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diff --git a/19806-h/19806-h.htm b/19806-h/19806-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b8b5c3f --- /dev/null +++ b/19806-h/19806-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,13032 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Everyman's Land by C. N. & A. M. Williamson + </title> + <style type="text/css" media="screen"> + + p { margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; + } + hr { width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + } + body{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + + .pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + visibility: hidden; + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + } /* page numbers */ + .blockquot{margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 10%;} + .center {text-align: center;} + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + .caption {font-weight: bold;} + .figcenter {margin: auto; text-align: center;} + + + .poem {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; text-align: left;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i4 {display: block; margin-left: 4em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + + .clear:after + { + content: "."; + display:block; + height:0; + font-size:0; + clear:both; + visibility:hidden; + } + + #title-page + { + text-align:center; + font-family:Times, "Times Roman", serif; + } + .byline + { + font-size:1.5em; + font-weight:bold; + } + + #toc + { + width:25%; + margin:0 auto; + } + #book-content + { + margin:0 10%; + padding:0; + } + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Everyman's Land, by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson + +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 www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Everyman's Land + +Author: C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson + +Release Date: November 14, 2006 [EBook #19806] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERYMAN'S LAND *** + + + + +Produced by V. L. Simpson, Suzanne Shell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> + + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span></p> + + + <h1>EVERYMAN'S LAND</h1> +<pre id="title-page"> +<span class="smcap byline">By</span> <span class="byline">C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON</span> + +<span class="smcap">Author of</span> + +"<i>The Lightning Conductor Discovers America</i>," +"<i>Lady Betty Across the Water</i>," +"<i>Set in Silver</i>," <i>Etc</i>. + +<i>Frontispiece</i> + +A. L. BURT COMPANY + +Publishers New York + +Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span> + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY +C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF +TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, +INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN + +COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> +</pre> + +<pre style="font-weight:bold; text-align:center;"> +<br /><br /><br />TO ALL SOLDIERS WHO HAVE FOUGHT +OR FIGHT FOR EVERYMAN'S LAND AND +EVERYMAN'S RIGHT; AND TO THOSE +WHO LOVE FRANCE<br /><br /><br /> +</pre> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/frontis01.jpg" alt="" /> +<p class="center"> +<b>"I can't believe that the castle of Ham<br />was as striking in its untouched magnificence,<br />as now, in the rose-red splendour of its ruin!"</b> +</p> +</div> + +<hr /> +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> + + +<div id="toc" style=""> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><b>CHAPTER I</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II"><b>CHAPTER II</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III"><b>CHAPTER III</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><b>CHAPTER IV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V"><b>CHAPTER V</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><b>CHAPTER VI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><b>CHAPTER VII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII"><b>CHAPTER VIII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX"><b>CHAPTER IX</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_X"><b>CHAPTER X</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XI"><b>CHAPTER XI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XII"><b>CHAPTER XII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIII"><b>CHAPTER XIII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIV"><b>CHAPTER XIV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XV"><b>CHAPTER XV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVI"><b>CHAPTER XVI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVII"><b>CHAPTER XVII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII"><b>CHAPTER XVIII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XIX"><b>CHAPTER XIX</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XX"><b>CHAPTER XX</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXI"><b>CHAPTER XXI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXII"><b>CHAPTER XXII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII"><b>CHAPTER XXIII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV"><b>CHAPTER XXIV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXV"><b>CHAPTER XXV</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI"><b>CHAPTER XXVI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII"><b>CHAPTER XXVII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII"><b>CHAPTER XXVIII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX"><b>CHAPTER XXIX</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXX"><b>CHAPTER XXX</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI"><b>CHAPTER XXXI</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII"><b>CHAPTER XXXII</b></a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII"><b>CHAPTER XXXIII</b></a><br /> +</div><!-- end toc --> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<div id="book-content" class="clear"> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + + +<p>Padre, when you died, you left a message for me. +You asked me to go on writing, if I were in trouble, +just as I used to write when you were on earth. I +used to "confess," and you used to advise. Also you used +to scold. <i>How</i> you used to scold! I am going to do now +what you asked, in that message.</p> + +<p>I shall never forget how you packed me off to school at +Brighton, and Brian to Westward Ho! the year father +died and left us to you—the most troublesome legacy a +poor bachelor parson ever had! I'd made up my mind to +hate England. Brian couldn't hate anything or anybody: +dreamers don't know how to hate: and I wanted to hate +you for sending us there. I wanted to be hated and misunderstood. +I disguised myself as a Leprechaun and +sulked; but it didn't work where you were concerned. +You understood me as no one else ever could—or will, I +believe. You taught me something about life, and to see +that people are much the same all over the world, if you +"take them by the heart."</p> + +<p>You took <i>me</i> by the heart, and you held me by it, from +the time I was twelve till the time when you gave your life +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span>for your country. Ten years! When I tell them over +now, as a nun tells the beads of her rosary, I realize what +good years they were, and how their goodness—with such +goodness as I had in me to face them—came through +you.</p> + +<p>Even after you died, you seemed to be near, with encouragement +and advice. Remembering how pleased you +were, when I decided to train as a nurse, added later to the +sense of your nearness, because I felt you would rejoice +when I was able to be of real use. It was only after you +went that my work began to count, but I was sure you +knew. I could hear your voice say, "Good girl! Hurrah +for you!" when I got the gold medal for nursing the contagious +cases; your dear old Irish voice, as it used to say the +same words when I brought you my school prizes.</p> + +<p>Perhaps I <i>was</i> "a good girl." Anyhow, I was a good +nurse. Not that I deserved much credit! Brian was +fighting, and in danger day and night. You were gone; +and I was glad to be a soldier in my way, with never a +minute to think of myself. Besides, somehow I wasn't one +bit afraid. I <i>loved</i> the work. But, <i>Padre mio</i>, I am not a +good girl now. I'm a wicked girl, wickeder than you or +I ever dreamed it was in me to be, at my worst. Yet if +your spirit should appear as I write, to warn me that I'm +sinning an unpardonable sin, I should go on sinning it.</p> + +<p>For one thing, it's for Brian, twin brother of my body, +twin brother of my heart. For another thing, it's too +late to turn back. There's a door that has slammed shut +behind me.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Now, I'll begin and tell you everything exactly as it +happened. Many a "confession-letter" I've begun in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> +just these words, but never one like this. I don't deserve +that it should bring me the heartease which used to come. +But the thought of you is my star in darkness. Brian is +the last person to whom I can speak, because above all +things I want him to be happy. On earth there is no one +else. Beyond the earth there is—<i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>When Brian was wounded, they expected him to die, and +he was asking for me. The telegram came one day when +we had all been rather overworked in the hospital, and +I was feeling ready to drop. I must only have imagined +my tiredness though, for when I heard about Brian I +grew suddenly strong as steel. I was given leave, and +disinfected, and purified as thoroughly as Esther when +she was being made worthy of Ahasuerus. Then I +dashed off to catch the first train going north.</p> + +<p>St. Raphael was our railway station, but I hadn't seen +the place since I took up work in the Hôpital des Épidémies. +That was many months before; and meanwhile a +training-school for American aviators had been started at +St. Raphael. News of its progress had drifted to our +ears, but of course the men weren't allowed to come within +a mile of us: we were too contagious. They had sent +presents, though—presents of money, and one grand +gift had burst upon us from a young millionaire whose +father's name is known everywhere. He sent a cheque +for a sum so big that we nurses were nearly knocked down +by the size of it. With it was enclosed a request that +the money should be used to put wire-nettings in all +windows and doors, and to build a roofed loggia for convalescents. +If there were anything left over, we might +buy deck-chairs and air-pillows. Of course it was easy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> +for any one to know that we needed all these things. Our +lack was notorious. We sent a much disinfected, carbolic-smelling +round robin of thanks to "James W. Beckett, +Junior," son of the western railway king.</p> + +<p>As I drove to the <i>gare</i> of St. Raphael, I thought of the +kind boys who had helped our poor <i>poilus</i>, and especially +of James Beckett. Whether he were still at the aviation +camp, or had finished his training and gone to the front, I +didn't know: but I wafted a blessing to our benefactor. I +little dreamed then of the unforgivable injury I was fated +to do him! You see, Padre, I use the word "<i>fated</i>." +That's because I've turned coward. I try to pretend that +fate has been too strong for me. But down deep I know +you were right when you said, "Our characters carve our +fate."</p> + +<p>It was a long journey from the south to the north, where +Brian was, for in war-days trains do what they like +and what nobody else likes. I travelled for three days +and nights, and when I came to my journey's end, instead +of Brian being dead as I'd seen him in a hundred hideous +dreams, the doctors held out hope that he might +live. They told me this to give me courage, before +they broke the news that he would be blind. I suppose +they thought I'd be so thankful to keep my +brother at any price, that I should hardly feel the shock. +But I wasn't thankful. I wasn't! The price seemed too +big. I judged Brian by myself—Brian, who so worshipped +beauty that I used to call him "Phidias!" I was sure +he would rather have gone out of this world whose face +he'd loved, than stay in it without eyes for its radiant +smile. But there I made a great mistake. Brian was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> +magnificent. Perhaps you would have known what to +expect of him better than I knew.</p> + +<p>Where you are, you will understand why he did not +despair. I couldn't understand then, and I scarcely can +now, though living with my blind Brian is teaching me +lessons I feel unworthy to learn. It was he who comforted +me, not I him. He said that all the beauty of +earth was his already, and nothing could take it away. +He wouldn't <i>let</i> it be taken away! He said that sight +was first given to all created creatures in the form of a +desire to see, desire so intense that with the developing +faculty of sight, animals developed eyes for its concentration. +He reminded me how in dreams, and even in +thoughts—if they're vivid enough—we see as distinctly +with our brains as with our eyes. He said he meant to +make a wonderful world for himself with this vision of +the brain and soul. He intended to develop the power, so +that he would gain more than he had lost, and I must help +him.</p> + +<p>Of course I promised to help all I could; but there was +death in my heart. I remembered our gorgeous holiday +together before the war, tramping through France, Brian +painting those lovely "impressions" of his, which made +him money and something like fame. And oh, I remembered +not only that such happy holidays were over, but +that soon there would be no more money for our bare +living!</p> + +<p>We were always so poor, that church mice were plutocrats +compared to us. At least they need pay no rent, and +have to buy no clothes! I'm sure, if the truth were known, +the money Father left for our education and bringing up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> +was gone before we began to support ourselves, though you +never let us guess we were living on you. As I sat and +listened to Brian talk of our future, my very bones seemed +to melt. The only thing I've been trained to do well is to +nurse. I wasn't a bad nurse when the war began. I'm an +excellent nurse now. But it's Brian's nurse I must be. +I saw that, in the first hour after the news was broken, and +our two lives broken with it. I saw that, with me unable +to earn a penny, and Brian's occupation gone with his +sight, we were about as helpless as a pair of sparrows with +their wings clipped.</p> + +<p>If Brian in his secret soul had any such thoughts, perhaps +he had faith to believe that not a sparrow can fall, +unless its fall is appointed by God. Anyhow, he said never +a word about ways and means, except to mention cheerfully +that he had "heaps of pay saved up," nearly thirty +pounds. Of course I answered that I was rich, too. But +I didn't go into details. I was afraid even Brian's optimism +might be dashed if I did. Padre, my worldly wealth +consisted of five French bank notes of a hundred francs +each, and a few horrible little extra scraps of war-paper +and copper.</p> + +<p>The hospital where Brian lay was near the front, in the +remains of a town the British had won back from the +Germans. I called the place Crucifix Corner: but God +knows we are all at Crucifix Corner now! I lodged in a +hotel that had been half knocked down by a bomb, and +patched up for occupation. As soon as Brian was able to +be moved, the doctor wanted him to go to Paris to an +American brain specialist who had lately come over and +made astonishing cures. Brian's blindness was due to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> +paralysis of the optic nerve; but this American—Cuyler—had +performed spine and brain operations which had +restored sight in two similar cases. There might be a +hundredth chance for my brother.</p> + +<p>Of course I said it would be possible to take Brian +to Paris. I'd have made it possible if I'd had to sell my +hair to do it; and you know my curly black mop of hair +was always my pet vanity. Brian being a soldier, he +could have the operation free, if Doctor Cuyler considered +it wise to operate; but—as our man warned me—there +were ninety-nine chances to one against success: and at all +events there would be a lot of expenses in the immediate +future.</p> + +<p>I sent in my resignation to the dear Hôpital des Épidémies, +explaining my reasons: and presently Brian and +I set out for Paris by easy stages. The cap was put on +the climax for me by remembering how he and I had +walked over that very ground three years before, in the +sunshine of life and summer. Brian too thought of the +past, but not in bitterness. I hid my anguish from him, +but it gnawed the heart of me with the teeth of a rat. I +couldn't see what Brian had ever done to deserve such a +fate as his, and I began to feel wicked, <i>wicked</i>. It seemed +that destiny had built up a high prison wall in front of my +brother and me, and I had a wild impulse to kick and claw +at it, though I knew I couldn't pull it down.</p> + +<p>When we arrived in Paris, Doctor Cuyler saw us at +once; but his opinion added another pile of flinty black +blocks to the prison wall. He thought that there would +be no hope from an operation. If there were any hope at +all (he couldn't say there was) it lay in waiting, resting,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> +and building up Brian's shattered health. After months +of perfect peace, it was just on the cards that sight might +come back of itself, suddenly and unexpectedly, in a +moment. We were advised to live in the country, and +Doctor Cuyler suggested that it would be well for my +brother to have surroundings with agreeable occupation +for the mind. If he were a musician he must have a +piano. There ought to be a garden for him to walk in +and even work in. Motoring, with the slight vibration +of a good car, would be particularly beneficial a little later +on. I suppose we must have looked to Doctor Cuyler +like millionaires, for he didn't appear to dream that +there could be the slightest difficulty in carrying out his +programme.</p> + +<p>I sat listening with the calm mien of one to whom money +comes as air comes to the lungs; but behind my face the +wildest thoughts were raging. You've sometimes seen a +row of tall motionless pines, the calmest, stateliest things +on earth, screening with their branches the mad white +rush of a cataract. My brain felt like such a screened +cataract.</p> + +<p>Except for his blindness, by this time Brian was too +well for a hospital. We were at the small, cheap hotel on +"<i>la rive gauche</i>" where we'd stayed and been happy three +years ago, before starting on our holiday trip. When +we came back after the interview with Doctor Cuyler, +Brian was looking done up, and I persuaded him to lie +down and rest. No one else could have slept, after so +heavy a blow of disappointment, without a drug, but +Brian is a law unto himself. He said if I would sit by +him and read, he'd feel at peace, and would drop off into a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> +doze. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I hadn't +glanced yet at the newspaper we had bought in the +morning. I took it up, to please Brian with the rustling +of the pages, not expecting to concentrate upon a line +but instantly my eyes were caught by a name I knew.</p> + +<p>"Tragic Romance of Millionaire's Family," I read. +"James W. Beckett brings his wife to France and Reads +Newspaper Notice of Only Son's Death."</p> + +<p>This was the double-line, big-lettered heading of a half +column on the front page; and it brought to my mind a +picture. I saw a group of nurses gazing over each other's +shoulders at a blue cheque. It was a cheque for six +thousand francs, signed in a clear, strong hand, "James +W. Beckett, Junior."</p> + +<p>So he was dead, that generous boy, to whom our hearts +had gone out in gratitude! It could not be very long since +he had finished his training at St. Raphael and begun +work at the front. What a waste of splendid material it +seemed, that he should have been swept away so soon!</p> + +<p>I read on, and from my own misery I had an extra pang +to spare for James Beckett, Senior, and his wife.</p> + +<p>Someone had contrived to tear a fragmentary interview +from the "bereaved railway magnate," as he was called in +the potted phrase of the journalist. Apparently the poor, +trapped man had been too soft-hearted or too dazed with +grief to put up a forceful resistance, and the reporter had +been quick to seize his advantage.</p> + +<p>He had learned that Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beckett, +Senior, had nearly died of homesickness for their son. +They had thought of "running across to surprise Jimmy." +And then a letter had come from him saying that in a fort<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span>night +his training would be over. He was to be granted +eight days' leave, which he didn't particularly want, +since he couldn't spend it with them; and immediately +after he would go to the front.</p> + +<p>"We made up our minds that Jimmy <i>should</i> spend that +leave of his with us," the old man had said. "We got +our papers in a hurry and engaged cabins on the first +boat that was sailing. Unluckily there wasn't one for +nearly a week, but we did the best we could. When everything +was fixed up, I wired Jimmy to meet us at the Ritz, in +Paris. We had a little breeze with a U-boat, and we ran +into some bad weather which made my wife pretty sick, +but nothing mattered to us except the delay, we were so +crazy to see the boy. At Bordeaux a letter from him was +waiting. It told how he was just as crazy to see <i>us</i>, but +we'd only have twenty-four hours together, as his leave +and orders for the front had both been advanced. The +delay at sea had cost a day, and that seemed like hard +lines, as we should reach Paris with no more than time to +wish the lad God-speed. But in the train, when we came +to look at the date, we saw that we'd miscalculated. +Unless Jimmy'd been able to get extra leave we'd miss +him altogether. His mother said that would be too bad +to be true. We hoped and prayed to find him at the Ritz. +Instead, we found news that he had fallen in his first +battle."</p> + +<p>The interviewer went on, upon his own account, to +praise "Jimmy" Beckett. He described him as a young +man of twenty-seven, "of singularly engaging manner +and handsome appearance; a graduate with high honours +from Harvard, an all-round sportsman and popular with a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> +large circle of friends, but fortunately leaving neither a wife +nor a fiancée behind him in America." The newly qualified +aviator had, indeed, fallen in his first battle: but according +to the writer it had been a battle of astonishing glory for a +beginner. Single-handed he had engaged four enemy +machines, manœuvring his own little Nieuport in a way +to excite the highest admiration and even surprise in all +spectators. Two out of the four German 'planes he had +brought down over the French lines; and was in chase of +the third, flying low above the German trenches, when two +new Fokkers appeared on the scene and attacked him. +His plane crashed to earth in flames, and a short time after, +prisoners had brought news of his death.</p> + +<p>"Mr. and Mrs. James W. Beckett will have the sympathy +of all Europe as well as their native land, in these +tragic circumstances," the journalist ended his story with a +final flourish. "If such grief could be assuaged, pride in +the gallant death of their gallant son might be a panacea."</p> + +<p>"As if you could make pride into a balm for broken +hearts!" I said to myself in scorn of this flowery +eloquence. For a few minutes I forgot my own plight +to pity these people whom I had never seen. The Paris +<i>Daily Messenger</i> slid off my lap on to the floor, and dropped +with the back page up. When I had glanced toward the +bed, and seen that Brian still slept, my eyes fell on the +paper again. The top part of the last page is always +devoted to military snapshots, and a face smiled up at +me from it—a face I had seen once and never forgotten.</p> + +<p>My heart gave a jump, Padre, because the one tiny, +abbreviated dream-romance of my life came from the +original of that photograph. Although the man I knew<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> +(if people can know each other in a day's acquaintance) +had been <i>en civile</i>, and this one was in aviator's uniform, +I was sure they were the same. And even before I'd +snatched up the paper to read what was printed under the +picture, something—the wonderful inner Something +that's never wrong—told me I was looking at a portrait of +Jimmy Beckett.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + + +<p>I never mentioned my one-day romance to anybody. +Only very silly, sentimental girls would put such an +episode into words, and flatter themselves by calling +it a romance. But now that you and Jimmy Beckett +have both given your lives for the great cause, and are in +the same mysterious Beyond while I'm still down here at +Crucifix Corner, I can tell you the story. If you and he +meet, it may make it easier for him to forgive me the thing +I have done.</p> + +<p>When Brian and I were having that great summer holiday +of ours, the year before the war—one day we were in a +delicious village near a cathedral town on the Belgian +border. A piece of luck had fallen in our way, like a +ripe apple tumbling off a tree. A rich Parisian and his +wife came motoring along, and stopped out of sheer curiosity +to look at a picture Brian was painting, under a +white umbrella near the roadside. I was not with him. I +think I must have been in the garden of our quaint old +hotel by the canal side, writing letters—probably one +to you; but the couple took such a fancy to Brian's "impression," +that they offered to buy it. The bargain was +struck, there and then. Two days later arrived a telegram +from Paris asking for another picture to "match" the +first at the same price. I advised Brian to choose out +two or three sketches for the people to select from, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> +carry them to Paris himself, rather than trust the post. +He went; and it was on the one day of his absence that +my romance happened.</p> + +<p>Ours was a friendly little hotel, with a darling landlady, +who was almost as much interested in Brian and me as if +she'd been our foster-mother. The morning after Brian +left, she came waddling out to the adorable, earwiggy, rose-covered +summer-house that I'd annexed as a private sitting +room. "Mademoiselle," she breathlessly announced, +"there is a young millionaire of a monsieur Anglais or +Américain just arrived. What a pity he should be wasted +because Monsieur your brother has gone! I am sure if he +could but see one of the exquisite pictures he would wish +to buy all!"</p> + +<p>"How do you know that the monsieur is a millionaire, +and what makes you think he would care about pictures?" +I enquired.</p> + +<p>"I know he is a millionaire because he has come in one +of those grand automobiles which only millionaires ever +have. And I think he cares for pictures because the +first thing he did when he came into the hall was to stare +at the old prints on the wall. He praised the two best +which the real artists always praise, and complimented +me on owning them" the dear creature explained. "Besides, +he is in this neighbourhood expressly to see the +cathedral; and monsieur your brother has made a most +beautiful sketch of the cathedral. It is now in his portfolio. +Is there nothing we can do? I have already +induced the monsieur to drink a glass of milk while I have +come to consult Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>I thought hard for a minute, because it would be grand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> +if I could say when Brian came back, "I have sold your +cathedral for you." But I might have saved myself +brain fag. Madame Mounet had settled everything +in her head, and was merely playing me, like a foolish +fish.</p> + +<p>"What I have thought of is this," she said. "I told +the monsieur that he could see something better than my +prints if he would give himself the pain of waiting till I +could fetch the key of a room where an artist-client of ours +has a marvellous exhibition. There is <i>no</i> such room yet, +but there can be, and the exhibition can be, too, if Mademoiselle +will make haste to pin her brother's pictures +to the walls of the yellow <i>salon</i>. With a hammer and +a few tacks—<i>voilà</i> the thing is done. What does Mademoiselle +say?"</p> + +<p>Mademoiselle said "Yes—yes!" to her part of the programme. +But what of the millionaire monsieur? Would +he not balk? Would he not refuse to be bothered?</p> + +<p>Madame was absolutely confident that he would not do +these disappointing things. She was so confident that I +vaguely suspected she had something up her sleeve: but +time pressed, and instead of Sherlock Holmesing I darted +to my work. Afterward she confessed, with pride rather +than repentance. She described graphically how the +face of the monsieur had fallen when she asked him to +look at an exhibition of pictures; how he had begun to +make an excuse that he must be off at once to the cathedral; +and how she had ventured to cut him short by remarking, +"Mademoiselle the sister of the artist, she who +will show the work, ah, it is a <i>jeune fille</i> of the most <i>romantic</i> +beauty!" On hearing this, the monsieur had said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> +no more about the cathedral, but had ordered the glass +of milk.</p> + +<p>In fifteen minutes the exhibition (consisting of six +sketches!) was ready in the showroom of the hotel, the +yellow salon which had been occupied as a bedchamber one +night by the Empress Eugénie, and was always kept locked +except on gala occasions. I, not knowing how I had been +over-praised to the audience, was also ready, quivering +with the haste I had made in pinning up the pictures and +opening the musty, close room to the air. Then came in +a young man.</p> + +<p>As I write, Padre, I am back again in that <i>salon jaune</i>, +and he is walking in at the door, pausing a second on the +threshold at sight of me. I will give you the little play in +one act. We smile. The hero of the comedy-drama has a +rather big mouth, and such white teeth that his smile, in +his brown face, is a lightning-flash at dusk. It is a thin +face with two dimples that make lines when he laughs. +His eyes are gray and long, with the eagle-look that knows +far spaces; deep-set eyes under straight black brows, +drawn low. His lashes are black, too, but his short +crinkly hair is brown. He has a good square forehead, and +a high nose like an Indian's. He is tall, and has one of +those lean, lanky loose-jointed figures that crack tennis-players +and polo men have. I like him at once, and I think +he likes me, for his eyes light up; and just for an instant +there's a feeling as if we looked through clear windows +into each other's souls. It is almost frightening, that +effect!</p> + +<p>I begin to talk, to shake off an odd embarrassment.</p> + +<p>"Madame Mounet tells me you want to see my brother's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> +pictures," I say. "Here are a few sketches. He has +taken all the rest worth looking at to Paris."</p> + +<p>"It's good of you to let me come in," the hero of the +play answers. Instantly I know he's not English. He +has one of those nice American voices, with a slight +drawl, that somehow sound extraordinarily frank. I +don't speculate about his name. I don't stop to wonder +who he is. I think only of <i>what</i> he is. I forget that +Madame has exploited him as a millionaire. I don't care +whether or not he buys a picture. I want nothing, except +the pleasure of talking with him, and seeing how he +looks at me.</p> + +<p>I mumble some polite nonsense in return for his. He +gazes at Brian's water-colours and admires them. Then +he turns from the pictures to me. We discuss the sketches +and the scenes they represent. "Oh, have you been +<i>there</i>?" "Why, I was at that place a week ago!" "How +odd!" "We must have missed each other by a day." +And we drift into gossip about ourselves. Still we don't +come to the subject of names. Names seem to be of +no importance. They belong to the world of conventions.</p> + +<p>We talk and talk—mostly of France, and our travels, +and pictures and books we love; but our eyes speak of +other things. I feel that his are saying, "You are beautiful!" +Mine answer, "I'm glad you think that. Why +do you seem so different to me from other people?" Then +suddenly, there's a look too long between us. "I wish my +brother were here to explain his pictures!" I cry; though +I don't wish it at all. It is only that I must break the +silence.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span></p> + +<p>This brings us back to the business in hand. He says, +"May I really buy one of these sketches?"</p> + +<p>"Are you sure you <i>want</i> to?" I laugh.</p> + +<p>"Sure!" he answers. And I never heard that word +sound so nice, even in my own dear Ireland.</p> + +<p>He chooses the cathedral—which he hasn't visited yet. +Do I know the price my brother has decided on? With +that question I discover that he has Madame Mounet's +version of our name. Brian and I have laughed dozens of +laughs at her way of pronouncing O'Malley. "<i>Ommalee</i>" +we are for her, and "Mees Ommal<i>ee</i>" she has made me for +her millionaire. For fun, I don't correct him. Let him +find out for himself who we really are! I say that my +brother hasn't fixed a price; but would six hundred francs +seem <i>very</i> high? The man considers it ridiculously low. +He refuses to pay less than twice that sum. Even so, he +argues he will be cheating us, and getting me into hot +water when my brother comes. We almost quarrel, and +at last the hero has his way. He strikes me as one who +is used to that!</p> + +<p>When the matter is settled, an odd look passes over his +face. I wonder if he has changed his mind, and doesn't +know how to tell me his trouble. Something is worrying +him; that is clear. Just as I'm ready to make things +easy, with a question, he laughs.</p> + +<p>"I'm going to take you into my confidence," he says, +"and tell you a story—about myself. In Paris, before I +started on this tour, a friend of mine gave a man's dinner +for me. He and the other chaps were chaffing because—oh, +because of a silly argument we got into about—life in +general, and mine in particular. On the strength of it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> +my chum bet me a thing he knew I wanted, that I couldn't +go through my trip under an assumed name. I bet I +could, and would. I bet a thing I want to keep. That's +the silly situation. I hate not telling you my real +name, and signing a cheque for your brother. But I've +stuck it out for four weeks, and the bet has only two more +to run. I'm calling myself Jim Wyndham. It's only my +surname I've dropped for the bet. The rest is mine. +May I pay for the picture in cash—and may I come back +here, or wherever you are on the fifteenth day from now, +and introduce myself properly? Or—you've only to +speak the word, and I'll throw over the whole footling +business this minute, and——"</p> + +<p>I cut in, to say that I <i>won't</i> speak the word, and he +mustn't throw the business over. It is quite amusing I +tell him, and I hope he'll win his bet. As for the picture—he +may pay as he chooses. But about the proper +introduction—Heaven knows where I shall be in a +fortnight. My brother loves to make up his mind the +night beforehand, <i>where</i> to go next. We are a pair of +tramps.</p> + +<p>"You don't do your tramping on foot?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed we do! We haven't seen a railway station +since our first day out from Paris. We stop one day in a +place we don't care for: three in a place we like: a week or +more in a place we <i>love</i>."</p> + +<p>"Then at that rate you won't have got far in fifteen +days. I know the direction you've come from by what +you've told me, and your brother's sketches. You +wouldn't be here on the border of Belgium if you didn't +mean to cross the frontier."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, we shall cross it, of course. But where we shall go +when we get across is another question."</p> + +<p>"I'll find the answer, and I'll find you," he flings at me +with a smile of defiance.</p> + +<p>"Why should you give yourself trouble?"</p> + +<p>"To—see some more of your brother's pictures," he +says gravely. I know that he wishes to see me, not the +pictures, and he knows that I know; but I let it go at that.</p> + +<p>When the sketch has been wrapped up between cardboards, +and the twelve hundred francs placed carelessly +on a table, there seems no reason why Mr. Jim Wyndham +shouldn't start for the cathedral. But he suddenly decides +that the way of wisdom is to eat first, and begs me +to lunch with him. "Do, <i>please</i>," he begs, "just to show +you're not offended with my false pretences."</p> + +<p>I yearn to say yes, and don't see why I shouldn't; so I +do. We have <i>déjeuner</i> together in the summer-house +where Brian and I always eat. We chat about a million +things. We linger over our coffee, and I smoke two or +three of his gold-tipped Egyptians. When we suppose +an hour has gone by, at most, behold, it is half-past four! +I tell him he must start: he will be too late for the cathedral +at its best. He says, "Hang the cathedral!" and refuses to +stir unless I promise to dine with him when he comes back.</p> + +<p>"You mean in a fortnight?" I ask. "Probably we +shan't be here."</p> + +<p>"I mean this evening."</p> + +<p>"But—you're not coming back! You're going another +way. You told me——"</p> + +<p>"Ah, that was before we were friends. Of course I'm +coming back. I'd like to stay to-morrow, and——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You certainly must not! I won't dine with you to-night +if you do."</p> + +<p>"Will you if I don't?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Then I'll order the dinner before I start for the cathedral. +I want it to be a perfect one."</p> + +<p>"But—I've said only perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Don't you want to pour a little honest gold into poor +old Madame Mounet's pocket?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es."</p> + +<p>"If so, you mustn't chase away her customers."</p> + +<p>"For her sake, the dinner is a bargain!"</p> + +<p>"Not the least bit for my sake?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, but yes! I've enjoyed our talk. And you've +been so <i>nice</i> about my brother's pictures."</p> + +<p>So it is settled. I put on my prettiest dress, white muslin, +with some fresh red roses Madame Mounet brings +me; and the dinner-table in the summer-house is a picture, +with pink Chinese lanterns, pink-shaded candles, and +pink geraniums. Madame won't decorate with roses +because she explains, roses anywhere except on my +<i>toilette</i>, "spoil the unique effect of Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>The little inn on the canal-side buzzes with excitement. +Not within the memory of man or woman has there been +so important a client as Mr. Jim Wyndham. Most +motoring millionaires dash by in a cloud of dust to the +cathedral town, where a smart modern hotel has been +run up to cater for tourists. This magnificent Monsieur +Américain engages the "suite of the Empress Eugénie," +as it grandly advertises itself, for his own use and that of +his chauffeur, merely to bathe in, and rest in, though they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> +are not to stay the night. And the dinner ordered will +enable Madame to show what she can do, a chance she +rarely gets from cheeseparing customers, like Brian and +me, and others of our ilk.</p> + +<p>I am determined not to betray my childish eagerness by +being first at the rendezvous. I keep to my hot room, +until I spy a tall young figure of a man in evening dress +striding toward the arbour. To see this sight, I have to +be at my window; but I hide behind a white curtain and a +screen of wistaria and roses. I count sixty before I go +down. I walk slowly. I stop and examine flowers in the +garden. I could catch a wonderful gold butterfly, but perhaps +it is as happy as I am. I wouldn't take its life for +anything on earth! As I watch it flutter away, my host +comes out of the arbour to meet me.</p> + +<p>We pass two exquisite hours in each other's company. +I recall each subject on which we touch and even the words +we speak, as if all were written in a journal. The air is so +clear and still that we can hear the famous chimes of the +cathedral clock, far away, in the town that is a bank of +blue haze on the horizon. At half-past nine I begin to +tell my host that he must go, but he does not obey till +after ten. Then at last he takes my hand for good-bye—no, +<i>au revoir</i>: he will not say good-bye! "In two weeks," +he repeats, "we shall meet again. I shall have won my +bet, and I shall bring <i>you</i> the thing I win."</p> + +<p>"I won't take it!" I laugh.</p> + +<p>"Wait till you see it, before you make sure."</p> + +<p>"I'm not even sure yet of seeing you," I remind +him.</p> + +<p>"You may be sure if I'm alive. I shall scour the coun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span>try +for miles around to find you. I shall succeed—unless +I'm dead."</p> + +<p>All this time he had been holding my hand, while I have +pretended to be unconscious of the fact. Suddenly I +seem to remember, and reluctantly he lets my fingers slip +through his.</p> + +<p>We bid each other <i>adieu</i> in the arbour. I do not go to +"see him off," and I keep the picture of Jim Wyndham +under the roof of roses, in the moon-and candle-light.</p> + +<p>Just so I have kept it for more than three years; for we +never met again. And now that I've seen the photograph +of Jimmy Beckett, I know that we never shall meet.</p> + +<p>Why he did not find us when the fortnight of his bet was +over I can't imagine. It seems that, if he tried, he must +have come upon our tracks, for we travelled scarcely more +than twenty miles in the two weeks. Perhaps he changed +his mind, and did not try. Perhaps he feared that my +"romantic beauty" might lose its romance, when seen for +the second time. Something like this must be the explanation; +and I confess to you, Padre, that the failure of +the prince to keep our tryst was the biggest disappointment +and the sharpest humiliation of my life. It took most of +the conceit out of me, and since then I've never been vain +of my alleged "looks" or "charm" for more than two +minutes on end. I've invariably said to myself, "Remember +Jim Wyndham, and how he didn't think you worth +the bother of coming back to see."</p> + +<p>Now you know why I can't describe the effect upon my +mind of learning that Jim Wyndham, the hero of my one-day +romance, and Jimmy Beckett, the dead American +aviator, were one.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + + +<p>There could be no chance of mistake. The photograph +was a very good likeness.</p> + +<p>For a while I sat quite still with the newspaper +in my hands, living over the day in the shabby old garden. +I felt like a mourner, bereaved of a loved one, for in a way—a +schoolgirl way, perhaps—I had loved my prince of the +arbour. And always since our day together, I'd compared +other men with him, to their disadvantage. No one else +ever captured my imagination as he captured it in those +few hours.</p> + +<p>For a moment that little bit of Long Ago pushed itself +between me and Now. I was grieving for my dead romance, +instead of for Brian's broken life: but quickly I +woke up. Things were as bad as ever again, and even +worse, because of their contrast with the past I'd conjured +up. Grief for the death of Jimmy Beckett mingled +with grief for Brian, and anxieties about money, in the +dull, sickly way that unconnected troubles tangle themselves +together in nightmare dreams.</p> + +<p>I'm not telling you how I suffered, as an excuse for what +I did, dear Padre. I'm only explaining how one thing +led to another.</p> + +<p>It was in thinking of Jim Wyndham, and what might +have happened between us if he'd come back to me as he +promised, that the awful idea developed in my head.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> +The thought wasn't born full-grown and armoured, like +Minerva when she sprang from the brain of Jupiter. It +began like this:</p> + +<p>"If I'd been engaged to him, I might have gone to his +parents now. I should have comforted them by talking +about their son, and they could have comforted me. Perhaps +they would have adopted us as their children. We +need never have been lonely and poor. Jim would have +wished us to live with his father and mother, for all our +sakes."</p> + +<p>When the thought had gone as far as this, it suddenly +leaped to an enormous height, as if a devil in me had +been doing the mango trick.</p> + +<p>I <i>heard</i> myself thinking, "Why don't you go to see Mr. +and Mrs. Beckett, and tell them you were engaged to +marry their only son? The paper said he left no fiancée or +wife in America. You can easily make them believe your +story. Nobody can prove that it isn't true, and out of +evil good will come for everyone."</p> + +<p>Flames seemed to rush through my head with a loud +noise, like the Tongues of Fire in the Upper Room. My +whole body was in a blaze. Each nerve was a separate +red-hot wire.</p> + +<p>I rose to my feet, but I made no sound. Instinct +reminded me that I mustn't wake Brian, but I could +breathe better, think better standing, I felt.</p> + +<p>"They are millionaires, the Becketts—millionaires!" a +voice was repeating in my brain. They wouldn't let +Brian or you want for anything. They'd be <i>glad</i> if you +went to them. You could make them happy. You +could tell them things they'd love to hear—and some<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> +would be true things. You were in the hospital close to +St. Raphael for months, while Jimmy Beckett was in the +training camp. Who's to say you didn't meet? If you'd +been engaged to him since that day years ago, you certainly +would have met. No rules could have kept you +apart. Go to them—go to them—or if you're afraid, +write a note, and ask if they'll receive you. If they refuse, +no harm will have been done."</p> + +<p>Maybe, even then, if I'd stopped to tell myself what a +wicked, cruel plan it was, I should have given it up. But +it seemed a burning inspiration, and I knew that I must +act upon it at once or never.</p> + +<p>I subsided into my chair again, and softly, very softly, +hitched it closer to the table which pretended to be a +writing-desk. Inside a blotting-pad were a few sheets of +hotel stationery and envelopes. My stylographic pen +glided noiselessly over the paper. Now and then I +glanced over my shoulder at Brian, and he was still fast +asleep, looking more like an angel than a man. You know +my nickname for him was always "Saint" because of his +beautiful pure face, and the far-away look in his eyes. +Being a soldier has merely bronzed him a little. It hasn't +carved any hard lines. Being blind has made the far-away +things he used to see come near, so that he walks in +the midst of them.</p> + +<p>I wrote quickly and with a dreadful kind of ease, not +hesitating or crossing out a single word.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Beckett," I began (because I meant to +address my letter to both). "I've just heard that you have +come over from America, only in time to learn of your great loss. +Is it an intrusion to tell you that your loss is mine too? I dearly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> +loved your son. I met him nearly four years ago, when my +brother and I were travelling in France and Belgium. Our +meeting was the romance of my life. I hardly dare to think +he told you about it. But a few months ago I took up nursing +at the Hôpital des Épidemies, near St. Raphael. As you know, +he was there training. He sent us a cheque for our sufferers; and +what was fated to happen did happen. We met again. We +loved each other. We were engaged. He may have written +to you, or he may have waited till he could tell you by word of +mouth.</p> + +<p>"I am in Paris, as you will see by this address. My soldier +brother has lost his sight. I brought him here in the hope +of a cure by your great American specialist Dr. Cuyler, but +he tells me an operation would be useless. They say that one +sorrow blunts another. I do not find it so. My heart is almost +breaking. May I call upon you? To see <i>his</i> father and mother +would be a comfort to me. But if it would be otherwise for you, +please say 'no.' I will try to understand.</p> + +<p>"Yours in deepest sympathy,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Mary O'Malley</span>."</p></div> + +<p>As I finished, Brian waked from his nap, so I was able to +leave him and run downstairs to send off the letter by +hand.</p> + +<p>When it had gone, I felt somewhat as I've felt when near +a man to whom an anæsthetic is being given. The fumes +of ether have an odd effect on me. They turn me into a +"don't care" sort of person without conscience and without +fear. No wonder some nations give soldiers a dash +of ether in their drink, when they have to go "over the +top!" I could go, and feel no sense of danger, even +though my reason knew that it existed.</p> + +<p>So it was while I waited for the messenger from our mean<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> +little hotel to come back from the magnificent Ritz. +Would he suddenly dash my sinful hopes by saying, "<i>Pas +de réponse, Mademoiselle</i>"; or would he bring me a letter +from Father and Mother Beckett? If he brought +such a letter, would it invite me to call and be inspected, +or would it suggest that I kindly go to the devil?</p> + +<p>I was tremendously keyed up; and yet—curiously I +didn't care which of these things happened. It was rather +as if I were in a theatre, watching an act of a play that +might end in one of several ways, neither one of which +would really matter.</p> + +<p>I read aloud to Brian. My voice sounded sweet and +well modulated, I thought; but quite like that of a stranger. +I was reading some moving details of a vast battle, which—ordinarily—would +have stirred me to the heart. But +they made no impression on my brain. I forgot the words +as they left my lips. Dimly I wondered if there were a +curse falling upon me already: if I were doomed to lose all +sense of grief or joy, as the man in the old story lost his +shadow when he sold it to Satan.</p> + +<p>A long time passed. I stopped reading. Brian seemed +inclined for the first time since his misfortune to talk over +ways and means, and how we were to arrange our future. +I shirked the discussion. Things would adjust themselves, +I said evasively. I had some vague plans. Perhaps they +would soon materialize. Even by to-morrow——</p> + +<p>When I had got as far as that, tap, tap, came the long +expected knock at the door. I sprang up. Suddenly the +ether-like carelessness was gone. My life—my very soul—was +at stake. I could hardly utter the little word +"<i>Entrez!</i>" my throat was so tight, so dry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + +<p>The very young youth who opened the door was not the +one I had sent to the Ritz. But I had no time to wonder +why not, when he announced: "<i>Un monsieur et une dame, +en bas, demandent à voir Mademoiselle</i>."</p> + +<p>My head whirled. Could it be?—but, surely no! They +would not have come to see me. Yet whom did I know in +Paris? Who had learned that we were at this hotel? +Had the monsieur and the dame given their name? No, +they had not. They had said that Mademoiselle would +understand. They were in the <i>salon</i>.</p> + +<p>I heard myself reply that I would descend <i>tout de suite</i>. +I heard myself tell Brian that I should not be long away. +I saw my face in the glass, deathly pale in its frame of +dark hair, the eyes immense, with the pupils dilating over +the blue, as an inky pool might drown a border of violets +and blot out their colour. Even my lips were white. I +was glad I had on a black dress—glad in a bad, deceitful +way; though for a moment after learning who Jimmy +Beckett was, I had felt a true thrill of loyal satisfaction +because I was in mourning for my lost romance.</p> + +<p>I went slowly down the four flights of stairs. I could +not have gone fast without falling. I opened the door of +the stuffy <i>salon</i>, and saw—the dearest couple the wide +world could hold.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + + +<p>They sat together, an old-fashioned pair, on an +old-fashioned sofa, facing the door. The thing I'd +thought impossible had happened. The father +and mother of Jim Beckett had come to me.</p> + +<p>For some reason, they seemed as much surprised at +sight of me as I at sight of them. We gazed at each other +for an instant, all three without moving. Then the old +man (he was old, not middle-aged, as most fathers are +nowadays) got to his feet. He took a step toward me, +holding out his hand. His eyes searched mine; and, +dimmed by years and sorrow as they were, there was in +them still a reminder of the unforgotten, eagle-gaze. +From him the son had inherited his high nose and square +forehead. Had he lived, some day Jim's face might have +been chopped by Time's hatchet into just such a rugged +brown mask of old-manliness. Some day, Jim's thick and +smooth brown hair might have turned into such a snow-covered +thatch, like the roof of a cottage on a Christmas +card.</p> + +<p>The old lady was thin and flat of line, like a bas-relief +that had come alive and lost its background. She had in +her forget-me-not blue eyes the look of a child who has +never been allowed to grow up; and I knew at once that +she was one of those women kept by their menfolk on a +high shelf, like a fragile flower in a silver vase. She, too,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> +rose as I entered, but sank down again on the sofa with +a little gesture at the same time welcoming and helpless.</p> + +<p>"My daughter, no wonder he loved you!" said the old +man. "Now we see you, we understand, don't we, +Jenny?" Holding my hand, he turned and led me toward +his wife, looking at me first, then at her. "We +<i>had</i> to come. We're going to love you, for yourself—and +for him."</p> + +<p>Speaking, his face had a faintly perceptible quiver of +strained nerves or old age, like a sigh of wind ruffling +the calm surface of water. I felt how he fought to hide +his emotion, and the answering thrill of it shot up through +my arm, as our hands touched. My heart beat wildly, +and the queer thought came that, if we were in the dark, +it would send out pulsing lights from my body like the +internal lamp of a firefly.