they +turned their faces towards Drusilla. She was more to them than a +singing woman. Behind her stood a steadfast people—and God was +marching on. +</P> + + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TIN SOLDIER***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 18056-h.txt or 18056-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/0/5/18056">http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/0/5/18056</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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