</p> + +<p>He called me his "daughter!" As I heard that word of +love, which I had stolen, I realized the full shame and +abomination of the thing I had done. My impulse was +to cry out the truth. But it was only an impulse, such +an impulse as lures one to jump from a height. I caught +myself back from yielding, as I would have caught myself +back from the precipice, lest in another moment I +should lie crushed in a dark gulf. I waved before my eyes +the flag of Brian's need, and my bad courage came back.</p> + +<p>I let Mr. Beckett lead me to the sofa. I let his hand on +my shoulder gently press me to sit down by his wife, who +had not spoken yet. Her blue eyes, fixed with piteous +earnestness on mine, were like those of a timid animal, +when it is making up its mind whether to trust and "take +to" a human stranger who offers advances. I seemed to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> +<i>see</i> her thinking—thinking not so much with her brain as +with her heart, as you used to say Brian thought. I saw +her ideas move as if they'd been the works of a watch ticking +under glass. I knew that she wasn't clever enough to +read my mind, but I felt that she was more dangerous, +perhaps, than a person of critical intelligence. Being one +of those always-was, always-will-be women—wife-women, +mother-women she might by instinct see the badness of +my heart as I was reading the simple goodness of hers.</p> + +<p>Her longing to know the soul of me pierced to it like a +fine crystal spear; and the pathos of this bereaved mother +and father, who had so generously answered my call, +brought tears to my eyes. I had not winced away from +her blue searchlights, but tears gathered and suddenly +poured over my cheeks. Perhaps it was the tragedy of +my own situation more than hers which touched me, for +I was pitying as much as hating myself. Still the tears +were true tears; and I suppose nothing I could have said +or done would have appealed to Jim Beckett's mother +as they appealed.</p> + +<p>"Oh! you <i>loved</i> him!" she quavered, as if that were the +one question for which she had sought the answer. And +the next thing I knew we were crying in each other's arms, +the little frail woman and the cruel girl who was deceiving +her. But, Padre, the cruel girl was suffering almost as she +deserved to suffer. She <i>had</i> loved Jim Wyndham, and +never will she love another man.</p> + +<p>"There, there!" Mr. Beckett was soothing us, patting +our shoulders and our heads. "That's right, cry together, +but don't grudge Jim to the cause, either of you. I don't! +I'm proud he went the way he did. It was a grand way<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span>and +a grand cause. We've got to remember how many +other hearts in the world are aching as ours ache. We're +not alone. I guess that helps a little. And Jenny, this +poor child has a double sorrow to bear. Think of what she +wrote about her brother, who's lost his sight."</p> + +<p>The little old lady sat up, and with a clean, lavender-scented +handkerchief wiped first my eyes and then her own.</p> + +<p>"I know—I know," she said. "But the child will let +us try to comfort her—unless she has a father and mother +of her own?"</p> + +<p>"My father and mother died when I was a little girl," +I answered. "I've only my brother in the world."</p> + +<p>"You have us," they both exclaimed in the same breath: +and though they bore as much physical likeness to one +another as a delicate mountain-ash tree bears to the rocky +mountain on which it grows, suddenly the two faces were +so lit with the same beautiful inward light, that there was a +striking resemblance between them. It was the kind of +resemblance to be seen only on the faces of a pair who +have loved each other, and thought the same thoughts +long year after long year. The light was so warm, so pure +and bright, that I felt as if a fire had been lit for me in the +cold dark room. I didn't deserve to warm my hands in +its glow; but I forgot my falseness for a moment, and let +whatever was good in me flow out in gratitude.</p> + +<p>I couldn't speak. I could only look, and kiss the old +lady's tiny hand—ungloved to hold mine, and hung with +loose rings of rich, ancient fashion such as children love +to be shown in mother's jewel-box. In return, she kissed +me on both cheeks, and the old man smoothed my hair, +heavily.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why yes, that's settled then, you belong to us," he said. +"It's just as if Jimmy'd left you to us in his will. In his +last letter the boy told his mother and me that when we +met we'd get a pleasant surprise. We—silly old folks!—never +thought of a love story. We supposed Jim was +booked for promotion, or a new job with some sort of +honour attached to it. And yet we might have guessed, if +we'd had our wits about us, for we did know that Jimmy'd +fallen in love at first sight with a girl in France, before the +war broke out."</p> + +<p>"He told you that!" I almost gasped. Then he <i>had</i> +fallen in love, and hadn't gone away forgetting, as I'd +thought! Or was it some other girl who had won him at +first sight? This was what I said to myself: and something +that was not myself added, "Now, if you don't +lose your head, you will find out in a minute all you've been +puzzling over for nearly four years."</p> + +<p>"He told his mother," Mr. Beckett said. "Afterwards +she told me. Jim wouldn't have minded. He knew well +enough she always tells me everything, and he didn't ask +her to keep any secret."</p> + +<p>"It was when I was sort of cross one night, because he +didn't pay enough attention to a nice girl I'd invited, +hoping to please him," Mrs. Beckett confessed. "He'd +just come back from Europe, and I enquired if the French +girls were so handsome, they'd spoiled him for our home +beauties. I let him see that his father and I wanted him to +marry young, and give us a daughter we could love. Then +he answered—I remember as if 'twas yesterday!—'Mother, +you wouldn't want her unless I could love her too, would +you?' 'Why no,' I answered. 'But you <i>would</i> love her!'<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> +He didn't speak for a minute. He was holding my hand, +counting my rings—these ones you see—like he always +loved to do from a child. When he'd counted them all, he +looked up and said, 'It wasn't a French girl spoiled me for +the others. I'm not sure, but I think she was Irish. I +lost her, like a fool, trying to win a silly bet.' Those were +his very words. I know, because they struck me so +I teased him to explain. After a while he did."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do tell me what he said!" I begged.</p> + +<p>At that minute Jim was alive for us all three. We were +living with him in the past. I think none of us saw the +little stuffy room where we sat. Only our bodies were +there, like the empty, amber shells of locusts when the +locusts have freed themselves and vanished. I was in a +rose arbour, on a day of late June, in a garden by a canal +that led to Belgium. The Becketts were in their house +across the sea.</p> + +<p>"Why," his mother hesitated, "it was quite a story. +But when he found you again he must have told you it +all."</p> + +<p>"Ah, but do tell me what he told you!"</p> + +<p>"Well, it began with a landlady in a hotel wanting him +to see a picture. The artist was away, but his sister was +there. That was you, my dear."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was I. My poor Brian painted such beautiful +things before——"</p> + +<p>"We know they were beautiful, because we've seen the +picture," Father Beckett broke in. "But go on, Mother. +We'll tell about the picture by and by. She'll like to hear. +But the rest first!"</p> + +<p>The little old lady obeyed, and went on. "Jimmy said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> +he was taken to a room, and there stood the most wonderful +girl he'd ever seen in his life—his 'dream come alive.' +That's how he described her. And there was more. +Father, I never told you this part. But maybe Miss—Miss——"</p> + +<p>"Will you call me 'Mary'?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Maybe 'Mary' would like to hear. Of course I never +forgot one word. No mother could forget! And now I +see he described you just right. When you hear, you'll +know it was love made his talk about you poetry-like. +Jimmy never talked that way to me of any one, before or +since."</p> + +<p>Padre, I am going to write down the things he said of me, +because it is exquisite to know that he thought them. He +said, I had eyes "like sapphires fallen among dark grasses." +And my hair was so heavy and thick that, if I pulled out +the pins, it would fall around me "in a black avalanche."</p> + +<p>Ah, the joy and the pain of hearing these words like an +echo of music I had nearly missed! There's no language +for what I felt. But you will understand.</p> + +<p>He had told his mother about our day together. He +said, he kept falling deeper in love every minute, and it +was all he could do not to exclaim, "Girl, I simply <i>must</i> +marry you!" He dared not say that lest I should refuse, +and there would be an end of everything. So he tried as +hard as he could to make me like him, and remember him +till he should come back, in two weeks. He thought that +was the best way; and he would have let his bet slide if he +hadn't imagined that a little mystery might make him +more interesting in my eyes. Believing that we had +met again, Mrs. Beckett supposed that he had explained<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> +this to me. But of course it was all new, and when she +came to the reason why Jim Wyndham had never come +back, I thought for a moment I should faint. He was +taken ill in Paris, three days after we parted, with typhoid +fever; and though it was never a desperate case—owing to +his strong constitution—he was delirious for weeks. +Two months passed before he was well enough to look for +me, and by that time all trace of us was lost. Brian and I +had gone to England long before. Jim's friend—the one +with whom he had the bet—wired to the Becketts that he +was ill, but not dangerously, and they weren't to come over +to France. It was only when he reached home that they +knew how serious the trouble had been.</p> + +<p>While I was listening, learning that Jim had really loved +me, and searched for me, it seemed that I had a right to +him after all: that I was an honest girl, hearing news of +her own man, from his own people. It was only when Mr. +Beckett began to draw me out, with a quite pathetic +shyness, on the subject of our worldly resources that I +was brought up short again, against the dark wall of +my deceit. It <i>should</i> have been exquisite, it <i>was</i> heartbreaking, +to see how he feared to hurt my feelings with +some offer of help from his abundance. "Hurt my +feelings!" And it was with the sole intention of +"working" them for money that I'd written to the Becketts.</p> + +<p>That looks horrible in black and white, doesn't it, +Padre? But I won't try to hide my motives behind a +dainty screen, from your eyes or mine. I had wanted and +meant to get as much as I could for Brian and myself out +of Jim Beckett's father and mother. And now, when I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> +was on the way to obtain my object, more easily than I +had expected—now, when I saw the kind of people they +were—now, when I knew that to Jim Wyndham I had +been an ideal, "his dream come true." I saw my own face +as in a mirror. It was like the sly, mean face of a serpent +disguised as a woman.</p> + +<p>I remember once saying to you, Padre, when you had +read aloud "The Idylls of the King" to Brian and me as +children, that Vivien was the worst <i>cad</i> I ever heard of +since the beginning of the world! I haven't changed my +mind about her since, except that I give her second place. +I am in the first.</p> + +<p>I suppose, when I first pictured the Becketts (if I stopped +to picture them at all) I imagined they would be an ordinary +American millionaire and millionairess, bow-fronted, +self-important creatures; the old man with a diamond stud +like a headlight, the old lady afraid to take cold if she +left off an extra row of pearls. In our desperate state, +anything seemed fair in love or war with such hard, worth-their-weight-in-gold +people. But I ought to have known +that a man like Jim Beckett couldn't have such parents! +I ought to have known they wouldn't be in the common +class of millionaires of any country; and that whatever +their type they would be unique.</p> + +<p>Well, I <i>hadn't</i> known. Their kindness, their dear humanness, +their simplicity, overwhelmed me as the gifts of +shields and bracelets from the Roman warriors overwhelmed +treacherous Tarpeia. And when they began +delicately begging me to be their adopted daughter—the +very thing I'd prayed for to the devil!—I felt a hundred +times wickeder than if Jim hadn't set me on a high pedes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span>tal, +where they wished to keep me with their money, +their love, as offerings.</p> + +<p>Whether I should have broken down and confessed +everything, or brazened it out in spite of all if I'd been +left alone to decide, I shall never know. For just then +the door opened, and Brian came into the room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + + +<p>Why Brian's coming should make all the difference +may puzzle you, Padre, but I'll explain.</p> + +<p>Ours is an amateurish hotel, especially since +the war. Any one who happens to have the time or inclination +runs it: or if no one has time it runs itself. Consequently +mistakes are made. But what can you expect +for eight francs a day, with <i>pension</i>?</p> + +<p>I said that a very young youth brought up the news of +the Becketts' arrival. He'd merely announced that "<i>un +monsieur et une dame</i>" had called. Apparently they had +given no names, no cards. But in truth there were cards, +which had been mislaid, or in other words left upon the +desk in the <i>bureau</i>, with the numbers of both our rooms +scrawled on them in pencil. Nobody was there at the time, +but when the concierge came back (he is a sort of unofficial +understudy for the mobilized manager) he saw the cards +and sent them upstairs. They were taken to Brian and +the names read aloud to him. He supposed, from vague +information supplied by the <i>garçon</i> (it was a <i>garçon</i> this +time) that I wished him to come and join me in the <i>salon</i> +with my guests. He hated the thought of meeting +strangers (the name "Beckett" meant nothing to him), +but if he were wanted by his sister, he never yet left her +in the lurch.</p> + +<p>He and I both knew the house with our eyes shut, before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> +the war; and now that Brian is blind, he practises in the +most reckless way going about by himself. He refused to +be led to the <i>salon</i>: he came unaided and unerring: and +I thought when he appeared at the door, I'd never seen +him look so beautiful. He <i>is</i> beautiful you know! Now +that his physical eyesight is gone, and he's developing that +mysterious "inner sight" of which he talks, there's no +other adjective which truly expresses him. He stood +there for a minute with his hand on the door-knob, with +all the light in the room (there wasn't much) shining +straight into his face. It couldn't help doing that, as the +one window is nearly opposite the door; but really it does +seem sometimes that light seeks Brian's face, as the "spot +light" in theatres follows the hero or heroine of a play.</p> + +<p>There was an asking smile on his lips, and—by accident, +of course—his dear blind eyes looked straight at Mrs. +Beckett. We are enough alike, we twins, for any one to +know at a glance that we're brother and sister, so the +Becketts would have known, of course, even if I hadn't +cried out in surprise, "Brian!"</p> + +<p>They took it for granted that Brian would have heard +all about their son Jim; so, touched by the pathos of his +blindness—the lonely pathos (for a blind man is as lonely +as a daylight moon!) Mrs. Beckett almost ran to him and +took his hand.</p> + +<p>"We're the Becketts, with your sister," she said. +"Jimmy's father and mother. I expect you didn't meet +him when they were getting engaged to each other at +St. Raphael. But he loved your picture that he bought +just before the war. He used to say, if only you'd signed +it, his whole life might have been different. That was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> +when he'd lost Mary, you see—and he'd got hold of her +name quite wrong. He thought it was Ommalee, and we +never knew a word about the engagement, or her real +name or anything, till the letter came to us at our hotel +to-day. Then we hurried around here, as quick as we +could; and she promised to be our adopted daughter. That +means you will have to be our adopted son!"</p> + +<p>I think Mrs. Beckett is too shy to like talking much at +ordinary times. She would rather let her big husband +talk, and listen admiringly to him. But this <i>wasn't</i> +an ordinary time. To see Brian stand at the door, wistful +and alone, gave her a pain in her heart, so she rushed to +him, and poured out all these kind words, which left him +dazed.</p> + +<p>"You are very good to me," he answered, too thoughtful +of others' feelings, as always, to blurt out—as most +people would—"I don't understand. Who are you, +please?" Instead, his sightless but beautiful eyes seemed +to search the room, and he said, "Molly, you're here, +aren't you?"</p> + +<p>Now perhaps you begin to understand why his coming, +and Mrs. Beckett's greeting of him, stopped me from +telling the truth—if I would have told it. I'm not sure +if I would, in any case, Padre; but as it was I <i>could</i> not. +The question seemed settled. To have told the Becketts +that I was an adventuress—a repentant adventuress—and +let them go out of my life without Brian ever knowing +they'd come into it was one thing. To explain, to accuse +myself before Brian, to make him despise the only person +he had to depend on, and so to spoil the world for him, was +another thing.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p> + +<p>I accepted the fate I'd summoned like the genie of a +lamp. "Yes, Brian, I'm here," I answered. And I went +to him, and took possession of the hand Mrs. Beckett had +left free. "I never told you about my romance. It was so +short. And—and one doesn't put the most sacred things +in letters. I loved a man, and he loved me. We met in +France before the war, and lost each other.</p> + +<p>"Afterward he came back to fight. A few days ago he +fell—just at the time when his parents had hurried over +from America to see him. I—I couldn't resist writing +them a letter, though they were strangers to me. I——"</p> + +<p>"That's not a word I like to hear on your lips—'strangers'," +Mr. Beckett broke in, "even though you're +speaking of the past. We're all one family now. You +don't mind my saying that, Brian, or taking it for granted +you'll consent—or calling you Brian, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Mind!" echoed Brian, with his sweet, young smile. +"How could I mind? It's like something in a story. It's a +sad story—because the hero's gone out of it—no, he <i>hasn't</i> +gone, really! It only seems so, before you stop to think. +I've learned enough about death to learn that. And I +can tell by both your voices you'll be friends worth having."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you <i>are</i> a dear boy!" exclaimed Mrs. Beckett. +"God is good to give you and your sister to us in our dark +hour. I feel as if Jimmy were here with us. I do believe +he is! I know he'd like me to tell you what he did with +your picture, and what we've done with it since, his father +and I."</p> + +<p>Brian must have felt that it would be good for us all to +talk of the pictures, just then, not of this "Jimmy" who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> +was still a mystery to him. He caught up the subject and +said that he didn't understand. What picture was it of +which they spoke? He generally signed his initials, but +they'd mentioned that this was unsigned——</p> + +<p>"Don't you remember," I explained, "the sketch I sold +for you to Mr. Wyndham when we were tramping through +France? You told me when you came back from Paris +that it wasn't quite finished. You'd meant to put on a +few more touches—and your signature. Well, 'Wyndham' +was only the middle name. I never told you much +about that day. I was half ashamed, because it was the +day when my romance began and—broke. I hoped it +might begin again sometime, but—but—you shall hear +the whole story soon. Only—not now."</p> + +<p>Even as I promised him, I promised myself to tell him +nothing. I might have to lie in deeds to Brian. I wouldn't +lie in words. Mrs. Beckett might give him her version of +her son's romance—some day. Just at the moment she +was relating, almost happily, the story of the picture: and +it was for me, too.</p> + +<p>Jim had had a beautiful frame made for Brian's cathedral +sketch, and it had been hung in the best place—over +his desk—in the special sanctum where the things he loved +most were put. In starting for Europe his father and +mother had planned to stop only a short time in a Paris +hotel. They had meant to take a house, where Jim could +join them whenever he got a few days' leave: and as a +surprise for him they had brought over his favourite +treasures from the "den." Among these was the unsigned +picture painted by the brother of <i>The Girl</i>. They had +even chosen the house, a small but charming old château to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> +which Jim had taken a fancy. It was rather close to the +war zone in these days, but that had not struck them as an +obstacle. They were not afraid. They had wired, before +sailing, to a Paris agent, telling him to engage the château +if it was still to let furnished. On arriving the answer +awaited them: the place was theirs.</p> + +<p>"We thought it would be such a joy to Jim," Mrs. +Beckett said. "He fell in love with that château before +he came down with typhoid. I'll show you a snapshot he +took of it. He used to say he'd give anything to live there. +And crossing on the ship we talked every day of how we'd +make a 'den' for him, full of his own things, and never +breathe a word till he opened the door of the room. We're +in honour bound to take the house now, whether or not we +use it—without Jim. I don't know what we <i>shall</i> do, I'm +sure! All I know is, I feel as if it would kill me to turn +round and go home with our broken hearts."</p> + +<p>"We've got new obligations right here, Jenny. You +mustn't forget that," said Mr. Beckett. "Remember +we've just adopted a daughter—and a son, too. We must +consult them about our movements."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I hadn't forgotten!" the old lady cried. "They—they'll +help us to decide, of course. But just now I can't +make myself feel as if one thing was any better than +another. If only we could think of something <i>Jim</i> would +have liked us to do! Something—patriotic—for France."</p> + +<p>"Mary has seen Jim since we saw him, dear. Perhaps +from talk they had she'll have a suggestion to make."</p> + +<p>"Oh no!" I cried. "I've no suggestion."</p> + +<p>"And you, Brian?" the old man persisted.</p> + +<p>Quickly I answered for my brother. "They never met!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> +Brian couldn't know what—Jim would have liked you to +do."</p> + +<p>"It's true, I can't know," said Brian. "But a thought +has come into my head. Shall I tell it to you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes!" the Becketts answered in a breath. They +gazed at him as if they fancied him inspired by their son's +spirit. No wonder, perhaps! Brian <i>has</i> an inspired look.</p> + +<p>"Are you very rich?" he asked bluntly, as a child puts +questions which grown-ups veil.</p> + +<p>"We're rich in money," answered the old man. "But +I guess I never quite realized till now, when we lost Jimmy, +how poor you can be, when you're only rich in what the +world can give."</p> + +<p>"I suppose you'll want to put up the finest monument +for your son that money can buy," Brian went on, as +though he had wandered from his subject. But I—knowing +him, and his slow, dreamy way of getting to his goal—knew +that he was not astray. He was following some star +which we hadn't yet seen.</p> + +<p>"We've had no time to think of a monument," said Mr. +Beckett, with a choke in his voice. "Of course we would +wish it, if it could be done. But Jim lies on German soil. +We can't mark the place——"</p> + +<p>"It doesn't much matter—to him—where his body +lies," Brian went on. "<i>He</i> is not in German soil, or in No +Man's Land. Wouldn't he like to have a monument in +<i>Everyman's Land</i>?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" breathed the little old lady. +She realized now that blind Brian wasn't speaking idly.</p> + +<p>"Well, you see, France and Belgium together will be +Everyman's Land after the war, won't they?" Brian said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Every man who wants the world's true peace has fought +in France and Belgium, if he could fight. Every man who +has fought, and every man who wished to fight but +couldn't, will want to see those lands that have been +martyred and burned, when they have risen like the +Phœnix out of their own ashes. That's why I call France +and Belgium Everyman's Land. You say your Jim +spent some of his happiest days there, and now he's given +his life for the land he loved. Wouldn't you feel as if he +went with you, if you made a pilgrimage from town to town +he knew in their days of beauty—if you travelled and +studied some scheme for helping to make each one beautiful +again after the war? If you did this in his name and +his honour, could he have a better memorial?"</p> + +<p>"I guess God has let Jim speak through your lips, and +tell us his wish," said Mr. Beckett. "What do you think, +Jenny?"</p> + +<p>"I think what you think," she echoed. "It's right the +word should come to us from the brother of Jim's love."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + + +<p>That is the story, Padre, as far as it has gone. +No sign from you, no look in your eyes, could +show me myself in a meaner light than shines +from the mirror of my conscience. If Jim hadn't loved +me, it would be less shameful to trade on the trust of +these kind people. I see that clearly! And I see how +hateful it is to make Brian an innocent partner in the +fraud.</p> + +<p>I'm taking advantage of one man who is dead, and +another who is blind. And it is as though I were "betting +on a certainty," because there's nobody alive who can come +forward to tell the Becketts or Brian what I am. I'm safe, +<i>brutally</i> safe!</p> + +<p>You'll see from what I have written how Brian turned +the scales. The plan he proposed developed in the Becketts' +minds with a quickness that could happen only with +Americans—and millionaires. Father Beckett sees and +does things on the grand scale. Perhaps that's the secret +of his success. He was a miner once, he has told Brian and +me. Mrs. Beckett was a district school teacher in the Far +West, where his fortune began. They married while he was +still a poor man. But that's by the way! I want to tell +you now of his present, not of his past: and the working +out of our future from Brian's suggestion. Ten minutes +after the planting of the seed a tree had grown up, and was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> +putting forth leaves and blossoms. Soon there will be +fruit. And it will come into existence <i>ripe</i>! I suppose +Americans are like that. They manage their affairs with +mental intensive culture.</p> + +<p>The Becketts are prepared to love me for Jim's sake; +but Brian they worship as a supernatural being. Mr. +Beckett says he's saved them from themselves, and given +them an incentive to live. It was only yesterday that they +answered my S. O. S. call. Now, the immediate future is +settled, for the four of us; settled for us <i>together</i>.</p> + +<p>Father Beckett is asking leave to travel <i>en automobile</i> +through the liberated lands. In each town and village +Jim's parents will decide on some work of charity or reconstruction +in his memory, above all in places he knew +and loved. They can identify these by the letters he +wrote home from France before the war. His mother has +kept every one. Through a presentiment of his death, or +because she couldn't part from them, she has brought +along a budget of Jim's letters from America. She carries +them about in a little morocco hand-bag, as other women +carry their jewels.</p> + +<p>The thought of Brian's plan is for the two old people like +an infusion of blood in emptied veins. They say that they +would never have thought of it themselves, and if they had, +they would not have ventured to attempt it alone, ignorant +of French as they are. But this is their generous way of +making us feel indispensable! They tell us we are needed +to "see them through"; that without our help and advice +they would be lost. Every word of kindness is a +new stab for me. Shall I grow callous as time goes on, and +accept everything as though I really were what they call<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> +me—their "daughter"? Or—I begin to think of another +alternative. I'll turn to it if I grow desperate.</p> + +<p>The bright spot in my darkness is the joyful change in +the Becketts. They feel that they've regained their son; +that Jim will be with them on their journey, and that +they've a rendezvous with him at "<i>his</i> château," when +they reach the journey's end. They owe this happiness +not to me, but to Brian. As for him, he has the air of +calm content that used to enfold him when he packed his +easel and knapsack for a tramp. Blindness isn't blindness +for Brian. It's only another kind of sight.</p> + +<p>"I shan't see the wreck and misery you others will have +to see," he says. "Horrors don't exist any more for my +eyes. I shall see the country in all its beauty as it was +before the war. And who knows but I shall find my dog?" +(Brian lost the most wonderful dog in the world when he +was wounded.) He is always hoping to find it again!</p> + +<p>He doesn't feel that he accepts charity from the Becketts. +He believes, with a kind of modest pride, that we're +really indispensable. Afterward—when the tour is over—he +thinks that "some other scheme will open." I think so +too. The Becketts will propose it, to keep us with them. +They will urge and argue, little dreaming how I drew them, +with a grappling-hook resolve to become a barnacle on +their ship!</p> + +<p>To-morrow we move to the Ritz. The Becketts insist. +They want us near them for "consultations"! This +morning the formal request was made to the French +authorities, and sent to headquarters. On the fourth +day the answer will come, and there's little doubt it will +be "yes."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<p>Can I bear to go on deceiving Jim Beckett's father and +mother, or—shall I take the other alternative? I must +decide to-night.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Since I wrote that last sentence I have been out, alone—to +decide. Padre, it was in my mind never to come +back.</p> + +<p>I walked a long, long way, to the Champs-Élysées. I was +very tired, and I sat down—almost dropped down—on a +seat under the high canopy of chestnut trees. I could not +think, but I had a sense of expectation as if I were waiting +for somebody who would tell me what to do. Paris in the +autumn twilight was a dream of beauty. Suddenly the +dream seemed to open, and draw me in. Some one far +away, whom I had known and loved, was <i>dreaming me</i>! +What I should decide about the future, depended no longer +on myself, but upon the dreamer. I didn't know who he +was; but I knew I should learn by and by. It was he who +would come walking along the road of his own dream, and +take the vacant place by me on the seat.</p> + +<p>Being in the dream, I didn't belong to the wonderful, +war-time Paris which was rushing and roaring around me. +Military motors, and huge <i>camions</i> and ambulances were +tearing up and down, over the gray-satin surface of asphalt +which used to be sacred to private autos and gay little +taxis bound for theatres and operas and balls. For +every girl, or woman, or child, who passed, there were at +least ten soldiers: French soldiers in <i>bleu horizon</i>, Serbians +in gray, Britishers and a sprinkling of Americans in khaki. +There was an undertone of music—a tune in the making—in +the tramp, tramp, of the soldiers' feet, the rumble and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> +whirr of the cars-of-war, the voices of women, the laughing +cries of children.</p> + +<p>I thought how simple it would be, to spring up and throw +myself under one of the huge, rushing <i>camions</i>: how easily +the thing might be taken for an accident if I stage-managed +it well. The Becketts would be angels to Brian +when I was gone! But the dreamer of the dream would +not let me stir hand or foot. He put a spell of stillness upon +me; he shut me up in a transparent crystal box, while outside +all the world moved about its own affairs.</p> + +<p>The mauve light of Paris nights filtered up from the +gleaming asphalt, as if through a roof of clouded glass over +a subterranean ballroom lit with blue and purple lanterns. +Street lamps, darkly shaded for air-raids, trailed their white +lights downward, long and straight, like first-communion +veils. Distant trees and shrubs and statues began to +retreat into the dusk, as if withdrawing from the sight of +fevered human-folk to rest. Violet shadows rose in a tide, +and poured through the gold-green tunnel of chestnut trees, +as sea-water pours into a cave. And the shadow-sea had a +voice like the whisper of waves. It said, "The dream is +Jim Wyndham's dream." I felt him near me—still in the +dream. The one I had waited for had come.</p> + +<p>I was free to move. The transparent box was broken.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>What the meaning of my impression was I don't know. +But it must have a meaning, it was so strong and real. It +has made me change my mind about—the other alternative. +I want to live, and find my way back into that +dream.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + + +<p>Padre, you were right. My greatest comfort, as +of old, is in turning to you.</p> + +<p>I think you had a glimpse of the future when +you left me that last message: "Write to me, in the old +way, just as if I were alive and had gone on a long journey."</p> + +<p>When I lock my door, and get out this journal, it seems +as if a second door—a door in the wall—opened, to show +you smiling the good smile which made your face different +from any other. I don't deserve the smile. Did I ever +deserve it? Yet you gave it even when I was at my worst. +Now it seems to say, "In spite of all, I won't turn my back +on you. I haven't given you up."</p> + +<p>When I first began to write in this book (the purple-covered +journal which was your last present to me), I +meant just to relieve my heart by putting on paper, as if +for you, the story of my wickedness. Now the story is +told, I can't stop. I can't shut the door in the wall! I +shall go on, and on. I shall tell you all that happens, all +I feel, and see, and think. That must have been what you +meant me to do.</p> + +<p>When Brian and I were away from home a million years +ago, before the war, we wrote you every day, if only a few +paragraphs, and posted our letters at the end of a week. +You said those letters were your "magic carpet," on which +you travelled with us. Poor Padre, you'd no time nor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +money for other travelling! You never saw France, till +the war called you. And after a few bleak months, that +other great call came. I shall write to you about France, +and about myself, as I should have written if you were back +at home.</p> + +<p>First—about myself! A few pages ago I said that there +was no one alive who could prove me a liar, to the Becketts +or Brian: that I was "safe—brutally safe." Well, I was +mistaken. I am <i>not</i> safe. But I will go back to our start.</p> + +<p>Everyone warned the Becketts that they would get no +automobile, no essence, and no chauffeur. Yet they got +all three, as magically as Cinderella got her coach and four. +The French authorities played fairy godmother, and waved +a wand. Why not, when in return so much was to be done +for France?</p> + +<p>The wand gave a permit for the whole front (counting in +the American front!) from Lorraine to Flanders. It produced +a big gray car, and a French soldier to drive it. The +soldier has only one leg: but he can do more with that one +than most men with two. Thus we set forth on the journey +Brian planned, the Becketts so grateful—poor darlings—for +our company, that it was hard to realize that I didn't +<i>belong</i>.</p> + +<p>It was a queer thought that we should be taking the road +to Germany—we, of all people: yet every road that leads +east from Paris leads to Germany. And it was a wonderful +thought, that we should be going to the Marne.</p> + +<p>Surely generations must pass before that name can be +heard, even by children, without a thrill! We said it over +and over in the car: "The Marne—the Marne! We +shall see the Marne, this autumn of 1917."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span></p> + +<p>Meanwhile the road was a dream-road. It had the unnatural +quietness of dreams. In days of peace it would +have been choked with country carts bringing food to fill +the wide-open mouth of Paris. Now, the way to the +capital was silent and empty, save for gray military motors +and lumbering army <i>camions</i>. The cheap bowling alleys +and jerry-built restaurants of the suburbs seemed under a +spell of sleep. There were no men anywhere, except the +very old, and boys of the "class" of next year. Women +swept out the gloomy shops: women drove omnibuses: +women hawked the morning papers. Outside Paris we +were stopped by soldiers, appearing from sentry-boxes: our +papers were scanned; almost reluctantly we were allowed +to pass on, to the Secret Region of Crucifix Corner, which +spying eyes must not see—the region of aeroplane hangars, +endless hangars, lost among trees, and melting dimly into +a dim horizon, their low, rounded roofs "camouflaged" +in a confusion of splodged colours.</p> + +<p>There was so much to see—so much which was abnormal, +and belonged to war—that we might have passed without +glancing at a line of blue water, parallel with our road at a +little distance, had not Brian said, "Have we come in sight +of the Ourcq? We ought to be near it now. Don't you +know, the men of the Marne say the men of the Ourcq did +more than they to save Paris?"</p> + +<p>The Becketts had hardly heard of the Ourcq. As for +me, I'd forgotten that part in the drama of September, +1914. I knew that there was an Ourcq—a canal, or a +river, or both, with a bit of Paris sticking to its banks: +knew it vaguely, as one knows and forgets that one's +friends' faces have profiles. But Brian's words brought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> +back the whole story to my mind in a flash. I remembered +how Von Kluck was trapped like a rat, in the <i>couloir</i> +of the Ourcq, by the genius of Gallieni, and the glorious +coöperation of General Manoury and the dear British +"contemptibles" under General French.</p> + +<p>It was a desperate adventure that—to try and take the +Germans in the flank; and Gallieni's advisers told him +there were not soldiers enough in his command to do it. +"Then we'll do it with sailors!" he said. "But," urged +an admiral, "my sailors are not trained to march."</p> + +<p>"They will march without being trained," said the +defender of the capital. "I've been in China and Madagascar, +I know what sailors can do on land."</p> + +<p>"Even so, there will not be enough men," answered the +pessimists.</p> + +<p>"We'll fill the gaps with the police," said the general, +inspired perhaps by Sainte-Geneviève.</p> + +<p>So the deed was dared; and in a panic at sight of the +mysteriously arriving troops, Von Kluck retreated from +the Ourcq to the Aisne. It was when he heard how the +trick had been played and won by sheer bravado, that he +cried out in rage, "How could I count on such a <i>coup</i>? +Not another military governor in a hundred would have +risked throwing his whole force sixty kilometres from its +base. How should I guess what a dare-devil fool Gallieni +would turn out? But if Trochu, in '70, had been the same +kind of a fool, we should never have got Paris!"</p> + +<p>Half the ghosts in history seemed to haunt this Route de +Strasbourg, and to meet us as we passed. You know how +you see the characters in a moving-picture play, and behind +them the "fade ins" that show their life history,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> +visions that change on the screen like patterns in a kaleidoscope? +So on this meadow-bordered road, peaceful in the +autumn sunlight, we saw with our minds' eyes the soldiers +of 1914: behind them the soldiers of 1870: farther in the +background Napoleon the Great with his men: and fading +into the distance, processions of kings who had marched +along the Marne, since the day Sainte-Geneviève ordered +the gates of Paris to be shut in the face of Attila.</p> + +<p>Such a gay, gold-sequined blue-green ribbon of a river it +looked! Almost impudent in gaiety, as if it wished to +forget and be happy. But souls and rivers never really +forget. When they know what the Marne knows, they are +gay only on the surface!</p> + +<p>It was at Meaux where we had our first close meeting +with the Marne: Meaux, the city nearest Paris "on the +Marne front," where the Germans came: and even after +three years you can still see on the left bank of the river +traces of trench—shallow, pathetic holes dug in wild +haste. We might have missed them, we creatures with +mere eyes, if Brian hadn't asked, "Can't you see the +trenches?" Then we saw them, of course, half lost under +rank grass, like dents in a green velvet cushion made by +a sleeper who has long ago waked and walked away.</p> + +<p>From a distance the glistening gray roofs of Meaux were +like a vast crowd of dark-winged doves; but as we ran +into the town it opened out into dignified importance, able +to live up to its thousand years of history. There was no +work for the Becketts there, we thought, for the Germans +had time to do little material harm to Meaux in 1914: and +at first sight there seemed to be no need of alms. But +Jim had loved Meaux. His mother took from her blue<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> +morocco bag his letter describing the place, mentioning +how he had met the bishop through a French friend.</p> + +<p>"Do you think," she asked me timidly, "we might call +on the bishop? Who knows but he remembers our +Jimmy?"</p> + +<p>"He's a famous bishop," said Brian. "I've heard <i>poilus</i> +from Meaux tell stories of how the Germans were forced to +respect him, he was so brave and fine. He took the children +of the town under his protection, and no harm came to +one of them. There were postcard photographs going +round early in the war, of the bishop surrounded by boys +and girls—like a benevolent Pied Piper. It's kindness he's +famous for, as well as courage, so I'm sure we may call."</p> + +<p>Near the beautiful old cathedral we passed a priest, and +asked him where to find the bishop's house. "You need +not go so far; here he comes," was the answer. We looked +over our shoulders, almost guiltily, and there indeed he +was. He had been in the cathedral with two French officers, +and in another instant the trio would have turned a +corner. Our look and the priest's gesture told the bishop +that we were speaking of him. He paused, and Mr. Beckett +jumped out of the stopped car, agile as a boy in his excitement.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I forgot, I can't talk French! Mary, you must +see me through!" he pleaded.</p> + +<p>I hurried to the rescue, and together we walked up to the +bishop. Off came Mr. Beckett's hat; and both officers +saluted us. One was a general, the other a colonel.</p> + +<p>If I'd had time to rehearse, I might have done myself +some credit. As it was, I stammered out some sort of +explanation and introduced Jim's father.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I remember young Monsieur Beckett," the bishop +said. "He was not one to be forgotten! Besides, he was +generous to Meaux. He left a noble present for our poor. +And now, you say, he has given his life for France? What +is there I can do to prove our gratitude? You have come +to Meaux because of his letters? Wait a few minutes, till +these brave messieurs have gone, and I myself will show +you the cathedral. Oh, you need not fear! It will be a +pleasure."</p> + +<p>He was as good as his word, and better. Not only did +he show the splendid Gothic cathedral, pride of the "fair +Île-de-France," but the bishop's house as well. Bossuet +had lived there, the most famous bishop Meaux had in the +past. It was dramatic to enter his study, guided by the +most famous bishop of the present; to see in such company +the room where Bossuet penned his denunciation of the +Protestants, and then the long avenue of yews where he +used to walk in search of inspiration. We saw his tomb, +too—in the cathedral (yes, I believe Brian saw it more +clearly than we!), one of those grand tombs they gave +prelates in the days of Louis XIV: and when the Becketts +had followed Jim's example in generosity, we bade +adieu to the—oh, <i>ever</i> so much kindlier heir of the great +controversialist. I'm afraid, to tell the truth, the little +old lady cared more to know that her Jim's favourite +cheese—Brie—was made in Meaux, than anything else in +the town's history. Nevertheless, she listened with a +charmed air to Brian's story of Meaux's great romance—as +she listens to all Brian's stories. It was you, Padre, +who told it to Brian, and to me, one winter night when +we'd been reading about Gaston, de Foix, "Gaston le<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span> +Bel." Our talk of his exploits brought us to Meaux, at the +time of the Jacquerie, in the twelfth century. The common +people had revolted against the nobles who oppressed +them, and all the Île-de-France—adorable name!—seethed +with civil war. In Meaux was the Duchess of Orleans, +with three hundred great ladies, most of them beautiful +and young. The peasants besieged the Duchess there, +and she and her lovely companions were put to sore straits, +when suddenly arrived brave Gaston to save them. I +don't quite know why he took the trouble to come so far, +from his hill-castle near the Spanish frontier, but most +likely he loved one of the shut-up ladies. Or perhaps it +was simply for love of all womanhood, since Gaston was so +chivalrous that Froissart said, "I never saw one like him +of personage, nor of so fair form, nor so well made."</p> + +<p>From Meaux our road (we were going to make Nancy +our centre and stopping place) followed the windings of +the green ribbon Marne to Château-Thierry, on the river's +right bank. There's a rather thrilling ruin, that gave the +town its name, and dominates it still—the ruin of a castle +which Charles Martel built for a young King Thierry. The +legend says that this boy differed from the wicked kings +Thierry, sons and grandsons of the Frankish Clovis; that he +wanted to be good, but "Fate" would not let him. Perhaps +it's a judgment on those terrible Thierry kings, who +left to their enemies only the earth round their habitations—"because +it couldn't be carried away"—that the +Germans have left ruins in Château-Thierry more cruel +than those of the crumbling castle. In seven September +days they added more <i>monuments historiques</i> than a +thousand years had given the ancient Marne city.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span></p> + +<p>Jim Beckett had written his mother all about the town, +and sent postcard pictures of its pride, the fortress-like, +fifteenth-century church with a vast tower set upon a +height. He liked Château-Thierry because Jean de la +Fontaine was born there, and called it "a peaceful-looking +place, just right for the dear fable-maker, who was so +child-like and sweet-natured, that he deserved always to +be happy, instead of for ever in somebody's debt." A +soldier having seen the wasted country at the front, might +still describe Château-Thierry as a "peaceful-looking +place." But it was the first glimpse the Becketts had had +of war's abominable destruction. I took up nursing in +the south of France before the Zeppelins made much visible +impression on London; and as I volunteered for a +"contagious" hospital, I've lived an isolated life far from +all horrors save those in my own ward, and the few I saw +when I went to nurse Brian. Perhaps it was well for us +to begin with Château-Thierry, whose gaping wounds are +not mortal, and to miss tragic Varreddes. Had Sermaize-les-Bains, +which burst upon us later, been our first experience, +the shock might have been too great for Mrs. Beckett. +As it was, we worked slowly to the climax. Yet even +so, we travelled on with a hideous mirage of broken homes, +of intimacies brutally laid bare, floating between the landscape +and our eyes. We could not get rid of this mirage, +could not brush it away, though the country was friendly +and fair of face as a child playing in a waterside meadow. +The crudely new bridges that crossed the Marne were the +only open confessions of what the river had suffered. But +the Marne spirit had known wars enough to learn "how +sweet it is to live, forgetting." With her bits of villages<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> +scattered like strewn flowers on her green flood, she floats +in a dream of her adventurous past and the glorious future +which she has helped to win for France.</p> + +<p>It was hard to realize that the tiny island villages and +hamlets on the level shores had seen the Germans come +and go; that under the gray roofs—furry-soft as the backs +of Maltese cats—hearts had beaten in agony of fear; that +along the white road, with its double row of straight trees +like an endless army on parade, weeping fugitives had +fled.</p> + +<p>We were not aiming to reach Nancy that night, so we +paused at Épernay. The enemy behaved better there +than in most Marne towns, perhaps because Wagner once +lived in it, or, more likely, under the soothing influence of +Épernay's champagne, which has warmed the cockles of +men's hearts since a bishop of the ninth century made it +famous by his praise. Nevertheless, there are ruins to +see, for the town was bombarded by the Germans after +they were turned out. All the quarter of the rich was laid +waste: and the vast "Fabrique de Champagne" of Mercier, +with its ornamental frieze of city names, is silent to this +day, its proud façade of windows broken. Not a big +building of the town, not a neighbouring château of a +"Champagne baron" has a whole window-pane visible, +though three years have rolled on since the cannonading +did its work! Nowadays glass is as dear as diamonds in +France, and harder to get.</p> + +<p>Outside Champagnopolis, in the wide wooden village of +hospital huts, a doctor told us a war ghost story. One +night the Germans made a great haul of champagne, of a +good year, in a castle near by. They had knocked off<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> +the heads of many bottles, naming each for a French +general of yesterday or to-day, when some officer who knew +more history than the rest remembered that Henri IV had +taken Épernay in 1592. He named his bottle for Henri +de Navarre, and harangued his comrades on the superiority +of Wilhelm von Hohenzollern. As the speechmaker +cracked the neck with his sword, the bottle burst in a +thousand pieces, drenching everyone with wine. A bit +of glass struck the electric lamp over the table, and out +went the light. For an instant the room was black. +Then a white ray flickered on the wall, as if thrown through +the window by a searchlight. Out of its glimmer stepped +a man, with a long, laughing face and a pointed beard. +Round his neck was a high ruff. He wore a doublet of +velvet, and shining silk hose. In his hand was a silver +goblet, frothing over the top with champagne. "He +drinks best who drinks last!" cried he in French, and +flung the goblet at the face of him who named the bottle. +At the same second there was a great explosion, and only +one soldier escaped; he who told the story.</p> + +<p>Think, Padre, it was near Châlons that Attila was +defeated, and forced to fly from France for ever! I ought +to say, Attila the first, since the self-named Attila II +hasn't yet been beaten back beyond the Rhine.</p> + +<p>We—you, and Brian and I—used to have excited arguments +about reincarnation. You know now which of us +was right! But I cling to the theory of the spiral, in +evolution of the soul—the soul of a man or the soul of the +world. It satisfies my sense of justice and my reason both, +to believe that we must progress, being made for progression; +but that we evolve upward slowly, with a spiral<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> +motion which brings us at certain periods, as we rise, +directly above the last earth-phase in our evolution. If +it's true, here, after nearly thirteen centuries, are the +Huns overrunning Europe once more. Learned Huns, +scientific Huns, but always Huns, repeating history on a +higher scale, barbarously bent on pulling down the +liberty of the world by the power of brute force. Again +they're destined to be conquered as before, at a far bigger +price. What will the next turn of their spiral bring, I +wonder? A vast battle of intellect, perhaps, when wars of +blood have been forgotten. And I wonder, too, where has +Attila been, since he was beaten in this Champagne country +of the Marne, and died two years later at his wedding-feast +in Hungary!</p> + +<p>Did he appear in our world again, in the form of some +great, cruel general or king, or did his soul rest until it +was reincarnated in the form that claims his name to-day?</p> + +<p>I could scarcely concentrate upon Châlons, though it's a +noble town, crowded with grand old buildings. My mind +was busily travelling back, back into history, as Peter +Ibbetson travelled in his prison-dreams. It didn't stop +on its way to see the city capitulate to the Allies in 1814, +just one hundred years before the great new meaning came +into that word "allies." I ran past the brave fifteenth-century +days, when the English used to attack Châlons-sur-Marne, +hoping to keep their hold on France. I +didn't even pause for Saint-Bernard, preaching the Crusade +in the gorgeous presence of Louis VII and his knights. +It was Attila who lured me down, down into his century, +buried deep under the sands of Time. I heard the ring of +George Meredith's words: "Attila, my Attila!" But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> +I saw the wild warrior Attila, fighting in Champagne, not +the dead man adjured by Ildico, his bride. I saw him +"short, swarthy, broad-chested," in his crude armour, his +large head, "early gray," lifted like a wolf's at bay. I saw +his fierce, ugly face with its snub nose and little, deep-set +eyes, flushed in the fury of defeat as he ordered the famous +screen of chariots to be piled up between him and the +Romano-Gauls. I saw him and his men profiting by the +strange barrier, and the enemy's exhaustion, to escape +beyond the Rhine, with eyes yearning toward the country +they were to see no more.</p> + +<p>History calls that battle "one of the decisive battles of +the world," yet it lasted only a day, and engaged from a +hundred and seventy-four thousand to three hundred +thousand men. Oh, the spiral of battles has climbed +high since then!</p> + +<p>I think I should have had a presentiment of the war if +I'd lived at Châlons, proud city of twenty-two bridges and +the Canal Rhine-Marne. The water on stormy days must +have whispered, "They are coming. Take care!"</p> + +<p>At Vitry-le-François there is also that same sinister canal +which leads from the Marne to the Rhine, the Rhine to +the Marne. The name has a wicked sound in these days—Rhine-Marne; +and at Vitry-le-François of all places. The +men from over the Rhine destroyed as much as they had +time to destroy of the charming old town planned by +Francis I, and named for him. All the villages round +about the new Huns broke to pieces, like the toy towns of +children: Revigny, sprayed from hand pumps with petrol, +and burnt to the ground: Sermaize-les-Bains, loved by +Romans and Saracens, obliterated; women drowned in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> +the river by laughing German soldiers, deep down under +yellow water-lilies, which mark their resting place to-day: +everywhere, through the fields and forests, low wooden +crosses in the midst of little votive gardens, telling their +silent tale.</p> + +<p>Ah, but it is good that Mother Beckett saw Château-Thierry +first, or she might have covered her eyes and +begged to go back to Paris! Here all speaks of death and +desolation, save the busy little hut-villages of the +Quakers. The "Friends" quietly began their labour of +love before the Battle of the Marne was ended, and +they're "carrying on" still. The French translate them +affectionately into "<i>les Amis</i>."</p> + +<p>It was at Bar-le-Duc that I met disaster face to face in so +strange a way that it needs a whole letter to tell you what +happened.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + + +<p>There were so many things to see by the way, and +so many thoughts to think about them, that +Father Beckett and Brian decided on an all night +stop at Bar-le-Duc. The town hadn't had an air raid for +weeks, and it looked a port of peace. As well imagine +enemy aeroplanes over the barley-sugar house of the witch +in the enchanted forest, as over this comfortable home of +jam-makers!</p> + +<p>"Jim always asked for currant jam of Bar-le-Duc on +his birthdays, ever since he was a little, little boy," Mrs. +Beckett remembered aloud. "And even when he was +grown up! But then, he wouldn't wait for birthdays. +He wanted it every day for breakfast; and for tea at those +grand New York hotels, where I wouldn't go without him, +any sooner than in a lion's den. Oh, it will be nice to stay +at Bar-le-Duc! If there's been a jam factory blown up, +we'll help build it again, to please Jim."</p> + +<p>Father Beckett was shrewdly of opinion that the jam +factories could take care of themselves, which rather disappointed +his wife. She was vaguely disappointed too, in +Bar-le-Duc. I think she expected to smell a ravishing +fragrance of Jim's favourite <i>confiture</i> as we entered the +town. It had been a tiring day for her, with all our stops +and sightseeing, and she had less appetite for history than +for jam. We had passed through lovely country since<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> +Châlons, decorated with beautiful tall trees, high box +hedges, and distant, rolling downs golden with grain and +sunlight. Also, whenever our road drew near the railway, +we'd caught exciting glimpses of long trains "camouflaged" +in blurry greens and blues, to hide themselves from +aeroplanes. Nevertheless, Mother Beckett had begun to +droop. Her blue eyes hardly brightened to interest when +Brian said we were in the famous region of the Meuse, +part of the Austrian Empire in Charlemagne's day: that +somewhere hereabout Wittekind, the enslaved Saxon, +used to work "on the land," not dreaming of the kingly +house of Capet he was to found for France, and that +Bar-le-Duc itself would be our starting-point for Verdun, +after Nancy and the "Lorraine Front."</p> + +<p>For her Bar-le-Duc had always represented jam, endless +jam, loved by Jim, and talk of the dukes of Bar brought +no thrill to Jim's mother. She cared more to see the two +largest elms in France of which Jim had written, than any +ruins of ducal dwellings or tombs of Lorraine princes, or +even the house where Charles-Edouard the Pretender +lived for years.</p> + +<p>Fortunately there was a decent hotel, vaguely open in +the upper town on the hill, with a view over the small +tributary river Ornain, on which the capital city of the +Meuse is built. One saw the Rhine-Marne Canal, too, and +the picturesque roofs of old fifteenth-century houses, +huddled together in lower Bar-le-Duc, shut in among the +vine-draped valleys of Champagne.</p> + +<p>As we left the car and went into the hotel (I lingering +behind to help Brian) I noticed another car behind us. +It was more like a taxi-cab than a brave, free-born auto<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span>mobile, +but it had evidently come a long way, as it was +covered with dust, and from its rather ramshackle roof +waved a Red Cross flag.</p> + +<p>In the good days before the war I should have thought +it the most natural thing on earth if a procession of twenty +motors had trailed us. But war has put an end to joy-rides. +Besides, since the outskirts of Paris, we had been +in the <i>zone de guerre</i>, constantly stopped and stared at by +sentinels. The only cars we passed, going east or west, +were occupied by officers, or crowded with <i>poilus</i>, therefore +the shabby little taxi became of almost startling interest. +I looked back, and saw that it was slowing down +close behind our imposing auto, from which a few small +pieces of luggage for the night were being removed.</p> + +<p>The Red Cross travellers were evidently impatient. +They did not wait for our chauffeur to drive away. The +conductor of the car jumped down and opened the door +of his nondescript vehicle. I made out, under a thick +coat of dust, that he wore khaki of some sort, and a cap +of military shape which might be anything from British +to Belgian. He gave a hand to a woman in the car—a +woman in nurse's dress. A thick veil covered her face, +but her figure was girlish. I noticed that she was extremely +small and slim in her long, dust-dimmed blue +cloak: a mere doll of a creature.</p> + +<p>The man's back was turned toward me as he aided the +nurse; but suddenly he flung a glance over his shoulder, +and stared straight at me, as if he had expected to find me +there.</p> + +<p>He was rather short, and too squarely built for his age, +which might be twenty-eight or thirty at most; but his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> +great dark eyes were splendid, so gorgeously bright and +significant that they held mine for a second or two. This +vexed me, and I turned away with as haughty an air as +could be put on at an instant's notice.</p> + +<p>The hotel had no private sitting rooms, but the landlord +offered Mr. Beckett for our use a small <i>salle de lecture</i>, +adjoing he <i>salon public</i>. There were folding doors +between, for a wonder with a lock that worked. By the +time we'd bathed, and dressed again, it was the hour for +dinner, and Mr. Beckett suggested dining in our own +"parlour," as he called it.</p> + +<p>The landlord himself brought a menu, which Mother +Beckett accepted indifferently up to the entremets "<i>omelette +au rhum</i>." This she wished changed for something—anything—made +with Jim's favourite jam. "He would +want us to eat it at Bar-le-Duc," she said, with her air of +taking Jim's nearness and interest in our smallest acts +for granted.</p> + +<p>So "<i>omelette à la confiture de groseilles</i>" was ordered; +and just as we had come to the end of it and our meal, +some one began to play the piano in the public drawing +room next door. At the first touch, I recognized a +master hand. The air was from Puccini's "La Tosca"—third +act, and a moment later a man's voice caught it up—a +voice of velvet, a voice of the heart—an Italian voice.</p> + +<p>We all stopped eating as if we'd been struck by a spell. +We hardly breathed. The music had in it the honey of a +million flowers distilled into a crystal cup. It was so +sweet that it hurt—hurt horribly and deliciously, as only +Italian music can hurt. Other men sing with their +brains, with their souls, but Italians sing with their blood,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> +their veins, the core of their hearts. They <i>are</i> their songs, +as larks are.</p> + +<p>The voice brought Jim to me, and snatched him away +again. It set him far off at a hopeless distance, across +steep purple chasms of dreamland. It dragged my heart +out, and then poured it full, full of an unknown elixir of +life and love, which was mine, yet out of reach forever. +It showed me my past hopes and future sorrows floating +on the current of my own blood like ships of a secret +argosy sailing through the night to some unknown goal. +So now, when I have told you what it did to me, you will +know that voice was like no voice I ever heard, except +Caruso's. It <i>was</i> like his—astonishingly like; and hardly +had the last note of "Mario's" song of love and death dropped +into silence when the singer began anew with one of +Caruso's own Neapolitan folk-songs, "Mama Mia."</p> + +<p>I had forgotten Mother and Father Beckett—even Brian—everyone +except my lost Jim Wyndham and myself. +But suddenly a touch on my hand made me start. The +little old lady's, small, cool fingers were on mine, "My +daughter, what do the words mean?" she asked. "What +is that boy saying to his mama?" Her eyes were blue +lakes of unshed tears, for the thought of her son knocked +at her heart.</p> + +<p>"It isn't a boy who sings, dear," I said. "It's supposed +to be a young man who tries to tell his mother +all about his love, but it is too big for any words he can +find. He says she must remember how she felt herself +when she was in love, and then she will understand what's +in his heart."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's wonderful!" she whispered. "How <i>young</i> it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> +sounds! Can it be a <i>man</i> singing? It seems too beautiful +for anything but a gramophone!"</p> + +<p>We broke out laughing, and the little lady blushed in +shame. "I mean, it's like one of the great singers they +make records of," she explained. "There, he's stopped. +Oh, James, don't let him go! We <i>must</i> hear him again. +Couldn't you go next door and thank him? Couldn't you +beg him to sing some more?"</p> + +<p>An Englishman would sooner have died a painful death +then obey; but, unabashed, the American husband flung +wide open the folding doors.</p> + +<p>At the piano sat the short, square-built young man of +the Red Cross taxi. Leaning with both elbows on the +instrument stood the doll-like figure of his companion, the +girl in nurse's dress. His back and her profile were turned +our way, but at the sound of the opening door he wheeled +on the stool, and both stared at Mr. Beckett. Also they +stared past him at me. Why at me, and not the others, +I could never have guessed then.</p> + +<p>Our little room was lit by red-shaded candles on the +table, while the <i>salon</i> adjoining blazed with electricity. +As the doors opened, it was like the effect of a flashlight +for a photograph. I saw that the man and the girl resembled +each other in feature; nevertheless, there was a +striking difference between the two. It wasn't only that +he was squarely built, with a short throat, and a head +shaped like Caruso's, whereas she was slight, with a small, +high-held head on a slender neck. The chief difference +lay in expression. The man—who now looked younger +than I had thought—had a dark, laughing face, gay and +defiant as a Neapolitan street boy. It might be evil, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> +might be good. The girl, who could be no more than +twenty, was sullen in her beauty as a thundercloud.</p> + +<p>The singer jumped up, and took a few steps forward, +while the girl stood still and gloomed.</p> + +<p>"I hope I didn't disturb you?" The question was +asked of Mr. Beckett, and thrown lightly as a shuttlecock +over the old man's head to us in the next room. It +was asked in English, with a curiously winning accent, +neither Italian nor Irish, but suggesting both.</p> + +<p>"Disturbed!" Father Beckett explained that his +errand was to beg for more music. "It's like being at +the opera!" was the best compliment he had to give.</p> + +<p>The young man smiled as if a light had been turned on +behind his eyes and his brilliant white teeth. "Delighted!" +he said. "I can't sing properly nowadays—shell +shock. I suppose I never shall again. But I do my best."</p> + +<p>He sat down once more at the piano, and without asking +his audience to choose, began in a low voice an old, sweet, +entirely banal and utterly heartbreaking ballad of +Tosti's, with words by Christina Rossetti:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"When I am dead, my dearest,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing no sad songs for me,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Plant thou no roses at my head,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Nor shady cypress tree.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Be the green grass above me<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With showers and dewdrops wet,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if thou wilt, remember,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And if thou wilt, forget.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I shall not see the shadows,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall not feel the rain;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span><br /></span> +<span class="i0">I shall not hear the nightingale<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sing on as if in pain.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And dreaming through the twilight<br /></span> +<span class="i0">That does not rise nor set,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Haply I may remember,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And haply may forget."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The words were of no great depth or worth, and the +music was too intentionally heart-wringing to be sincerely +fine, yet sung by that man's voice, the piano softly touched +by his hands, the poor old song took my self-control +and shivered it like thin glass. Tears burst from Mrs. +Beckett's eyes, and she hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing +beneath her breath: "Oh, Jim—Jim!"</p> + +<p>When the singer had finished he looked at her, not in +surprise, but thoughtfully. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have +sung that stuff, Mr. Beckett," he said. "But your son +liked it at St. Raphael. We knew each other there, very +well."</p> + +<p>As he spoke his eyes turned to me, deliberately, with +meaning. There was a gentle, charming smile on his +southern face, but I knew, as if he had told me in so many +words, that my secret was his.</p> + +<p>Involuntarily I glanced at the girl. She had not moved. +She stood as before, her elbows on the piano, her small face +propped between her hands. But she, too, was looking at +me. She had no expression whatever. Her eyes told as +little as two shut windows with blinds drawn down. The +fancy flashed through me that a judge might look thus +waiting to hear the verdict of the jury in a murder case.</p> + +<p>"These two have followed us on purpose to denounce +me," I thought. Yet it seemed a stupidly melodramatic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> +conclusion, like the climax of a chapter in an old-fashioned, +sentimental story. Besides, the man—evidently the +leader—had not at all the face of Nemesis. He looked a +merry, happy-go-lucky Italian, only a little subdued at the +moment by the pathos of his own nightingale voice and +the memory of Jim Beckett. I was bewildered. My +reason did not know what to make of him. But my instinct +warned me of danger.</p> + +<p>Mother Beckett dried her eyes with one of her dainty +handkerchiefs which always smell like lavender and grass +pinks—her leitmotif in perfume. "You knew our Jim?" +she exclaimed, choking back tears. "Why, then, perhaps +you and Mary—Miss O'Malley——"</p> + +<p>What would have happened if she had finished her +sentence I shall never know, for just then came a crash as +if the house were falling. Window-glass shivered. The +hotel shook as though in an earthquake. Out went the +electric light, leaving only our candles aglow under red +shades.</p> + +<p>Bar-le-Duc was in for an air raid.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + + +<p>For a moment we thought the house had been +struck by a bomb, and were astonished that it +stood. In the uproar of explosions and crashings +and jinglings, the small silence of our room—with its gay +chrysanthemums and shaded candles—was like that of a +sheltered oasis in a desert storm.</p> + +<p>Not one of us uttered a sound. Father Beckett took his +wife in his arms, and held her tight, her face hidden in his +coat. Brian had not even got up from his chair by the +table. He'd lighted a cigarette, and continued to smoke +calmly, a half-smile on his face, as if the bombardment +carried him back to life in the trenches. But the beautiful +sightless eyes searched for what they could not see: and I +knew that I was in his thoughts. I would have gone to +him, after the first petrifying instant of surprise, but the +singing-man stopped me. "Are you afraid?" I heard +his voice close to my ear. Perhaps he shouted. But in the +din it was as if he whispered.</p> + +<p>"No!" I flung back. "Had you not better go and take +care of your sister?"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "My sister! Look at her! Does she +need taking care of?"</p> + +<p>The girl had come from the suddenly darkened <i>salon</i> +into our room. As he spoke, she walked to the table, +helped herself to a cigarette from Brian's silver case which<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> +lay open, and asked its owner for a light. It struck me +that she did not realize his blindness.</p> + +<p>Certainly the young woman did not "need taking care +of." Nor did I! Deliberately I turned my back upon the +man; but he snatched at the end of a scarf I wore. "No +one's looking," he said. "Take this—for your own sake." +And he thrust into a little outside pocket of my dress a +folded bit of paper. Then he let me go, stepping back to +prevent my returning the note.</p> + +<p>For a second I hesitated, not knowing which of two evils +to choose; but the woman who hesitates is inevitably lost. +Before I could make up my mind, the door opened and the +landlord appeared, apologizing for the raid as if it had been +an accident of his kitchen. We must have no fear. All +danger was over. The avion—only one!—had been +chased out of our neighbourhood. The noise we heard +now was merely shrapnel fired by anti-aircraft guns. We +would not be disturbed again, that he'd guarantee from +his experience!</p> + +<p>Mrs. Beckett emerged from her husband's coat. Mr. +Beckett laughed, and patting his wife's shoulder, complimented +her courage. "I'm not sure we haven't behaved +pretty well for our first air raid," he said. "The rest of +you were fine! But I suppose even you ladies have seen +some of these shows before? As for you, Brian, my boy, +you're a soldier. What we've been through must seem a +summer shower to you. And you, sir"—he turned to the +singing-man—"I think you mentioned you'd had shell +shock——"</p> + +<p>"Yes," the other answered quickly. "It cost me my +voice."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Cost you your voice?" Father Beckett echoed. "If +it was better than it is now, why, it must have been a +marvel! We're ignorant in the music line, my wife and I, +so if we ought to know who you are——"</p> + +<p>The young man laughed. "Oh, don't be afraid of hurting +my feelings! If you were an Italian, or a Britisher—but +an American! I sang in New York only part of +last winter, and then I—came over here, like everyone +else. My name is Julian O'Farrell, but my +mother was an Italian of Naples, once a prima donna. +She wished me to make my professional début as Giulio +di Napoli."</p> + +<p>The name appeared to mean nothing for the Becketts, +but instantly I knew who the man was, if little about +him. I remembered reading of the sensation he created +in London the summer that Brian and I tramped through +France and Belgium. The next I heard was that he had +"gone back" to Italy. I had of course supposed him +to be an Italian. But now he boasted—or confessed—that +he was an Irishman. Why, then, had he left England +for Italy when the war broke out? Why had he been +singing in New York after Italy joined the Allies? Above +all, what had happened since, to put him on my track, with +a Red Cross flag and a taxi-cab?</p> + +<p>These questions asked themselves in my head, while I +could have counted "One—two—three." Meantime, +Brian had spoken to the girl, and she had answered shortly, +in words I could not hear, but with a sullen, doubtful look, +like a small trapped creature that snaps at a friendly hand. +The landlord was helping a white-faced waiter to clear a +place on the table for a tray of coffee and liqueurs; and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> +outside the noise of shrapnel had died in the distance. +The air-raid incident was closed. What next?</p> + +<p>"You'll both have coffee with us, won't you, Signor di +Napoli—or Mr. O'Farrell? Or should I say Lieutenant or +Captain?" Father Beckett was urging. "You were a +friend of our son's, and my wife and I——"</p> + +<p>"Plain Mister O'Farrell it is," the other broke in. +"Thanks, it would be a pleasure to stay, but it's best to +refuse, I'm sure, for my sister's sake. You see by her dress +what her work has been, and she's on leave because she's +tired out. She faints easily—and what with the air raid—maybe +you'll let us pay our respects before you leave to-morrow? +Then we'll tell you all you want to know. +Anyhow, we may be going on for some time in your +direction. I saw by a Paris paper a few days ago you +were making a tour of the Fronts, beginning at the Lorraine +end."</p> + +<p>His eyes were on me as he spoke, bright with imp-like +malice. He looked so like a mischievous schoolboy that +it was hard to take him seriously. Yet everything warned +me to do so, and his allusion to the Paris newspapers explained +much. For the second time a reporter had caught +Father Beckett, and got out of him the statement that +"My dead son's fiancée, Miss Mary O'Malley, who's been +nursing in a 'contagious' hospital near St. Raphael, will +be with us: and her brother."</p> + +<p>So that was how the man had heard about me, and for +some reason found it worth while to follow, waving the +sword of Damocles! His note burned my pocket. And <i>I</i> +burned to know what it said. No doubt it would explain +why he did not cut off my head at once, and have it over!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I think," he was going on, "that the sooner I can get +this poor little girl" (a tap on his sister's shoulder) "to +her room and to bed the better it will be."</p> + +<p>Any one apparently less likely to faint, or less in need of +rest, than the "poor little girl" indicated, it would be +difficult to find, I thought: but the kindly Becketts were +the last creatures to be critical. They sympathized, and +changed their invitation from after-dinner coffee to breakfast +at nine. This was accepted by O'Farrell for himself +and his sister, and taking the girl's arm, the ex-singer +swept her off in a dramatic exit.</p> + +<p>When they had gone, it was Brian who asked me if I had +known them in the south; and because no incentive could +make me lie to Brian, I promptly answered "No." As I +spoke, it occurred to me that now, if ever, was the moment +when I might still succeed in spoking the wheel of Mr. and +Miss O'Farrell before that wheel had time to crush me. I +could throw doubt upon their good faith. I could hint +that, if they had really been doing Red Cross or other work +at St. Raphael, I should certainly have heard of them. But +I held my peace—partly through qualms of conscience, +partly through fear. Unless the man had proofs to bring +of his <i>bona fides</i> where Jim Beckett was concerned, he would +scarcely have followed us to claim acquaintance with the +parents and confound the alleged fiancée. That he had +followed us on purpose I was sure. Not for a second did I +believe that the arrival of the taxi-cab in our wake was a +coincidence!</p> + +<p>We drank our coffee, talking of the raid and of the +O'Farrells, and—as always—of Jim. Then Father Beckett +noticed that his wife was pale. "She looks as if she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> +needed bed a good sight more than that little girl did," he +said in the simple, homely way I've learned to love.</p> + +<p>Presently we had all bidden each other good-night, even +Brian and I. Then—in my own room—I was free to take +that folded bit of paper from my pocket.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + + +<p>To my surprise, there were only three lines, scribbled +in pencil.</p> + +<p>"Come to the <i>salon</i> for a talk when the rest of +your party have gone to bed. I'll be waiting, and won't +keep you long."</p> + +<p>"Impudent brute!" I said out aloud. But a moment +later I had decided to keep the appointment and learn the +worst. Needs must, when the devil drives!—if you're in +the power of the devil. I was. And, alas! through my +fault, so was Brian. After going so far, I could not afford +to be thrown back without a struggle; and I went +downstairs prepared to fight.</p> + +<p>It was not yet late; only a few minutes after ten o'clock; +and though the Becketts and Brian were on the road to +sleep, the hotel was awake, and even lively in its wakefulness. +The door of the public <i>salon</i> stood open, and the +electric light had come on again. At the table, in the centre +of the room, sat Mr. Julian O'Farrell, <i>alias</i> Giulio di Napoli, +conspicuously interested in an illustrated paper. He +jumped up at sight of me, and smiled a brilliant smile of +welcome, but did not speak. A sudden, obstinate determination +seized me to thwart him, if he meant to force the +first move upon me. I bowed coolly, as one acknowledges +the existence of an hotel acquaintance, and passing to the +other end of the long table, picked up a <i>Je Sais Tout</i> of a +date two years before the war.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + +<p>I did not sit down, but assumed the air of hovering for a +moment on my way elsewhere. This manœuvre kept the +enemy on his feet; and as the cheap but stately clock on +the mantel ticked out second after second, I felt nervously +inclined to laugh, despite the seriousness of my situation. +I bit my lip hard to frighten away a smile that would have +spoilt everything. "If it goes on like this for an hour," +I said to myself, "I won't open my mouth!"</p> + +<p>Into the midst of this vow broke an explosion of laughter +that made me start as if it announced a new bombardment. +I looked up involuntarily, and met the dark +Italian eyes sparkling with fun. "I beg your pardon!" +the man gurgled. "I was wondering which is older, your +<i>Je Sais Tout</i> or my <i>Illustration</i>? Mine's the Christmas +number of 1909."</p> + +<p>"Yours has the advantage in age," I replied, without a +smile. "Mine goes back only to 1912."</p> + +<p>"Ah! I'm glad to score that one point," he said, still +laughing. "Dear Miss O'Malley, won't you please sit +down? I'm a lazy fellow, and I'm so tired of standing! +Now, don't begin by being cross with me because I call you +'dear.' If you realized what I've done for you, and what +I'm ready to do, you'd say I'd earned <i>that</i> right, to begin +with!"</p> + +<p>"I don't understand you at all, or why you should +claim any right," I hedged. But I sat down, and he sank +so heavily into an ancient, plush-covered chair that a +spray of dust flew up from the cushions.</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I'm rather too fat!" he apologized. "But +I always lose flesh motoring, so you'll see a change for the +better, I hope—in a week or two. I expect our lines will be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> +cast in the same places for some time to come—if you're as +wise as—as you are pretty. If not, I'm afraid you and +Mr. O'Malley won't be long with our party. I say, you +are gorgeous when you're in a rage! But why fly into a +fury? You told me you didn't understand things. I'm +doing my best to explain."</p> + +<p>"Then your best is very bad," I said.</p> + +<p>"Sorry! I'll begin another way. Listen! I'm going to +be perfectly frank. Why not? We're birds of a feather. +And the pot can't call the kettle black. Maybe my similes +are a bit mixed, but you'll excuse that, as we're both Irish. +Why, my being Irish—and Italian—is an explanation of +me in itself, if you'd take the trouble to study it. But look +here! I don't <i>want</i> you to take any trouble. I don't want +to <i>give</i> you any trouble. Now do you begin to see light?"</p> + +<p>"No!" I threw at him.</p> + +<p>"I don't believe you, dear girl. You malign your own +wits. You pay yourself worse compliments than I'd let +any one else do! But I promised not to keep you long. +And if I break my promise it will be your fault—because +you're not reasonable. You're the pot and I'm the kettle, +because we're both tarred with the same brush. By the +way, <i>are</i> pots and kettles blacked with tar? They look it. +But that's a detail. My sister and I are just as dead broke +and down and out as you and your brother are. I mean, +as you <i>were</i>, and as you may be again, if you make mistakes."</p> + +<p>"I'd rather not bring my brother into this discussion," +I said. "He's too far above it—and us. You can do as +you choose about your sister."</p> + +<p>"I can make <i>her</i> do as <i>I</i> choose," he amended. "That's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> +where my scheme came in, and where it still holds good. +When I read the news of Pa and Ma Beckett arriving in +Paris, it jumped into my head like a—like a——"</p> + +<p>"Toad," I supplied the simile.</p> + +<p>"I was leaving it to you," said he. "I thought you +ought to know, for by a wonderful coincidence which should +draw us together, the same great idea must have occurred +to you—in the same way, and on the same day. I bet you +the first hundred francs I get out of old Beckett that it was +so!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. O'Farrell, you're a Beast!" I cried.</p> + +<p>"And you're a Beauty. So there we are, cast for opposite +parts in the same play. Queer how it works out! +Looks like the hand of Providence. Don't say what you +want to say, or I shall be afraid you've been badly brought +up. North of Ireland, I understand. We're South. +Dierdre's a Sinn Feiner. You needn't expect mercy from +her, unless I keep her down with a strong hand—the Hidden +Hand. She hates you Northerners about ten times +worse than she hates the Huns. Now you look as if you +thought her name <i>wasn't</i> Dierdre! It is, because she took +it. She takes a lot of things, when I've showed her how. +For instance, photographs. She has several snapshots of +Jim Beckett and me together. I have some of him and +her. They're pretty strong cards (I don't mean a pun!) +if we decide to use them. Don't you agree?"</p> + +<p>"I neither agree nor disagree," I said, "for I understand +you no better now than when you began."</p> + +<p>"You're like Mr. Justice What's-his-name, who's so +innocent he never heard of the race course. Well, I must +adapt myself to your child-like intelligence! I'll go back<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> +a bit to an earlier chapter in my career, the way novels and +cinemas do, after they've given the public a good, bright +opening. It was true, what I said about my voice. I've +lost everything but my middle register. I had a fortune in +my throat. At present I've got nothing but a warble fit for +a small drawing room—and that, only by careful management. +I knew months ago I could never sing again in +opera. I was coining money in New York, and would be +now—if they hadn't dug me out as a slacker—an <i>embusqué</i>—whatever +you like to call it. I was a conscientious +objector: that is, my conviction was it would be sinful to +risk a bullet in a chest full of music, like mine—a treasure-chest. +But the fools didn't see it in that light. They made +America too hot to hold either Giulio di Napoli or Julian +O'Farrell. I'm no coward—I swear to you I'm not, my +dear girl! You've only to look me square in the face to +see I'm not. I'm full of fire. But ever since I was a boy +I've lived for my voice, and you can't die for your voice, +like you can for your country. It goes—pop!—with you. +I managed to convince the doctors that my heart was too +jumpy for the trenches. I see digitalis in your eye, Miss +Trained Nurse! It wasn't. It was strophantis. But +they <i>would</i> set me to driving a motor ambulance—cold-hearted +brutes! I got too near the front line one day—or +rather the front line got too near me, and a shell hit my ambulance. +The next thing I knew I was in hospital, and the +first thing I thought of was my voice. A frog would have +disowned it. I hoped for a while it might come right; but +they sent me to St. Raphael for a sun cure, and—it didn't +work. That was last spring. I'm as well as I ever was, +except in my throat, and there the specialists say I need<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> +never expect to be better. I'd change with your brother, +Miss O'Malley. My God, I would. If I could lose my +eyes and have my voice again—my voice!"</p> + +<p>His flippancy broke down on those words, with one sincere +and tragic note that touched me through my contempt. +Watching, he saw this, and catching at self-control, +he caught also at the straw of sympathy within his reach.</p> + +<p>"I wanted to die for a while," he went on. "But youth +is strong, even when you're down on your luck—down at +the deepest. My sister came to St. Raphael to be with me. +It may seem queer to you, but I'm her idol. She's lost +everything else—or rather she thinks she has, which is +much the same—everything that made her life worth living. +She wanted to be a singer. Her voice wasn't strong +enough. She wanted to be an actress. She knew how to +act, but—she <i>couldn't</i>, Heaven knows why. She's got +temperament enough, but she couldn't let herself out. +You see what she's like! She failed in America, where +she'd followed me against our mother's will. Mother died +while we were there. Another blow! And a man Dierdre's +been half engaged to was killed in Belgium. She didn't +love him, but he was made of money. It would have been +a big match! She took to nursing only after I was called +up. You know in France a girl doesn't need much experience +to get into a hospital. But poor little Dare wasn't +more of a success at nursing than on the stage. Not +enough self-confidence—too sensitive. People think she's +always in the sulks—and so she is, these days. I'd been +trying for six months' sick leave, and just got it when I +read that stuff in the paper about Beckett being killed, and +his parents hearing the news the day they arrived. It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> +struck me like drama: things do. I was born dramatic—took +it from my mother. The thought came to me, how +dead easy 'twould be for some girl to pretend she'd been +engaged to Beckett, and win her wily way to the hearts +and pockets of the old birds. Next I thought: Why not +Dierdre? And there wasn't <i>any</i> reason why not! I told +her it would be good practice in acting. (She hasn't quite +given up hope of the stage yet.) We started for Paris +on the job; and then I read in a later copy of the same +paper about the smart young lady who'd stepped in ahead +of us. If old Beckett hadn't been bursting with pride +in the heroic girl who'd got a medal for nursing infectious +cases in a hospital near St. Raphael, I'd have given up the +game for a bad job. I'd have taken it for granted that +Jim and the fiancée had met before we met him at St. +Raphael. But when the paper said they'd made acquaintance +there, and gave your name and all, I knew you were +on the same trail with us. You'd walked in ahead, that +was the only difference. And <i>we</i> had the snapshots. We +could call witnesses to swear that no nurse from your hospital +had come near St. Raphael, and to swear that none +of the chaps in the aviation school had ever come near +them. Dierdre hadn't been keen at first, but once she was +in, she didn't want to fail again; especially for a North of +Ireland girl like you. She was ready to go on. But the +newspaper gushed a good deal over your looks, you remember. +My curiosity was roused. I was—sort of +obsessed by the thought of you. I decided to see what +your head was like to look at before chopping it off. And +anyhow, you'd already started on your jaunt. Through a +rich chap I knew in New York, who's over here helping the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> +Red Cross, I got leave to carry supplies to the evacuated +towns, provided I could find my own car. Well, I found +it—such as it is. All I ask of it is not to break down till +the Becketts have learned to love me as their dear, dead +son's best friend. As for Dare—what she was to the dear +dead son depends on you."</p> + +<p>"Depends on me?" I repeated.</p> + +<p>"Depends on you. Dare's not a good Sunday-school +girl, but she's good to her brother—as good as you are to +yours, in her way. She'll do what I want. But the +question is Will <i>you</i>?"</p> + +<p>For a moment I did not speak. Then I asked, "What +do you want?"</p> + +<p>"Only a very little thing," he said. "To live and let +live, that's all. Don't you try to queer my pitch, and I +won't queer yours."</p> + +<p>"What is your pitch?" I asked.</p> + +<p>He laughed. "You're very non-committal, aren't you? +But I like your pluck. You've never once admitted by +word or look that you're caught. All the same, you know +you are. You can't hurt me, and I can hurt you. Your +word wouldn't stand against my proofs, if you put up a +fight. You'd go down—and your brother with you. Oh, +I don't think he's in it! The minute I saw his face I was +sure he wasn't; and I guessed from yours that what you'd +done was mostly or all for him. Now, dear Miss O'Malley, +you know where you are with me. Isn't that enough for +you? Can't you just be wise and promise to let me alone +on my 'pitch,' whatever it is?"</p> + +<p>"I won't have Mr. and Mrs. Beckett made fools of in +any way."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p>He burst out laughing. "That's good—from <i>you</i>! I +give you leave to watch over their interests, if you let me +take care of mine. Is it a bargain?"</p> + +<p>I did not answer. I was thinking—thinking furiously, +when the landlord came to the door to put out the lights.</p> + +<p>O'Farrell sprang to his feet. "We're ready to go. We +can leave the room free, can't we, Miss O'Malley?" he +said in French.</p> + +<p>Somehow, I found myself getting up, and fading out of +the room as if I'd been hypnotized. I walked straight to +the foot of the stairs, then turned at bay to deliver some +ultimatum—I scarcely knew what. But O'Farrell had +cleverly accomplished a vanishing act, and there was +nothing left for me to do save go to my own room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + + +<p>Thinking things over in the night, I decided to +wait until after breakfast before making up my +mind to anything irrevocable. Breakfast being +the appointed rendezvous, O'Farrell would then lay his +cards on the table. If he slipped some up his sleeve, I must +make it my business to spot the trick and its meaning for +the Becketts.</p> + +<p>As I offered this sop to my conscience, I could almost +hear O'Farrell saying, with one of his young laughs, +"That's right. Set a thief to catch a thief!"</p> + +<p>At ten o'clock we were to start for Nancy via Commercy, +so there would be little time to reflect, and to act on top of +reflection; but my strait being desperate, I resolved to +trust to luck; and to be first on the field of battle, I knocked +at Brian's door at half-past eight.</p> + +<p>He was already dressed, and to look at his neat cravat +and smoothly brushed hair no one would have guessed that +his toilet had been made by a blind man. We had not yet +exchanged opinions of the O'Farrell family, and I had come +early to get his impressions. They were always as accurate +and quickly built up as his sketches; but since he has +been blind, he seems almost clairvoyant.</p> + +<p>"What do you think of those two?" I asked. "Or +rather, what do you think of the man? I know you have +to judge by voices; and as the girl hardly opened her +mouth you can't——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Queer thing—and I don't quite understand it myself," +said Brian; "but I see Miss O'Farrell more clearly than +her brother."</p> + +<p>He generally speaks of "seeing people," quite as a +matter of course. It used to give me a sharp pain at my +heart; but I begin to take his way for granted now. +"There's something about O'Farrell that eludes me—slips +away like quicksilver. One is charmed with his voice and +his good looks——"</p> + +<p>"Brian! Who told you he was good-looking?" I broke in.</p> + +<p>Brian laughed. "I told myself! His manner—so sure +of his power to please—belongs to good looks. Besides, +I've never known a tenor with any such quality of voice +who hadn't magnificent eyes. Why they should go together +is a mystery—but they do. Am I right about this +chap?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you're right," I admitted. "But go on. I'm +more interested in him than in his sister."</p> + +<p>"Are you? I've imagined her the more interesting—the +more repaying—of the two. I see O'Farrell, not a bad +fellow, but—not <i>sure</i>. I don't believe he's even sure of +himself, whether he wants to be straight or crooked. How +he turns out will depend—on circumstances, or perhaps on +some woman. If he travels with us, he'll be a pleasant +companion, there's no doubt. But——"</p> + +<p>"But—what?"</p> + +<p>"Well, we must always keep in mind that he's an actor. +We mustn't take too seriously anything he says or does. +And you, Molly—you must be more careful than the rest."</p> + +<p>"I! But I told you I'd never met him at St. Raphael. +I never set eyes on him till last night."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I know. Yet I felt, when he 'set eyes' on you—oh, I +don't know how to express what I felt! Only—if it had +happened on the stage, there'd have been music for it in +the orchestra."</p> + +<p>"Brian, how strange you are!" I almost gasped. +"Ought we to let the man and his sister go on with us, if +that's their aim? Their Red Cross flag may be camouflage, +you know! Very likely they're adventurers, after +the Beckett's money. We could advise Father and Mother +Beck——"</p> + +<p>"Let's follow a famous example, and 'wait and see'—if +only for the girl's sake."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you think so well of her!"</p> + +<p>"Not well, exactly," Brian hesitated. "I don't know +what to think of her yet. But—I think <i>about</i> her. I feel +her, as I feel electricity before a thunderstorm bursts."</p> + +<p>"A thunderstorm expresses her!" I laughed. "I +thought of that myself. She's sullen—brooding, dark as a +cloud. Yet the <i>tiniest</i> thing! One could almost break +her in two."</p> + +<p>"I held out my hand for good-night," Brian said. "She +had to give hers, though I'm sure for some reason she +didn't want to. It was small and—crushable, like a +child's; and hot, as if she had fever."</p> + +<p>"She didn't want to take yours, because we're North of +Ireland and she's a fierce Sinn Feiner," I explained. +Luckily Brian did not ask how I'd picked up this piece of +information! He was delighted with it, and chuckled. +"So she's a Sinn Feiner! She's very pretty, isn't she?"</p> + +<p>"In a cross-patch way. She looks ready to bite at a +touch."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Poor child! Life must have gone hard with her. She's +probably got a grouch, as the American boys over here say. +We must try and do something to soften her down, and +make her see things through rosier spectacles, if she and her +brother join on to our party for a while."</p> + +<p>"Ye-es."</p> + +<p>"You don't like her, Molly?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I've hardly thought of her, dear. But you seem +to have made up for that."</p> + +<p>"Thunderstorms <i>make</i> you think about them. They +electrify the atmosphere. I see this girl so distinctly somehow: +little, white thing; big, gloomy eyes like storms in +deep woods, and thin eyelids—you know, that transparent, +flower-petal kind, where you fancy you see the iris +looking through, like spirit eyes, always awake while the +body's eyes sleep; and—and lots of dark hair without much +colour—hair like smoke. I see her a suppressed volcano—but +not extinct."</p> + +<p>"The day may come when we'll wish she were extinct. +But really you've described her better than I could, +though I stared quite a lot last night. Come along, dear. +It's six minutes to nine. Let's trot down to breakfast."</p> + +<p>We trotted; but early as I'd meant to be, and early as +we were, the O'Farrells and the Becketts were before us. +How long they had been together I don't know, but they +must have finished their first instalment of talk about Jim, +for already they had got on to the subject of plans.</p> + +<p>"Well, it will be noble of you to help us with supplies. +The promise we've got from our American Red Cross man +in Paris is limited," O'Farrell was saying in his voice to +charm a statue off its pedestal, as we came in. He<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> +sprang to shut the door for us, and gave me the look of a +cherubic fox, as much as to say, "You see where we've got +to! But it's all for the good cause. There's more than one +person not as black as he's painted!"</p> + +<p>"Molly's watch must be slow," said Brian. "She +thought it was only six minutes to nine."</p> + +<p>"She's right. But it seems the big clock in the hall outside +our door is fast," explained Father Beckett. "We +heard it strike nine, so we hurried down. The same thing +happened with Mr. and Miss O'Farrell."</p> + +<p>Another glance at me from the brilliant eyes! "Smart +trick, eh?" they telegraphed. I had to turn away, or I +should have laughed. Surely never before, on stage or in +story—to say nothing of real life—was the villain and +blackmailer a mischievous, schoolboy imp, who made his +victims giggle at the very antics which caught them in his +toils! But, come to think of it, <i>I</i> am a villain, and next +door to a blackmailer! Yet I always see myself (unless I +stop to reflect on my sins) as a girl like other girls, even +better-natured and more agreeable and intelligent than +most. Perhaps, after all, villains don't run in types!</p> + +<p>I soon learned that Father and Mother Beckett were +rejoicing in the acquisition of Jim's two friends as travelling +companions. The celebrated snapshots were among the +cards O'Farrell had kept up his sleeve. No doubt he'd +waited to make sure of my attitude (though he appeared +to take it for granted) before deciding what use to make of +his best trumps. Seeing that I let slip my one and only +chance of a denunciation-scene, he flung away his also, with +an air of dashing chivalry which his sister and I alone were +in a position to appreciate. For me it had been a case of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> +"speak now, or forever after hold your peace." For him, +a decision was not irrevocable, as he could denounce me +later, and plead that I had been spared at first, through +kindness of heart. But I did not stop to consider that +detail. I saw the man and myself as accomplices, on an +equal footing, each having given quarter to the other. As +for the girl, I still thought of her hardly at all, in spite of +Brian's words. She was an unknown quantity, which I +would waste no time in studying, while the situation that +opened bade me sharpen my wits.</p> + +<p>In the five or ten minutes before we joined them the +Becketts had consented—or offered—to help finance the +Red Cross crusade. To achieve this was worthy of the +Irish-Italian's talents. But the little dining room was +littered with samples of the travellers' goods: clothing for +repatriated refugees, hospital supplies; papier-mâché +splints, and even legs; shoes, stockings, medicines; soup-tablets, +and chocolates. The O'Farrells might be doing +evil, but good would apparently come from it for many. +I could hardly advise the Becketts against giving money, +even though I suspected that most of it would stick to +O'Farrell's fingers—even though I knew that the hope of it +consoled Signor Giulio di Napoli for leaving me in my safe +niche. Yes, that was his consolation, I realized. And—there +might be something more which I did not yet foresee. +Still, being no better than he was, I was coward enough to +hold my peace.</p> + +<p>This was the situation when we set out for Nancy, our +big car running slowly, in order not to outpace the rickety +Red Cross cab. We were not allowed by the military +authorities to enter Toul, so our way took us through<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +delightful old Commercy, birthplace of Madeleines. Of +course the town had things to make it famous, long before +the day of the shell-shaped cakelets which all true sons +and daughters of France adore. Somebody founded it in +the ninth century, when the bishops of Metz were the great +overlords of its lords. It was a serious little city then, and +Benedictine monks had a convent there in the Middle Ages. +The fun began only with the building of the château, and +the coming of the Polish Stanislas, the best loved and last +Duke of Lorraine. He used to divide his years between +Nancy, Lunéville, and Commercy; and once upon a time, +in the third of these châteaux, the <i>chef</i> had a <i>chère amie</i> +named Madeleine. There was to be a fête, and the lover +of Madeleine was racking his tired brain to invent some +new dainty for it. "<i>I</i> have thought of something which +can make you famous," announced the young woman, who +was a budding genius as a cook. "But, <i>mon cher</i>, it is +my secret. Even to you I will not give it for nothing. I +will sell it at a price."</p> + +<p>The <i>chef</i> feigned indifference; but each moment counted. +The Duke always paid in praise and gold for a successful +new dish, especially a cake, for he was fond of sweets. +When Madeleine boasted that her "inspiration" took the +form of a cake, the man could resist no longer. The price +asked was marriage—no less, and paid in advance! But it +turned out not excessive. The feather-light, shell-shaped +cakes were the success of the feast; and when Duke +Stanislas heard their history, he insisted that they should +be named Madeleines—"after their mother."</p> + +<p>Even in war days, "Madeleines de Commercy" is the +first cry which greets the traveller entering town. Jim, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> +seems, had a charming habit of sending to his mother at +home a specimen of the cake, or confiture, or bonbon, for +which each place he visited abroad was famed. These +things used to reach her in jars or boxes adorned with the +coat-of-arms and photographs of the city concerned—a +procession of surprises: and I think as she bought Madeleines +of Commercy she moistened them with a few tears.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I expected to find Nancy beautiful, since for so long it +was the capital of proud Lorraine, but I hadn't guessed +how beautiful or individual. Now I shall always in future +see the details of each splendid square and park by shutting +my eyes and calling the vision to come—as Brian does.</p> + +<p>We drove straight to the door of a fascinating, old-fashioned +hotel in the most celebrated square of all, the +Place Stanislas; but we didn't go in. We couldn't stolidly +turn our backs upon the magic picture, lit by a sudden +radiance of sunshine, for in another moment the fairy-like +effect might fade. Yes, "fairy-like" is the word; and as +our two cars drew up—like Dignity and Impudence—I had +the feeling that we'd arrived in the capital of fairyland to +visit the king and queen.</p> + +<p>It was I who described the scene to Brian: the eighteenth-century +perfection of the buildings, each one harmoniously +proportioned to suit the others; the town hall, with its +wonderful clock; the palace; the theatre, and the rest of +the happy architectural family reared by Duke Stanislas; +each with its roof-decoration of carved stone vases, and +graceful statues miraculously missed so far by German +bombs; the lace-like filigree of wrought iron and gold on +flag-hung balconies or gates; the gilded Arch of Triumph<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> +leading into the garden of the Place Carrière—a gorgeous +glitter of decoration which won for Nancy her <i>alias</i>, "City +of Golden Doors," and now has to be "camouflaged" for +enemy aeroplanes. It was I who made the list of stage +properties, but it was Brian who filled the stage with +actors and actresses, in their proper parts.</p> + +<p>He called upon the bronze statue of Stanislas to come +down from its high pedestal, and appear before us in flesh, +happy to be Duke of Lorraine, after all the dethronings +and abdications in Poland; a most respectable-looking +monarch despite his adventures and disguises of the past. +We saw him in a powdered perruque, on his way to the ducal +palace, after some religious ceremony that had attracted +crowds of loyal Catholic Lorrainers: beside him, +his good wife of bourgeoise soul but romantic name, Catherine +Opalinska, a comfortable woman, too large for the +fashionable <i>robe à paniers</i>; with the pair, their daughter +Marie, proud of the fate foretold by a fortune-teller, that +she should be queen of France; the Royal family, and the +aristocrats of their northern court; the smart Polish +officers in uniform; the pretty, coquettish women, and +dark-faced musicians of Hungary; the Swedish philosophers, +the long-haired Italian artists; and above all, the +beautiful Marquise de Boufflers—rival of the Queen—with +her little dogs and black pages; all these "belonged" to +the sunlit picture, where our modern figures seemed out of +place and time. The noble square, with its vast stretch of +gray stone pavement—worn satin-smooth—its carved +gray façades of palaces, picked out with gold, and its vista +of copper beeches rose-red against a sky of pearl, had been +designed as a sober background for the colour and fantastic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> +fashion of the eighteenth century, whereas we and others +like us but added an extra sober note.</p> + +<p>I noticed, as Brian sketched us his little picture of the +past, that Dierdre O'Farrell gazed at him, as if at some +legendary knight in whose reality she did not believe. It +was the first time I had seen any change in the sullen face, +but it was a change to interest rather than sympathy. She +had the air of saying in her mind: "You look more like a +St. George, stepped down from a stained-glass window, +than an ordinary man of to-day. You seem to think about +everyone else before yourself, and to see a lot more with +your blind eyes than we see. You pretend to be happy, too, +as if you wanted to set everybody a good example. But +it's all a pose—a pose! I shall study you till I find you out, +a trickster like the rest of us."</p> + +<p>I felt a sudden stab of dislike for the girl, for daring to +put Brian on a level with herself—and me. I wanted to +punish her somehow, wanted to make the little wretch pay +for her impertinent suspicions. I pushed past her brusquely +to stand between her and Brian. "Let's go into the +hotel," I said. "It's more important just now to see what +our rooms are like than to play with the ghosts of dukes."</p> + +<p>As if the slighted ghosts protested, there came a loud, +reproachful wail out of space. Everyone started, and +stared in all directions. Then the soberly clad, modern +inhabitants of Nancy glanced skyward as they crossed the +square of Stanislas. Nobody hurried, yet nobody stopped. +Men, women, and children pursued their way at the same +leisurely pace as before, except that their chins were raised. +I realized then that the ghostly wail was the warning cry +of a siren: "Take cover! Enemy aeroplanes sighted!" But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> +there was the monotony of boredom in the voice, and in the +air with which passers-by received the news.</p> + +<p>"Oh, lord, here I go again!" the weary siren sighed.</p> + +<p>"Third time to-day, <i>mon Dieu</i>!" grumbled a very old +man to a very blasé porter, who dutifully shot out of the +hotel to rescue our luggage, if not us, from possible though +improbable danger. We let him haul in our bags, but remained +glued to the pavement, utterly absorbed and fascinated, +waiting for the show to begin.</p> + +<p>We had not long to wait! For an instant the pearl-pale +zenith shone serenely void. Then, heralded by a droning +noise as of giant bees, and a vicious spitting of shrapnel, +high overhead sailed a wide-winged black bird, chased by +four other birds bigger, because nearer earth. They +soared, circling closer, closer—two mounting high, two +flying low, and so passed westward, while the sky was +spattered with shrapnel—long, white streaks falling slow +and straight, like tail-feathers of a shot eagle.</p> + +<p>There was scant time to speak, or even draw an excited +breath after the birds had disappeared, because they were +back again, hovering so high that they were changed to +insects.</p> + +<p>We ought to have scuttled into the hotel, but somehow +we didn't move, although people in the square seemed +suddenly to realize the wisdom of prudence. Some vanished +into doorways, others walked faster—though not +one of those haughty Lorrainers would condescend to +run. Forgetful of ourselves, I was admiring their pride, +when an angry voice made me jump.</p> + +<p>"You pretend that everything you do, good or bad, is +for your brother's sake, yet you let him risk his life—a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +<i>blind</i> man!—out here in the street with bombs and shrapnel +dropping every instant!"</p> + +<p>It was Dierdre O'Farrell who spoke, and we glared into +each other's eyes like two Kilkenny cats—or a surprised +Kilkenny cat and a spitfire Kilkenny kitten.</p> + +<p>A moment before, I had been longing to strike at her. +Now it was she who struck at me; and it was too much, +that it should be in defence of my own brother! The +primitive fishwife within me rose to the surface. "Mind +your own business!" I rudely flung at her: and slipping +my arm under Brian's, in a voice of curdled cream begged +him to come with me indoors.</p> + +<p>The others followed, and about three seconds later a +bomb fell in front of the hotel. It was a "dud," and did +not explode, but it made a hole in the pavement and sent a +jet of splintered stone into the air.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the girl had saved us from death, or at least +from disfiguring wounds, but I was in no mood to thank +her for that. I was <i>glad</i> I had been a fishwife, and I +thought Brian lacked his usual discernment in attributing +hidden qualities to such a person as Dierdre O'Farrell.</p> + +<p>"Something's bound to break, if we don't part soon!" +I told myself.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + + +<p>Nancy is one of "Jim's towns," as Mother and +Father Beckett say. When, with Brian's help, +they began mapping out their route, they decided +to "give something worth while" to the place, and to all +the ruined region round about, when they had learned +what form would be best for their donation to take. +Some friend in Paris gave them a letter to the Préfet, and +we had not been in Nancy an hour when he and his wife +called.</p> + +<p>I'd never met a real, live préfet. The word sounded +stiff and official. When Mother Beckett tremulously +asked me to act as interpreter, I dimly expected to meet +two polite automata, as little human as creatures of +flesh and blood can be. Instead, I saw a perfectly delightful +pair of Parisians, with the warm, kind +manner one thinks of as southern. They were frankly +pleased that a millionaire's purse promised to open for +Nancy. Monsieur le Préfet offered himself to the Becketts +as guide on a sightseeing expedition next day, and +Madame, the Préfet's wife, proposed to exhibit her two +thousand children, old and young, refugees housed in what +once had been barracks. "The Germans pretend to believe +they are barracks still, full of soldiers, as an excuse +for bombs," she said. "But you shall see! And if you +wish—if you have time—we will take you to see also what<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> +the Boches have done to some of our other towns—ah, +but beautiful towns, of an importance! Lunéville, +and Gerbévillers, and more—many more. You should +know what they are like before you go on to the Grande +Couronne, where Nancy was saved in 1914."</p> + +<p>Of course the Becketts "wished." Of course they had +time. "Molly, tell Mr. and Mrs. Préfet we've got more +time than anything else!" said the old man eagerly. +"Oh, and I guess we've got a little money, too, enough to +spread around among those other places, as well as here. +This is going to be something like what Jim would want at +last!"</p> + +<p>When the Préfet and his wife rose to go, they invited not +only the Becketts but Brian and me to dine at their house +that night. Mother Beckett, on the point of accepting for +us all, hesitated. The hesitation had to be explained: and +the explanation was—the O'Farrells. I had hoped we +might be spared them, but it was not to be. Our host +and hostess, hearing of the travellers of the Red Cross, +insisted that they must come, too. Mrs. Beckett was +sure they would both be charmed, but as it turned out, she +was only half right. Mr. O'Farrell was charmed. His +sister had a headache, and intended to spend the evening +in her room.</p> + +<p>Padre, if I wrote stories, I should like to write one +with that préfet and his whole family for the heroes and +heroines of it!</p> + +<p>There is a small son. There are five daughters, each +prettier than the others, the youngest a tiny <i>filette</i>, the +eldest twenty at most; and the mother in looks an elder +sister. When the war broke out they were living in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> +Paris, the father in some high political post: but he was +by ancestry a man of Lorraine, and his first thought was +to help defend the home of his forbears. The Meurthe-et-Moselle, +with Nancy as its centre and capital, was a +terrible danger zone, with the sword of the enemy pointed +at its heart, but the lover of Lorraine asked to become +préfet in place of a man about to leave, and his family +rallied round him. There at Nancy, they have been ever +since those days, through all the bombardments by Big +Berthas and Taubes. When houses and hotels were +being blown to bits by naval guns, thirty-five kilometres +away, the daily life of the family went on as if in peace. +As a man, the Préfet longed to send his wife and children +far away. As a servant of France he thought best to let +them stop, to "set an example of calmness." And if they +had been bidden to go, they would still have stayed.</p> + +<p>The Préfet's house is one of the eighteenth-century +palaces of the Place Stanislas; and in the story I'd like to +write, I should put a description of their drawing room, +and the scene after dinner that night.</p> + +<p>Imagine a background of decorative walls, adorned with +magnificent portraits (one of the best is Stanislas, and +better still is Louis XVI, a proud baby in the arms of a +handsome mother); imagine beautiful Louis XV chairs, +tables, and sofas scattered about, with the light of prism-hung +chandeliers glinting on old brocades and tapestries: +flowers everywhere, in Chinese bowls and tall vases; +against this background a group of lovely girls multiplied +by many mirrors into a large company; be-medalled officers +in pale blue uniforms, handing coffee to the ladies, or taking +from silver dishes carried by children the delicious maca<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>roons +which are to Nancy what Madeleines are to Commercy. +Imagine long windows opening into a garden: +rosy lamplight streaming out, silver moonlight streaming +in; music; the wonderful voice of a man (Julian O'Farrell) +singing the "Marseillaise," the "Star-Spangled Banner," +and "Tipperary." Then into the midst of this breaking +the tiresome whine of the siren.</p> + +<p>"What? A fourth time to-day?" cries somebody. +"These creatures will wear out their welcome if they're +not careful!"</p> + +<p>A laugh follows, to drown the bark of shrapnel, and a +general shrugging of the shoulders. But suddenly comes a +cry that <i>la petite</i>—the baby daughter of the house, sitting +up in our honour—has run into the garden.</p> + +<p>The elder girls are not afraid for themselves, the great +bombardments have given them a quiet contempt of +mere Taubes. But for the little sister!—that is different. +Instantly it seems that all the bombs Germany has ever +made may be falling like iron rain on that curly head out +there among the autumn lilies. Everybody rushes to +the rescue: and there is the child, sweet as a cherub and +cool as a cucumber, in the din. She stands on the lawn, +chin in air, baby thumb on baby nose for the Taube caught +in a silver web of searchlights.</p> + +<p><i>"Sale oiseau!"</i> her defiant cry shrills up. "Just like +you, to come on my grown-up evening! But you shan't +spoil it. No, sister, I don't want to go in. I came out to +say good-night to the chickens and rabbits, and tell them +not to be afraid."</p> + +<p>Behind the lilies and late roses and laurels is quite a +menagerie of domestic animals, housed among growing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> +potatoes, beans, and tomatoes. <i>C'est la guerre!</i> But rabbits +and chickens are robbed of their consolation; the baby +is bundled into the house; and, once she is safe—safe as +any one can be safe in bombarded Nancy!—nobody thinks +about the air raid. <i>Que voulez-vous?</i> If one thought about +these things, smiles a blonde girl in white, they might really +get upon one's nerves, and that would never do!</p> + +<p>"It is this moonlight," she explains. "They will be +back again once or twice to-night, perhaps. But the +streets will be as full as ever of <i>poilus en permission</i>, walking +with their sweethearts, in spite of the hateful things!"</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>One makes one's adieux early in war times; but the +moonlight was so wonderful on that Taube-ridden night +that Brian said he felt it like a cool silver shower on his +eyelids. "I believe I'm developing night-eyes!" he +laughed to me, as we walked ahead of the Becketts and +Julian O'Farrell, on our way across the gleaming square +to our hotel. "Surely there won't be another raid for an +hour or two? Let's take a walk. Let's go into the old +town, and try to see some ghosts."</p> + +<p>"Yes, let's!" I echoed.</p> + +<p>I said good-night sweetly to the Becketts and stiffly +to O'Farrell. Brian was equally cordial to all three, and I +feared that O'Farrell might be encouraged to offer his company. +But his self-assurance stopped short of that. He +went meekly into the darkened hotel with the old couple, +and I turned away triumphant, with my arm in Brian's.</p> + +<p>The clock of the Town Hall struck ten, chimed, waited +for the church clock to approve and confirm, then repeated +all that it had said and sung a minute before.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p> + +<p>We were going to look for ghosts of kings and dukes and +queens; and like ghosts ourselves, we stepped from moonlit +shores into pools of shadow, and back to moonlit shores +again; past the golden Arch of Triumph, which Stanislas +built in honour of his daughter's marriage with Louis XV; +through the Carrière, where the tops of tall copper-beeches +caught the light with dull red gleams, like the glow of a +carbuncle; past the sleeping palace of Stanislas, into the +old "nursery garden" of the Pepinière, to the sombre +Porte de la Craffe whose two huge, pointed towers and +great wall guard the old town of Duke René II.</p> + +<p>There we stopped, because of all places this dark corner +was the place for Nancy's noblest ghost to walk, René the +Romantic, friend of Americo Vespucius when Americo +needed friends; René the painter, whose pictures still +adorn old churches of Provence, where he was once a +captive: René, whose memory never dies in Nancy, though +his body died 500 years ago.</p> + +<p>What if he should rise from his tomb in the church of the +Cordeliers, or come down off his little bronze horse in the +Place St. Epvre as ghosts may by moonlight, to walk with +his fair wife Isabella through the huddled streets of the old +town, gazing at the wreckage made by the greatest war of +history? What would he think of civilization, he who +held his dukedom against the star warrior of the century, +Charles the Bold? War was lawless enough in his day. +When avenging a chancellor's murder, the Nancians +hanged 100 Burgundian officers on a church tower for the +besiegers outside the city wall to see. But the "noble +Gauls" whom Julius Cæsar called "knights of chivalry," +would have drawn the line then at showering bombs from<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> +the bay on women and children. We fancied, Brian and I, +that after a walk round Nancy René and Isabella would +retire, sadder and wiser ghosts, content to have finished +their lives in gentler times than ours. Back into the +shadows might they fade, to sleep again, and take up +their old dream where the noise of twentieth-century +shrapnel had snapped its thread. Their best dream must +be, we thought, of their battle of Nancy: Charles the +Bold on his black war-horse, surrounded by Burgundian +barons in armour, shouting, and waving their banners +with standards of ivory and gold; Charles of the dark +locks, and brilliant eyes which all men feared and some +women loved; Charles laughing with joy in the chance of +open battle at last, utterly confident of its end, because +the young duke—once his prisoner—had reinforced a +small army with mercenaries, Swiss and Alsatians. +At most René had 15,000 soldiers, and Charles believed +his equal band of Burgundians worth ten times the paid +northerners, as man to man.</p> + +<p>From the church tower where Charles's men had hung—where +St. Epvre stands now—René could see the enemy +troops assembling, headed by the Duke of Burgundy, in +his glittering helmet adorned with its device of an open-jawed +lion. He could even see the gorgeous tent whose +tapestried magnificence spies had reported (a magnificence +owned by Nancy's museum in our day!), and there seemed +to his eyes no end to the defile of spears, of strange engines +for scaling walls, and glittering battle-axes. One last +prayer, a blessing by the pale priest, and young René's +own turn to lead had come—a slight adversary for great +Charles, but with a heart as bold! The trumpet blast of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> +La Rivière, sounding the charge of Lorraine, went to +his head like wine. He laughed when Herter's mountain +men began to sing "Le taureau d'Uri" and "La vache +d'Unterwald," to remind the proud Burgundian of his +defeats at Granson and Morat. Then came the crash of +armour against armour, blade against blade, and the day +ended for Nancy according to René's prayers. The southerners +fled and died; and two days later, René was gazing +down at the drowned body of Charles the Bold, dragged +out of a pond. Yes, a good dream for ghosts of the +chivalrous age to retire into, and shut the door! But for +us, in our throbbing flesh and blood, this present was worth +suffering in for the glory of the future.</p> + +<p>There were other ghosts to meet in Nancy's old town of +narrow streets where moonlight trickled in a narrow rill. +Old, old ghosts, far older than the town as we saw it: +Odebric of the eleventh century, who owned the strongest +castle in France and the most beautiful wife, and fought +the bishops of Metz and Treves together, because they +did not approve of the lady; Henri VI of England riding +through the walled city with his bride, Marguerite, by +his side: ghostly funeral processions of dead dukes, whose +strange, Oriental obsequies were famed throughout the +world; younger and more splendid ghosts: Louis XIII and +Richelieu entering in triumph when France had fought and +won Lorraine, only to give it back by bargaining later; +ghosts of stout German generals who, in 1871, had "bled +the town white"; but greater than all ghosts, the noble +reality of Foch and Castlenau, who saved Nancy in 1914, +on the heights of La Grande Couronne.</p> + +<p>As we walked back to the new town, dazed a little by our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> +deep plunge into the centuries, I heard my name called +from across the street. "Miss O'Malley—wait, please! +It's Julian O'Farrell. Have you seen my sister?"</p> + +<p>Brian and I stopped short, and O'Farrell joined us, +panting and out of breath. "She's not with you?" he +exclaimed. "I hoped she would be. I've been searching +everywhere—she wasn't in the hotel when I got home, and +it's close to midnight."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + + +<p>I felt unsympathetic, and wouldn't have cared if +Miss Dierdre O'Farrell had flown off on a broomstick, +or been kidnapped by a German aviator. My heart, +however, was sure that nothing had happened and I suspected +that her brother had trumped up an excuse to join +us. It vexed me that Brian should show concern. If only +he knew how the girl had looked at him a few hours ago!</p> + +<p>"Couldn't they tell you in the hotel at what time she +went out?" he enquired.</p> + +<p>But no! According to O'Farrell, his sister had not been +seen. He had found her door unlocked, the room empty, +and her hat and coat missing. "She told me she was going +to bed," he added. "But the bed hasn't been disturbed."</p> + +<p>"Nor need you be, I think," said I. "Perhaps your +sister wants to frighten you. Children love that sort of +thing. It draws attention to themselves. And sometimes +they don't outgrow the fancy."</p> + +<p>"Especially Suffragettes and Sinn Feiners," O'Farrell +played up to me, unoffended. "Still, as a brother of one, +I'm bound to search, if it takes all night. A sister's a +sister. And mine is quite a valuable asset." He tossed +me this hint with a Puck-like air of a private understanding +established between us. Yes, "Puck-like" +describes him: a Puck at the same time merry and +malicious, never to be counted upon!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I feel that Miss O'Farrell went out to take a walk +because she was restless, and perhaps not very happy," +Brian reproached us both. "Something may have happened—remember +we're in the war zone."</p> + +<p>"No one in Nancy's likely to forget that!" said I, dully +resenting his defence of the enemy. "Brushing bombs out +of their back hair every ten minutes or so! And listen—don't +you hear big guns booming now, along the front? +The German lines are only sixteen kilometres from here."</p> + +<p>Brian didn't answer. His brain was pursuing Dierdre +O'Farrell, groping after her through the night. "If she +went out before that air raid, while we were at the Préfet's," +he suggested, "she may have had to take refuge somewhere—she +may have been hurt——"</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" Puck broke in. "It scares me when you +say that. You're a—a sort—of <i>prophet</i>, you know! I +must find out what hospitals there are——"</p> + +<p>"We'll go with you to the hotel," Brian promised. +"They'll know there about the hospitals. And if the +Préfet's still up, he'll phone for us officially, I'm sure."</p> + +<p>"It's you who are the practical one, after all!" cried +O'Farrell. And I guessed from a sudden uprush of Irish +accent that his anxiety had grown sincere.</p> + +<p>We hurried home; Brian seeming almost to guide us, for +without his instinct for the right way we would twice have +taken a wrong turning. As we came into the Place Stanislas, +still a pale oasis of moonlight, I saw standing in front +of the hotel two figures, black as if cut out of velvet. One, +that of a man, was singularly tall and thin, as a Mephistopheles +of the stage. The other was that of a woman in a +long cloak, small and slight as a child of fourteen. Dierdre<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> +O'Farrell, of course! It could be no one else. But who +was the man? A dim impression that the figure was +vaguely familiar, or had been familiar long ago, teased my +brain. But surely I could never have seen it before.</p> + +<p>"Hurrah! There she is!" cried O'Farrell, "alive and +on her pins!"</p> + +<p>At the sound of his voice, the velvet silhouettes stirred. +They had turned to look at us, and a glint of moonlight +made the two faces white and blank as masks. O'Farrell +waved his hand, and I was obliged to quicken my steps to +keep pace with Brian: "I suppose she got lost—serve her +right!—and the beanpole has escorted her home," grumbled +Puck; but as he spoke, the beanpole in question hurriedly +made a gesture of salute, and stalked away with +enormous strides. In an instant he was engulfed by a +shadow-wave and his companion was left to meet us alone. +I thought it would be like her to whisk into the hotel and +vanish before we could arrive, but she did not. She stood +still, with a fierce little air of defiance; and as we came near +I saw that under the thrown-back cloak her left arm was in +a white sling.</p> + +<p>Her brother saw it also. "Hullo, what have you been +up to?" he wanted to know. "You've given us the scare +of our lives!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you," the girl said. "Please speak for yourself!"</p> + +<p>"He may speak for us, too," Brian assured her. "We +thought of the air raid. And even now, I don't feel as if +we'd been wrong. Your voice sounds as if you were in +pain. You've been hurt!"</p> + +<p>"It's nothing at all," she answered shortly, but her tone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> +softened slightly for Brian. Even <i>she</i> had her human side, +it seemed. "A window splintered near where I was, and I +got a few bits of glass in my arm. They're out now—every +one. A doctor came, and looked after me. You see, +Jule!" and she nodded her head at the sling. "Now I'm +going in to bed. Good-night!"</p> + +<p>"Wait, and let my sister help you," Brian proposed. +"She's a splendid nurse. I know she'll be delighted."</p> + +<p>"Sweet of her!" sneered the girl. "But <i>I'm</i> a trained +nurse, too, and I can take care of myself. It's only my left +arm that's hurt, and a scratch at that. I don't need any +help from any one."</p> + +<p>"Was that man we saw the doctor who put you in your +sling?" asked "Jule," in the blunt way brothers have of +catching up their sisters.</p> + +<p>"Yes, he was," she grudged.</p> + +<p>"Why did he run away? Didn't he want to be +thanked?"</p> + +<p>"He did not. Besides——"</p> + +<p>"Besides—what?"</p> + +<p>"He particularly didn't wish to meet—one of our party. +Now, I shan't say a word more about him. So you needn't +ask questions. I'm tired. I want to go to bed."</p> + +<p>With this ultimatum, she bolted into the hotel, leaving +the three of us speechless for a few seconds. I suppose +each was wondering, "Am <i>I</i> the one the doctor didn't want +to meet?" Then I remembered my impression of having +known that tall, thin figure long ago, and I was seized with +certainty that the mysterious person had fled from me. +At all events, I was sure Miss O'Farrell wished me to think +so by way of being as aggravating as she possibly could.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, I'm <i>blessed</i>!" Puck exploded.</p> + +<p>"Are you?" I doubted. And I couldn't resist adding, +"I thought your sister always did what you wanted?"</p> + +<p>"In the end she does," he upheld his point. "But—just +lately—she's bewitched! Some saint is needed to +remove the ban."</p> + +<p>I thought the saint was only too near her hand! Whether +that hand would scratch or strike I couldn't guess; but one +gesture was as dangerous as the other.</p> + +<p>What with thinking of my own horridness and other +people's, wondering about the shadow-man, and being +roused by the usual early morning air raid, bed didn't +mother me with its wonted calming influence. Excitement +was a tonic for the next day, however; and a bath and +coffee braced me for an expedition with the Préfet's wife +and daughters, and the Becketts. They took us over the +two huge <i>casernes</i>, turned into homes of refuge for two thousand +people from the invaded towns and villages of Lorraine: +old couples, young women (of course the young men +are fighting), and children. We saw the skilled embroiderers +embroidering, and the unskilled making sandbags for +the trenches; we saw the schools; and the big girls at work +upon trousseaux for their future, or happily cooking in the +kitchens. We saw the gardens where the refugees tended +their own growing fruit and vegetables. We saw the +church—once a gymnasium—and an immense cinema +theatre, decorated by the ladies of Nancy, with the Préfet's +wife and daughters at their head. On the way home we +dropped into the biggest of Nancy's beautiful shops, to +behold the work of last night's bombs. The whole skylight-roof +had been smashed at dawn; but the glass had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> +been swept away, and pretty girls were selling pretty hats +and frocks as if nothing had happened—except that the +wind of heaven was blowing their hair across their smiling +eyes.</p> + +<p>After luncheon at which Dierdre O'Farrell didn't +appear, the Préfet took us to the streets which had suffered +most from the big gun bombardment—fine old houses +destroyed with a completeness of which the wickedest +aeroplane bombs are incapable. "Any minute they may +begin again," the Préfet said. "But sufficient for the +day! We suffered so much in a few hours three years ago, +that nothing which has happened to us since has counted. +Nancy was saved for us, to have and hold. Wounded she +might be, and we also. But she was saved. We could +bear the rest."</p> + +<p>We made him tell us about those "few hours" of suffering: +and this was the story. It was on the 7th of September, +1914, when the fate of Nancy hung in the balance. An +immense horde of Germans came pouring along the Seille, +crossing the river by four bridges: Chambley, Moncel, +Brin, and Bioncourt. Everyone knew that the order was +to take Nancy at any price, and open the town for the +Kaiser to march in, triumphant, as did Louis XIII of +France centuries ago. William was said to be waiting +with 10,000 men of the Prussian Guard, in the wood of +Morel, ready for his moment. Furiously the Germans +worked to place their huge cannon on the hills of Doncourt, +Bourthecourt, and Rozebois. Villages burned like +card houses. Church bells tolled as their towers rocked +and fell. Forests blazed, and a rain of bombs poured over +the country from clouds of flame and smoke. Amance<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> +was lost, and with it hope also; for beyond, the road lay +open for a rush on Nancy, seemingly past the power of +man to defend. Still, man <i>did</i> defend! If the French +could hold out against ten times their number for a few +hours, there was one chance in a thousand that reinforcements +might arrive. After Velaine fell next day, and the +defile between the two mountain-hills of Amance swarmed +with yelling Uhlans, the French still held. They did not +hope, but they fought. How they fought! And at the +breaking point, as if by miracle, appeared the reinforcing +<i>tirailleurs</i>.</p> + +<p>"This," said the Préfet, "was only one episode in the +greatest battle ever fought for Nancy, but it was the +episode in which the town was saved.</p> + +<p>"You know," he went on, "that Lorrainers have been +ardent Catholics for centuries. In the Church of Bon-Secours +there's a virgin which the people credit with miraculous +power. Many soldiers in the worst of the fighting +were sure of victory, because the virgin had promised that +never should Nancy be taken again by any enemy whatever."</p> + +<p>It was late when we came back to the hotel, and while I +was translating the Becketts' gratitude into French for +the Préfet, the O'Farrells arrived from another direction. +The brother looked pleased to see us; the sister looked +distressed. I fancied that she had been forced or persuaded +to point out the scene of last night's adventure, and was +returning chastened from the visit. To introduce her to +the Préfet was like introducing a dog as it strains at the +leash, but Puck performed the rite, and explained her +sling.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Hurt in the air raid?" the Préfet echoed. "I hope, +Mademoiselle, that you went to a good doctor. That +he——"</p> + +<p>"The doctor came to her on the spot," replied Puck, in +his perfect French. "It seems you have doctors at Nancy +who walk the streets, when there's a raid, wandering about +to pick up jobs, and refusing payment."</p> + +<p>The Préfet laughed. "Can it be," he exclaimed, "that +Mademoiselle has been treated by the Wandering Jew? +Oh, not the original character, but an extraordinary fellow +who has earned that name in our neighbourhood since the +war."</p> + +<p>"Was that what he called himself?" O'Farrell turned +to Dierdre. I guessed that Puck's public revelations were +vengeance upon her for unanswered questions.</p> + +<p>"He called himself nothing at all," the girl replied.</p> + +<p>"Ah," said the Préfet, "then he <i>was</i> the Wandering +Jew! Let me see—I think you are planning to go to +Gerbéviller and Lunéville and Vitrimont to-morrow. +Most likely you'll meet him at one of those places. And +when you hear his story, you'll understand why he haunts +the neighbourhood like a beneficent spirit."</p> + +<p>"But must we wait to hear the story? Please tell us +now," I pleaded. "I'm so curious!"</p> + +<p>This was true. I burned with curiosity. Also, fatty +degeneration of the heart prompted me to annoy Dierdre +O'Farrell. To spite <i>me</i>, she had refused to talk of the +doctor. I was determined to hear all about him to spite +<i>her</i>. You see to what a low level I have fallen, dear +Padre!</p> + +<p>The Préfet said that if we would go home with him and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> +have tea in the garden (German aeroplanes permitting) he +would tell us the tale of the Wandering Jew. We all +accepted, save Dierdre, who began to stammer an excuse; +but a look from her brother nipped it in the bud. He +certainly has an influence over the girl, against which she +struggles only at her strongest. To-day she looked pale +and weak, and he could do what he liked with her.</p> + +<p>He liked to make her take tea at the Préfet's, doubtless +because he'd have felt bound to escort the invalid to her +room, had she insisted on going there!</p> + +<p>The story of the Wandering Jew would be a strange one, +anywhere and anyhow. But it's more than strange to me, +because it is linked with my past life. Still, I won't +tell it from my point of view. I'll begin with the Préfet's +version.</p> + +<p>The "Wandering Jew" really <i>is</i> a Jew, of the best and +most intellectual type. His name is Paul Herter. His +father was a man of Metz, who had brought to German +Lorraine a wife from Lunéville. Paul is thirty-five now, so +you see he wasn't born when the Metz part of Lorraine +became German. His parents—French at heart—taught +him secretly to love France, and hate German domination. +As he grew up, Paul's ambition was to be a great surgeon. +He wished to study, not in Germany, but in Paris and +London. These hopes, however, were of the "stuff that +dreams are made of," for when the father died, the boy had +to work at anything he could get for a bare livelihood. It +wasn't till he was over twenty-five that he'd scraped +together money for the first step toward his career. He +went to Paris: studied and starved; then to London. It +was there I met him, but that bit of the story fits in later.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> +He was thought well of at "Bart's," and everybody who +knew him was surprised when suddenly he married one of +the younger nurses, an English girl, and vanished with her +from London. Presently the pair appeared in Metz, at +the mother's house. Herter seemed sad and discouraged, +uncertain of his future, and just at this time, through +German Lorraine ran rumours of war "to begin when the +harvests should be over." Paul and his mother took counsel. +Both were French at heart. They determined to +leave all they had in the world at Metz, rather than Paul +should be called up to serve Prussia. The three contrived +to cross the frontier. Paul offered himself to the Foreign +Legion; his wife volunteered to nurse in a military hospital +at Nancy; and Madame Herter, mère took refuge in +her girlhood's home at Lunéville, where her old father +still lived.</p> + +<p>Then came the rush of the Huns across the frontier. +Paul's wife was killed by a Zeppelin bomb which wrecked +her hospital. At Lunéville the mother and grandfather +perished in their own house, burned to the ground by order +of the Bavarian colonel, Von Fosbender.</p> + +<p>Paul Herter had not been in love with his wife. There +was a mystery about the marriage, but her fate filled him +with rage and horror. His mother he had adored, and +the news of her martyrdom came near to driving him insane. +In the madness of grief he vowed vengeance against +all Bavarians who might fall into his hands.</p> + +<p>He was fighting then in the Legion; but shortly after +he was gravely wounded. His left foot had to be amputated; +and from serving France as a soldier, he began to +serve as a surgeon. He developed astonishing skill in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> +throat and chest operations, succeeding in some which +older and more experienced men refused to attempt. +Months passed, and into his busy life had never come the +wished-for chance of vengeance; but all who knew him +knew that Herter's hatred of Bavarians was an obsession. +He was not one who would forget; and when a lot of +seriously wounded Bavarians came into the field-hospital +where he was at work, the two young doctors under him +looked one another in the eyes. Even the stretcher-bearers +had heard of Herter's vow, but there was nothing +to do save to bring in the stream of wounded, and trust the +calm instinct of the surgeon to control the hot blood of +the man. Still, the air was electric with suspense, and +heavy with dread of some vague tragedy: disgrace for the +hospital, ruin for Herter.</p> + +<p>But the Jewish surgeon (he wasn't called "the Wandering +Jew" in those days) caught the telepathic message of +fear, and laughed grimly at what men were thinking of him. +"You need not be afraid," he said to his assistants. +"These <i>canaille</i> are sacred for me. They do not count as +Bavarians."</p> + +<p>Nevertheless, the young doctors would have tended the +wounded prisoners themselves, leaving Herter to care for +his countrymen alone. But one of the Bavarians was beyond +their skill: a young lieutenant. His wound was precisely +"Herter's specialty"—a bullet lodged in the heart, +if he was to be saved, Herter alone could save him. Would +Herter operate? He had only to say the case was hopeless, +and refuse to waste upon it time needed for others.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he knew what suspicion would dog him through +life if he gave this verdict. At all events, he chose to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> +operate. "Bring me the brute," he growled: and reluctantly +the brute was brought—a very youthful brute, +with a face of such angelic charm that even Herter was +struck by it. He had steeled himself to get through a hateful +job; but for him—like most men of his race—beauty +held a strong appeal. Suddenly he wished to save the boy +with the fair curly hair and arched dark brows. Here +was a German—a Bavarian—who could have no vileness +in him yet!</p> + +<p>The surgeon got ready his instruments for the operation, +which must be done quickly, if at all. The boy was unconscious, +but every moment or two he broke out in convulsive +delirium, giving answers to questions like a man +talking in sleep. "Hilda! Hilda!" he cried again and +again. "My Hilda, do not ask me that. Thou wouldst not +love me if I told thee! Thou wouldst hate me forever!"</p> + +<p>"What have you done that Hilda should hate you?" +Paul enquired, as he waited for the anæsthetic. Ether +was running short. The wounded had to take their turn +that day.</p> + +<p>"Lunéville! Lunéville!" shrieked the Bavarian.</p> + +<p>Everyone heard the cry. The two young doctors, knowing +Herter's history, turned sick. This was worse than +their worst fears! But they could do nothing. To speak, +to try to act, would be to insult the surgeon. They saw +that he was ghastly pale. "What happened at Lunéville?" +he went on.</p> + +<p>"Here is the ether," a voice spoke in haste. But Paul +heard only the Bavarian.</p> + +<p>"Oh, God, the old woman! Her face at the window. I +can't forget. Hilda—she wouldn't come out. It wasn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> +my fault. The Colonel's orders. An old man, too. We +saw them in the fire. We had to pass on. Hilda, forgive!"</p> + +<p>"Was it a corner house of the Rue Princesse Marie?" +asked Herter.</p> + +<p>"Yes—yes, a corner house," groaned the boy of the +beautiful face.</p> + +<p>Herter gave a sign to the man who had brought the ether. +A moment more, and the ravings of the Bavarian were +silenced. The operation began.</p> + +<p>The others had their hands full of their own work, yet +with a kind of agonized clairvoyance they were conscious +of all that Herter did. The same thought was in the minds +of both young doctors. They exchanged impressions afterward. +"He'll cut the boy's heart out and tread it underfoot!"</p> + +<p>But never had the Jewish surgeon from Metz performed +a major operation with more coolness or more perfect skill. +Had he chosen to let his wrist tremble at the critical second, +revenge would easily have been his. But awaiting the +instant between one beat of the heart and another, he +seized the shred of shrapnel lodged there, and closed up the +throbbing breast. The boy would live. He had not only +spared, but saved, the life of one who was perhaps his +mother's murderer.</p> + +<p>During the whole day he worked on untiringly and—it +seemed—unmoved. Then, at the end of the last operation, +he dropped as if he had been shot through the brain.</p> + +<p>This was the beginning of a long, peculiar illness which +no doctor who attended him could satisfactorily diagnose. +He was constantly delirious, repeating the words of the +Bavarian: "Hilda—Hilda!—the corner house—Rue Prin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span>cesse +Marie—Lunéville!" and it was feared that, if he +recovered, he would be insane. After many weeks, however, +he came slowly back to himself—a changed self, but a +sane self. Always odd in his appearance—very tall and +dark and thin—he had wasted to a walking skeleton, and +his black hair had turned snow-white. He had lost his +self-confidence, and dreaded to take up work again lest he +should fail in some delicate operation. Long leave was +granted, and he was advised by doctors who were his +friends to go south, to sunshine and peace. But Herter +insisted that the one hope for ultimate cure was to stay in +Lorraine. He took up his quarters in what was left of a +house near the ruin of his mother's old home, in Lunéville, +but he was never there for long at a time. He was provided +with a pass to go and come as he liked, being greatly +respected and pitied at headquarters; and wherever there +was an air raid, there speedily and mysteriously appeared +Paul Herter among the victims.</p> + +<p>His artificial foot did not prevent his riding a motor-bicycle, +and on this he arrived, no matter at what hour of +night or day, at any town within fifty miles of Lunéville, +when enemy airmen had been at work. He gave his +services unpaid to poor and rich alike; and owing to the +dearth of doctors not mobilized, the towns concerned +welcomed him thankfully. All the surgeon's serene confidence +in himself returned in these emergencies, and he +was doing invaluable work. People were grateful, but the +man's ways and looks were so strange, his restlessness so +tragic, that they dubbed him "le Juif Errant."</p> + +<p>Now, Padre, I have come to the right place to bring in +my part of this story.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> + +<p>While I was training at "Bart's," I met a doctor named +Paul Herter. Some of the girls used to call him the "German +Jew" but we all knew that his Germanness was +only an accident of fate, through a war before he was born, +and that he was passionately French at heart. He was +clever—a genius—but moody and queer, and striking to +look at. He would have been ugly but for a pair of beautiful +brown eyes, wistful sometimes as a dog's. One of our +nurses was in love with him, but he used to keep out of her +way when he could. He was said not to care for women, +and I was a little flattered that a man so well thought of +"at the top" should take notice of me. When I look back +on myself, I seem to have been very young then!</p> + +<p>Dr. Herter used to meet me, as if by accident, when I +was off duty, and we went for long walks, talking French +together; I enjoyed that! Besides, there was nothing +the man didn't know. He was a kind of encyclopædia +of all the great musicians and artists of the world since +the Middle Ages; and was so much older than I, that I +didn't think about his falling in love. I knew I was +pretty, and that beauty of all sorts was a cult with him. +I supposed that he liked looking at me—and that his +fancy would end there. But it didn't. There came a +dreadful day when he accused me of encouraging him +purposely, of leading him on to believe that I cared. +This was a real shock. I was sorry—sorry! But he +said such horrid things that I was hurt and angry, too. I +said horrid things in my turn. This scene happened in +the street. I asked him to leave me, and he did at once, +without looking back. I can see him now, striding off in +the twilight! No wonder the tall black silhouette in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> +Place Stanislas looked familiar. But the man is thinner +now, and walks with a slight limp.</p> + +<p>The next thing I heard of him after our break was that +he'd married Nurse Norman (the one who was in love +with him) and that they'd left England. Whether he'd +married the girl in a rage against me, or because he was +sorry for her (she'd just then fallen into deep disgrace, +through giving a patient the wrong medicine), I didn't +know. I can't say I didn't care, for I often thought of +the man and wondered what had become of him, though +I don't remember ever writing about him to you. He +was but indirectly concerned with my life, and maybe it +was in the back of my mind that I might get a scolding +from you if I told you the tale.</p> + +<p>The moment the name of "Paul Herter" was mentioned +in that pleasant garden at Nancy, the whole episode +of those old days at "Bart's" came back, and I guessed +why the tall figure had darted away from Dierdre O'Farrell +as we came in sight. He must have offered to see the girl +safely home, after dressing her wound (probably at +some chemist's), and she had told him about her fellow-travellers. +Naturally my name sent him flying like a +shot from a seventy-five! But I can't help hoping we +may meet by accident. There's a halo round the man's +head for me since I've heard that tragic story. Before, +he was only a queer genius. Now, he's a hero. Will he +turn away, I wonder, if I walk up to him and hold out my +hand?</p> + +<p>I am longing, for a double reason, to see Vitrimont and +Gerbéviller and Lunéville, since I've learned that at one +of those places Paul Herter may appear.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + + +<p>We were three automobiles strong when we +went out of Nancy, along what they call the +"Lunéville road." That was yesterday, as I +write, and already it seems long ago! The third and biggest +car belonged to the Préfet; gray and military looking, +driven by a soldier in uniform; and this time Dierdre +O'Farrell was with us. I was wondering if she went +"under orders," or if she wished to see the sights we were +to see—among them, perhaps, her elusive doctor!</p> + +<p>We turned south, leaving town, and presently passed—at +Dombasle—astonishingly huge salt-works, with rubble-heaps +tall as minor pyramids. On each apex stood a thing +like the form of a giant black woman in a waggling gas-mask +and a helmet. I could have found out what these +weird engines were, no doubt, but I preferred to remember +them as mysterious monsters.</p> + +<p>At a great, strange church of St. Nicolas, in the old +town of St. Nicolas-du-Port, we stopped, because the +Préfet's daughters had told us of a magic stone in the +pavement which gives good fortune to those who set foot +on it. Only when several of us were huddled together, +with a foot each on the sacred spot, were we told that it +meant marriage before the new year. If the spell works, +Dierdre O'Farrell, Brian, and I will all be married in less +than four months. But St. Nicolas is a false prophet<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> +where we are concerned. Brian and I will never marry. +Even if poor Brian should fall head over ears in love, he +wouldn't ask a girl to share his broken life: he has told me +this. As for me, I can never love any man after Jim +Beckett. The least penance I owe is to be faithful forever +to his memory and my own falsehood!</p> + +<p>St. Nicolas is the patron saint of the neighbourhood, so +it's right that from his little town and his big church all the +country round should open out to the eye, as if to do him +homage.</p> + +<p>From the hill of Léomont we could see to the south the +far-off, famous Forest of Parroy; away to the north, the +blue heights of La Grande Couronne, where the fate of +Nancy was decided in 1914; to the west, a purple haze like +a mourning wreath of violets hung over the valley of the +Meurthe, and the tragic little tributary river Mortagne; +beyond, we could picture with our mind's eyes the Moselle +and the Meuse.</p> + +<p>But Léomont was not a place where one could stand +coldly thinking of horizons. It drew all thoughts to itself, +and to the drama played out upon its miniature mountain. +There was fought one of the fiercest and most heroic single +battles of the war.</p> + +<p>We had to desert the cars, and walk up a rough track to +the ruined farmhouse which crowned the hill; a noble, +fortified farmhouse that must have had the dignity of a +château before the great fight which shattered its ancient +walls. Now it has the dignity of a mausoleum. Long +ago, in Roman days when Diana, Goddess of the Moon, was +patron of Lunéville and the country round, a temple of +stone and marble in her honour and a soaring fountain<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> +crowned the high summit of Léomont, for all the world +to see. Her influence is said to reign over the whole +of Lorraine, from that day to this, St. Nicholas being her +sole rival: and a prophecy has come down through the +centuries that no evil may befall Diana's citadels, save in +the "dark o' the moon," when the protectress is absent. +Lunéville was overrun in the "dark o' the moon"; and +it was then also that the battle of Léomont was fought, +ending in the vast cellars, where no man was left alive.</p> + +<p>In these days of ours, it's a wonderful and romantic +mountain, sacred as a monument forever, to the glory of +the French soldiers who did not die in vain. The scarred +face of the ruined house—its stones pitted by shrapnel as if +by smallpox—gazes over Lorraine as the Sphinx gazes +over the desert: calm, majestic, sad, yet triumphant. And +under the shattered walls, among fallen buttresses and +blackened stumps of oaks, are the graves of Léomont's +heroes; graves everywhere, over the hillside; graves in +the open; graves in sheltered corners where wild flowers +have begun to grow; their tricolour cockades and wooden +crosses mirrored in the blue of water-filled shell-holes; +graves in the historic cellars, covered with a pall of darkness; +graves along the slope of the hill, where old trenches +have left ruts in the rank grass.</p> + +<p>An unseen choir of bird-voices was singing the sweetest +requiem ever sung for the dead; yet Léomont in its majestic +loneliness saddened us, even the irrepressible Puck. +We were sad and rather silent all the way to Vitrimont; +and Vitrimont, at first glance, was a sight to make us sadder +than any we had seen. There had been a Vitrimont, +a happy little place, built of gray and rose-red stones;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> +now, of those stones hardly one lies upon another, except +in rubble heaps. And yet, Vitrimont isn't sad as others +of the ruined towns are sad. It even cheered us, after +Léomont, because a star of hope shines over the field of +desolation—a star that has come out of the west. Some +wonderful women of San Francisco decided to "adopt" +Vitrimont, as one of the little places of France which had +suffered most in the war. Two of them, Miss Polk and Miss +Crocker—girls rather than women—gave themselves as +well as their money to the work. In what remains of Vitrimont—what +they are making of Vitrimont—they live like +two fresh roses that have taken root in a pile of ashes. +With a few books, a few bowls of flowers, pictures, and bits +of bright chintz they have given charm to their poor rooms +in the half-ruined house of a peasant. This has been their +home for many months, from the time when they were the +only creatures who shared Vitrimont with its ghosts: but +now other homes are growing under their eyes and through +their charity; thanks to them, the people of the destroyed +village are trooping back, happy and hopeful. The church +has been repaired (that was done first, "because it is God's +house") with warm-coloured pink walls and neat decoration; +and plans for the restoring of the whole village are +being carried out, while the waiting inhabitants camp in a +village of toy-like bungalows given by the French Government. +I never saw such looks of worshipping love cast +upon human beings as those of the people of Vitrimont for +these two American girls. I'm sure they believe that Miss +Crocker and Miss Polk are saints incarnated for their sakes +by "<i>la Sainte Vierge</i>." One old man said as much!</p> + +<p>He was so old that it seemed as if he could never have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> +been young, yet he was whistling a toothless but patriotic +whistle, over some bit of amateur-carpenter work, in front +of a one-room bungalow. Inside, visible through the open +door, was the paralyzed wife he had lately wheeled "home" +to Vitrimont, in some kind of a cart. "Oh, yes, we are +happy!" he stopped whistling to say. "We are fortunate, +too. We think we have found the place where our <i>street</i> +used to be, and these Angels—we do not call them Demoiselles, +but Angels—from America are going to build us a +new home in it. We have seen the plan. It is more beautiful +than the old!"</p> + +<p>Wherever we passed a house on the road to Lunéville, +and in town itself, as we came in, we saw notices—printed +and written—to remind us that we were in the war-zone, if +we forgot for an instant. "<i>Logement militaire</i>," or +"<i>Cave voûtée, 200 places—400 places</i>." Those hospitable +cellars advertising their existence in air raids and bombardments +must be a comforting sight for passers-by, now and +then; but no siren wailed us a warning. We drove on in +peace; and I—disappointed at Vitrimont—quietly kept +watch for a tall, thin figure of a man with a slight limp. +At any moment, I thought, I might see him, for at Lunéville +he lives—if he lives anywhere!</p> + +<p>I was so eager and excited that I could hardly turn my +mind to other things; but Brian, not knowing why I should +be absent-minded, constantly asked questions about +what we passed. Julian O'Farrell had exchanged his sister +for Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, whom he had persuaded to take +the short trip in his ramshackle taxi. His excuse was that +Mother Beckett would deal out more wisely than Dierdre +his Red Cross supplies to the returned refugees; so we had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> +the girl with us; and I caught reproachful glances if I was +slow in answering my blind brother. She herself suspects +him as a <i>poseur</i>, yet she judges me careless of his needs—which +I should find funny, if it didn't make me furious! +Just to see what Dierdre would do, and perhaps to provoke +her, sometimes I didn't answer at all, but left her to explain +our surroundings to Brian. I hardly thought she would +respond to the silent challenge, but almost ostentatiously +she did.</p> + +<p>She cried, "There's a castle!" when we came to the fine +and rather staid château which Duke Stanislas loved, and +where he died. She even tried to describe it for Brian, with +faltering self-consciousness, and the old streets which once +had been "brilliant as Versailles, full of Queen Marie's +beautiful ladies." Now, they are gray and sad, even those +streets which show no scars from the three weeks' martyrdom +of German rule. Soldiers pass, on foot and in motors, +yet it's hard to realize that before the war Lunéville was +one of the gayest, grandest garrison towns of France, rich +and industrious, under Diana's special protection. Just +because she was away in her moon-chariot, one dark and +dreadful night, all has changed since then. But she'll +come back, and bless her ancient place of Lunæ Villa, in +good time!</p> + +<p>It was here, Brian reminded me, that they drew up +the treaty which gave the Rhine frontier to France, after +Napoleon won the Battle of Marengo. I wonder if the +Germans remembered this in 1914 when they came?</p> + +<p>We lunched at an hotel, in a restaurant crowded with +French officers; and not a civilian there except ourselves. +I was hoping that Paul Herter might come in, for the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> +tragic Rue Princesse Marie is not far away—and even +a Wandering Jew must eat! He did not come; but I +almost forgot my new disappointment in hearing the +French officers talk about Lorraine.</p> + +<p>They were in the midst of a discussion when we came +in, and when they had all bowed politely to us, they took +up its thread where it had broken off. A colonel—a +Lorrainer—was saying that out of the wealth of Lorraine +(stolen wealth, he called it!) Germany had built up her +fortune as a united nation, in a few years far exceeding +the indemnity received in 1871. Germany had known +that there were vast stores of iron; but the amazing riches +in phosphorus ores had come to her as a surprise. If she +had guessed, never would she have agreed to leave more +than half the deposit on the French side of the frontier! +Well enough for Prussian boasters to say that Germany's +success was due to her own industry and supervirtue, or +that her tariff schemes had worked wonders. But take +away the provinces she tore from France, and she will be a +Samson shorn! Take away Lorraine and the world will +be rid once and for all of the German menace!</p> + +<p>When we left Lunéville there was still hope from Gerbéviller. +Herter is often there, it seems. Besides, Gerbéviller +was the principal end and aim of our day's excursion. +Once no more than a pleasant town of quiet beauty on a +pretty river, now it is a <i>monument historique</i>, the Pompeii +of Lorraine.</p> + +<p>As we arrived the sun clouded over suddenly, and the +effect was almost theatrical. From gold the light had +dimmed to silver. In the midst of the afternoon, we saw +Gerbéviller as if by moonlight in the still silence of night.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> +On the outskirts we forsook our three cars, and walked +slowly through the dead town, awestruck and deeply +thoughtful as if in a church where the body of some great +man lay in state.</p> + +<p>There was not a sound except, as at Léomont, the +unseen choir of bird-voices; but their song emphasized +the silence. In the pale light the shells of wrecked houses +glimmered white, like things seen deep down under clear +water. They were mysterious as daytime ghosts; and +already a heartbreaking picturesqueness had taken possession +of the streets, as an artist-decorator comes into an +ugly room and mellows all its crudeness with his loving +touch.</p> + +<p>Gerbéviller's tragic little river Mortagne gleamed silver-bright +beneath a torn lace of delicate white flowers that +was like a veil flung off by a fugitive bride. It ran sparkling +under the motionless wheel of a burned mill, and +twinkled on—the one living thing the Germans left—to +flow through the park of a ruined château.</p> + +<p>When it was alive, that small château must have been +gay and delightful as a castle in a fairy tale, pink and +friendly among its pleasant trees; but even in its prime, +rich with tapestries and splendid old paintings, which +were its treasures, never could the place have been so +beautiful as in death!</p> + +<p>At a first glance—seen straight in front—the face of +the house seems to live still, rosy with colour, gazing with +immense blue eyes through a light green veil. But a +second glance brings a shock to the heart. The face is a +mask held up to hide a skull; the blue of the eyes is the +open sky framed by glassless windows; the rosy colour<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> +is stained with dark streaks of smoke and flame; the +château among its trees, and the chapel with its stopped +clock and broken saints are skeletons.</p> + +<p>Not even O'Farrell could talk. We were a silent procession +in the midst of silence until we came at last to +the one quarter of the town whose few houses had been +spared to the courage of Gerbéviller's heroine, Sœur Julie.</p> + +<p>Her street (but for her it would not exist) has perhaps +a dozen houses intact, looking strangely <i>bourgeois</i>, almost +out of place, so smugly whole where all else has perished. +Yet it was a comfort to see them, and wonderful to see +Sœur Julie.</p> + +<p>We knocked at the door of the hospice, the cottage +hospital which is famous because of her, its head and +heart; and she herself let us in, for at that instant she had +been in the act of starting out. I recognized her at +once from the photographs which were in every illustrated +paper at the time when, for her magnificent bravery +and presence of mind, she was named Chevalière of the +Legion of Honour.</p> + +<p>But with her first smile I saw that the pictures had +done her crude injustice. They made of Sœur Julie an +elderly woman in the dress of a nun; somewhat stout, +rather large of feature. But the figure which met us in +the narrow corridor had dignity and a noble strength. +The smile of greeting lit deep eyes whose colour was +that of brown topaz, and showed the kindly, humorous +curves of a generous mouth. The flaring white headdress +of the Order of Saint-Charles of Nancy framed a face +so strong that I ceased to wonder how this woman had +cowed a German horde; and it thrilled me to think that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> +in this very doorway she had stood at bay, offering her +black-robed body as a shield for the wounded soldiers +and poor people she meant to save.</p> + +<p>Even if we had not come from the Préfet, and with +some of his family who were her admiring friends, I'm +sure Sœur Julie would have welcomed the strangers. As +it was she beamed with pleasure at the visit, and called +a young nun to help place chairs for us all in the clean, +bare reception room. By this time she must know that +she is the heroine of Lorraine—her own Lorraine!—and +that those who came to Gerbéviller come to see her; but +she talked to us with the unself-consciousness of a child. +It was only when she was begged to tell the tale of August +23, 1914, that she showed a faint sign of embarrassment. +The blood flushed her brown face, and she hesitated how to +begin, as if she would rather not begin at all, but once +launched on the tide, she forgot everything except her +story: she lived that time over again, and we lived it with +her.</p> + +<p>"What a day it was!" she sighed. "We knew what +must happen, unless God willed to spare Gerbéviller by +some miracle. Our town was in the German's way. Yet +we prayed—we hoped. We hoped even after our army's +defeat at Morhange. Then Lunéville was taken. Our +turn was near. We heard how terrible were the Bavarians +under their general, Clauss. Our soldiers—poor, brave +boys!—fought every step of the way to hold them back. +They fought like lions. But they were so few! The +Germans came in a gray wave of men. Our wounded +were brought here to the hospice, as many as we could +take—and more! Often there were three hundred. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> +when there was no hope to save the town, quick, with +haste at night, they got the wounded away—ambulance +after ambulance, cart after cart: all but a few; nineteen +<i>grands blessés</i>, who could not be moved. They were here +in this room where we sit. But ah, if you had seen us—we +sisters—helping the commandant as best we could! +We made ourselves carpenters. We took wooden shutters +and doors from their hinges for stretchers. We split the +wood with axes. We did not remember to be tired. We +tore up our linen, and linen which others brought us. +We tied the wounded boys on to the shutters. They +never groaned. Sometimes they smiled. Ah, it was we +who wept, to see them jolting off in rough country wagons, +going we knew not where, or to what fate! All night we +worked, and at dawn there were none left—except those +nineteen I told you of. And that was the morning of the +23rd of August, hot and heavy—a weight upon our hearts +and heads.</p> + +<p>"Not only the wounded, but our defenders had gone. +The army was in retreat. We had fifty-seven chasseurs +left, ordered to keep the enemy back for five hours. They +did it for <i>eleven</i>! From dawn till twilight they held the +bridge outside the town, and fought behind barriers they +had flung up in haste. Boys they were, but of a courage! +They knew they were to die to save their comrades. +They asked no better than to die hard. And they fought +so well, the Germans believed there were thousands. Not +till our boys had nearly all fallen did the enemy break +through and swarm into the town. That was down at +the other end from us, below the hill, but soon we heard +fearful sounds—screams and shoutings, shots and loud<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +explosions. They were burning the place street by street +with that method of theirs! They fired the houses with +pastilles their chemists have invented, and with petrol. +The air was thick with smoke. We shut our windows to +save the wounded from coughing. Soon we might all +die together, but we would keep our boys from new sufferings +while we could!</p> + +<p>"Then at last the hour struck for us. One of our sisters, +who had run to look at the red sky to see how near +the fire came, cried out that Germans were pouring up the +hill—four officers on horseback heading a troop of soldiers. +I knew what that meant. I went quickly to the door +to meet them. My knees felt as if they had broken under +my weight. My heart was a great, cold, dead thing within +me. My mouth was dry as if I had lost myself for days +in the desert. I am not a small woman, yet it seemed +that I was no bigger than a mouse under the stare of those +big men who leaped off their horses, and made as +if to pass me at the door. But I did not let them +pass. I knew I could stop them long enough at least +to kill me and then the sisters, one by one, before +they reached our wounded! We backed slowly before +them into the hall, the sisters and I, to stand guard before +this room.</p> + +<p>"'You are hiding Frenchmen here—French soldiers!' +a giant of a captain bawled at me. Beside him was a +lieutenant even more tall. They had swords in their +hands, and they both pointed their weapons at me.</p> + +<p>"'We have nineteen soldiers desperately wounded,' I +said. 'There are no other men here.'</p> + +<p>"'You are lying!' shouted the captain. He thought<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +he could frighten me with his roar like a lion: but he did +not seem to me so noble a beast.</p> + +<p>"'You may come in and see for yourselves that I +speak the truth,' I said. And think what it was for me, +a woman of Lorraine, to bid a <i>German</i> enter her house! +I did not let those two pass by me into this room. I +came in first. While the lieutenant stood threatening +our boys in their beds that he would shoot if they moved, +the captain went round, tearing off the sheets, looking +for firearms. In his hand was a strange knife, like a +dagger which he had worn in his belt. One of our +soldiers, too weak to open his lips, looked at the German, +with a pair of great dark eyes that spoke scorn; and that +look maddened the man with a sudden fury.</p> + +<p>"'Coward, of a country of cowards! You and cattle +like you have cut off the ears and torn out the eyes of our +glorious Bavarians. I'll slit your throat to pay for that!'</p> + +<p>"Ah, but this was too much—more than I could bear! +I said 'No!' and I put my two hands—so—between the +throat of that boy and the German knife."</p> + +<p>When Sœur Julie came to this part of the tale, she +made a beautiful, unconscious gesture, re-enacting the +part she had played. I knew then how she had looked +when she faced the Bavarian officer, and why he had not +hacked those two work-worn but nobly shaped hands of +hers, to get at the French chasseur's throat. She seemed +the incarnate spirit of the mother-woman, whose selfless +courage no brute who had known a mother could resist. +And her "No!" rang out deep and clear as a warning +tocsin. I felt that the wounded boy must have been as +safe behind those hands and that "No!" as if a thick<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +though transparent wall of glass had magically risen to +protect him.</p> + +<p>"All this time," Sœur Julie went on, gathering herself +together after a moment. "All this time Germans led +by non-commissioned officers were searching the hospice. +But they found no hiding soldiers, because there were +none such to find. And somehow that captain and his +lieutenant did not touch our wounded ones. They had +a look of shame and sullenness on their faces, as if they +were angry with themselves for yielding their wicked +will to an old woman. Yet they <i>did</i> yield, thank God! +And then I got the captain's promise to spare the hospice—got +it by saying we would care for his wounded as faithfully +as we tended our own. I said, 'If you leave this +house standing to take in your men, you must leave the +whole street. If the buildings round us burn, we shall +burn, too—and with us your German wounded. Will +you give me your word that this whole quarter shall be +safe?'</p> + +<p>"The man did not answer. But he looked down at +his boots. And I have always noticed that, when men of +any nation look at their boots, it is that they are undecided. +It was so with him. A few more arguments from me, and +he said: 'It shall be as you ask.'</p> + +<p>"Soon he must have been glad of his promise, for there +were many German wounded, and we took them all in. +Ah, this room, which you see so clean and white now, ran +blood. We had to sweep blood into the hall, and so out +at the front door, where at least it washed away the +German footprints from our floor! For days we worked +and did our best, even when we knew of the murders<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> +committed: innocent women with their little children. +And the fifteen old men they shot for hostages. Oh, we +did our best, though it was like acid eating our hearts. +But our reward came the day the Germans had to gather +up their wounded in wild haste, as the French commandant +had gathered ours before the retreat. They fled, and +our Frenchmen marched back—too late to save the town, +but not too late to redeem its honour. And that is all +my story."</p> + +<p>As she finished with a smile half sad, half sweet, Sœur +Julie looked over our heads at some one who had just come +in—some one who had stood listening in silence, unheard +and unseen by us. I turned mechanically, and my eyes +met the eyes of Paul Herter, the "Wandering Jew."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV</h2> + + +<p>Dierdre O'Farrell and I were sitting side +by side, our backs to the door, so it was only +as we turned that Herter could have recognized +us. He had no scruple in showing that I was the last +person he wished to meet. One look was enough for +him! His pale face—changed and aged since London—flushed +a dark and violent red. Backing out into the +hall he banged the door.</p> + +<p>My ears tingled as if they had been boxed. I suppose +I've been rather spoiled by men. Anyhow, not one ever +before ran away at sight of me, as if I were Medusa. I'd +been hoping that Doctor Paul and I might meet and make +friends, so this was a blow: and it hurt a little that Dierdre +O'Farrell should see me thus snubbed. I glanced at her; +and her faint smile told that she understood.</p> + +<p>Sœur Julie was bewildered for a second, but recovered +herself to explain that Doctor Herter was eccentric and +shy of strangers. He came often from Lunéville to +Gerbéviller to tend the poor, refusing payment, and was so +good at heart that we must forgive his odd ways.</p> + +<p>"<i>Spurlos versnubt!</i>" I heard Puck chuckling to himself; +so he, too, was in the secret of the situation. I half +expected him to pretend ingenuousness, and spring the +tale of Dierdre's adventure with Herter on the company. +But he preserved a discreet reticence, more for his own<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> +sake than mine or his sister's, of course. He's as lazy +as he is impish, except when there's some special object +to gain, and probably he wished to avoid the bother of +explanations. As for Brian, his extreme sensitiveness is +better than studied tact. I'm sure he felt magnetically +that Dierdre O'Farrell shrank from a reference to her part +in the night air raid. But his silence puzzled her, and I +saw her studying him—more curiously than gratefully, +I thought.</p> + +<p>We had heard the end of Sœur Julie's story, and had no +further excuse to keep her tied to the duties of hostess. +When the Becketts had left something for the poor of the +hospice, we bade the heroine of Gerbéviller farewell, and +started out to regain our automobiles, Julian O'Farrell +suddenly appearing at my side.</p> + +<p>"Don't make an excuse that you must walk with your +brother," he said. "He's all right with Dierdre; perhaps +just as happy as with you! One <i>does</i> want a change from +the best of sisters now and then."</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Beckett——" I began.</p> + +<p>"Mrs. Beckett is discussing with Mr. Beckett what +they can do for Gerbéviller, and they'll ask your advice +when they want it. No use worrying. They've boodle +enough for all their charities, and for the shorn lambs, +too."</p> + +<p>"Do you call yourself a shorn lamb?" I sniffed.</p> + +<p>"Certainly. Don't I look it? Good heavens, girl, you +needn't basilisk me so, to see if I do! You glare as if I +were some kind of abnormal beast eating with its eyes, +or winking with its mouth."</p> + +<p>"You do wink with your mouth," I said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> + +<p>You mean I lie? All romantic natures embroider +truth. I have a romantic nature. It's growing more +romantic every minute since I met you. I started this +adventure for what I could get out of it. I'm going on to +the end, bitter or sweet, for <i>les beaux yeux</i> of Mary O'Malley. +I don't grudge you the Becketts' blessing, but I don't +know why it shouldn't be bestowed on us both, with +Dierdre and Brian in the background throwing flowers. +You didn't love Jim Beckett, for the very good reason +that you never met him: so, if you owe no more debts than +those you owe his memory, you're luckier than——"</p> + +<p>It was not I who cut his words short, though I was on +the point of breaking in. Perhaps I should have flung at +him the truth about Jim Beckett if something had not +happened to snatch my thoughts from O'Farrell and his +impudence. We had just passed the quarter of the town +saved by Sœur Julie, when out from the gaping doorway +of a ruined house stepped Paul Herter.</p> + +<p>He came straight to me, ignoring my companion.</p> + +<p>"I was waiting for you," he said. "Will you walk on a +little way with me? There are things I should like to +speak about."</p> + +<p>All the hurt anger I had felt was gone like the shadow +of a flitting cloud. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. "I shall +be very, very glad."</p> + +<p>Whether O'Farrell had the grace to drop behind, or +whether I pushed ahead I don't know, but next moment +Doctor Herter and I were pacing along, side by side, +keeping well ahead of the others, in spite of his limp.</p> + +<p>"I thought I never wanted to see you again, Mary +O'Malley," he said; "but that glimpse I had, in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span> +hospice, showed me my mistake. I couldn't stand it +to be so near and let you go out of my life without a word—not +after seeing your face."</p> + +<p>"It makes me happy to hear that," I answered. "I +was disappointed when you avoided me the other night, +and—hurt to-day when you slammed the door."</p> + +<p>"How did you know I avoided you? The girl promised +to hold her tongue."</p> + +<p>"She kept her promise. She was pleased to keep it, +because she dislikes me. But I heard your name next +day and understood. I—I heard other things, too. If +you wouldn't be angry, I should like to tell you how +I——"</p> + +<p>"Don't tell me."</p> + +<p>"I won't then. But I feel very strongly. And you +will let me tell you how grieved I should have been, if—if +that slammed door had been the end between us."</p> + +<p>"The end between us was long ago."</p> + +<p>"Not in my thoughts, for I never meant to hurt you. +I never stopped being your friend, in spite of all the +unkind, unjust things you said to me. I'm proud now +that I had your friendship once, even if I haven't it now."</p> + +<p>"You had everything there was in me—<i>except</i> friendship. +Now, of that everything, only ashes are left. The +fires have burnt out. You've heard what I suppose they +call my story, so you know why. If those fires weren't +dead, I shouldn't have dared trust myself to risk this +talk with you. As it is—I let your eyes call me back. +Not that they called consciously. It was the past that +called——"</p> + +<p>"They <i>would</i> have called consciously if you'd given<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> +them time!" I ventured to smile at him, with a look +that asked for kindness. He did not smile back, but he +did not frown. His deep-set eyes, in their hollow sockets, +gazed at me as if they were memorizing each feature.</p> + +<p>"You're lovelier than ever, Mary," he said. "There's +something different about your face. You've suffered."</p> + +<p>"My brother is blind."</p> + +<p>"Ah! There's more than that."</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You loved the son of these rich people the girl told +me about? She says you didn't love him, but she's +wrong—isn't she?"</p> + +<p>"She's wrong. She knows about things I've done, +but nothing about what I think or feel. I did love Jim +Beckett, Doctor Paul. You don't mind being called by +the old name? I've learned how it hurts to love."</p> + +<p>"That will do you no harm, Mary. I can speak with +you about such things now, for the spirit of a dead woman +stands between us. I didn't love her when she was alive. +But if I hadn't married her and brought her to France she'd +be living now. She died through me—and for me. I think +of her with immense tenderness and—a kind of loyalty; +a fierce loyalty. I don't know if you understand."</p> + +<p>"Indeed I do! I almost envy her that brave death."</p> + +<p>"We won't talk of her any more now," Herter said +with a sigh. "I've a feeling she wouldn't like us to discuss +her, together. She used to be—jealous of you, poor girl! +There are other things I wanted to say. The first—but +you've guessed it already!—is this: the minute I looked +into your face, there in the hospice, I forgave you the +pain you made me suffer. In the first shock of meeting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> +your eyes, I didn't realize that I'd forgiven. It wasn't +till I'd slammed the door that I knew."</p> + +<p>I didn't repeat that I had not purposely done anything +which needed forgiveness. I only looked at him with +all the kindness and pity in my heart, and waited until +he should go on.</p> + +<p>"The second thing I wanted to say is, that just the one +look told me you weren't happy and gay as you used to +be. When I'd shut the door, I could still see you clearly, +as if I had the power to look through the wood. I said +to myself, that girl's eyes have got the sadness of the whole +world in them. They seem as if they were begging for +help, and didn't know where on earth it was coming +from. Was that a true impression? I waited to ask +you this, even more than to see you again."</p> + +<p>"It is true," I confessed. "There's only this difference +between my feelings and your impression of them. I +<i>know</i> there's no help on earth for me. Such help as there +is, I get from another place. Do you remember how I +used to talk about the dear Padre who was our guardian—my +brother's and mine—and how I told him nearly +everything good and bad that I thought or did? Well, he +went to the front as a chaplain and he has been killed. But +I go on writing him letters, exactly as if he could give me +advice and comfort, or scold me in the old way."</p> + +<p>"What about your brother? The girl—Miss O'Farrell +she called herself, I think—said he was with you on this +journey. And to-day I recognized him at Sœur Julie's, +from his likeness to you. I shouldn't have guessed he +was blind. He has a beautiful face. Do you get no comfort +from him?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Much comfort from his presence and love," I said. "But +I try to keep him happy. I don't bother him with my troubles. +I won't even let him talk of them. They're taboo."</p> + +<p>"I wish <i>I</i> could help you!" Herter exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Your wish is a help."</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I'd like to give more than that! I'm going +away—that's the third thing I wanted to tell you. A little +while ago I was glad to be going (so far as it's in me, nowadays, +to be glad of anything) because I—I've been given a +sort of—mission. Since we've had this talk, I'd put off +going if I could. But I can't. Is your brother's case past +cure?"</p> + +<p>"It's not absolutely hopeless. Doctor Paul, this is a +confidence! It's to try and cure him that I'm with the +Becketts. He doesn't know—and I can't explain more to +you. But a specialist in Paris ordered Brian a life in the +open air, and as much pleasure and interest as possible. +You see, it's the optic nerve that was paralyzed in a strange +way by shell shock. Some day Brian's sight may—just +<i>possibly</i> may—come back all of a sudden."</p> + +<p>"Ah, that's interesting. I'm not an oculist, but I know +one or two of the best men, who have made great reputations +since this war. Who was your specialist in Paris?"</p> + +<p>I told him.</p> + +<p>"A good man," he pronounced, "but I have a friend +who is better. I'll write you a letter to him. You can +send it if you choose. That's one service I can do for you, +Mary. It may prove a big one. But I wish there were +something else—something for <i>you</i>, yourself. Maybe there +will be one day. Who can tell? If that day comes, I +shan't be found wanting or forgetful."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's worth a lot to have met you and had this talk," +I said. "It's been like a warm fire to cold hands. I do +hope, dear Doctor Paul, that you're not going on a +dangerous mission?"</p> + +<p>He laughed—the quaint laugh I remembered, like a +crackling of dry brushwood. "No more danger for me +in it than there is for a bit of toasted cheese in a rat-trap."</p> + +<p>"What a queer comparison!" I said. "It sounds as if +you were going to be a bait to deceive a rat."</p> + +<p>"Multiply the singular into the plural, and your quick +wit has deciphered my parable."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid my wit doesn't deserve the compliment. I +can't imagine what your mission really is. Unless——"</p> + +<p>"Unless—what? No! Don't let us go any further. +Because I mustn't tell you more, even if you should happen +to guess. I've told you almost too much already. But +confidence for confidence. You gave me one. Consider +that I've confided something to you in return. There's +just a millionth chance that my mission—whatever it is—may +make me of use to you. Give me an address that will +find you always, and then—I must be going. I have to +return to the hospice and see some patients. No need to +write the directions. Better not, in fact. I shall have no +difficulty in remembering anything that concerns you, even +the most complicated address."</p> + +<p>"It's not complicated," I laughed; and gave him the +name of the Paris bankers in whose care the Becketts +allow Brian and me to have letters sent—Morgan Harjes.</p> + +<p>He repeated the address after me, and then stopped, +holding out his hand. "That's all," he said abruptly. "I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> +shall be glad, whatever happens, that I waited, and had +this talk with you. Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Good-bye—and good luck in the mission," I echoed.</p> + +<p>He pressed my hand so hard that it hurt, and with one +last look turned away. He did not go far, however, but +stopped on his way back to ask Dierdre O'Farrell about her +arm. She and Brian (Puck had joined the Becketts) were +only a few paces behind me, and pausing involuntarily I +heard what was said. It was easy to see that Dierdre +wished me to hear her part.</p> + +<p>"My arm is going on very well," she informed her +benefactor. "I thank you again for your kindness in +attending to it. But I don't think it was kind to order me +to keep a secret, and then give it away yourself. You +made me seem an—ungracious pig and a fool. I shouldn't +mind that, if it did you good, in return for the good you've +done me. But since it was for nothing——"</p> + +<p>"I apologize," Herter broke in. "I meant what I said +then. But a power outside myself was too strong for me. +Maybe it will be the same for you some day. Meanwhile, +don't make the mistake I made: don't do other people an +injustice."</p> + +<p>Leaving Dierdre at bay between anger and amazement, +he stared with professional eagerness into Brian's sightless +eyes, and stalked off toward the hospice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2> + + +<p>Since I wrote you last, Padre, I have been in the +trenches—real, live trenches, not the faded, half-filled-up +ghosts of trenches where men fought long +ago. I had to give my word not to tell or write any one +just where these trenches are, so I won't put details in +black and white, even in pages which are only for you and +me. I keep this book that you gave me in my hand-bag, +and no eyes but mine see it—unless, dear Padre, you come +and look over my shoulder while I scribble, as I often feel +you do! Still—something might happen: an automobile +accident; or the bag might be lost or stolen, though it's +not a gorgeously attractive one, like that in which Mother +Beckett carries Jim's letters.</p> + +<p>It was the day after Lunéville and Gerbéviller. We +started out once again from Nancy, no matter in which +direction, but along a wonderful road. Not that the +scenery was beautiful. We didn't so much as think of +scenery. The thrill was in the passing show, and later +in the "camouflage." We were going to be given a +glimpse of the Front which the communiqués (when they +mention it at all nowadays) speak of as calm. Its alleged +"calmness" gave us non-combatants our chance to pay it +a visit; but many wires had been pulled to get us there, and +we had dwindled to a trio, consisting of Father Beckett, +Brian, and me. Mother Beckett is not made for trenches,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> +even the calmest, and there was no permission for the +occupants of the Red Cross taxi, who are not officially of +our party. They have their own police pass for the +war-zone, but all special plums are for the Becketts, shared +by the O'Malleys; and this visit to the trenches was an +extra-special superplum.</p> + +<p>All along the way, coming and going, tearing to meet us, +or leaving us behind, splashed with gray mud after a night +of rain, motor-lorries sped. They carried munitions or +food to the front, or brought back tired soldiers bound for +a place of rest, and their roofs were marvellously "camouflaged" +in a blend of blue and green paint splotched with +red. For aeroplanes they must have looked, in their processions, +like drifting mist over meadowland. Shooting +in and out among them, like slim gray swordfish in a school +of porpoise, were military cars crowded with smart officers +who saluted the lieutenant escorting us, and stared in +surprise at sight of a woman. A sprinkling of these officers +were Americans, and they would have astonished us more +than we astonished them had we not known that we should +see Americans. They were to be, indeed, the "feature" +of the great show; and though Mr. Beckett was calm in +manner to match the Front, I knew from his face that he +was deeply moved by the thought of seeing "boys from +home" fighting for France as his dead son had fought.</p> + +<p>At each small village we saw soldiers who had been sent +to the "back of the Front" for a few days' change from the +trenches. They lounged on long wooden benches before +humble houses where they had <i>logement</i>; they sat +at tables borrowed from kitchens, earnestly engaged +at dominoes or <i>manille</i>, or they played <i>boules</i> in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> +narrow grass alleys beside the muddy road. For them +we had packed all vacant space in the auto with a cargo of +cigarettes; and white teeth flashed and blue arms waved +in gratitude as we went by. I think Father Beckett was +happier than he had been since we left Paris.</p> + +<p>At last we came to a part of the road that was "camouflaged" +with a screen of branches fixed into wire. There +was no great need of it in these days, our lieutenant explained, +but Heaven knew when it might be urgently +wanted again: perhaps to-morrow! And this was where +we said "<i>au revoir</i>" to our car. She was wheeled out of +the way on to a strip of damp grass, under a convenient +group of trees where no prowling enemy plane might +"spot" her; and we set out to walk for a short distance +to what had once been a farmhouse. Now, what was left +of it had another use. A board walk (well above the mud), +which led to the new, unpainted door, was guarded by +sentinels, and explanations were given and papers shown +before a rather elderly French captain appeared to greet +us. Arrangements had been made for our reception, but +we had to be identified; and when all was done we were +given a good welcome. Also we were given helmets, and +I was vain enough to fancy I had never worn a more +becoming hat.</p> + +<p>Besides our own escort—the lieutenant who had brought +us from Nancy—we had a captain and a lieutenant to +guide us into the "calmness" of the trenches (the captain +and a lieutenant for Mr. Beckett and Brian, the other +lieutenant for me) and one would have thought that they +had never before seen a woman in or out of a helmet! +Down in a deep cellar-like hole, which they called "<i>l'anti-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>chambre</i>," +all three officers coached Father Beckett and me +in trench manners. As for Brian, it was clear to them +that he was no stranger to trench life, and their treatment +of him was perfect. They made no fuss, as tactless folk +do over blind men; but, while feigning to regard him as +one of themselves, they slily watched and protected his +movements as a proud mother might the first steps of a +child.</p> + +<p>On we went from the <i>antichambre</i> into a long mouldy +passage dug deep into the earth. It was the link between +trenches; and now and then a sentinel popped +out from behind a queer barrier built up as a protection +against "<i>les éclats d'obus</i>." "This is the way the wounded +come back," said one of the lieutenants, "when there <i>are</i> +any wounded. Just now (or you would not be here, +Mademoiselle) there is"—he finished in English—"nothing +doing."</p> + +<p>I laughed. "Who taught you that?"</p> + +<p>"You will see," he replied, making a nice little mystery. +"You will see who taught it to me—and <i>then</i> some!"</p> + +<p>That was a beautiful ending for the sentence, and his +American accent was perfect, even if the meaning of the +poor man's quotation was a little uncertain!</p> + +<p>We turned several times, and I had begun to think of the +Minotaur's labyrinth, when the passage knotted itself into +a low-roofed room, open at both ends, save for bomb +screens, with a trench leading dismally off from an opposite +doorway. "When is a door not a door?" was a conundrum +of my childhood, and I think the answer was: "When +it's ajar." But nowadays there is a better <i>réplique</i>: A +door is not a door when it's a dug-out. It is then a hole,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> +kept from falling in upon itself by a log of wood or anything +handy. This time, the "anything handy" seemed +to be part of an old wheelbarrow, and on top were some +sandbags. In the room, which was four times as long as +it was broad, and twelve times longer than high, a few vague +soldier-forms crouched over a meal on the floor, their +tablecloth being a Paris newspaper. They scrambled to +their feet, but could not stand upright, and to see their +stooping salute to stooping officers in the smoky twilight, +was like a vision in a dark, convex mirror.</p> + +<p>As we wound our way past the screen at the far end of +the cellar dining-room, my lieutenant explained the method +in placing each <i>pare-éclat</i>, as he called the screen. "You +see, Mademoiselle, if a bomb happened to break through +and kill us, the screen would save the men beyond," he +said; then, remembering with a start that he was talking +to a woman, he hurried to add: "Oh, but we shall not be +killed. Have no fear. There's nothing of that sort on +our programme to-day—at least, not where we shall +take <i>you</i>."</p> + +<p>"Do I look as if I were afraid?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"No, you look very brave, Mademoiselle," he flattered +me. "I'm sure it is more than the helmet which gives +you that look. I believe, if you were allowed you would +go on past the safety zone."</p> + +<p>"Where does the safety zone end?" I curiously questioned.</p> + +<p>"It is different on different days. If you had come yesterday, +you could have had a good long promenade. +Indeed that was what we hoped, when we arranged to +entertain your party. But unfortunately the gentlemen<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> +in the opposing trenches discovered that <i>Les Sammies</i> had +arrived on our <i>secteur</i>. They wanted to give them a reception, +and so—your walk has to be shortened, Mademoiselle."</p> + +<p>Suddenly I felt sick. I had the sensation Sœur Julie +described herself as feeling when she met the giant German +officers. But it was not fear. "Do you mean—while +we're here, safe—like tourists on a pleasure jaunt," I +stammered, "that American soldiers are being <i>killed</i>—in +the trenches close by? It's horrible! I can't——"</p> + +<p>"<i>Il ne faut pas se faire de la bile</i>, as our <i>poilus</i> say, when +they mean 'Don't worry,' Mademoiselle," the lieutenant +soothed me. "If there were any killing along this <i>secteur</i> +you would hear the guns boom, <i>n'est-ce-pas</i>? You +had not stopped to think of that. There was a little affair +at dawn, I don't conceal it from you. A surprise—a +<i>coup de main</i> against the Americans the Boches intended. +They thought, as all has been quiet on our Front for so +long, we should expect nothing. But the surprise didn't +work. They got as good as they sent, and no one on our +side was killed. That I swear to you, Mademoiselle! +There were a few wounded, yes, but no fatalities. The +trouble is that now things have begun to move, they may +not sit still for long, and we cannot take risks with our +visitors. The mountain must come to Mahomet. That +is, <i>les Sammies</i> must call upon you, instead of you upon +them. The reception room is <i>chez nous Français</i>. It is +ready, and you will see it in a moment."</p> + +<p>Almost as he spoke we came to a dug-out of far more +imposing architecture than the hole between trenches +which we had seen. We had to stoop to go in, but once in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> +we could stand upright, even Brian, who towered several +inches above the other men. The place was lighted with +many guttering candles, and tears sprang to my eyes at +the pathos of the decorations. Needless to explain that +the French and American flags which draped the dark +walls were there in our honour! Also there were a Colonel, +a table, benches, chairs, some glasses, and one precious +bottle of champagne, enough for a large company to sip, if +not to drink, each other's health. Hardly had we been +introduced to the decorations, including the Colonel, when +the Americans began to arrive, three young officers +and two who had hardened into warlike middle age. It +was heart-warming to see them meet Mr. Beckett, and +their chivalric niceness to Brian and me was somehow +different from any other niceness I remember—except +Jim's.</p> + +<p>Not that one of the men looked like Jim, or had a voice +like his: yet, when they spoke, and smiled, and shook +hands, I seemed to see Jim standing behind them, smiling +as he had smiled at me on our one day together. I seemed +to hear his voice in an undertone, as if it mingled with +theirs, and I wondered if Jim's father had the same almost +supernatural impression that his son had come into the +dug-out room with that little band of his countrymen.</p> + +<p>It is strange how a woman can be homesick for a man +she has known only one day; but she can—she <i>can</i>—for a +Jim Beckett! He was so vital, so central in life, known +even for a day, that after his going the world is a background +from which his figure has been cut out, leaving a +blank place. These jolly, brave American soldier-men +made me want so desperately to see Jim that I wished a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> +bomb would drop in—just a <i>small</i> bomb, touching only +me, and whisking me away to the place where he is. In +body he could not forgive me, of course, for what I've +done; but in spirit he might forgive my spirit if it travelled +a long way to see his!</p> + +<p>I am almost sure that the Americans did bring Jim back +to Father Beckett, as to me, for though he was cheerful, +and even made jokes to show that he mustn't be treated +as a mourner, there was one piteous sign of emotion which +no self-control could hide. I saw his throat work—the +throat of an old man—his "Adam's apple" going convulsively +up and down like a tossed ball in a fountain jet. +Then, lest I should sob while his eyes were dry, I looked +away.</p> + +<p>We all had champagne out of the marvellous bottle +which had been hoarded during long months in case of +"a great occasion," and we economized sips but not +healths. We drank to each one of the Allies in turn, and +to a victorious peace. Then the officers—French and +American—began telling us trench tales—no grim stories, +only those at which we could laugh. One was what an +American captain called a "peach"; but it was a Frenchman +who told it: the American contingent have had no +such adventures yet.</p> + +<p>The thing happened some time ago, before the "liveliness" +died down along this <i>secteur</i>. One spring day, in a +rainy fog like a gray curtain, a strange pair of legs appeared, +prowling alongside a French trench. They were not +French legs; but instantly two pairs of French arms darted +out under the stage-drop of fog to jerk them in. Down +came a <i>feldwebel</i> on top of them, squealing desolately<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> +"Kamerad!" He squealed many more guttural utterances, +but not one of the soldiers in blue helmets, who soon +swarmed round him, could understand a word he said. +"Why the crowd?" wondered the Captain of the company, +appearing from a near-by dug-out. The queer quarry +was dragged to the officer's feet, and fortunately the Captain, +an Alsatian, had enough German for a catechism.</p> + +<p>"What were you doing close to our lines?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Herr Captain, I did not know they were your lines. +I thought they were ours. In our trench we are hungry, +very hungry. I thought in the mist I could safely go a +little way and seek for some potatoes. Where we are they +say there was once a fine potato field. Not long ago, one +of our men came back with half a dozen beauties. Ah, +they were good! I was empty enough to risk anything, +Herr Captain. But I had no luck. And, worse still, the +fog led me astray. Spare my life, sir!"</p> + +<p>"We will spare you what is worth more than a little +thing like your life," said the Captain. "We'll spare you +some of our good food, to show you that we French do not +have to gnaw our finger-nails, like you miserable Boches. +Men, take this animal away and feed it!"</p> + +<p>The men obeyed, enjoying the joke. The dazed Kamerad +was stuffed with sardines, meat, bread, and butter +(of which he had forgotten the existence), delicious cheese, +and chocolates. At last the magic meal was topped off +with smoking hot black coffee, a thimbleful of brandy, +and—a <i>cigar</i>! Tobacco and cognac may have been cheap, +but they made the <i>feldwebel</i> feel as if he had died and gone +to heaven.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p> + +<p>When he had eaten till his belt was tight for the first time +in many moons, back he was hustled to the Captain.</p> + +<p>"Well—you have had something better than potatoes? +<i>Bon!</i> Now, out of this, quicker than you came! Your +mother may admire your face, but we others, we have seen +enough of it."</p> + +<p>"But, Herr Captain," pleaded the poor wretch, loth to be +banished from Paradise, "I am your prisoner."</p> + +<p>"Not at all," coolly replied the officer. "We can't be +bothered with a single prisoner. What is one flea on a +blanket? Another time, if we come across you again with +enough of your comrades to make the game worth while, +why then, perhaps we may give ourselves the pain of keeping +you. You've seen that we have enough food to feed +your whole trench, and never miss it."</p> + +<p>Away flew the German over the top, head over heels, not +unassisted: and after they had laughed awhile, his hosts +and foes forgot him. But not so could he forget them. +That night, after dark, he came trotting back with fifteen +friends, all crying "Kamerad!" eager to deliver themselves +up to captivity for the flesh-pots of Egypt.</p> + +<p>"But—we're not to go without a glimpse of the Sammies, +are we?" I asked, when stories and champagne were +finished.</p> + +<p>The "Sammies'" officers laughed. "The boys don't +love that name, you know! But it sticks like a burr. It's +harder to get rid of than the Boches. As for seeing them—(the +boys, not the Boches!) <i>well</i>——" And a consultation +followed.</p> + +<p>The trenches beyond our dug-out drawing room could +not be guaranteed "safe as the Bank of England" for non<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>-combatants +that day, and no one wanted to be responsible +for our venturing farther. Still, if we couldn't go to the +boys, a "bunch" of the boys could come to us. A lieutenant +dashed away, and presently returned with six of +the tallest, brownest, best-looking young men I ever saw. +Their khaki and their beautiful new helmets were so like +British khaki and helmets that I shouldn't have been +expert enough to recognize them as American. But somehow +the merest amateur would never have mistaken those +boys for their British brothers. I can't tell where the +difference lay. All I can say is that it was there. Were +their jaws squarer? No, it couldn't have been that, for +British jaws are firm enough, and have need to be, Heaven +knows! Were their chins more prominent? But millions +of British chins are prominent. My brain collapsed in the +strain after comparisons, abandoned the effort and drank +in a draught of rich, ripe American slang as a glorious pick-me-up. +No wonder the French officers in <i>liaison</i> have +caught the new "code." The coming of those brown +boys with their bright and glittering teeth and witty words +made up to us for miles of trenches we hadn't seen. Gee, +but they were bully! Oh, <i>boy</i>! Get hep to that!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2> + + +<p>Father Beckett must have suffered dark +hours of reaction after seeing those soldier-sons +of American fathers, if there had been time to +think. But we flashed back to Nancy in haste, for a +late dinner and adieux to our friends. Brian and I +snatched the story of our day's adventure from his mouth +for Mother Beckett; and luckily he was too tired to give +her a new version. I heard in the morning that he had +slept through an air raid!</p> + +<p>I, too, was tired, and for the same reason: but I could +not sleep. Waking dreams marched through my mind—dreams +of Jim as he must have looked in khaki, dreams +which made an air raid more or less seem unimportant. +As the clocks of Nancy told the hours, I was in a mood +for the first time since Gerbéviller to puzzle out the meaning +of Paul Herter's parable.</p> + +<p>What had he meant by saying that his mission would +be no more dangerous than a rat-trap for a bit of toasted +cheese?</p> + +<p>I had exclaimed, "That sounds as if you were to bait +the trap!" but he had not encouraged me to guess. And +there had been so much else to think of, just then! His +offer of introductions to specialists for Brian had appealed +to me more than a vague suggestion of service to myself +"some day."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span></p> + +<p>But now, through the darkness of night, a ray like a +searchlight struck clear upon his cryptic hint.</p> + +<p>Somehow, Herter hoped to get across the frontier into +Germany! His question, whether I had loved Jim Beckett, +was not an idle one. He had not asked it through mere +curiosity, or because he was jealous of the dead. His +idea was that, if I had deeply cared for Jim, I should be +glad to know how he had died, and where his body lay. +Germany was the one place where the mystery could be +solved. I realized suddenly that Doctor Paul expected +"some day" to be in a position to solve it.</p> + +<p>"He's going into Germany as a spy," I said to myself. +"He's a man of German Lorraine. German is his native +language. Legally he's a German subject. He'll only +have to pretend that he was caught by accident in France +when the war broke out—and that at last he has escaped. +All that may be easy if there are no spies to give him away—to +tell what he's been doing in France since 1914. The +trouble will be when he wants to come back."</p> + +<p>I wished that I could have seen the man again, to have +bidden him a better farewell, to have told him I'd pray +for his success. But now it was too late. Already he must +have set off on his "mission," and we were to start in the +morning for Verdun.</p> + +<p>The thought of Verdun alone was enough to keep me +awake for the rest of the night, to say nothing of air raids +and speculations about Doctor Paul. It seemed almost +too strange to be true that we were to see Verdun—Verdun, +where month after month beat the heart of the world.</p> + +<p>The O'Farrells had not got permission for Verdun, nor +for Rheims, where we of the great gray car were going<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> +next. Still more than our glimpse of the trenches were +these two places "extra special." The brother and sister +were to start with us from Nancy, but we (the Becketts, +Brian, and I) were to part from them at Bar-le-Duc, where +we would be met by an officer from Verdun. Two days +later, we were to meet again at Paris, and continue—as +Puck impudently put it—"<i>our</i> rôle of ministering angels," +along the Noyon front and beyond.</p> + +<p>This programme was settled when—through influence +at Nancy—Father Beckett's passes for four had been +extended to Verdun and Rheims. I breathed a sigh of +relief at the prospect of two more days without the O'Farrells; +and all that's Irish in me trusted to luck that "something +might happen" to part us forever. Why not? The +Red Cross taxi might break down (it looked ready to shake +to pieces any minute!). Dierdre might be taken ill (no +marble statue could be paler!). Or the pair might be +arrested by the military police as dangerous spies. (Really, +I wouldn't "put it past" them!). But my secret hopes +were rudely jangled with my first sight of Brian on the +Verdun morning.</p> + +<p>"Molly, I hope you won't mind," he said, "but I've +promised O'Farrell to go with them and meet you in Paris +to-morrow night. I've already spoken to Mr. Beckett +and he approves."</p> + +<p>"This comes of my being ten minutes late!" I almost—not +quite—cried aloud. I'd hardly closed my eyes +all night, but had fallen into a doze at dawn and overslept +myself. Meanwhile the O'Farrell faction had got in its +deadly work!</p> + +<p>I was angry and disgusted, yet—as usual where that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> +devil of a Puck was concerned—I had the impulse to +laugh. It was as if he'd put his finger to his nose and +chuckled in impish glee: "You hope to get rid of us, do +you, you minx? Well, I'll <i>show</i> you!" But I should +be playing his game if I lost my temper.</p> + +<p>"Why do the O'Farrells want you to go with them?" +I "camouflaged" my rage.</p> + +<p>"It's Julian who wants me," explained the dear boy. +(Oh, it had come to Christian names!) "It seems Miss +O'Farrell has taken it into her head that none of us likes +her, and that we've arranged this way to get rid of them +both—letting them down easily and making some excuse +not to start again together from Paris. O'Farrell thought +if I'd offer to go with them and sit in the back of the car +while he drove I could persuade her——"</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't envy any one the task of persuading +that girl to believe a thing she doesn't wish to believe," +I exploded. "My private opinion is, though, that her +brother's sister needs no persuading. The two of them +want to show me that they have power——"</p> + +<p>Brian broke in with a laugh. "My child, you see things +through a magnifying glass! Is your blind brother a +prize worth squabbling over? I can be of use to the +Becketts, it's true, when we travel without a military +escort, or with one young officer who knows more about +seventy-fives than about the romance of history. I can +tell them what I've read and what I've seen. But at Verdun +you'll be in the society of generals; and at Rheims of as +many dignitaries as haven't been bombarded out of town. +The Becketts don't need me. Perhaps Miss O'Farrell +does."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Perhaps!" I repeated.</p> + +<p>Brian can see twice as much as those who have eyes, +but he would not see my sarcasm. Just then, however, +Mrs. Beckett joined us in the hall of the hotel, where we +stood ready to start—all having breakfasted in our own +rooms. She guessed from my face that I was not pleased +with Brian's plan.</p> + +<p>"My dear, I'd go myself with poor little Dierdre O'Farrell +instead of Brian!" she said. "Verdun isn't one of +Jim's towns. Rheims is—but I'd have sacrificed it. There +can't be much left there to see. Only—<i>two whole days</i>! +Father and I haven't been parted so long in our lives since +we were married. I thought yesterday, when you were +away in those trenches, what a coward I'd been not to +insist on going, and what if I never saw Father again! I +hope you don't think I'm too selfish!"</p> + +<p>Poor darling, <i>selfish</i> to travel in her own car with her +own husband! I just gave her a look to show what I +felt; but after that I could no longer object to parting +with Brian. Puck had got his way, and I could see by +the light in his annoyingly beautiful eyes how exquisitely +he enjoyed the situation. Brian and Brian's kitbag were +transferred to the Red Cross taxi, there and then, to save +delay for us and the officer who would meet us, in case +the wretched car should get a <i>panne</i>, en route to Bar-le-Duc. +As a matter of fact, that is what happened; or at +all events when our big, reliable motor purred with us +into Bar-le-Duc, the O'Farrells were nowhere to be seen.</p> + +<p>Our officer—another lieutenant—had arrived in a little +Ford; and as we were invited to lunch in the citadel of +Verdun we could not wait. I felt sure the demon Puck<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> +had managed to be late on purpose, so that my Verdun +day might be spoiled by anxiety for Brian. Thus he would +kill two birds with one stone: show how little I gained +by the enemy's absence, and punish me for not letting +him make love!</p> + +<p>The road to Verdun was a wonderful prelude. After +three years' Titanic battling, how could there be a road +at all? I had had vague visions of an earthly turmoil, a +wilderness of shell-holes where once had gleamed rich +meadows and vineyards, with little villages set jewel-like +among them, and the visions were true. But through +the war-worn desert always the road unrolled—the brave +white road. Heaven alone could tell the deeds of valour +which had achieved the impossible, making and remaking +that road! It should have some great poem all to itself, +I thought; a poem called "The Road to Verdun." And +the poem should be set to music. I could almost hear +the lilt of the verses as our car slipped through the tangle +of motor <i>camions</i> and gun-carriages on the way thither. +As for the music, I could really hear that without flight +of fancy: a deep, rolling undertone of heavy wheels, of +jolting guns, of pulsing engines, like a million beating +hearts; and out of its muffled bass rising the lighter music +of men's voices: soldiers singing; soldiers going to the +front, who shouted gaily to soldiers going to repose; +soldiers laughing; soldier-music that no hardship or +suffering could subdue.</p> + +<p>We had seen such processions before, but none so endless +as this, going both ways, as far as the eye could reach. +We had seen no such tremendous parks of artillery and +aviation by the roadside, no such store of shells for big guns<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> +and little guns, no such pyramids of grenades for trenches +and aeroplanes. We were engulfed in war, swallowed +up in war. It was thrilling beyond words.</p> + +<p>But all the road flashed bright with thrills. There was +a thrill at "le Bois de Regrets," forest of dark regret for +the Prussians of 1792, where the French turned them back—the +forest which Goethe saw: a thrill more keen for +the pointing sign, "Metz, 47 kilomètres," which reminded +us that less than thirty miles separated us from the great +German stronghold, yet—"<i>on ne passera pas</i>!" And the +deepest thrill of all at the words of our guide: "<i>Voilà la +porte de Verdun! Nous y sommes</i>."</p> + +<p>Turning off the road, we stopped our car and the little +Ford to look up and worship. There it rose before us, +ancient pile of gray stones, altar of history and triumph, +Verodunum of Rome, city of warlike, almost royal bishops +and rich burghers: town of treaties, sacked by Barbarians; +owned and given up by Germans; seized by Prussians +when the French had spiked their guns in 1870; and now +forever a monument to the immortal manhood of France!</p> + +<p>Perhaps it was the mist in my eyes, but at first sight +Verdun did not look ruined, as I saw it towering up to +its citadel in massive strength and stern dignity. The old +houses on the slope stood shoulder to shoulder and back +to back, like massed men fighting their last stand. It +was only when we had started on again, and passing +through the gate had slipped into the sorrowful intimacy +of the streets, that Verdun let us see her glorious rags and +scars.</p> + +<p>You would think that one devastated town would be +much like another to look at save for size. But no! I am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> +learning that each has some arresting claim of its own to +sacred remembrance. Nancy has had big buildings +knocked down like card houses by occasional bombardment +of great guns. Sermaize, Gerbéviller, Vitrimont +and twenty other places we have seen were thoroughly +looted by the Germans and then burned, street by street. +But Verdun has been bombarded every day for weeks and +months and years. The town is a royal skeleton, erect +and on its feet, its jewelled sceptre damaged, but still +grasped in a fleshless hand. The Germans have never +got near enough to steal!</p> + +<p>"You see," said the smart young captain who had +come out to meet us at the gate and take us to the citadel, +"you see, nothing has been touched in these houses since +the owners had to go. When they return from their +places of refuge far away, they will find everything as +they left it—that is, as the Boche guns have left it."</p> + +<p>Only too easy was it to see! In some of the streets +whole rows of houses had had their fronts torn off. The +rooms within were like stage-settings for some tragic play. +Sheets and blankets trailed from beds where sleepers had +waked in fright. Doors of wardrobes gaped to show +dresses dangling forlornly, like Bluebeard's murdered +brides. Dinner-tables were set out for meals never to be +finished, save by rats. Family portraits of comfortable +old faces smiling under broken glass hung awry on pink +or blue papered walls. Half-made shirts and petticoats +were still caught by the needle in broken sewing-machines. +Dropped books and baskets of knitting lay on bright +carpets snowed under by fallen plaster. Vases of dead +flowers stood on mantelpieces, ghostly stems and shrivelled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span> +brown leaves reflected in gilt-framed mirrors. I could +hardly bear to look! It was like being shown by a hard-hearted +surgeon the beating of a brain through the sawed +hole in a man's skull. If one could have crawled through +the crust of lava at Pompeii, a year after the eruption, +one might have felt somewhat as at Verdun now!</p> + +<p>On a broken terrace, once a beloved evening promenade, +our two cars paused. We got out and gazed down, down +over the River Meuse, from a high vantage-point where +a few months ago, we should have been blown to bits, +in five minutes. Our two officers pointed out in the +misty autumn landscape spots where some of the fiercest +and most famous fights had been. How the names they +rattled off brought back anxious nights and mornings +when our first and only thoughts had been the <i>communiqués</i>! +"Desperate battle on the Meuse." "Splendid +stand at Douaumont." "New attack on Morthomme." +But nothing we saw helped out our imaginings. +There was just a vast stretch of desolation where vinelands +once had poured their perfume to the sun. The +forts protecting Verdun were as invisible as fairyland, I +said. "As invisible as hell!" one of our guides amended. +And then to me, in a low voice unheard by pale and trembling +Mother Beckett, he added, "If Nature did not work +to make ugly things invisible, we could not let you come +here, Mademoiselle. See how high the grass has grown in +the plain down there! In summer it is full of poppies, red +as the blood that feeds their roots. And it is only the +grasses and the poppies that hide the bones of men we've +never yet put underground. Nature has been one of our +chief sextons, here at Verdun. I wish you could have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> +seen the poppies a few months ago, mixed with blue +marguerites and cornflowers—that we call 'bluets.' We +used to say that our dead were lying in state under the +tricolour flag of France. But I have made you sad, Mademoiselle. +<i>Je regrette!</i> We must take you quickly to the +citadel. Our general will not let you be sad there."</p> + +<p>We turned from the view over the Meuse and walked +away in silence. I thought I had never heard so loud, +so thunderously echoing, a silence in my life.</p> + +<p>Oh, no, it was not sad in the citadel! It was, on the +contrary, very gay, of a gaiety so gallant and so pathetic +that it brought a lump to the throat when there should +have been a laugh on the lips. But the lump had to be +swallowed, or our hosts' feelings would be hurt. They +didn't want watery-eyed, full-throated guests at a luncheon +worthy of bright smiles and keen appetites!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The first thing that happened to Mother Beckett and +me in the famous fortress was to be shown into a room +decorated as a ladies' boudoir. All had been done, we +were told almost timidly, in our honour, even the frescoes +on the walls, painted in record time by a young lieutenant, +who was an artist; and the officers hoped that they had +forgotten nothing we might need. We could both have +cried, if we hadn't feared to spoil our eyes and redden +our noses! But even if we'd not been strong enough to +stifle our tears, there was everything at hand to repair +their ravages. And all this in a place where the Revolution +had sent fourteen lovely ladies to the guillotine for servilely +begging the King of Prussia to spare Verdun.</p> + +<p>The lieutenant who met us at Bar-le-Duc had rushed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> +there in advance of us, in order to shop with frantic haste. +A long list must have been compiled after "mature +deliberation"—as they say in courts-martial—otherwise +any normal young man would have missed out something. +In the tiny, subterranean room (not much larger than a +cell) a stick of incense burned. The cot-bed of some +hospitable captain or major disguised itself as a couch, +under a brand-new silk table-cover with the price-mark +still attached, and several small sofa cushions, also ticketed. +A deal table had been painted green and spread with a +lace-edged tea-cloth, on which were proudly displayed a +galaxy of fittings from a dressing-bag, the best, no doubt, +that poor bombarded Bar-le-Duc could produce in war +time. There were ivory-backed hair and clothes brushes; +a comb; bottles filled with white face-wash and perfume; +a manicure-set, with pink salve and nail-powder; a tray +decked out with every size of hairpin; a cushion bristling +with pins of many-coloured heads; boxes of rouge, a hare's-foot +to put it on with; face-powder in several tints; swan's-down +puffs; black pencils for the eyebrows and blue for +the eyelids; sweet-smelling soap—a dazzling and heavily +fragrant collection.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear, what <i>did</i> they think of us?" gasped +Mother Beckett. "What a shame the poor lambs should +have wasted all their money and trouble!"</p> + +<p>"It <i>mustn't</i> be wasted!" said I. "Think how disappointed +they'd be if they came in here afterward and +found we hadn't touched a thing!"</p> + +<p>"But——" she protested.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't hurt the feelings of the saviours of +France? I'm going to make us both up! And there's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> +no time to waste. They've given us fifteen minutes' grace +before lunch. For the honour of womanhood we mustn't +be late!"</p> + +<p>I sat her down in the only chair. I dusted her pure +little face with pearl-powder and the faintest <i>soupçon</i> +of rouge. I rubbed on her sweet lips just the suspicion +of pink, liked by an elderly <i>grande dame française</i>, who +has not yet "abdicated." I then made myself up more +seriously: a blue shadow on the lids, a raven touch on +the lashes; a flick of the hare's-foot under my eyes and on +my ear-tips: an extra coat of pink and a brilliant (most +injurious!) varnish on the nails. Then, with a dash of +<i>Rose Ambrée</i> for my companion's blouse and <i>Nuits d'Orient</i> +for mine, we sallied forth scented like a harem, to do +honour to our hosts.</p> + +<p>Luncheon was in a vast cavern of a vaulted banqueting-hall, +in the deepest heart of that citadel, where for eleven +years Napoleon kept his weary English prisoners. Electric +lights showed us a table adorned with fresh flowers (where +they'd come from was a miracle, but soon we were to see +other miracles still more miraculous), French, British, +and American flags, and pyramids of fruit. The <i>Rose +Ambrée</i> and <i>Nuits d'Orient</i> filled the whole vast <i>salle</i>, +and pleased the officers, I was sure. They bowed and +smiled and paid us compliments, their many medals +glittered in the light, and their uniforms were resplendent +against the cold background of the walls. I wished that, +instead of one girl, I had been a dozen! But I did my +best and so did Mother Beckett, who brightened into a +charming second youth, the youth of a happy mother +surrounded by a band of sons.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p> + +<p>The lumps that had been in our throats had to be choked +sternly down, for not to do justice to that meal would be +worse than leaving the rouge and powder boxes unopened! +The menu need not have put a palace to shame. In the +citadel of Verdun it seemed as if it must have been evolved +by rubbing Aladdin's lamp, and I said so as I read it over:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Huîtres d'Ostende<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bisque d'Écrevisses<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Sanglier rôti<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Purée de Pommes de Terre<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soufflée de Chocolat<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Fruits<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Bonbons<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"Oh, we've never been hungry at Verdun, even when +things were at their liveliest," said the officer sitting next +to me. "Providence provided for us in a strange way. +I will tell you how. Before the civil population went +away, or expected to go, there was talk of a long siege. +The shopkeepers thought they would be intelligent and +sent to Paris for all sorts of food. Oh, not only the +grocers and butchers! Everyone. You would have +laughed to see the jewellers showing hams in their windows +instead of diamonds and pearls and gold purses, and the +piles of preserved meat and fruit tins at the perfumers! +The confectioners ordered stores of sugar and the wine +merchants restocked their cellars. Then things began +to happen. Houses were bombed, and people hustled out +in a hurry. You have seen some of those houses! The +place was getting too hot; and the order came for evacuation. +Not much could be taken away. Transport was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> +difficult in those days! All the good food had to be left +behind, and we thought it would be a pity to waste it. +Our chief bought the lot at a reasonable price—merchants +were thankful to sell. So you see we did not need Aladdin's +lamp."</p> + +<p>"I don't <i>quite</i> see!" I confessed. "Because, that's a +long time ago, and these oysters of Ostende——"</p> + +<p>"Never saw Ostende!" he laughed. "They are a +big bluff! We always have them when"—he bowed—"we +entertain distinguished guests. The Germans used +to print in their papers that we at Verdun could not +hold out long, because we were eating rats. So we took +to cutting a dash with our menus. We do not go into particulars +and say that our oysters have kept themselves +fresh in tins!"</p> + +<p>"But the wild boar?" I persisted. "Does one tin +wild boar?"</p> + +<p>"One does not! One goes out and shoots it. <i>Ma +foi</i>, it's a good adventure when the German guns are not +asleep! The fruit? Ah, that is easy! It comes as the +air we breathe. And for our bonbons, the famous sugared +almonds of Verdun were not all destroyed when the factory +blew up."</p> + +<p>With this he handed me a dish of the delicious things. +"The story is," he said, "that a certain Abbess brought +the secret of making these almonds to Verdun. We have +to thank Henry of Navarre for her. He had a pleasant +way, when he wished to be rid of an old love with a compliment, +of turning her into an Abbess. That time he +made a lucky stroke for us."</p> + +<p>At the end of luncheon we all drank healths, and nearly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> +everyone made a speech except Mrs. Beckett. She only +nodded and smiled, looking so ideal a little mother that +she must have made even the highest officers homesick +for their <i>mamans</i>.</p> + +<p>Then we were led through a mysterious network of +narrow passages and vaulted rooms, all lit with electric +lamps, and striking cold and cellary. We saw the big +hospital, not very busy just then, and the clean, empty +operating theatre, and gnome-caverns where munitions +were stored in vast, black pyramids. When there was +nothing left to see in the citadel, our hosts asked if we +would like to pay a visit to the trenches—old trenches +which had once defended Thiaumont.</p> + +<p>"I don't think my wife had better——" Mr. Beckett +began; but the little old lady cut him short. "Yes, Father, +I just <i>had</i> better! To-day, being among all these splendid +brave soldiers has shown me that I'm weak—a spoiled +child. I felt yesterday I'd been a coward. Now I <i>know</i> it! +And I'm <i>going</i> to see those trenches."</p> + +<p>I believe it was partly the powder and lip salve that +made her so desperate!</p> + +<p>Her husband yielded, meek as a lamb. Big men like +Mr. Beckett always do to little women like Mrs. Beckett. +But she bore it well. And when at last we bade good-bye +to our glorious hosts, she said to me, "Molly, you tell +them in French, that now I've met <i>them</i> I understand +why the Germans could never pass!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2> + + +<p>Almost any place on earth would be an anti-climax +the day after Verdun—but not Rheims!</p> + +<p>Just at this moment (it mayn't be much more) +Rheims is resting, like a brave victim on the rack who has +tired his torturers by an obstinate silence. Only a few +people are allowed to enter the town, save those who have +lived there all along, and learned to think no more of +German bombs than German sausages; and those favoured +few must slip in and out almost between breaths. Any +instant the torturing may begin again, when the Boches +have bombs to spare for what they call "target practice"; +for think, how near is Laon!—and we'd been warned +that, even at the portals of the town, we might be turned +back.</p> + +<p>We had still another new French officer to take us to +Rheims. (I am getting their faces a little mixed, like a +composite picture, but I keep sacredly all their dear +visiting-cards!) He was a captain, with a scarred but +handsome face, and he complimented Mother Beckett +and me on our "courage." This made Father Beckett +visibly regret that he had brought us, though he had been +assured that it was a "safe time." However, his was not +the kind of regret which tempts a man to turn back: it only +makes his upper lip look long.</p> + +<p>I never saw Rheims in palmy days of peace. Now I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> +wish I had seen it! But there was that lithograph of the +cathedral by Gustave Simonau, the great Belgian artist, +hanging above your desk, in the den, Padre. I used to +study it when I should have been studying my lessons, +fascinated by the splendid façade, the twin towers, the +three "portals of the Trinity," the rose-window, the +gallery of kings, the angels, the saints, the gargoyles and +all the carved stone lace-work which the picture so wonderfully +shows.</p> + +<p>On the opposite side of the room was Simonau's Cathedral +of Chartres, in a dark frame to match, and I remember +your saying that Chartres was considered by some critics +even finer than Rheims. The Cathedral of Chartres +seemed a romantic monument of history to me, because +it was built as a shrine for the "tunic of the Virgin"; but +the Gothic Notre-Dame of Rheims appealed to my—perhaps +prophetic—soul. Maybe I had a latent presentiment +of how I should see the real cathedral, as <i>la grande +blessée</i> of the greatest war of the world.</p> + +<p>Anyhow, I always took a deep interest in Rheims from +the day I first gaped, an open-mouthed child, at that +beautiful drawing, and I was glad I'd forgotten none of +its details, as we motored toward the martyr town. +Usually there's Brian, who can tell the dear Becketts all +they don't know and want to know, but this time they'd +only me to depend upon. And when I think what a cruel +fraud I am at heart, there's some consolation in serving +them, even in small ways.</p> + +<p>There's a wide plain that knows desolately what German +bombardment means: there are gentle hills rising +out of it, south and west (will grapes ever be sweet on those<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> +sad hillsides again?) and there's the little river Vesle that +runs into the Aisne. There's the Canal of the Aisne and +the Marne, too—oh, many wide waters and little streams, +to breathe out mist, for Rheims is on the pleasant Île-de-France. +There was so much mist this autumn day that +it hid from our eyes for a long time the tall form of the +Cathedral which should dominate the plain for many +miles; a thick, white mist like the sheet with which a +sculptor veils his masterpiece until it's ready to face the +world. As we drove on, and still saw no looming bulk, +frozen fear pinched my heart, like horrid, ice-cold fingers. +What if there'd been some new bombardment we hadn't +had time to hear of, and the Cathedral were <i>gone</i>?</p> + +<p>But I didn't speak my fear. I tried to cover it up by +chattering about Rheims. Goodness knows there's a lot to +chatter about! All that wonderful history, since Clovis +was baptized by Saint Remi; and Charlemagne crowned, +and Charles the VII, with Jeanne d'Arc looking on in +bright armour, and various Capets, and enough other +kings to name Notre-Dame of Rheims the "Cathedral of +Coronations." I remembered something about the Gate +of Mars, too—the oldest thing of all—which the Remi +people put up in praise of Augustus Cæsar when Agrippa +brought his great new roads close to their capital. I think +it had been called Durocoroturum up to that time—or +some equally awful name, which you remember only +because you expect to forget! I hardly dared tell the +Becketts about the celebrated archiepiscopal palace +where the kings used to be entertained by the archbishops +(successors of Saint Remi) while the coronation ceremonies +were going on: and the <i>Salle du Tau</i> with its wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span>ful +hangings, its velvet-cushioned stone seats and carved, +upright furniture, where the royal guests—in robes stiff +with jewelled embroidery—had their banquets from plates +of solid silver and gold. It seemed cruel to speak of +splendours vanished forever, vanished like the holy oil of +the sacred phial brought from heaven by a dove for the +baptism of Clovis, and kept for the anointing of all those +dead kings!</p> + +<p>But it was just the time and place to talk about Attila—Attila +the First, I mean, of whom, as I told you, I firmly +believe the present "incumbent" to be the reincarnation. +As Attila I. thought fit to put Rheims to the sword, Atilla II. +is naturally impelled by the "spiral" to do his best from a +distance, by destroying the Cathedral which wasn't begun +in his predecessor's day. But what does he think, I wonder, +about the prophecy? That in Rheims—scene of +the first German defeat on the soil of Gaul—Germany's +last defeat will be celebrated, with great rejoicing in the +Cathedral she has tried to ruin?</p> + +<p>Those words, "tried to ruin," I uttered rather feebly, +holding forth to the Becketts, because we had passed a +long dark line of trees before which—we'd been told—we +ought to see the Cathedral rise triumphant against an +empty background of sky. And still there was nothing!</p> + +<p>Of course, I told myself, it must be the mist. But +could mist be thick enough entirely to hide a great mountain +of a cathedral from eyes drawing nearer every minute? +Then, suddenly, my question was answered by the +mist itself. I must have hypnotized it! A light wind, +which we had thought was made by the motor, cut like +the shears of Lachesis through the woolly white web. A<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> +gash of blue appeared and in the midst, floating as if it +had died and gone to heaven, the Cathedral.</p> + +<p>Yes, "died and gone to heaven!" That is just what has +happened to Notre-Dame of Rheims. The body has been +martyred, but the soul is left alive—beautiful, brave soul +of the old stones of France!</p> + +<p>"Oh!" went up from three voices in the motor-car. I +think even our one-legged soldier-chauffeur emitted a +grunt of joy; and Mother Beckett clasped her hands on +her little thin breast, as if she were praying, such a wonderful +sight it was, with the golden coronation of the noon-day +sun on the towers. Our officer-guide, in his car +ahead, looked back as if to say, "I told you so! They +can't kill France, and Rheims is the very spirit and youth +of France."</p> + +<p>Not one of us spoke another word until we drove into +the town, and began exclaiming with horror and rage at +what Attila II has done to the streets.</p> + +<p>The mist had fallen again, not white in the town, but a +pale, sad gray, like a mantle of half-mourning. It hung +over the spacious avenues and the once fine, now desolate, +streets, which had been the pride of Rheims; it slipped +serpent-like through what remained of old arcades: it +draped the ancient Gate of Mars in the Place de la République +as if to hide the cruel scars of the bombardment; it +lay like soiled snow on the mountain of tumbled stone +which had been the Rue St. Jacques; it curtained the +"show street" of Rheims, the Rue de la Grue, almost as +old as the Cathedral itself, which a Sieur de Coucy began +in 1212; trickling gray as glacier waters over the fallen walls +which artists had loved. It marbled with pale streaks the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> +burned, black corpse of the once famous Maison des +Laines; it clouded the marvellous old church of St. Remi, +and when we came to the Cathedral—kept for the climax—it +floated past the wounded statues on the great western +façade like an army of spirits—spirits of all those watching +saints whom the statues honoured.</p> + +<p>The crowns of the broken towers we could not see, but +at that height the mist was gilded by the sun which sifted +through so that each tower seemed to have its own faint +golden halo.</p> + +<p>"This effect comes often on these foggy autumn days, +when the sun is high, about noontime," said our guide. +"It's rather wonderful, isn't it? We have a priest-soldier +invalided here now, who used to be of the service in the +Cathedral, before he volunteered to fight. He has written +some verses, which it seems came to him in a dream one +night. Whether the world would think them fine I do not +know, but at Rheims we like them. The idea is that +Jeanne d'Arc has mobilized the souls of the saints who +protect Rheims, to bless and console the Cathedral, which +they were not permitted to save from outward ruin. It is +she who gilds the mist on the towers with a prophecy of +hope. As for the mist itself, according to the poet, it is +no common fog. It is but the cloak worn by this +army of saints to visit their cathedral, and bathe its +wounds with their cool white hands, so that at last, +when peace dawns, there shall be a spiritual beauty +found in the old marred stones—a beauty they never had +in their prime."</p> + +<p>"I should like to see that soldier-priest!" said Father +Beckett, when I had translated for him the officer's de<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>scription +of the poem. "Couldn't we meet him? What's +his name?"</p> + +<p>I passed on the questions to our captain of the scarred +face. "The man's name is St. Pol," he told us. "You can +see from that he comes of an old family. If it had been +this day last week you could have met him. He would +have been pleased. But—since then—alas! Mademoiselle, +it is impossible that he should be seen. It would be +too sad for you and your friends."</p> + +<p>"He has been wounded in some bombardment?" I exclaimed.</p> + +<p>"Not wounded—no. We don't think much of wounds. +What has happened is sadder than wounds. Some day +the man may recover. We hope so. But at present he—is +out of everything, dead in life."</p> + +<p>"What happened?" I gasped.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it is quite a history!" said the Captain. "But it +begins a long time ago, when the Germans came to Rheims +in 1914. Perhaps it would fatigue you? Besides, you +have to translate, which takes double the time. I might +write out the story and send it, Mademoiselle, if you like. +You and your friends are not as safe here as in your own +houses, I do not disguise that from you! The Germans +have let us rest these last few days. Yet who can tell +when they may choose to wake us up with a bomb or two?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think we're afraid," I said, and consulted the +Becketts. The little old lady answered for both. She +was stoutly sure they were not afraid! "We shouldn't +deserve to be Jim's parents if we were—of a thing like +<i>that</i>! You tell the Captain, Molly, we're getting used to +bombs, and we want the story right here, on the spot!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p> + +<p>"<i>C'est très chic, ça!</i>" remarked the Captain, eyeing the +mite of a woman. He stood for a minute, his scarred face +pale in the mist, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on a headless +stone king. Then he began his story of the soldier-priest.</p> + +<p>Monsieur le Curé de St. Pol was very young when the +war began—almost as young as a <i>curé</i> can be. He did not +think, at first, to become a soldier, for he hated war. But, +indeed, in those early days he had no time to think at all. +He only worked—worked, to help care for the wounded +who were pouring into Rheims, toward the last of August, +1914. Many were brought into the Cathedral, where they +lay on the floor, on beds of straw. The Curé's duty was +among these. He had relations in Rheims—a family of +cousins of the same name as his. They lived in a beautiful +old house, one of the best in Rheims, with an ancient chapel +in the garden. There was an invalid father, whose wife +devoted her life to him, and a daughter—a very beautiful +young girl just home from a convent-school the spring +before the war broke out. There was a son, too—but +naturally, he was away fighting.</p> + +<p>This young girl, Liane de St. Pol, was one of many in +Rheims who volunteered to help nurse the wounded. All +girls brought up in convents have some skill in nursing, +you know!</p> + +<p>While she and the Curé were at work in the Cathedral, +among the wounded men who came in were her own +brother, a lieutenant, and his best friend, a captain of his +regiment. Both were badly hurt—the St. Pol boy worse +than his friend. Yet even for him there was hope—if he +could have had the best of care—if he could have been +taken home and lovingly nursed there. That was not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> +possible. The surgeons had no time for house-to-house +visits. He was operated on in the Cathedral, and as he lay +between life and death, news came that the Germans were +close to Rheims.</p> + +<p>In haste the wounded were sent to Épernay—to save +them from being made prisoners. But some could not +go: Louis de St. Pol and his friend Captain Jean de Visgnes. +De Visgnes might have been hidden in the St. Pol house +but he would not leave the boy, who could not be moved so +far. The Curé vowed to hide both, and he did hide them +in a chapel of the Cathedral itself. On September 3, at +evening, the first Germans rode into the town and took up +their quarters in the Municipal Palace, where they forced +the Mayor, a very old man, to live with them. It was +a changed Rheims since the day before. The troops of +the garrison had gone in the direction of Épernay, since +there was no hope of defence. Many rich people had +fled, taking what they could carry in automobiles or cabs. +The poor feared a siege—or worse: they knew not what. +The St. Pol family received into their house a number of +women whose husbands were at the Front, and their +babies. No one ventured out who could stay indoors. +The city filled up with German soldiers, with the Kaiser's +son, Prince August Wilhelm, at their head. They, too, had +wounded. The Cathedral was put to use for them, and +the Curé cared for the Boches as he had cared for the +French. This gave him a chance, at night, to nurse his +two friends. So dragged on seven days, which seemed +seven years; and then rumours drifted in of a great +German retreat, a mysterious failure in the midst of seeming +victory. The Battle of the Marne was making<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> +itself felt. In rage and bewilderment the Germans +poured out of Rheims, leaving only their wounded behind. +The townspeople praised God, and thought their trial was +over. But it was only just begun! On the 16th the bombardment +opened. The Germans knew that their wounded +still lay in the Cathedral, but they did not seem to +care for men out of the fighting line. A rain of bombs fell +in the town—one of the first wrecked the Red Cross ambulance—and +many struck the Cathedral. Then came the +night when the straw bedding blazed, and fire poured +through the long naves, rising to the roof.</p> + +<p>The Curé told afterward how wonderful the sight was +with the jewelled windows lighting up for the last time, +before the old glass burst with the shrill tinkle of a million +crystal bells. He and Jean de Visgnes carried Louis de +St. Pol out into the street, but the boy died before they +reached his father's house, and De Visgnes had a dangerous +relapse. It was on this night that the Curé made up his +mind to volunteer, and soon he was at the Front. Nearly +three years passed before he and De Visgnes met again, both +<i>en permission</i>, travelling back to Rheims to pass their +"perm." Jean was now engaged to Liane de St. Pol who, +with her parents, had remained in the bombarded town, +refusing to desert their poor protegées. The two planned +to marry, after the war; but Liane had been struck by a +flying fragment of shell, and wounded in the head. De +Visgnes could bear the separation no longer. He made +the girl promise to marry him at once—in the chapel of +the old house, as she was still suffering, and forbidden to +go out. His leave had been granted for the wedding, +and the moment Liane was strong enough she and the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> +old people would leave Rheims. Jean was to take them +himself to his own home in Provence. The Curé was to +marry his cousin to the man whose life he had saved.</p> + +<p>Many children of the poor whom Liane had helped +decorated the chapel with flowers, and though the wedding-day +was one of fierce bombardment, no one dreamed of +putting off the ceremony. No fine shops for women's +dress were open in Rheims, but the bride wore her mother's +wedding-gown and veil of old lace. None save the family +were asked to the marriage, because it was dangerous to +go from house to house; yet all Rheims loved Liane, and +meant to wish happiness for bride and bridegroom as the +chapel-bells chimed for their union. But the bells began +and never finished. At the instant when Liane de St. Pol +and Jean de Visgnes became man and wife a bomb fell +on the chapel roof. The tiles collapsed like cards, and +all the bridal party was killed as by a lightning stroke. +Only the soldier-priest was spared. Strangely, he was not +even touched. But horror had driven him mad. Since +then he spoke only to rave of Liane and Jean; how beautiful +they had looked, lying dead before the wrecked altar.</p> + +<p>"The doctors say it is like a case of shell-shock," the +Captain finished. "They think he'll recover. But at +present, as I said—it is a sad affair. Sad for <i>him</i>—not for +those who died together, suffering no pain. One of the +Curé's favourite sayings used to be, they tell me, 'Death +is not an end, but a beginning.'"</p> + +<p>"You know him well?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I was stationed in Rheims before the war. I +used to dance with Liane when she came home from +school."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Ah, if only her family hadn't stayed here till too late!" +I cried.</p> + +<p>The captain with the scarred face shrugged his shoulders. +"Destiny!" he said. "Besides, the best people +do not run away easily from the homes they love. Perhaps +they have the feeling that, in a home which has always +meant peace, nothing terrible can happen. Yet +there's more in it than that—something more subtle +which keeps them in the place where they have always +lived: something, I think, that binds the spirits of us +Frenchmen and women to the spirit of their own hearths—their +own soil. Haven't you found that already, in other +places you have visited in this journey of yours?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," I answered, thinking of the old people I had seen +at Vitrimont living in the granaries of their ruined houses, +and strangely, unbelievably happy because they were "at +home." "Yes, we have seen that in little villages of +Lorraine."</p> + +<p>"Then how much more at Rheims, under the shadow of +Notre-Dame!" The scarred captain still gazed at the +headless king, and faintly smiled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2> + + +<p>Of course nothing did happen in Paris to break +up the party. I might have known that nothing +would. Nothing happened at all, except that I +received a letter from Doctor Herter with the promised +introduction to an oculist just now at the Front, and that +I realized, after three days' absence, how Brian is improving. +He has less the air of a beautiful soul, whose incarnation +in a body is a mere accident, and more the look of +a happy, handsome young man, with a certain spiritual +radiance which makes him remarkable and somehow +"disturbing," as the French say. If anything could +stop the rats gnawing my conscience, it would be this +blessed change. Brian is getting back health and strength. +When I think what a short time ago it is that his life +hung in the balance, this seems a miracle. I'm afraid +I am glad—glad that I did the thing which has given him +his chance. Besides, I love the Becketts. So does Brian. +And they love us. It's difficult to remember that I've +stolen their love. Surely, they're happier with us than +they could have been without us? Brian's scheme for +their visits to the liberated towns is doing good to them +and to hundreds—even thousands—of people whom they +intend to help.</p> + +<p>All this is sophistry, no doubt, but oh, it's beguiling +sophistry! It's so perfectly disguised that I seldom recog<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span>nize +it except at night when I lie awake, and it sits on my +bed, without its becoming mask.</p> + +<p>Being the Becketts' adviser-in-chief, and having his +lungs full of ozone every day should be enough to account +for Brian's improvement. Yet—well, I can't help thinking +that he takes a lot more trouble than he need for +Dierdre O'Farrell. Oh, not that he's <i>in love</i>! Such an +idea is ridiculous, but he's interested and sorry for the +girl, because she goes about with a chip on her shoulder, +defying the world to knock it off. He won't admit that +it's the fault of her outlook on the world, and that the +poor old world isn't to blame at all.</p> + +<p>What if he knew the truth about that brother and sister? +Naturally I can't tell him, of all people on earth, and +they take advantage of my handicap. They've used +their time well, in my absence, when they had Brian to +themselves. He had his doubts of Julian, but the creature +has sung himself into my blind brother's heart. From +what I hear, the three have spent most of their time at the +piano in the private <i>salon</i> which the Becketts invited the +O'Farrells to engage.</p> + +<p>Now, as I write, we are making our headquarters in +Compiègne, sleeping there, and sightseeing by day on +what they call the "Noyon Front."</p> + +<p>After Rheims and before Noyon we stopped three days in +Paris instead of one, as we'd planned, for Mother Beckett +was tired. She wouldn't confess it, but "Father" thought +she looked pale. Strange if she had not, after such experiences +and emotions! Sometimes, when I study the +delicate old face, with blue hollows under kind, sweet +eyes, I ask myself: "Will she be able to get through the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +task she's set herself?" But she is so quietly brave, not +only in fatigue, but in danger, that I answer my own +question: "Yes, she will do it somehow, on the reserve +force that kept her up when Jim died."</p> + +<p>The road from Paris, past Senlis, to Compiègne, was +even more thrilling than the road to Nancy and beyond, +for this was the way the Germans took in September, 1914, +when they thought the capital was theirs to have and +hold: "<i>la route de l'Allemagne</i>" it used to be called, but +never will French lips give it that name again.</p> + +<p>Just at first, running out of the city in early morning, +things looked much the same as when starting for Nancy: +the unnatural quiet of streets once crammed with busy +traffic for feeding gay Paris; military motors of all sorts +and sizes, instead of milk wagons and cartloads of colourful +fruits; women working instead of men; children on their +way to school, sedately talking of "<i>papa au Front</i>," instead +of playing games. But outside the suburbs the real thrills +began.</p> + +<p>There were the toy-like fortifications of which Paris was +proud in the 'fifties; there was the black tangle of barbed +wire, and the trace of trenches (a mere depression on the +earth's surface, as if a serpent had laid its heavy length on +a great, green velvet cushion) with which Paris had hoped +to delay the German wave. Only a little way on, we shot +through the sleepy-looking village of Bourget where Napoleon +stopped a few hours after Waterloo, rather than +enter Paris by daylight; and Brian had a story of the place. +A French soldier, a friend of his (nearly everyone he meets +is Brian's friend!) who was born there, told him that on +each anniversary the ghost of the "Little Corporal" ap<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span>pears, +travel-stained and worn, on the road leading to +Bourget. For many years his custom was to show himself +for a second to some seeing eye, then vanish like a mirage +of the desert. But since 1914 his way is different. He +does not confine his visit to the hamlet of sad memories. +He walks the country side, his hands behind him, his +head bent as of old; or he rides a horse that is slightly +lame, inspecting with thoughtful gaze the frenzied industries +of war, war such as he—the war-genius—never saw +in his visions of the future: the immense aerodromes, +the bomb sheds, the wireless stations and observation +towers, the giant "<i>saucisses</i>" resting under green canvas, +ready to rise at dawn; and all the other astounding features +of the landscape so peaceful in his day.</p> + +<p>Even now parts of it are peaceful, often the very spots +marked by history, where it seems as if each tree should +be decorated by a Croix de Guerre. For instance, there +was the place—a junction of roads—where the Uhlans +with a glitter of helmets came proudly galloping toward +Paris, and to their blank amazement and rage had to +turn back. As we halted to take in the scene, it was mysterious +as dreamland in the morning mist. Nothing +moved save two teams of cream-coloured oxen, their +moon-white sides dazzling behind a silver veil. The pale +road stretched before us so straight and far that it seemed +to descend from the sky like a waterfall. Only the trees +had a martial look, like tall, dark soldiers drawn up in +line for parade.</p> + +<p>It was not till we plunged into forest depths that I said to +myself: "We must be coming near Senlis!" For the very +name "Senlis" fills the mind with forest pictures. No<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> +wonder, since it lies walled away from the outer world—like +the Sleeping Beauty—by woods, and woods, and woods: +the forests of Hallette, Chantilly, and Ermenonville, each +as full of history as it is now of aromatic scents, and used to +be of wild boars for kings to kill!</p> + +<p>I think the best of the forest pictures has Henri de +Navarre for its principal figure. Brian and I turned over +the pages of our memory for the Becketts, who listened +like children to fairy tales—or as we listened when you used +to embroider history for us in those evening <i>causeries</i> +in the dear old "den," Padre.</p> + +<p>I dug up the story about Henri at twenty-one, married +more than a year to beautiful, lively Marguerite de Valois, +and enduring lazily the despotism of his mother-in-law. +There in the old palace of the Louvre, he loitered the time +away, practically a prisoner until the only friend he had +with courage to speak out (Agrippa d'Aubigny) gave him +a lecture. Agrippa lashed his master with the words +"coward" and "sluggard," letting his faithful servants +work for his interests while he remained the slave of a +"wicked old witch." The Béarnais had been biding his +time—"crouching to spring": but that slap in the face set +him on fire. He could no longer wait for the right moment. +He decided to make the <i>first</i> moment the right one. His +quick brain mapped out a plan of escape in which the sole +flaw was that he must leave behind his brilliant bride. +With eight or ten of his greatest, most loyal gentlemen, he +arranged to hunt in the forest of Senlis; and he had shown +himself so biddable, so boyish, that at first even Catherine +de Medicis did not suspect him. It was only when the +party had set forth that the plot burst like a bomb, in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> +Catherine's own boudoir, where she sat with her favourite +son, vile Henri III of France.</p> + +<p>Fervacques, one of the plotters, had stopped in Paris, +feigning illness. The plan had been concocted in his +rooms, and he but waited for Navarre's back to be turned +to betray him. Marguerite laughed when she heard (perhaps +she was in the secret), but Catherine said evil words, +of which she knew a great many—especially in Italian. +Orders were given for the gates of Paris to be shut (gates +that in those days barred the road along which we now +motored), but they were too late. Navarre and his hunters +had passed through. Agrippa d'Aubigny was not +among them. His part had been to watch the happenings +of the Court, and join Navarre later in his own kingdom, +but that hope was broken. Disguised as a <i>mignon</i> of +Henri III, he slipped out of Paris on a fast horse, tore after +the Béarnais and his equerries, and caught the cavalcade +in the forest. "Thou art betrayed!" he cried.</p> + +<p>"But not captured!" laughed Navarre.</p> + +<p>In haste they substituted a new plot for the old. The +young king was to pretend ignorance of the betrayal. +He installed himself accordingly in the best lodgings of +Senlis, talking loudly about hunting prospects, arranged +to see a performance by travelling actors, and sent such a +message back to Catherine and Henri that they believed +Fervacques had fooled them.</p> + +<p>By the time they'd waked to the truth, Navarre had +ridden safely out of Senlis with his friends, bound for the +kingdom on the Spanish border. Even then he was a +man of big ambitions; so maybe he said to himself, looking +back at Senlis: "I shall travel this road again, as king<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> +of France, to enter Paris in triumph." Anyhow, he was +grateful to Senlis for saving him, and stayed there often, +as Henri Quatre, flirting with pretty ladies, and inviting +them to become abbesses when he tired of them.</p> + +<p>Lots of things have happened in Senlis, because it's on +the road to Paris, and for centuries has been getting into +someone's way. Why, if it hadn't been for Senlis, +William the Conqueror might never have conquered! +You see, before William's day, Count Bernard of Senlis +(who boasted himself a forty-second grandson or something +of Charlemagne) quarrelled with King Louis IV of +France. To spite him, Bernard adopted the baby son of +William Longsword, Duke of Normandy, killed in battle; +for Normandy was a "thorn in the eye" of France. +Thanks to Bernard's help Normandy gained in riches +and importance. By the time William, son of Robert the +Devil and Arlette of Falaise, appeared on the scene, the +dukedom was a power in the world, and William was able +to dare his great enterprise.</p> + +<p>But that was only one incident. Senlis was already an +old, old town, and as much entitled to call itself a capital +of France as was Paris. Not for nothing had the Gallo-Romans +given it walls twenty feet high and thirteen feet +thick! They could not have builded better had they +meant to attract posterity's attention, and win for their +strong city the admiration of kings. Clovis was the first +king who fancied it, and settled there. But not a king who +followed, till after the day of Henri Quatre, failed to live +in the castle which Clovis began. Henry V of England +married Bonny Kate in the château; Charles VIII of +France and Maximilian of Austria signed a treaty with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>in +its walls; Francis I finished Notre-Dame of Senlis. +The Duke of Bedford fought Joan of Arc there, and she +was helped by the Maréchal Rais, no other than Bluebeard; +so "Sister Anne" must have gazed out from some +neighbouring tower for the "cloud of dust in the distance." +Somewhere in the vast encircling forests the Babes in the +Wood were buried by the birds, while the wicked uncle +reigned in their father's place at Senlis. In 1814 Prussian, +Russian, and British soldiers marched through the +town on their tramp to Paris. Cossacks and Highlanders +were the "strangest sight" Senlis had ever seen, though it +had seen many; but a hundred years later it was to see +a stranger one yet.</p> + +<p>If ever a place looked made for peace, that place is +Senlis, on its bright little river Nonette—child of the Oise—and +in its lovely valley. That was what I said as we +slowed down on the outskirts: but ah, how the thought of +peace broke as we drove along the "kings' highway"—the +broad Rue de la République! In an instant the drama of +September 2nd—eve of the Marne battle—sprang to our +eyes and knocked at our hearts. We could smell the +smoke, and see the flames, and hear the shots, the cries +of grief and rage, the far-off thunder of bridges blown up +by the retreating French army. Suddenly we knew how +the people of Senlis had suffered that day, and—strangely, +horribly—how the Germans had felt.</p> + +<p>Senlis hadn't realized—wouldn't let itself realize—even +during bombardment, what its fate might be. It had +been spared, as an open town, in 1870; and since then, +through long, prosperous years of peace a comfortable +conviction had grown that only pleasant things could<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> +happen. Why, it was the place of pleasure, reaping a +harvest of fame and money from its adventurous past! +Tourists came from all the world over to put up at the +Hôtel du Grand Cerf, once the hunting lodge of kings. +They came to loiter in narrow old streets whose very +names were echoes of history; to study the ruins of the +Roman arena and the ancient walls; to hunt in the forest, +as royal men and ladies had hunted when stags and wild +boar had been plentiful as foxes and rabbits; or to motor +from one neighbouring château to another. Surely even +Germans could not doom such a town to destruction. To +be sure, some people did fly when a rabble of refugees from +Compiègne poured past, hurrying south; and others fled +from the bombardment when big guns, fired from Lucien +Bonaparte's old village of Chamant, struck the cathedral. +But many stayed for duty's sake, or because they believed +obstinately that to <i>their</i> bit of the Île-de-France no +tragedy could come.</p> + +<p>They didn't know yet that Von Kluck and his men were +drunk with victory, and that flaming towns were for the +German army bonfires of triumph. They didn't know that +the Kaiser's dinner was ordered in Paris for a certain date, +and that at all costs Paris must be cowed to a speedy +peace, lest the dinner be delayed. "Frightfulness" was +the word of command, and famous old Senlis was to serve +as a lesson to Paris.</p> + +<p>But somehow the German master of Senlis's heart +weakened when the crucial moment came. He was at +the Hôtel du Grand Cerf, where a dinner was being prepared +by scared servants for thirty German officers. The +order was about to be signed when suddenly a <i>curé</i>, small<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> +and pale, but lion-brave, entered the room. How he got +in no one knew! Surprise held the general tongue-tied +for three seconds; and a French <i>curé</i> is capable of much +eloquence in three seconds.</p> + +<p>He gambled—if a <i>curé</i> may gamble!—on the chance of +his man being Catholic—and he won. That is why (so +they told us in the same room three years later) Senlis was +struck with many sore wounds, but not exterminated; +that is why only the Maire and a few citizens were murdered +instead of all; that is why in some quarters of Senlis +the people who have come back can still dream that nothing +happened to their dear haunt of peace on September +2, 1914.</p> + +<p>Even if Senlis had fallen utterly, before the Germans +turned in their tracks, Paris would not have been "cowed." +As it was, Paris and all France were roused to a redoubled +fury of resistance by the fate of the Senlis "hostages." +So these men did not die in vain.</p> + +<p>The scars of Senlis are still unhealed. Whole streets +are blackened heaps of ruin, and there are things that +"make you see red," as Father Beckett growled. But +the thing which left the clearest picture in my brain was a +sight sweet as well as sad: a charming little château, ruined +by fire, yet pathetically lovely in martyrdom; the green +trellis still ornamenting its stained façade, a few autumn +roses peeping with childlike curiosity into gaping window-eyes; +a silent old gardener raking the one patch of +lawn buried under blackened tiles and tumbled bricks. +The man's figure was bent, yet I felt that there was hope +as well as loyalty in his work. "They will come back +home some day," was the expression of that faithful back.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span></p> + +<p>In the exquisite beauty of the forest beyond Senlis there +was still—for me—this note of hope. "Where beauty is, +sadness cannot dwell for ever!" As we rushed along in +the big car, the delicate gray trunks of clustering trees +seemed to whirl round and round before our eyes, as in a +votive dance of young priestesses. We saw bands of +German prisoners toiling gnome-like in dim glades, but +they didn't make us sad again. <i>Au contraire!</i> We found +poetical justice in the thought that they, the cruel destroyers +of trees, must chop wood and pile faggots from +dawn to dusk.</p> + +<p>So we came to Compiègne, where the French army has +its headquarters in one of the most famous châteaux in +the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX</h2> + + +<p>It took a mere glance (even if we hadn't known +beforehand) to see that noble Compiègne craved no +Beckett charity, no American adoption.</p> + +<p>True, German officers lived for twelve riotous days in the +palace, in 1914, selecting for home use many of its treasures, +and German "non-coms." filled vans with rare +antiques from the richest mansions; still, they had no +time, or else no inclination, to disfigure the town. The +most sensational souvenir of those days before the Marne +battle is a couple of broken bridges across the Oise and +Aisne, blown up by the French in the hour of their retreat. +But that strange sight didn't break on our eyes +as we entered Compiègne. We seemed to have been transported +by white magic from mystic forest depths to be +plumped down suddenly in a city square, in front of a +large, classical palace. It's only the genie of motoring +who can arrange these startling contrasts!</p> + +<p>If we took Brian's advice, and "played" that our autos +were old-fashioned coaches; if we looked through, instead +of at, the dozen military cars lined up at the palace gates; +if we changed a few details of the soldiers' uniforms, +the gray château need not have been Army Headquarters +in our fancy. For us, the Germans might cease from +troubling and the war-weary be at rest, while we skipped +back to any century we fancied.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of course, Louis XV, son-in-law of our old friend +Stanislas of Lorraine, built the château; and Napoleon +the Great added a wing in honour of his second bride, +Marie Louise. But why be hampered by details like +that? Charles V built a castle at this old Roman Compendium, +on the very spot where all those centuries later +Louis XV erected his Grecian façades; and Henri of +Navarre often came there, in his day. One of Henri's +best romances he owed to Compiègne; and while we were +having what was meant to be a hurried luncheon, Mother +Beckett made Brian tell the story. You know Brian came +to Compiègne before the war and painted in the palace +park, where Napoleon I and Napoleon III used to give +their <i>fêtes-champêtres</i>; and he says that the picture is clear +as ever "behind his eyes."</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, Henri was staying in the château, +very bored because weather had spoiled the hunting. +Suddenly appeared the "handsomest young man of +Prance," the Duc de Bellegarde, Henri's equerry, who +had been away on an adventure of love. Somehow, he'd +contrived to meet Gabrielle d'Estrées, almost a child, but +of dazzling beauty. She hid him for three days, and then, +alas, a treacherous maid threatened to tell Gabrielle's +father. Bellegarde had to be smuggled out of the family +castle—a rope and a high window. The tale amused +Henri; and the girl's portrait fired him. He couldn't +forget; and later, having finished some business at Senlis +(part of which concerned a lady) he laid a plan to cut +Bellegarde out. When the Equerry begged leave from +Compiègne to visit Gabrielle again, Henri consented, on +condition that he might be the duke's companion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + +<p>Bellegarde had to agree; and Henri fell in love at sight +with the golden hair, blue eyes, and rose-and-white skin +of "Gaby." She preferred Bellegarde to the long-nosed +king; but the Béarnais was never one to take "no" for an +answer. He went from Compiègne again and again +to the forbidden castle, in peril of his life from Guise and +the League. After a wild adventure, in disguise as a +peasant with a bundle of straw on his head, his daring +captured the girl's fancy. She was his; and he was hers, +writing sonnets to "Charmante Gabrielle," making +Marguerite furious by giving to the new love his wife's +own Abbey of St. Corneille, at Compiègne. (One can +still see its ruins!)</p> + +<p>I said we meant to eat quickly and go for an afternoon +of sightseeing—for early to-morrow (I'm writing late at +night) we're due at Noyon. But Brian remembered so +many bits about Compiègne, that by tacit consent we +lingered and listened. When he was here last, he did a +sketch of Henri and Gabrielle hunting in the forest; +"Gaby" pearl-fair in green satin, embroidered with silver; +on her head the famous hat of velvet-like red taffetas, +which cost Henri two hundred crowns. Perhaps she +carried in her hand one of the handkerchiefs for which she +paid what other women pay for dresses; but Brian's +sketches are too "impressionist" to show handkerchiefs! +Anyhow, her hand was in the king's, for that was her way +of riding with her gray-clad lover; though when she went +alone she rode boldly astride. Poor Henri couldn't say +nay to the becoming green satin and red hat, though he +was hard up in those days. After paying a bill of Gaby's, +he asked his valet how many shirts and handkerchiefs<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> +he had. "A dozen shirts, torn," was the answer. "Handkerchiefs, +five."</p> + +<p>On the walls of the room where we ate hung beautiful +old engravings of Napoleon I in his daily life at the +Château of Compiègne. Napoleon receiving honoured +guests in the vast Galerie des Fêtes, with its polished floor +and long line of immense windows; Napoleon and his +bride in the Salon des Dames d'Honneur, among the +ladies of Marie Louise; Napoleon listening wistfully—thinking +maybe of lost Joséphine—to a damsel at the +harp, in the Salon de Musique; Marie Louise smirking +against a background of <i>teinture chinoise</i>; Napoleon +observing a tapestry battle of stags in the Salle des Cerfs; +Napoleon on the magnificent <i>terrasse</i> giving a garden +party; Napoleon walking with his generals along the +Avenue des Beaux Monts, in the park. But these pictures +rather teased than pleased us, because in war days +only the army enters palace or park.</p> + +<p>Brian was luckier than the rest of us! He had been +through the château and forgotten nothing. Best of all +he had liked the bedchamber of Marie Antoinette, said to +be haunted by her ghost, in hunting dress with a large +hat and drooping plume. The Empress Eugénie, it +seemed, had loved this room, and often entered it alone +to dream of the past. Little could she have guessed then +how near she would come to some such end as that fatal +queen, second in beauty only to herself.</p> + +<p>Even if Julian O'Farrell's significant glance hadn't +called my attention to his sister, I should have noticed +how Dierdre lost her sulky look in listening to Brian.</p> + +<p>"He has something to say to me about those two when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> +he gets a chance, and he wants me to know it now," I +thought. But I pretended to be absorbed in stories of +the Second Empire. For we sat on and on at the table, +putting off our visit to the ancient timbered houses and +the monument of Jeanne d'Arc, and all the other things +which called us away from those hotel windows. It +seemed as if the heart of Compiègne, past and present, +were hidden just behind that gray façade of the palace +across the square!</p> + +<p>Of course, Jeanne was the "star" heroine of Compiègne, +where she fought so bravely and was taken prisoner, and +sold to the English by John of Luxembourg at a very +cheap price. But, you know, she is the heroine of such +lots of other places we have seen or will see, that we let +her image fade for us behind the brilliant visions of Compiègne's +pleasures.</p> + +<p>As a rule, old history has the lure of romance in it, and +makes modern history seem dull in contrast. But such +a gorgeous novel could be written about Second Empire +days of Compiègne (if only there were a Dumas to write +it) that I do think this town is an exception.</p> + +<p>Even "The Queen's Necklace" couldn't be more exciting +than a story of Eugénie, with that "divinest +beauty of all ages," the Castiglione, as her rival! I +don't know how Dumas would begin it, but I would have +the first scene at a house party of Louis Napoleon's, in +the palace at Compiègne, after he had revived the old +custom of the Royal Hunt: Napoleon, already falling in +love, but hesitating, anxious to see how the Spanish girl +would bear herself among the aristocratic charmers of +the Court, whether she could hold her own as a huntress,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> +as in a ballroom. I'd show her making a sensation by +her horsemanship and beauty. Then I'd take her through +the years, till the dazzling Florentine came to trouble her +peace, the adored, yet disappointed divinity who cried, +"If my mother had brought me to France instead of +marrying me to Castiglione, an Italian, not a Spaniard, +would have shared the throne with Napoleon, and there +would have been no Franco-Prussian War!"</p> + +<p>What a brilliant background Compiègne of those days +would make for that pair, the beautiful young Empress +and the more beautiful Countess!—Compiègne when the +palace was crowded with the flower of Europe, when great +princes and brave soldiers romped through children's +games with lovely ladies, if rain spoiled the hunting; when +Highland nobles brought their pipers, and everyone danced +the wildest reels, if there were time to spare from private +theatricals and <i>tableaux vivants</i>! I think I would make my +story end, though, not there, but far away; the Castiglione +lying dead, with youth and beauty gone, dressed by her +last request in a certain gown she had worn on a certain +night at Compiègne, never to be forgotten.</p> + +<p>When at last we did go out to walk and see the wonderful +timbered houses and the blown-up bridges, what I +had expected to happen did happen: Julian O'Farrell contrived +to separate me from the others.</p> + +<p>"Haven't I been clever?" he asked, with his smile of a +naughty child.</p> + +<p>"So far as I know of you," I answered, "you are always +clever."</p> + +<p>"That's the first compliment you've ever paid me! +Thanks all the same, though I'd be the opposite of clever<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> +if I thought you wanted me to be flattered. You're clever, +too, so of course you know what I mean as well as I +know myself. Perhaps you thought I was being clever on +the sly. But I'm above that. Haven't I always showed +you my cards, trumps and joker and all?"</p> + +<p>"You've shown me how the knave can take a trick!"</p> + +<p>He laughed. "History repeating itself! The Queen +of Hearts, you remember—and the Knave of—Spades, +wasn't it? I wish it were diamonds instead: but maybe +his spade will dig up a few sparklers in the end. I've got +a splendid plan brewing. But that isn't what I want to +talk about just now. In fact, I <i>don't</i> want to talk about +it—yet! You're not going to admit that you see the +results of my cleverness, or that you'd understand them if +you did see. So I'll just wave them under your darling +nose."</p> + +<p>It would have been absurd to say: "How dare you call +my nose a darling?" so I said nothing at all.</p> + +<p>"You saw it was a plot, getting Brian to go to Paris +with us," he went on. "I saw that you saw it. But I +wasn't sure and I'm not sure now, if you realized its +design, as the villain of the piece would remark."</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i> ought to know what he'd remark."</p> + +<p>"I do, dear villainess! I was going to say, '<i>Sister</i> +Villainess,' but I wouldn't have you for a sister at any +price. I've cast you for a different part. You may have +imagined that Dare and I were just grabbing your brother +to spite you, and show what we could do with him."</p> + +<p>"I did imagine that!"</p> + +<p>"Wrong! Guess again. Or no—you needn't. We +may be interrupted any minute. To save time I'll<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> +explain my bag of tricks. Dare wasn't in on that hand +of mine."</p> + +<p>"Indeed?"</p> + +<p>"You don't believe me? That shows you're no judge +of character. Dare adores her Jule, and what he wants +her to do she does; but I told you she was no actress. +She can't act much better off the stage than on. I +wouldn't trust her to create the part of the White Cat, let +alone that of Wily Vivien. She gets along all right if +she can just keep still and sulk and act the Stormy Petrel. +I should have pulled her through on those lines if she'd been +obliged to play Jim Beckett's broken-hearted fiancée. +But to do the siren with your brother—no, she wouldn't +be equal to that, even to please me: couldn't get it across +the footlights. I had to win her to Brian as well as win +Brian to me. I hope you don't mind my calling him by +his Christian name? He says I may."</p> + +<p>"Why did you want to win Miss O'Farrell to my +brother?"</p> + +<p>"You don't know? You'll have to go down a place +lower in this class! She couldn't make Brian really like +her, unless she liked him. At first—though I knew better—she +stuck it out that Brian was only a kind of decoy +duck for you with the Becketts——"</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>"Please don't look at me as if you were biting a lemon. +<i>I</i> didn't think so. And Dare doesn't now."</p> + +<p>"How sweet of her!"</p> + +<p>"She's turning sweet. That's partly what I was after. +I wormed myself into your brother's affections, to entice +him to Paris. I wanted Dare to learn that her <i>instinct</i><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> +about him was right; her instinct was always defending +him against what she thought was her reason and common +sense. Now, she sees that he's genuine, and she's secretly +letting herself go—admiring him and wondering at him to +make up for her injustice."</p> + +<p>"Are you telling all this to disarm me?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly. I'm telling you because I was sure you'd +find out soon what's going on, and because I thought an +open policy best. As it is, you can't say I haven't played +fair from the word go."</p> + +<p>"I wish," I cried out, "that the word <i>was</i> 'go'!"</p> + +<p>"You're not very kind, my dear."</p> + +<p>"Why should I be kind?"</p> + +<p>"Because I'm the stick of your rocket. You can't +soar without me. And because I love you such a lot."</p> + +<p>"You!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I, me, Julian O'Farrell: Giulio di Napoli. +Haven't I sacrificed my prospects and my sister's prospects +rather than throw you to the lions? Didn't I waste +those perfectly good snapshots? Didn't I sit tight, protecting +you silently, letting you have all I'd expected to +have for myself and Dare?"</p> + +<p>I gasped. To speak was beyond my powers just then.</p> + +<p>"I know what you'd like to say," Julian explained me +to myself. "You'd love to say: 'The d—d cheek of the +man! It's <i>rich</i>!' Well, it is rich. And <i>I</i> mean to be +rich to match. That's in my plan. And so are you in +it. Practically you <i>are</i> the plan. To carry it out calmly, +without ructions and feathers flying, I put your brother +and my sister in the way of falling in love. Dare didn't +want to join the Beckett party and didn't want to stay<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> +with it. Now, she does want to stay. Brian distrusted +me and was intrigued by Dare. Now, he gives me the +benefit of the doubt. And he has <i>no</i> doubts of her—— That's +a beautiful timbered house, isn't it, Mr. Beckett? +Yes, I was just telling Miss O'Malley that this place +seems to me the best one we've visited yet. I shall never +forget it, or the circumstances of seeing it, shall you, +Miss O'Malley? Don't you think, sir, she might let me +call her 'Mary,' now we all know each other so well? I'm +'Julian' to her brother and he's 'Brian' to me."</p> + +<p>"I certainly do think she might," said Father Beckett, +with that slow, pleasant smile which Jim inherited from +him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI</h2> + + +<p>It's late at night again—no, early to-morrow morning, +just about the hour when to-morrow's war-bread is +being baked by to-night's war-bakers. But it's good +to burn the midnight electricity, because my body and +brain are feeling electric.</p> + +<p>We have had the most astonishing day!</p> + +<p>Of course, I expected that, because we were going to +Noyon, and I evacuated all unneeded thoughts and impressions +(for instance, those concerning the O'Farrells) +to make room for a crowd of new ones, as we did at the +Hôpital des Épidémies with convalescents, for an incoming +batch of patients. But I didn't count on private, personal +emotions—unless we blundered into an air raid somewhere!</p> + +<p>You remember those authors we met once, who write +together—the Sandersons—and how they said if they +ever dared put a real incident in a book, people picked out +that one as impossible? Well, this evening just past +reminded me of the Sandersons. We spent it at the War +Correspondents' Château, not far out of Compiègne: that +is, we spent it there if it was <i>real</i>, and not a dream.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>I am the only one in Mother Beckett's confidence—I +mean, about her health. Even her husband doesn't know +how this trip strains her endurance, physical and mental. +Indeed, he's the very one who <i>mustn't</i> know. It's agreed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> +between us that, if she feels hopelessly unfit for any excursion, +<i>I</i> shall put on invalid airs and she will stop at home +to keep me company. Thus will be avoided all danger of +Father Beckett suspecting the weakness she hides. But +you can imagine, Padre, knowing me as you do, how +frightened I was to-day—our morning for Noyon—lest +she should give the signal. I felt I simply couldn't <i>bear</i> +to miss Noyon. No use telling myself I shall feel exactly +the same about Soissons to-morrow, and Roye and Ham +and Chauny and various others the day after. My +reason couldn't detach itself at that instant from Noyon.</p> + +<p>Our daily programme as now arranged is: Me to knock +at Mother Beckett's door half an hour before starting-time. +If she's fearing a collapse, she is to exclaim: "My +child, how pale you are!" or some other criticism of my +complexion. Then I'm to play up, replying: "I do feel +under the weather." Whereupon it's easy for her to +say: "You must stop in the hotel and rest. I'll stay with +you."</p> + +<p>To my joy, the greeting this morning was: "My dear, +you look fresh as a rose!"</p> + +<p>I didn't feel it; for you know I wrote late to you. And +at last in bed, I disobeyed your advice about never worrying: +I worried quite a lot over Brian and Dierdre O'Farrell; +my having led him into a trap, when above all things +I wanted his happiness and health. I could well have +passed as pale: but I was so pleased with the secret signal +that I braced up and bloomed again.</p> + +<p>We had to start early, because there was a good deal to +do in the day; and we were supposed to return early, too, +for a rest, as there's the great adventure of Soissons before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> +us to-morrow. The Correspondents' Château wasn't on +our list: that was an accident, though now it seems as if +the whole trip would have been worth while if only to +lead up to that "accident!"</p> + +<p>There were several ways we could have taken to Noyon, +but we took the way by Dives and Lassigny. We shall +have chances for other roads, because, to see various +places we mean to visit, we shall go through Noyon +again.</p> + +<p>Once upon a time, before the Germans came, Dives +had a lovely château, part of it very old, with a round turret +under a tall pointed hat; the other part comparatively +young—as young as the Renaissance—and all built of +that pale, rose-pink colour which most châteaux of this +forestland, and this Île-de-France used to wear in happy +days before they put on smoke-stained mourning.</p> + +<p>Now, instead of its proud château, Dives has a ruin +even more lovely, though infinitely sad.</p> + +<p>As for Lassigny, it was battered to death: yet I think +it was glad to die, because the Germans had turned it into +a fortress, and they had to be shelled out by the French. +Poor little Lassigny! It must have had what the French +call "<i>une beauté coquette</i>," and the Germans, it seemed, +were loth to leave. When they found that they must go, +and in haste, they boiled with rage. Not only did they +blow up all that was left in the village, but they blew up +the trees of the surrounding orchards. They had not the +excuse for this that they needed the trees to bar the way +of the pursuing French army. Such trees as they felled +across the road were the big trees of the forest. Their +destruction of the young fruit trees was just a slaughter of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> +innocents; and I've never hated war, Padre, as I hated +it to-day—above all, German methods of making war. +Even the countless graves on the battlefields do not look +so sad as those acres of murdered trees: blown-up trees, +chopped-down trees, trees gashed to death with axes, +trees that strove with all the strength of Nature to live, +putting forth leaves and blossoms as their life blood +emptied from their veins.</p> + +<p>The graves of dead soldiers do not, somehow, look +utterly sad. Their little flags stir triumphantly in the +breeze, as if waved by unseen hands. The caps that mark +the mounds seem to be on the heads of men invisible, +under the earth, standing at the salute, saying to those +who pass: "There is no death! Keep up your hearts, +and follow the example we have set." The souls of those +who left their bodies on these battlefields march on, bearing +torches that have lit the courage of the world, with a light +that can never fail. But the poor trees, so dear to France, +giving life as a mother gives milk to her child!—they died +to serve no end save cruelty.</p> + +<p>The sight of them made me furious, and I glared like a +basilisk at any German prisoners we saw working along the +good, newly made white road. On their green trousers +were large letters, "P. G." for "Prisonnier de Guerre"; +and I snapped out as we passed a group, "It needs only +an I between the P and the G to make it <i>perfect!</i>"</p> + +<p>One man must have heard, and understood English, +for he glanced up with a start. I was sorry then, for it +was like hitting a fallen enemy. As he had what would +have seemed a good face if he'd been British or French, +perhaps he was one of those who wrote home that the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> +killing of trees in France "will be a shame to Germany +till the end of time."</p> + +<p>Only a few days ago Brian learned by heart a poem I +read aloud, a poem called "Les Arbres Coupés," by +Edmond Rostand. Teaching Brian, I found I had +learned it myself.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Chacun de nos soldats eut son cri de souffrance<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Devant ces arbres morts qui jonchaient les terrains:<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Les pêchers!" criaient ceux de l'Île-de-France;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Et les mirabelliers!" crièrent les Lorrains.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Soldats bleus demeures paysans sous vos casques,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Quels poings noueux et noirs vers le nord vous tendiez!<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Les cerisiers!" criaient avec fureur les Basques;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Et ceux du Rousillon criaient: "Les amandiers!"<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Devant les arbres morts de l'Aisne ou de la Somme,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chacun se retrouva Breton ou Limousin.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Les pommiers!" criaient ceux du pays de la pomme;<br /></span> +<span class="i0">"Les vignes!" criaient ceux du pays raisin.<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ainsi vous disiez tous le climat dont vous êtes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Devant ces arbres morts que vous consideriez,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">—Et moi, voyant tomber tant de jeunes poètes,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Hélas, combien de fois j'ai crié: "Les lauriers!"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>I love it. Yet I don't quite agree with the beautiful +turning at the end, because the laurels of the soldier-poets +aren't really dead, nor can they ever die. Even some of +the trees which the Boches meant to kill would not be +conquered by Germans or death. Many of them, cut +almost level with the ground, continued to live, spouting<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> +leaves close to earth as a fountain spouts water when its +jet has been turned low. All the victims that could be +saved have been saved by the French, carefully, scientifically +bandaged like wounded soldiers: and the Becketts +talked eagerly of giving money—much money—to American +societies that, with the British, are aiding France to +make her fair land bloom again. Mother Beckett became +quite inventive and excited, planning to start "instruction +farms," with a fund in honour of Jim. Seeds and +slips and tools and teachers should all be imported from +California. Oh, it would be wonderful! And how thankful +she and Father were that they had Brian and Molly +to help make the plan come true! I shouldn't have liked +to catch Julian O'Farrell's eye just then.</p> + +<p>All the way was haunted by the tragedy of trees, not +only the tragedy of orchards, and of the roadside giants +that once had shaded the straight avenues, but the martyrdom +of trees in the great dark forests—oaks and elms and +beeches. At first glance these woods, France's shield +against her enemies—rose still and beautiful, like mystic +abodes of peace, against the pale horizon. But a searching +gaze showed how they had suffered. For every trio of +living trees there seemed to be one corpse, shattered by +bombs, or blasted by evil gas. The sight of them struck +at the heart: yet they were heroes, as well as martyrs, I +said to myself. They had truly died for France, to save +France. And as I thought this, I knew that if I were a +poet, beautiful words would come at my call, to clothe +my fancy about the forests.</p> + +<p>I wanted the right words so much that it was pain when +they wouldn't answer my wish, for I seemed to hear only a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> +faint, far-off echo of some fine strain of music, whose real +notes I failed to catch.</p> + +<p>Always forests have fascinated me; sweet, fairy-peopled +groves of my native island, and emerald-lit beech woods of +England. But I never felt the grand meaning of forests as +I felt them to-day, in this ravaged and tortured land. +I could have cried out to them: "Oh, you forests of +France, what a part you've played in the history of wars! +How wise and brave of you to stand in unbroken line, a +rampart protecting your country's frontiers, through +the ages. Forests, you are bands of soldiers, in armour of +wood, and you, too, like your human brothers, have hearts +that beat and veins that bleed for France! You are +soldiers, and you are fortresses—Nature's fortresses +stronger than all modern inventions. You are fortresses +to fight in; you are shelters from air-pirates, you hide +cannon; you give shelter to your fighting countrymen +from rain and heat. You delay the enemy; you mislead +him, you drive him back. When you die, deserted +by the birds and all your hidden furred and feathered +children, you give yourselves—give, give to the last! +Your wood strengthens the trenches, or burns to warm the +freezing <i>poilus</i>. Brave forests, pathetic forests! I hear +you defy the enemy in your hour of death: "Strike us, +kill us. Still you shall never pass!"</p> + +<p>We had felt that we knew something of the war-zone +after Lorraine; but there the great battles had all been +fought in 1914, when the world was young. Here, it +seemed as if the earth must still be hot from the feet of +retreating Germans.</p> + +<p>The whole landscape was pitted with shell-holes, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> +spider-webbed with barbed wire. The three lines of +French trenches we passed might, from their look, have +been manned yesterday. Piled along the neat new road +were bombs for aviators to drop; queer, fish-shaped things, +and still queerer cages they had been in. There were long, +low sheds for fodder. At each turn was the warning +word, "<i>Convois</i>." The poor houses of such villages as +continued to exist were numbered, for the first time in their +humble lives, because they were needed for military +lodgings. Notices in the German language were hardly +effaced from walls of half-ruined buildings. They had been +partly rubbed out, one could see, but the ugly German +words survived, strong and black as a stain on one's past. +Huge rounds of barbed wire which had been brought, and +never used, were stacked by the roadside, and there were +long lines of trench-furniture the enemy had had to abandon +in flight, or leave in dug-outs: rough tables, chairs, +rusty cooking-stoves, pots, pans, petrol tins, and broken +dishes: even lamps, torn books, and a few particularly +ugly blue vases for flowers. <i>They</i> must have been made +in Germany, I knew!</p> + +<p>Wattled screens against enemy fire still protected the +road, and here and there was a "camouflage" canopy for a +big gun. The roofs of beautiful old farmhouses were +crushed in, as if tons of rock had fallen on them: and the +moss which once had decked their ancient tiles with velvet +had withered, turning a curious rust colour, like dried +blood. Young trees with their throats cut were bandaged +up with torn linen and bagging on which German printed +words were dimly legible. It would have been a scene of +unmitigated grimness, save for last summer's enterprising<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> +grass and flowers, which autumn, kinder than war, had +not killed.</p> + +<p>Late roses and early chrysanthemums grew in the +gardens of broken, deserted cottages, as if the flowers +yearned to comfort the wounded walls with soft caresses, +innocent as the touch of children. On the burned façades +of houses, trellised fruit-trees clung, some dead—mere +black pencillings sketched on brick or plaster—but now +and then one was living still, like a beautiful young Mazeppa, +bound to a dead steed.</p> + +<p>So we arrived at Noyon, less than two hours by car +from Compiègne. The nearness of it to the heart of +France struck me suddenly. I could hear the echo of +sad voices curbing the optimists: "The Germans are still +at Noyon!"</p> + +<p>Well—they are not at Noyon now. They've been gone +for many moons. Yet there's a look on the faces of the +people in the town—a look when they come to the windows +or doors of their houses, or when they hear a sudden noise +in the street—which makes those moons seem never to +have waned.</p> + +<p>Washington has adopted Noyon, so the Becketts could +not offer any great public charity, but they could sprinkle +about a few private good deeds, in remembrance of Jim, +who loved the place, as he loved all the Île-de-France. +One of Mother Beckett's most valued letters from "Jim-on-his-travels" +(as she always says) is from Noyon, and +she was so bent on reading it aloud to us, as we drove +slowly—almost reverently—into the town, that she +wouldn't look (I believe she even grudged our looking!) +at the façade of the far-famed Hôtel de Ville, until she'd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> +come to the end of the last page. She seemed to think +that to look up prematurely would be like wanting to see +the stage before the curtain rose on the play!</p> + +<p>I loved her for it—we all loved her—and obeyed as far +as possible. But one couldn't shut one's eyes to the +Stars and Stripes that flapped on the marvellously ornate +front of the old building—flapped like the wings of the +American Eagle that has flown across the Atlantic to +help save France.</p> + +<p>Jim—a son of the Eagle—who gave his life for this land +and for liberty, would have felt proud of that flag, I +think, if he could have seen it to-day: for because she +is the adopted child of Washington, Noyon "stars" the +emblem of her American mother. She hangs out no +other flag—not even that of France—on the Hôtel de +Ville. Maybe she'll give her own colours a place there +later, but at this moment the Star Spangled Banner floats +alone in its glory.</p> + +<p>No nice, normal-minded person could remember, or +morbidly want to remember, the name unkindly given +by Julius Cæsar to Noyon, when he had besieged it. I +can imagine even Charlemagne waving that cumbrous +label impatiently aside, though Noyon mixed with Laon +was his first capital. "Noviodunum Belgarum it may +have been" (I dare say he said). "But <i>I'm</i> going to call +it Noyon!"</p> + +<p>He was crowned king of Austria in Noyon cathedral—an +even older one than the cathedral of to-day, which the +Germans have generously omitted to destroy, merely +stealing all its treasures! But I feel sure he doesn't feel +Austrian in these days, if he is looking down over the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> +"Blessed Damosel's" shoulder, to see what's going on +here below. He belonged really to the whole world. +Why, didn't that fairy-story king, Haroun al Raschid, +send him from Bagdad the "keys of the tomb of Christ," +as Chief of the Christian World? They say his ghost +haunts Noyon, and was always there whenever a king was +crowned, or elected—as Hugh Capet was. Perhaps it +may have been Charlemagne in the spirit who persuaded +the Germans to their great retreat from the Noyon front +this last spring of 1917!"</p> + +<p>Coming into the <i>Place</i>, and stopping in front of the +Hôtel de Ville, gave me the oddest sense of unreality, +because, when we were in Paris the other day, I saw the +scene in a moving picture: the first joyful entry of the +French soldiers into the town, when the Germans had +cleared out. I could hardly believe that I wasn't just a +figure flickering across a screen, and that the film wouldn't +hurry me along somewhere else, whether I wanted to go or +not.</p> + +<p>There were the venerable houses with the steep slate +roofs, and singularly intelligent-looking windows, whose +bright panes seemed to twinkle with knowledge of what +they had seen during these dreadful eighteen months of +German occupation. There were the odd, unfinished +towers of the cruciform cathedral—quaint towers, topped +with wood and pointed spirelets—soaring into the sky +above the gray colony of clustered roofs. There was the +cobbled pavement, glittering like masses of broken glass, +after a shower of rain just past; and even more interesting +than any of these was the fantastically carved façade of +the Hôtel de Ville, which has lured thousands of tourists<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> +to Noyon in days of peace. Who knows but they have +been coming ever since 1532, when it was finished?</p> + +<p>At first sight, we should never have guessed what Noyon +had suffered from the Germans. It was only after wandering +through the splendid old cathedral of Notre-Dame, +stripped of everything worth stealing, and going from +street to street (we paused a long time in the one where +Calvin was born, a disagreeable, but I suppose useful, +man!) that we began to realize the slow torture inflicted by +the Germans. Of course, "lessons" had to be taught. +Rebellious persons had to be "punished." Nothing but +justice had been done upon the unjust by their just +conquerors. And oh, how thorough and painstaking they +were in its execution!</p> + +<p>As they'd destroyed all surrounding cities and villages, +they had to put the "evacuated" inhabitants somewhere +(those they couldn't use as slaves to work in Germany), so +they herded the people by the thousand into Noyon. +That place had to be spared for the Germans themselves +to live in, being bigger and more comfortable than others +in the neighbourhood; so it was well to have as many of +the conquered as possible interned under their own sharp +eyes. Noyon was "home" to six thousand souls before +the war. After the Germans marched in, it had to hold +ten thousand. But a little more room in the houses was +thriftily obtained by annexing all the furniture, even beds. +Tables and chairs they took, too, and stoves, and cooking +utensils, which left the houses conveniently empty, to be +shared by families from Roye, and Nesle, and Ham, and +Chauny—oh, so many other towns and hamlets, that one +loses count in trying to remember!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> + +<p>How the people lived, they hardly know now, in looking +back, some of them told us, as we walked about with a +French officer who was our guide. Eighteen months of +it! Summer wasn't quite so bad. One can always bear +hardships when weather, at least, is kind. But the winters! +It is those winters that scarcely bear thinking of, +even now.</p> + +<p>No lights were allowed after dark. All doors must be +left open, for the German military police to walk in at +any hour of the night, to see what mischief was brewing +in the happy families caged together. There was no heating, +and often no fire for cooking, consequently such food +as there was had to be eaten cold. No nose must be +shown out of doors unless with a special permit, so to +speak, displayed on the end of it. Not that there was +much incentive to go out, as all business was stopped, and +all shops closed. Without "<i>le Comité Américain</i>," +thousands would have starved, so it was lucky for Noyon +that the United States was neutral then!</p> + +<p>We spent hours seeing things, and talking to people—old +people, and children, and soldiers—each one with a +new side of the great story to tell, as if each had been +weaving a few inches of some wonderful, historic piece of +tapestry, small in itself, but essential to the pattern. +Then we started for home—I mean Compiègne—by a +different way; the way of Carlepont, named after Charlemagne, +because it is supposed that he was born there.</p> + +<p>The forest was even more lovable than before, a younger +forest: fairy-like in beauty as a rainbow, in its splashed +gold and red, and green and violet and orange of autumn. +The violet was "atmosphere," but it was as much a part<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> +of the forest as the leaves, or the delicate trunks dim as +ghosts in shadow, bright as organ-pipes where sun touched +them. Out from the depths came sweet, mysterious +breaths, and whispers like prophecies of peace. But to +this region of romance there were sharp contrasts. Not +even dreams have sharper ones! German trenches, +chopped into blackened wastes that once were farmlands, +and barbed wire wriggling like snake-skeletons across +dreary fields.</p> + +<p>We got out of our cars, and went into the trenches, +thinking thoughts unspeakable. Long ago as the Germans +had vanished, and every corner had been searched, our +officer warned us not to pick up "souvenirs." Some infernal +machine might have been missed in the search and +nothing was to be trusted—no, not even a bit of innocent-looking +lead pencil.</p> + +<p>They were trenches made to live in, these! They had +been walled with stones from ruined farmhouses. The +"dug-outs" were super-dug-outs. We saw concealed +cupolas for machine-guns, and "<i>les officiers boches</i>" had +had a neat system of douches.</p> + +<p>There was no need to worry that Brian might stumble +or fall in the slippery labyrinths we travelled, for he had +Dierdre O'Farrell as guide. I'm afraid I knew what it +was to be jealous: and this new gnawing pain is perhaps +meant to be one of my punishments. Of course it's no +more than I deserve. But that Brian should be chosen as +the instrument, all unknowingly, and happily—that <i>hurts</i>!</p> + +<p>It was just as we were close to Compiègne, not twenty +minutes (in motor talk) outside the town, that the "accident" +happened.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII</h2> + + +<p>At first it seemed an ordinary, commonplace +accident. A loud report like a pistol shot: a flat +tire down on our car: that was all.</p> + +<p>We stopped, and the little taxi-cab, tagging on behind +like a small dog after a big one, halted in sympathy. +Julian O'Farrell jumped out to help Morel, our one-legged +chauffeur, as he always does if anything happens, +just to remind the Becketts how kind and indispensable +he is. We knew that we should be hung up for a good +twenty minutes, so the whole party, with the exception of +Mother Beckett and me, deserted the cars. Brian was +with Dierdre. He had no need of his sister; so I was free +to stop with the little old lady, who whispered in my ear +that she was tired.</p> + +<p>Father Beckett and Julian watched Morel, giving him a +word or a hand now and then. Dierdre and Brian sauntered +away, deep in argument over Irish politics (it's +come to that between them: and Dierdre actually <i>listens</i> to +Brian!). Mother Beckett drifted into talk of Jim, as she +loves to do with me, and I wandered, hand in hand with +her, back into his childhood. Blue dusk was falling +like a rain of dead violets—just that peculiar, faded blue; +and as I was absorbed in the tale of a nursery fire (Jim, +at six, playing the hero) I had no eyes for scenery. I +was but vaguely aware that not far off loomed a gateway,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> +adorned with a figure of the Virgin. A curving avenue +led to shadowy, neglected lawns, dimly suggesting some +faded romance of history.</p> + +<p>Presently, from between the open gates came a man in +khaki, accompanied by a tall, slim, and graceful dog. It +was he, not the man, that caught my eye and for an instant +snatched my thought from Little Boy Jim rescuing a +rocking-horse at the risk of his life. He was a police dog +with the dignity of a prince and the lightness of a plume.</p> + +<p>"Lovely creature!" I said to myself, as he and the +khaki man swung toward us down the road. And I +wished that Brian could see him, for the dog Brian loved +and lost at the Front was a Belgian police dog.</p> + +<p>Perhaps, Padre, Brian wrote you about his wonderful +pet, that he thought worthy to name after the dog-star +Sirius. I've forgotten to ask if he did write; but I seldom +had a letter from him from the trenches that didn't mention +Sirius. Everyone seemed to adore the dog, which developed +into a regimental mascot. What his early history was can +never be known: but Brian rescued him from a burning +château in Belgium, just as Jim rescued the rocking-horse +of Mother Beckett's nursery story, though with rather +more risk! It was a château where some hidden tragedy +must have been enacted, because the Germans took possession +of it with the family still there—such of the +family as wasn't fighting: two young married women, +sisters, wives of brothers. But when the Germans ran +before the British, and fired the château as they went, +not a creature living or dead was left in the house—except +the dog—and nothing has ever been heard of the sisters.</p> + +<p>The fire was raging so fiercely when Brian's regiment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> +arrived that no one would have ventured into the house +if a dog hadn't been heard to howl. You know how Brian +loves dogs. When he found that the sound came from a +certain room on the ground floor, he determined to get in +somehow. Masses of ivy cloaked that side of the château. +It was beginning to crackle with fire that flamed out from +other windows, but Brian climbed the thick, rope-like +stems, hundreds of years old, and smashed his way through +the window. The room was filling with smoke. The +dog's voice was choked. Brian's eyes streamed, but he +wouldn't give up. Only by crawling along the floor under +the smoke curtain could he get at the dog. Somebody +had meant to murder the animal, for he had been chained +to the leg of a table.</p> + +<p>Brian wrote that the dog realized his danger, and was +grateful as a human being to his rescuer. His worship of +Brian was pathetic. He seemed to care for no one else, +though he was too fine a gentleman not to be polite to all—all, +that is, except Germans. They never dared let him +loose when prisoners were about. The sight of a gray-green +uniform was to that dog what a red rag is to a bull. +For him some horror was associated with it—a horror which +must remain a mystery for us.</p> + +<p>The day Brian lost his eyesight he lost Sirius. When +he came back to consciousness, only to learn that he was +blind, his first thought was of his friend. No one knew +what had happened to the dog. The chances seemed to +be that the shell which had buried Brian had buried +Sirius, too; but Brian wouldn't believe this. Somehow the +dog would have contrived to escape. I had to promise +that, whenever I happened to see a dark gray, almost black<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> +Belgian police dog of beautiful shape, I would call "Sirius" +to see if he answered.</p> + +<p>More than once since this trip began I've called "Sirius!" +to police dogs, not knowing whether they were Belgian, +German, or Dutch, and they have answered only +with glances of superb scorn. This time I hesitated. +The mental picture I saw of myself—a vague young woman, +seated in an automobile stranded by the roadside, +trying to lure away the dog of a strange man—was disconcerting. +While I debated whether to break my +promise or behave like a wild school girl, the animal +paused in his listless trot. He stopped, as if he'd been +struck by an unseen bullet, quivered all over, and shot +past us like a torpedo. A minute later I heard a tumultuous +barking—a barking as if the gates of a dog's heaven +had suddenly opened.</p> + +<p>I sprang up in the car, and turning round, knelt on the +seat to see what was going on behind us. Far away were +Brian and Dierdre. And oh, Padre, I can never dislike +that girl again! I apologize for everything I ever said +against her. She saw that great police dog making for +blind Brian. And you know, a police dog can look formidable +as a panther. She took no time to think, though +the idea might have sprung to her mind that the creature +was mad. She simply threw herself in front of Brian. It +was an offer of her life for his.</p> + +<p>I could do nothing, of course. I was too far off. I'm +not a screaming girl, but I'm afraid I did give a shriek, for +Mother Beckett started up, and cried out: "What's the +matter?"</p> + +<p>I didn't answer her. I hardly heard. I forgot everyone<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> +except Brian and that girl. It was only when the thing +was over, and we were all talking at once, that I realized +how the others had shared my fright.</p> + +<p>Perhaps Brian recognized the dog's bark at a distance, +for he says a dog's voice is individual as a man's. Or his +instinct—made magically keen by his blindness—told him +in a flash of inspiration what his eyes couldn't see. Anyhow, +he knew that Dierdre was in danger, and almost flung +her behind him. He was just in time to save her from +being thrown down by the dog, who hurled himself like a +young avalanche at Brian. To those who had no clue +to the truth, it must have seemed that the animal was +mad. Julian, and Father Beckett, and the khaki man +rushed to the rescue, only to see the dog and Brian in +each other's arms, the creature licking Brian's face, +laughing and crying at the same time—which you know, +Padre, a dog frantic with joy at sight of a long-lost master +can do perfectly well! It seems too melodramatic to +be true, but it <i>is</i> true: the dog was Sirius.</p> + +<p>You'll think now that this is the "astonishing thing" +which would—I said—have made this whole trip worth +while. But no: the thing I meant has little or nothing to +do with the finding of Sirius.</p> + +<p>Even Mother Beckett could sit still no longer. She +had to be helped out of the car by me to join the group +round Brian and the dog. She took my arm, and I +matched my steps to her tiny trot, though I pined to +sprint! We met Father Beckett coming back with apologies +for his one minute of forgetfulness. The first time in +years, I should think, that he had forgotten his wife for +sixty whole seconds!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span></p> + +<p>"It's like something in a story or a play," he panted, +out of breath. "This is Brian's lost dog. You've heard +him talk of Sirius, my dear. There can be no doubt +it's the same animal! The man who thought he was its +master admits that. And <i>guess</i> who he is—the man, not +the dog."</p> + +<p>Mother Beckett reminded her husband that never had +she succeeded in a guess. But she was saved trying +by the arrival of the man in khaki who, having abandoned +his dog—or being abandoned by it—had followed Mr. +Beckett.</p> + +<p>"Why, Jack <i>Curtis</i>!" gasped the little old lady. "It +can't be you!"</p> + +<p>"I guess it's nobody else," laughed a soldierly fellow, +with the blackest eyes and whitest teeth imaginable. +"I'm doing the war for the New York <i>Record</i>—staying +here at the château of Royalieu with the British correspondents +for the French front."</p> + +<p>I longed to get to Brian and be introduced to Sirius, but +Mother Beckett caught my arm. "Mary, dear," she +cooed, "I'd like you and Mr. Curtis to meet. Jack, this +is Miss O'Malley, who would have been our Jim's wife if +he'd lived. And Mary, this is one of Jim's classmates at +college; a very good friend."</p> + +<p>The khaki young man (American khaki) held out his +hand and I put mine into it. He stared at me—a pleasant, +sympathetic, and not unadmiring stare—peering +nearsightedly through the twilight.</p> + +<p>"So Jim found you again, after all?" he asked, in a quiet, +low voice, not utterly unlike Jim's own. Men of the +same university do speak alike all over the world.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I—don't quite understand," I stammered. When +any sudden question about Jim is flung at me before his +parents, I'm always a little scared!</p> + +<p>"Jim and I had a bet," Mr. Curtis explained, "that he +couldn't travel <i>incog.</i>, through Europe for a given length +of time, in a big auto, doing himself well everywhere, +without his real name coming out. He won the bet, but +he told me—after he got over a bad dose of typhoid—that +he'd lost the only girl he'd ever loved or could love—lost +her through that da—that stupid bet. He described the +girl. I guess there aren't two of her on earth!"</p> + +<p>"That's a mighty fine compliment, Molly!" said +Father Beckett.</p> + +<p>Just then Brian called, and I wasn't sorry, for I couldn't +find the right answer for the man who had separated Jim +Beckett from me. It was all I could do to get my breath.</p> + +<p>"Why, of course, that's your brother! I might have +known by the likeness. Gee, but it's great about the dog! +No wonder it despised the name of 'Sherlock.' Rather a +come-down from a star! There's a big story in this. +Your party will have to dine with us correspondents, and +talk things over. The crowd will be delighted. Say +yes, Mrs. Beckett!"</p> + +<p>I heard no more, for I was on my way to Brian. But +by the time I'd thanked Dierdre, been slightly snubbed +by her, and successfully presented to Sirius, it was settled +that we should spend our evening at Royalieu with the +correspondents. The Beckett auto was ready, but the +dog's joy was too big for the biggest car, so Brian and I +walked to the château, and Jack Curtis with us, to exchange +stories of <i>le grand chien policier</i>, late "Sherlock."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> + +<p>Matching the new history on to the early mystery was +like fitting in the lost bits of a jigsaw puzzle—bits which, +when missing, left the picture void. Between Brian and +the war correspondent the pattern came to life: but +there's one piece in the middle which can never be restored. +Only one person could supply that: a German +officer, and he is no longer in this world.</p> + +<p>Jack Curtis found the police dog, badly wounded, at +a place near Paschendaele, where the Germans had temporary +headquarters and had been driven out after a +fierce struggle. One of the dog's legs was broken, and +blood had dried on his glossy coat, but he "registered +delight" (as moving picture people say) when he limped +out of a half-ruined house to welcome the rush of British +khaki. The few inhabitants who had lived in the village +through the German occupation, knew the dog as "Siegfried," +to which name he had obstinately refused to +answer. His German master, a captain, whom he obeyed +sullenly, always dragged him about in leash, as he never +willingly kept at heel. Everyone wondered why the +officer, who was far from lenient with his men, showed +patience with the dog. But his orderly explained that +Captain von Busche had picked up the starving animal +weeks before, wandering about No Man's Land. The +creature was valuable, and his dislike of the gray-green +uniform had puzzled Von Busche. His failure to win the +dog's affection piqued him, and in his blundering way +he persevered. The people of the village were more +successful. They made friends with "Siegfried," to +Von Busche's annoyance; and a day or two before the +hurried German retreat under bombardment, the dog<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> +was beaten for deserting his master to follow a little +boy. The boy, too, was punished for his "impudence" +in calling the dog. People were indignant, and there +were secret murmurings about revenge.</p> + +<p>That night, however, Fate took the matter in hand. +Precisely what happened is the bit that must remain +missing in the puzzle. The dog slept in the room with +his master, in a house where several young officers lived +close to headquarters. All of them had been out playing +cards at a tavern. Von Busche returned earlier than the +rest. He was seen in the street the worse for drink. He +went into the house, and must have gone to his room, +where the police dog had been shut up for hours in disgrace. +A moment later there was a yell, then a gurgling +shriek. The neighbours listened—and shrugged their +shoulders. The parents of the child who had been beaten +by Von Busche lived next door. They heard sounds of a +scuffle; furniture falling; faint groans and deep growls. +Lips dared not speak, but eyes met and said: "The dog's +done what we couldn't do."</p> + +<p>Silence had fallen long before Von Busche's fellow +officers came home; such silence as that town knew, where +bombardment ceased not by day or night. Before dawn, +a bomb fell on the roof of the house, which till then had +never been touched, and the officers all scuttled out to +save themselves; all but Von Busche. Whether in the +confusion he was forgotten, or whether it was thought +he had not come home, no one could tell. He was not +seen again till after the Germans had packed up in haste +and decamped, which they did a few hours later, leaving +the townsfolk to shelter in cellars. It was only when the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> +British arrived, and Siegfried limped out from the battered +house, that the dog's existence was recalled—and +the sounds in the night. Then the house was searched, +and Von Busche's body found, half buried under fallen +tiles and plaster. There were wounds in his throat, +however, not to be accounted for by the accident. The +dog's broken leg was also a mystery. "I had the poor +boy mended up by a jolly good surgeon," Jack Curtis +finished his story. "He's as sound as ever now. He +attached himself to me from the first, as if he knew he +had to thank me for his cure, but he wasn't enthusiastic. +I couldn't flatter myself that I was loved! I had the +idea I wasn't what he wanted—that he'd like to tell me +what he <i>did</i> want, and politely bid me good-bye forever."</p> + +<p>"You don't know where Von Busche got hold of the +dog, do you?" Brian asked.</p> + +<p>"Only what his orderly told people, that it was in +Flanders, close to some ruined, burnt-up château that he +could hardly be forced to leave, though he was starving."</p> + +<p>"I thought he'd get back there!" Brian said. "As +for Von Busche—I wonder—but no! If it had been he +the first time, would the dog have waited all those weeks +for his revenge?"</p> + +<p>"I don't understand," said the war correspondent.</p> + +<p>"I don't myself," answered Brian. "But maybe the +dog will manage to make me, some day. I was thinking—how +I found him, tied to a table in a burning room. +If Von Busche—— But anyhow, Sirius, you're no assassin! +At worst, you're an avenger."</p> + +<p>The dog leaped upon Brian at sound of the remembered<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> +name. Odd that three of his names, chosen by different +men, should begin with "S"!</p> + +<p>He's going to be an exciting passenger for the Becketts' +car I foresee. But Brian can make him do anything, +even to keeping quiet. And the trip can't go on a step +without him now!</p> + +<p>I felt that Jack Curtis had been hoping for a chance to +speak with me alone—about Jim. But there was no such +chance then. We were met by two of the British correspondents, +and a French officer with a very high and ancient +title, who was playing host (for France) to the newspaper +men in this old château, once a convent. You see, the +two cars had shot past as we walked; and by the time we +reached the door preparations were being made for an +impromptu party.</p> + +<p>Never was a dinner so good, it seemed, and never was +talk so absorbing. Some of it concerned an arch of +honour or a statue to be placed over the spot where the +first men of the American army fell in France: at Bethelmont; +some concerned a road whose construction is being +planned—a sacred road through Belgium and France, +from the North Sea to Alsace; a road to lead pilgrims past +villages and towns destroyed by Germany. This, according +to the correspondents who were full of the idea, +doesn't mean that the devastation isn't ultimately to +be repaired. The proposal is, to leave in each martyred +place a memorial for the eyes of coming generations: a +ruined church; a burned château; the skeleton of an +<i>hôtel de ville</i>, or a wrecked factory; a mute appeal to all +the world: "This was war, as the Germans made it. +In the midst of peace, Remember!"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span></p> + +<p>Beneath my interest in the talk ran an undercurrent +of my own private thought, which was not of the future, +but of the past. I'd begun to wonder why I had been +afraid of Jack Curtis. Instead of dreading words with +him alone, I wished for them now.</p> + +<p>After dinner I had but a few minutes to wait. When +I'd refused coffee, he, too, refused, and made an excuse to +show me a room of which the correspondents were fond—a +room full of old trophies of the forest hunt.</p> + +<p>"Did you notice at dinner how I kept trying to get a +good look at your left hand?" Curtis asked.</p> + +<p>"No," I answered, "I didn't notice that."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad. I was scared you'd think me cheeky. +Yet I couldn't resist. I wanted to see whether Jim had +given you <i>the</i> ring."</p> + +<p>"The ring?" I echoed.</p> + +<p>"The ring of our bet, the year before the war: the bet +you knew about, that kept you two apart till Jim came +over to France this second time."</p> + +<p>"Yes—I knew about the bet," I said, "but not the +ring. I—I haven't an engagement ring."</p> + +<p>"Queer!" Jack Curtis puzzled out aloud. "It was a +race between Jim and me which should get that ring at an +antique shop, when we both heard of its history. He +could afford to bid higher, so he secured it. Not that he +was selfish! But he said he wanted the ring in case he +met his ideal and got engaged to her. If he'd lost the +bet the ring would have been mine. If he didn't give it +to you, I wonder what's become of the thing? Perhaps +his mother knows. Did she ever speak to you about +Jim bringing home a quaint old ring from France, that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span> +time after his fever—a ring supposed to have belonged +to the most beautiful woman of her day, the Italian Countess +Castiglione, whom Louis Napoleon loved?"</p> + +<p>"No," I said. "He can't have given the ring to his +mother, or she would have told me about it, I'm sure. +She's always talking of him."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps it was stolen or lost," Curtis reflected. "Yet +I don't feel as if that had happened, somehow! I trust +my feelings a good deal—especially since this war, that's +made us all a bit psychic—don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I have too many feelings to trust half of them!" I +tried to laugh.</p> + +<p>"Have you ever had one, I wonder, like mine, about +Jim? Dare I speak to you of this?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>"Well—I wouldn't dare to his mother. Or even to +the old man."</p> + +<p>"You <i>must</i> speak now, please, Mr. Curtis, to me!"</p> + +<p>"It's this; have you ever had the feeling that Jim may +be alive?"</p> + +<p>We were standing. I caught at the back of a chair. +Things whirled for an instant. Then I gathered my +wits together. "I haven't let myself feel it," I said. +"And yet, in a way, I <i>always</i> feel it. I mean, I seem to +feel—his thoughts round us. But that's because we speak +and think of him almost every moment of the day, his +father and mother and I. There can be no doubt—can +there?"</p> + +<p>"Others have come back from the dead since this war. +Why not Jim Beckett?"</p> + +<p>"They said they had—found his body."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, they <i>said</i>! Germans say a lot of things. But +for the Lord's sake, Miss O'Malley, don't let's upset those +poor old people with any such hope. I've only my feeling—and +other people's stories of escape—to go upon. +I spoke to you, because I guess you've got a strong soul, +and can stand shocks. Besides, you told me I must +speak. I had to obey."</p> + +<p>"Thank you for obeying," I said. And just then +someone came into the room.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Now, Padre, I have told you the <i>great thing</i>. What +does it matter what happens to me, if only Jack Curtis's +"feeling" comes true?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII</h2> + + +<p>It is two days since I wrote, Padre; and I have come +back to Compiègne from a world of unnatural silence +and desolation. Day before yesterday it was Roye +and Nesle; the Château of Ham; Jussy, Chauny and +Prince Eitel Friedrich's pavilion. To-morrow we hope to +start for Soissons.</p> + +<p>Yesterday we rested, because Mother Beckett had a +shocking headache. (Oh, it was pathetic and funny, too, +what she said when we slipped back into Compiègne at +night! "Isn't it a comfort, Molly, to see a place again +where there are <i>whole</i> houses?") After Soissons we shall +return to Compiègne and then go to Amiens with several +of the war correspondents, who have their own car. +Women aren't allowed, as a rule, to see anything of the +British front, but it's just possible that Father Beckett +can get permission for his wife to venture within gazing +distance. Of course, she can't—or thinks she can't—stir +without me!</p> + +<p>We took still another road to Noyon (one must pass +through Noyon going toward the front, if one keeps +Compiègne for one's headquarters) and the slaughter of +trees was the wickedest we'd seen: a long avenue of kind +giants murdered, and orchards on both sides of it. The +Germans, it seems, had circular saws, worked by motors, +on purpose to destroy the large trees in a hurry. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> +didn't protect their retreat by barring the road with the +felled trunks. They left most of the martyrs standing, +their trunks so nearly sawed through that a wind would +have blown them down. The pursuing armies had to +finish the destruction to protect themselves. Farms +were exterminated all along the way; and little hamlets—nameless +for us—were heaps of blackened brick and stone, +mercifully strewn with flowers like old altars to an unforgotten +god.</p> + +<p>Roye was the first big place on our road. It used to be +rich, and its 4,000 inhabitants traded in grain and sugar. +How the very name brought back our last spring joy in +reading news of the recapture! "Important Victory. +Roye Retaken." It was grandly impressive in ruin, +especially the old church of St. Pierre, whose immense, +graceful windows used to be jewelled with ancient glass +that people came from far away to see.</p> + +<p>Jim had written his mother about that glass, consequently +she <i>would</i> get out of the car to climb (with my help +and her husband's) over a pile of fallen stones like a petrified +cataract, which leads painfully up to the desecrated +and pillaged high altar. I nearly sprained my ankle in +getting to one of the windows, under which my eyes had +caught the glint of a small, sparkling thing: but I had my +reward, for the sparkling thing was a lovely bit of sapphire-blue +glass from the robe of some saint, and the little lady +was grateful for the gift as if it had been a real jewel—indeed, +more grateful. "I'll keep it with my souvenirs +of Jim," she said, "for his eyes have looked on it: and it's +just the colour of yours which he loved. He'd be pleased +that you found it for me." (Ah, if she knew! I can't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> +help praying that she never may know, though such +prayers from me are almost sacrilege.)</p> + +<p>A little farther on—as the motor, not the crow, flies—we +came to Nesle, or what once was Nesle. The ghost +of the twelfth-century church looms in skeleton form +above one more Pompeii among the many forced by the +Germans upon France: but save for that towering relic +of the past there's little left of this brave town of the +Somme, which was historic before the thirteenth century. +It gave its name to a famous fighting family of +feudal days: and through the last heiress of the line—a +beauty and a "catch"—a certain Seigneur de Nesle +became Regent of France, in the second Crusade of +Louis XII—"Saint Louis." Later ladies of the line +became dear friends of another Louis, fifteenth of the name, +who was never called saint. Not far from Nesle, Henry +V of England crossed the Somme and won the Battle of +Agincourt. But now, the greatest dramatic interest is +concentrated in the cemetery!</p> + +<p>We had heard of it at Compiègne and the wild things +that had happened there: so after a look at the ruined +church, and the once charming <i>Place</i>, we went straight +to the town burial-place, and our unofficial guide was the +oldest man I ever saw. He had lurked rather than +lived, through months of German barbarity at Nesle, +guarding a bag of money he'd hidden underground. An +officer from Noyon was with us; but he had knowledge +of the ancient man—a great character—and bade him +tell us the tale of the graveyard. He obeyed with +unction and with gestures like lightning as it flashes +across a night sky. The looks his old eyes darted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> +forth as he talked might have struck a live German +dead.</p> + +<p>"The animals! What do you think they did when they +were masters here?" he snarled. "Ah, you do not know +the Boches as we learned to know them, so you would +never guess. They opened our tombs, the vaults of +distinguished families of France. They broke the coffins +and stole the rings from skeleton fingers. They left the +bones of our ancestors, and of our friends whose living +faces we could remember, scattered over the ground, as +if to feed the dogs. In our empty coffins they placed +their own dead. On the stone or marble of monuments +they cut away the names of those whose sacred sleep +they had disturbed. Instead, they inscribed the disgusting +names of their Boche generals and colonels. +Where they could not change the inscriptions they destroyed +the tombstones and set up others. You will +see them now. But wait—you have not heard all yet. +Far from that! When the Tommies came to Nesle—your +English Tommies—they did not like what the Boches +had done to our cemetery. They said things—strong +things! And while they were hot with anger they knocked +the hideous new monuments about. They could not +bear to see them mark the stolen graves. The little crosses +that showed where simple soldiers lay, those they did not +touch. It was only the officers' tombs they spoiled. I +will show you what they did."</p> + +<p>We let him hobble ahead of us into the graveyard. He +led us past the long rows of low wooden crosses with +German names on them, the crosses with British +names—(good, sturdy British names: "Hardy,"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> +"Kemp," "Logan," "Wilding," planted among flowers +of France)—and paused in the aristocratic corner of the +city of the dead. Once, this had been the last earthly +resting-place of old French families, or of the rich whose +relatives could afford expensive monuments. But the +war had changed all that. German names had replaced +the ancient French ones on the vaults, as German corpses +had replaced French bodies in the coffins. Stone and +marble monuments had been recarved, or new ones +raised. There were roughly cut figures of German colonels +and majors and captains. This rearrangement was what +the "Tommies" had "not liked." They liked it so little +that they chopped off stone noses and faces; they threw +red ink, brighter than blood, over carved German uniforms, +and neatly chipped away the counterfeit presentment +of iron crosses. In some cases, also, they purified +the vaults of German bones and gave back in exchange +such French ones as they found scattered. They wrote in +large letters on tombstones, "<i>Boch no bon</i>," and other +illiterate comments unflattering to the dead usurpers; +all of which, our old man explained, mightily endeared the +Atkinses to the returning inhabitants of Nesle.</p> + +<p>"Those brave Tommies are gone now," he sighed, "but +they left their dead in our care. You see those flowers on +their graves? It is we who put them there, and the +children tend them every day. If you come back next +year, it will be the same. We shall not forget."</p> + +<p>"A great statesman paid us a visit not long after Nesle +was liberated," our officer guide took up the story. "He +had heard what the Tommies did, and he was not quite +sure if they were justified. 'After all, German or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> +not German, a tomb is a tomb, and the dead are dead,' +he argued. But when he saw the cemetery of another +place not far away, where the bodies of Frenchmen—yes, +and women and little babies!—still lay where Germans +had thrown them in stealing their graves, the grand +old man's blood rushed to his head. He was no longer +uncertain if the Tommies were right. He was certain +they had done well; and in his red rage he, with his own +hands, tore down thirty of the lying tombstones."</p> + +<p>Oh, the silence of these dead towns that the Germans +have killed with bombs and burning! <i>You</i> know what it +is like, Padre, because you have passed behind the veil +and have knowledge beyond our dreaming: but to me +it is a <i>triste révélation</i>. I never realized before what the +words "dead silence" could mean. It is a silence you +<i>hear</i>. It cries out as the loudest voice could not cry. +It makes you listen—listen for the pleasant, homely +sounds you've always associated with human habitations: +the laughter of girls, the shouts of schoolboys, the friendly +barking of dogs. But you listen in vain. You wonder +if you are deaf—if other people are hearing what you +cannot hear: and then you see on each face the same blank, +listening look that must be on your own. I think a +night at Chauny, or Jussy, might drive a weak woman +mad. But—I haven't come to Chauny or Jussy yet! +After Nesle we arrived at Ham, with its canal and its +green, surrounding marshes.</p> + +<p>Ham has ceased to be silent. There are some houses +left, and to those houses people have come back. Shops +have reopened, as at Noyon, where the French Government +has advanced money to the business men. We<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> +drove into the town of Ham (what is left of it!) just as +we were hating ourselves for being hungry. It is sordid +and dreadful to be hungry in the midst of one's rage and +grief and pity—to want to eat in a place like Ham, where +one should wish to absorb nothing but history; yet our +officer guide, who has helped make a good deal of history +since 1914, seemed to think lunching quite as important +as sightseeing. In a somewhat battered square, busy +with reopening shops (some of them most <i>quaint</i> shops, +with false hair as a favourite display!) was a hotel. The +Germans had lived in it for months. They had bullied +the very old, very vital landlady who welcomed us. Their +boots had worn holes in the stair carpet, going up and +down in a goose-step. Their elbows had polished the +long table in the dining room, and—oh, horror!—their +mouths had drunk beer from glasses in which the good +wine of France was offered to us!</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I have scrubbed the goblets since with a +fortune's worth of soda," the woman volubly explained. +"They are purified. If I could wash away as easily the +memories behind my eyes and in my ears! Of them +I cannot get rid. Whenever I see an automobile, yes, +even the most innocent automobile, I live again through +a certain scene! We had here at Ham an invalid woman, +whose husband the Boches took out and shot. When +she heard the news, she threw herself under one of their +military cars and was killed. If a young girl passes my +windows (alas, it is seldom! the Germans know why) +I see once more a procession of girls lined up to send into +slavery. God knows where they are now, those children! +All we know is, that in this country there is not a girl<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span> +left of an age between twelve and twenty, unless she was +hidden or disguised when the Boches took their toll. If +I hear a sound of bells, I see our people being herded into +church—our old, old church, with its proud monuments!—so +their houses might be burned before the Germans +had to run. They stayed in the church for days and +nights, waiting for the château to be blown up. What a +suspense! No one knew if the great shock, when it came, +might not kill everyone!"</p> + +<p>As she exploded reminiscences, the old lady fed us +with ham and omelette salted with tears. We had to +eat, or hurt her feelings, but it was as if we swallowed +the poor creature's emotion with our food, and the effect +within was dynamic. I never had such a volcanic meal! +Our French officer was the only calm one among us, but—he +had been stationed in this liberated region for months. +It's an old story for him.</p> + +<p>After luncheon we staggered away to see the great +sight of Ham, the fortress-château which has given it +history and fame for centuries. The Germans blew up +the citadel out of sheer spite, as the vast pink pile long +ago ceased to be of military value. They wished to show +their power by ruining the future of the town, which +lived on its <i>monument historique</i>: but (as often happens +with their "frightfulness") that object was just the one +they failed in. I can't believe that the castle of Ham +was as striking in its untouched magnificence as now in +the rose-red splendour of its ruin!</p> + +<p>To be sure, the guardians can never again show precisely +where Joan of Arc was imprisoned, or the rooms +where Louis Napoleon lived through his six years of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> +captivity, or the little garden he used to cultivate, or the +way he passed to escape over the drawbridge, dressed as +a mason, with a plank on his shoulder. But the glorious +old tower or donjon still stands, one hundred feet high +and one hundred feet wide. German gunpowder was too +weak to bring it down, and so perhaps the prophecy of +the Comte de St. Pol, builder of the fortress, may be +fulfilled—that while France stands, the tower of Ham's +citadel will stand. Thousands more pilgrims will come +in a year, after the war, to see what the Germans did +and what they failed to do, than ever came in the mild, +prosperous days before 1914, when Ham's best history +was old. They will come and gaze at the massive bulk—red +always as if reflecting sunset light—looming against +the blue; they will peer down into dusky dungeons underground: +and the new guardian (a mutilated soldier he'll +be, perhaps, decorated with the <i>croix de guerre</i>) will +tell them about the girl of Ham who lured a German +officer to a death-trap in a secret <i>oubliette</i>, "where 'tis +said his body lies to-day." Then they will stand under +the celebrated old tree in the courtyard, unhurt by the +explosion, and take photographs of the château the Germans +have unwittingly made more beautiful than before.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon mieux</i>" was the motto St. Pol carved over the +gateway; "Our worst" is the taunt the Germans have flung. +But the combination of that best and worst is glorious to +the eye.</p> + +<p>From Ham we spun on to Jussy, along the new white +road which is so amazing when one thinks that every +yard of it had to be created out of chaos a few months<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> +ago. (They say that some sort of surface was given for +the army to pass over in three days' work!) At Jussy we +came close to the <i>real</i> front—closer than we've been yet, +except when we went to the American trenches. The +first line was only three miles away, and the place is under +bombardment, but this was what our guide called a +"quiet day," so there was only an occasional mumble and +boom. The town was destroyed, wiped almost out +of existence, save for heaps of rubble which might have +been houses or hills. But there were things to be seen +which would have made Jussy worth a long journey. It +had been a prosperous place, with one of the biggest sugar +refineries in France, and the wrecked <i>usine</i> was as terrible +and thrilling as the moon seen through the biggest telescope +in the world.</p> + +<p>Not that it looked like the moon. It looked more like +a futurist sketch, in red and brown, of the heart of a +cyclone; or of the inside of a submarine that has rammed +a skeleton ship on the stocks. But the sight gave me the +same kind of icy shock I had when I first saw the moon's +ravaged face through a huge telescope. <i>You</i> took me, +Padre, so you'll remember.</p> + +<p>If you came to Jussy, and didn't know about the war, +you'd think you had stumbled into hell—or else that you +were having a nightmare and couldn't wake up. I shall +never forget a brobdingnagian boiler as big as a battle +tank, that had reared itself on its hind-legs to peer through +a <i>cheval de frise</i> of writhing girders—tortured girders like +a vast wilderness of immense thorn bushes in a hopeless +tangle, or a pit of bloodstained snakes. The walls of the +<i>usine</i> have simply melted, and it's hard to realize that it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> +as a building, put up by human hands for human uses, ever +existed. There is a new Jussy, though, created since the +German retreat; and seeing it, you couldn't <i>help</i> knowing +that there was a war! The whole landscape is full +of cannon, big and little and middle-sized. Queer mushroom +buildings have sprung up, for officers' and soldiers' +barracks and canteens. Narrow plank walks built high +above mud-level—"duck boards," I think they're called—lead +to the corrugated iron, tin, and wooden huts. There +are aerodromes and aerodromes like a vast circus encampment, +where there are not cannon; and the greenish canvas +roofs give the only bit of colour, as far as the eye can +see—unless one counts the soldiers' uniforms. All the +rest is gray as the desert before a dust-storm. Even +the sky, which had been blue and bright, was gray over +Jussy, and the grayest of gray things were the immense +"<i>saucisses</i>"—three or four of them—hanging low under +the clouds like advertisements of titanic potatoes, haughtiest +of war-time vegetables.</p> + +<p>Dierdre O'Farrell inadvertently called the big bulks +"<i>saucissons</i>," which amused our officer guide so much +that he laughed to tears. The rest of us were able to +raise only a faint smile, and we felt his disappointment at +our lack of humour.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but it is most <i>funny!</i>" he said. "I will tell +everyone. In future they shall for us be '<i>saucissons</i>' forever. +I suppose it is not so funny for you, because the +sight of these dead towns has made you sad. I am almost +afraid to take you on to Chauny. You will be much +sadder there. Chauny is the sight most pitiful of all. +Would you perhaps wish to avoid it?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + +<p>"What about you, Mother?" Father Beckett wanted +to know.</p> + +<p>But Mother had no wish to avoid Chauny. She was not +able to believe that anything could be sadder than Roye, +or Nesle, or Ham, or more grim than Jussy.</p> + +<p>"He doesn't want to take us to Chauny," Brian whispered +to me. We were all grouped together near the +cars, with Sirius, a quiet, happy dog. "He's trying to +think up a new excuse to get out of it."</p> + +<p>I glanced at our guide. It was <i>like</i> Brian to have +guessed what we hadn't seen! Now I was on the alert, +the clear-cut French face <i>did</i> look nonplussed; and a +nervous brown hand was tugging at a smart black moustache.</p> + +<p>"Is there any reason why you think it would be better +for us not to go there?" I decided to ask frankly.</p> + +<p>"It's getting rather late," he suggested, in his precise +English. "You have also the Pavilion of Prince Eitel +Fritz before you. If it grows too dark, you cannot see +St. Quentin well, in the distance, and the glasses will be of +no use for Soissons."</p> + +<p>"But we're <i>going</i> to Soissons day after to-morrow!" +said Father Beckett.</p> + +<p>"And there'll be a moon presently," added Dierdre. +She had heard of the ruined convent at Chauny and was +determined not to miss it.</p> + +<p>"Yes, there'll be a moon," reluctantly admitted Monsieur +le Lieutenant.</p> + +<p>"Is there still another reason?" I tried to help him.</p> + +<p>"Well, yes, there is one, Mademoiselle," he blurted +out. "I had meant not to mention it. But perhaps it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> +is best to tell, and then you may all choose whether you +go to Chauny or not. There is a certain risk at this time +of day, or a little later. You know we are close to the +front here, and enemy aeroplanes fly nearly every afternoon +over Chauny toward dusk. They hope to catch some +important personage, and they come expressly to 'spot' +automobiles. The road through the ruined town is +white and new, and the gray military cars in which we +bring visitors to the front stand out clearly, especially +as twilight falls. I'm afraid we have lingered too long in +some of these places. If we were a party of men, I +should say nothing, but with three ladies——"</p> + +<p>"I can answer for all three, Monsieur," said Mother +Beckett, with a pathetically defiant tilt of her small chin.</p> + +<p>"My son, you know, was a soldier. We have come to +this part of the world to see what we can do for the people +in honour of his memory. So we mustn't leave Chauny +out."</p> + +<p>"Madame, there are no people there, for there are no +houses. There are but a few soldiers with an anti-aircraft +gun."</p> + +<p>"We must see what can be done about building up +some of the houses so the people can come back," persisted +the old lady, with that gentle obstinacy of hers.</p> + +<p>The French officer made no more objections; and knowing +his wife, I suppose Father Beckett felt it useless to offer +any. We started at once for Chauny: in fact, we flew +along the road almost as fast—it seemed—as enemy +aeroplanes could fly along the sky if they pursued. But +we had a long respite still before twilight.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV</h2> + + +<p>Our guide was right. Chauny was sadder than the +rest, because there had been more of beauty to +ruin. And it was ruined cruelly, completely! +Even Gerbéviller, in Lorraine, had been less sad than +this—less sad because of Sœur Julie, and the quarter +on the hill which her devotion saved; less sad, because of +the American Red Cross reconstruction centre, for the +fruit trees. Here there had been no Sœur Julie, no reconstruction +centre yet. The Germans, when they knew +they had to go, gave three weeks to their wrecking work. +They sent off, neatly packed, all that was worth sending +to Germany. They measured the cellars to see what +quantity of explosives would be needed to blow up the +houses. Then they blew them up, making their quarters +meanwhile at a safe distance, in the convent. As for that +convent—you will see what happened there when the +Boches had no further use for it!</p> + +<p>In happy days before the war, whose joys we took comfortably +for granted, Chauny had several châteaux of beauty +and charm. It had pretty houses and lots of fine shops and +a park. It was proud of its <i>mairie</i> and church and great +<i>usine</i> (now a sight of horror), and the newer parts of the +town did honour to their architects. But—Chauny was +on the direct road between Cologne and Paris. Nobody +thought much about this fact then, except that it helped<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> +travel and so was good for the country. It is only now that +one knows what a price Chauny paid for the advantage. +Instead of a beautiful town there remains a heap of cinders, +with here and there a wrecked façade of pitiful grace or +broken dignity to tell where stood the proudest buildings.</p> + +<p>The sky was empty of enemy 'planes; but our guide +hurried us through the town, where the new road shone +white in contrast with our cars; and having hidden the +autos under a group of trees outside, led us on foot toward +the convent. The approach was exquisite: a long, long +avenue of architectural elms, arbour-like in shade, once +the favourite evening promenade of Chauny. That +tunnel of emerald and gold would have been an interlude +of peace between two tragedies—tragedy of the town, +tragedy of the convent—if the ground hadn't been strewn +with torn papers, like leaves scattered by the wind: official +records flung out of strong boxes by ruthless German +hands, poor remnants no longer of value, and saved from +destruction only by the kindly trees, friends of happy +memories. "The Boches didn't take time to spoil this +avenue," said our officer. "They liked it while they lived +in the convent; and they left in a hurry."</p> + +<p>Just beyond the avenue lies the convent garden; and +though it is autumn, when we stepped into that garden +we stepped into an oasis of old-fashioned, fragrant flowers, +guarded by delicate trees, gentle as the vanished Sisters +and their flock of young girl pupils; sweet, small trees, +bending low as if to shield the garden's breast from harm.</p> + +<p>I wish when Chauny is rebuilt this convent might be +left as a <i>monument historique</i>, for, ringed by its perfumed +pleasance, it is a glimpse of "fairylands forlorn."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p>One half believes there must have been some fairy charm +at work which kept the fire-breathing German dragon +from laying this garden waste when he was forced out +of his stolen lair in the convent! Little remains of the +house, and in the rubbish heap of fallen walls and beams +and plaster, narrow iron bedsteads, where nuns slept or +young girls dreamed, perch timidly among stones and +blackened bricks. But in the garden all is flowery peace: +and the chapel, though ruined, is a strange vision of beauty +framed in horror.</p> + +<p>Not that the Germans were merciful there. They +burned and blew up all that would burn or blow up. The +roof fell, and heaped the floor with wreckage; but out of +that wreckage, as out of a troubled sea, rise two figures: +St. Joseph, and an almost life-size, painted statue of the +Virgin. There the two stand firmly on their pedestals, +their faces raised to God's roof of blue, which never fails. +Because their eyes are lifted, they do not see the flotsam +and jetsam of shattered stained glass, burnt woodwork, +smashed benches, broken picture-frames and torn, rain-blurred +portraits of lesser saints. They seem to think +only of heaven.</p> + +<p>Though I'm not a Catholic, the chapel gave me such a +sense of sacredness and benediction that I felt I must be +there alone, if only for a moment. So when our officer led +the others out I stayed behind. A clear ray of late +sunshine slanted through a broken window set high in a +side wall, to stream full upon the face of the Virgin. Someone +had crowned her with a wreath of fresh flowers, and +had thrust a few white roses under the folded hands which +seemed to clasp them lovingly, with a prayer for the peace<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> +of the world. The dazzling radiance brought face +and figure to life; and it was as if a living woman had +taken the statue's place on the pedestal. The effect was so +startling that, if I were a Catholic, I might have believed +in a miracle. Protestant as I am, I had the impulse to +pray: but—(I don't know, Padre, if I have ever told you +this)—I've not dared to pray properly since I first stole the +Becketts' love for Brian and me. I've not dared, though +never in my life have I so needed and longed for prayer.</p> + +<p>This time I couldn't resist, unworthy as I am. The +smile of peace and pardon on the statue's illumined face +seemed to make all sin forgivable in this haunt of holy +dreams. "God forgive me, and show me how to atone," +I sent my plea skyward. Suddenly the conviction came +that I <i>should</i> be shown a way of atonement, though it +might be hard. I felt lighter of heart, and went on to +pray that Jack Curtis's hope might be justified: that, no +matter what happened to me, or even to Brian, Jim +Beckett might be alive, in this world, and come back +safely to his parents.</p> + +<p>While I prayed, a sound disturbed the deep silence. It +was a far-away sound, but quickly it grew louder and drew +nearer: at first a buzzing as of all the bees in France +mobilized in a bee-barrage. Then the buzzing became a +roar. I knew directly what it was: enemy aeroplanes.</p> + +<p>I could not see them yet, but they must be close. If +they were flying very low, to search Chauny for visitors, I +might be seen if I moved. Those in the garden were better +off than I, for they were screened by the trees, but +trying to join them I might attract attention to myself.</p> + +<p>As I thought this, I wondered why I didn't decide upon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> +the thing most likely to solve all my problems at once. +If I were killed, Brian would grieve: but he had the +Becketts to love and care for him, and—he had Dierdre: +no use disguising that fact from my intelligence, after +the episode of the dog! What a chance for me to disappear, +having done for Brian all I could do! Oh, why +didn't I add another prayer to my last, and beg God +to let me die that minute?</p> + +<p>I'll tell you why I did not pray this, Padre, and why, +instead of trying to expose my life, I wished—almost +unconsciously—to save it. I hardly realized why then, +but I do realize now. It is different in these days from +that night in Paris, when I wished I might be run over +by a motor-car. At that time I should have been glad +to die. Now I cling to life—not just because I'm young +and strong, and people call me beautiful, but because I +feel I <i>must</i> stay in the world to see what happens next.</p> + +<p>I kept as still as a frightened mouse. I didn't move. I +scarcely breathed. Presently an aeroplane sailed into +sight directly overhead, and flying so low that I could +make out its iron cross, exactly like photographs I'd seen. +Whether the men in it could see me or not I can't tell; but +if they could, perhaps they mistook me for one of the +statues they knew existed in the ruined chapel, and thought +I wasn't worth bombing.</p> + +<p>In that case it was St. Joseph and the Virgin who protected +me!</p> + +<p>In a second the big bird of prey had swept on. I was +sick with fear for a moment lest it should drop an "egg" on +to the garden, and kill Brian or the Becketts, or the +lieutenant who had wished to spare us this danger. Even<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +the O'Farrells I didn't want hurt; and I was pleased to +find out that about myself, because they are a far more +constant danger for me than all the aeroplanes along +the German front; and when I came face to face with +realities in my own soul, I might have discovered a wicked +desire for them to be out of the way at any price. But +since Dierdre proved herself ready to die for Brian, I do +admire if I don't like her. As for Julian—would it be +possible, Padre, to miss a person you almost hate? Anyhow, +when I tried to imagine how I should feel if I went +back to the garden and saw him dead, I grew quite giddy +and ill. How queer we are, we human things!</p> + +<p>But no one was hurt. The whole party hid under the +trees; and as the cars were also hidden at a distance, the +German fliers turned tail, disappointed; besides, the anti-aircraft +gun which we'd been told about, and had seen +on our way to the convent, was potting away like mad, so it +wasn't healthful for aeroplanes to linger merely "on spec."</p> + +<p>Mother Beckett was pale and trembling a little, but she +said that she had been too anxious about me, in my absence, +to think of herself, which was perhaps a good thing. +I noticed, when I joined them in the garden, after the roar +had changed again to a buzz, that Dierdre stood close to +Brian, and that his hand was on her shoulder, her hand on +Sirius's beautiful head. Yet I felt too strangely happy +to be jealous. I suppose it must have been through my +prayer—or the answer to it.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>When all was clear and the danger over (our guide said +that the "birds" never made more than one tour of in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>spection +in an afternoon) we started off again. Father +Beckett suggested that his wife had better go home and +rest, but she wouldn't hear of it. And when we reached +a turning of the road which would lead us to Coucy-le +Château, it was she who begged our lieutenant to let us +run along that way, "just far enough for a glimpse, a +<i>tiny</i> glimpse."</p> + +<p>"My son wrote me it was the most wonderful old +château in France," she pleaded. "I've got in my pocket +now a snapshot he sent me."</p> + +<p>The Frenchman couldn't resist. You know how charming +the French are to old ladies. "It isn't as safe as—as the +Bank of England!" he laughed. "Sometimes they keep +this road rather hot. But to-day, I have told you, things +are quiet all along. We will take what Madame calls a +tiny glimpse."</p> + +<p>Orders were given to our chauffeur. Brian was with +the O'Farrells, coming on behind, and of course the Red +Cross taxi followed at our heels like a faithful dachshund. +Our big car flew swiftly, and the little one did its jolting +best to keep up the pace, for time wouldn't wait for us—and +these autumn days are cutting themselves short.</p> + +<p>Presently we saw a thing which proved that the road +was indeed "hot" sometimes: a neat, round shell-hole, +which looked ominously new! We swung past it with a +bump, and flashed into sight of a ruin which dwarfed all +others we had seen—yes, dwarfed even cathedrals! A +long line of ramparts rising from a high headland of gray-white +chalk-ramparts crowned with broken, round +towers, which the sun was painting with heraldic gold: the +stump of a tremendous keep that reared its bulk like a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> +giant in his death struggle, for a last look over his shield of +shattered walls. This was what German malice had +made of Coucy, pride of France, architectural masterpiece +of feudal times!</p> + +<p>"This is as far as I dare go!" our lieutenant said, with a +brusque gesture which bade the chauffeur stop. But +before the car turned, he gave us a moment to take in +the picture of grandeur and unforgivable cruelty. Yes, +unforgivable! for you know, Padre, there was no military +motive in the destruction. The only object was to deprive +France forever of the noblest of her castles, which +has helped in the making of her history since a bishop of +Rheims began to build it in 920.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Roi ne suis +Ne prince, ne duc, ne comte aussy. +Je suys le Sire de Coucy."</p></div> + +<p>The beautiful old boast in beautiful old French sang in +my head as I gazed through tears at the new ruin of +ancient grandeur.</p> + +<p>Some of those haughty Sires de Coucy may have +deserved to have their stronghold destroyed, for they +seem—most of them—to have been as bad as they were +vain. I remember there was one, in the days of Louis +XII, who punished three little boys for killing a few +rabbits in his park, by ordering the children to be hanged +on the spot; and St. Louis was so angry on hearing of the +crime that he wished to hang the Sire de Coucy on the +same tree. There were others I've read of, just as wicked +and high-handed: but their castle was not to blame for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> +its master's crimes! Besides, the last of the proud +Enguerrands and Thomases and Raouls, Seigneurs of the +line, was son-in-law to Edward III of England; so all their +sins were expiated long ago.</p> + +<p>"The Boches were jealous of our Coucy," said the +Frenchman, with a sigh. "They have nothing to compare +with it on their side of the Rhine. If they could have +packed up the château and carted it across the frontier +they would—if it had taken three years. As they couldn't +do that, they did what Cardinal Mazarin wasn't able to +do with his picked engineers; they blew it up with high +explosives. But all they could steal they stole: carvings +and historic furniture. You know there was a room the +guardian used to show before the war—the room where +César de Bourbon was born, the son of Henri Quatre of +Navarre and Gabrielle d'Estrées? That room the Boches +emptied when they first came in August, 1914. Not a +piece of rich tapestry, not a suit of armour, not even a +chair, or a table, or lamp did they leave. Everything +was sent to Germany. But we believe we shall get it +all again some day. And now we must go, for the Boches +shell this road whenever they think of it, or have nothing +better to do!"</p> + +<p>The signal was given. We turned and tore along the +road by which we'd come, our backs feeling rather sensitive +and exposed to chance German bombs, until we'd +got round the corner to a "safe section." Our way led +through a pitiful country of crippled trees to a curious +round hill. A little castle or miniature fortress must +have crowned it once, for the height was entirely circled +by an ancient moat. On top of this green mound Prince<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> +Eitel Fritz built for himself the imitation shooting-lodge +which was our goal and viewpoint. And, Padre, there +can't be another such German-looking spot in martyred +France as he has made of the insulted hillock!</p> + +<p>I don't know how many fair young birch trees he +sacrificed to build a summer-house for himself and his +staff to drink beer in, and gaze over the country, at +St. Quentin, at Soissons and a hundred conquered towns +and villages! Now he's obliged to look from St. Quentin +at the summer-house—and how we pray that it may not +be for long!</p> + +<p>Over one door of the building a pair of crossed swords +carved heavily in wood form a stolid German decoration; +and still more maddeningly German are the seats outside +the house, made of cement and shaped like toadstools. In +the sitting room are rough chairs, and a big table so +stained with wine and beer that I could almost see the fat +figures of the prince and his friends grouped round it, with +cheers for "<i>Wein, Weib, und Gesang</i>."</p> + +<p>Close down below us, in sloping green meadows, a lot of +war-worn horses <i>en permission</i> were grazing peacefully. +Our guide said that some were "Americans," and I +fancied them dreaming of Kentucky grasslands, or the +desert herbs of the Far West, which they will never taste +again. Also I yearned sorrowfully over the weary creatures +that had done their "bit" without any incentive, +without much praise or glory, and that would presently go +back to do it all over again, until they died or were finally +disabled. I remembered a cavalry-man I nursed in our +<i>Hôpital des Épidémies</i> telling me how brave horses are. +"The only trouble with them in battle," he said, "is when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> +their riders are killed, to make them fall out of line. +They <i>will</i> keep their places!"</p> + +<p>Both Father Beckett and the French officer had field-glasses, +but we hardly needed them for St. Quentin. Far +away across a plain slowly turning from bright blue-green +to dim green-blue in the twilight, we saw a dream town +built of violet shadows—Marie Stuart's dowry town. +Its purple roofs and the dominating towers of its great +collegiate church were ethereal as a mirage, yet delicately +clear, and so beautiful, rising from the river-bank, that I +shuddered to think of the French guns, forced to break +the heart of Faidherbe's brave city.</p> + +<p>It was a time of day to call back the past, for in the +falling dusk modern things and old things blended lovingly +together. For all one could see of detail, nothing +had changed much since the plain of Picardy was the +great Merovingian centre of France, the gateway through +which the English marched, and went away never to return +until they came as friends. Still less had the scene changed +since the brave days when Marguerite de Valois rode +through Picardy with her band of lovely ladies and gallant +gentlemen. It was summer when she travelled; but on +just such an evening of blue twilight and silver moonshine +might she have had her pretended carriage accident at +Catelet, as an excuse to disappoint the Bishop of Cambrai, +and meet the man best loved of all her lovers, Duc Henri de +Guise. It was just then he had got the wound which gave +him his scar and his nickname of "<i>Le Balafré</i>"; and she +would have been all the more anxious not to miss her hero.</p> + +<p>I thought of that adventure, because of the picture Brian +painted of the Queen on her journey, the only one of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> +which has been hung in the Academy, you know, Padre; +and <i>I</i> sat for Marguerite. Not that I'm her type at all, +judging from portraits! However, I fancied myself intensely +in the finished picture, and used to hope I should +be recognized when I strolled into the Academy. But +I never was.</p> + +<p>Looking down over the plain of Picardy, I pretended to +myself that I could see the Queen's procession: Marguerite +(looking as much as possible like me!) in her gold and crystal +coach, lined with rose-coloured Spanish velvet, jewel-broidered: +the gentlemen outriders trying to stare through +the thick panes obscured with designs and mottoes +concerning the sun and its influence upon human fate; the +high-born girls chattering to each other from their embroidered +Spanish saddles, as they rode on white palfreys, +trailing after the glittering coach; and the dust +rising like smoke from wheels of jolting chariots which +held the elder women of the Court.</p> + +<p>Oh, those were great days, the days of Henry of Navarre +and his naughty wife! But, after all, there wasn't as +much chivalry and real romance in Picardy then, or in +the time of St. Quentin himself, as war has brought back +to it now. No deeds we can find in history equal the +deeds of to-day!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>We got lost going home, somehow taking the wrong road, +straying into a wood, plunging and bumping down and +down over fearful roads, and landing—by what might +have been a bad accident—in a deep ravine almost too +strange to be true.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span></p> + +<p>Even our French officer couldn't make out what had +happened to us, or whither we'd wandered, until we'd +stopped, and our blaze of acetylene had lighted up a series +of fantastic caverns in the rock (caverns improved up to +date by German cement) and in front of that honeycombed +gray wall a flat, grassy lawn that was a graveyard.</p> + +<p>"<i>Mon Dieu, c'est le Ravin de Bitry!</i>" he cried. "Let us +get out of it! I would never have brought you here of +my own free will."</p> + +<p>"But why—why?" I insisted. "It isn't the only +graveyard we have seen, alas! and there are only French +names on the little crosses."</p> + +<p>"I know," he said. "After we chased the Germans out +of this hole, we lived here ourselves, in their caves—and +died here, as you see, Mademoiselle. But the place is +haunted, and not by spirits of the dead—worse! Put on +your hats again, Messieurs! The dead will forgive you. +And, ladies, wrap veils over your faces. If it were not so +late, you would already know why. But the noise of our +autos, and the lights may stir up those ghosts!"</p> + +<p>Then, in an instant, before the cars could turn, we <i>did</i> +know why. Flies!... such flies as I had never +seen ...nightmare flies. They rose from everywhere, +in a thick black cloud, like the plague of Egypt. +They were in thousands. They were big as bees. They +dropped on us like a black jelly falling out of a mould. +They sat all over us. It was only when our cars had +swayed and stumbled up again, over that awful road, +out of the haunted hole in the deep woods, and risen into +fresh, moving air, that the horde deserted us. Julian +O'Farrell had his hands bitten, and dear Mother Beckett<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> +was badly stung on the throat. Horrible!... I +don't think I could have slept at night for thinking of the +Ravin de Bitry, if we hadn't had such a refreshing run +home that the impression of the lost, dark place was purified +away.</p> + +<p>Forest fragrance sprayed into our faces like perfume +from a vaporizer. We seemed to pass through endless +halls supported by white marble pillars, which were really +spaces between trees, magically transformed by our +blazing headlight. Always in front of us hovered an +archway of frosted silver, moving as we moved, like a +pale, elusive rainbow; and when we put on extra speed +for a long, straight stretch, poplars carelessly spared by +the Boches spouted up on either side of us like geysers. +Then, suddenly, across a stretch of blackness palely shone +Compiègne, as Venice shines across the dark lagoon.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV</h2> + + +<p>Little did I think, Padre, to write you from Soissons! +When last I spoke to you about it, we were +gazing through field-glasses at the single tower of +the cathedral, pointing out of purple shadows toward the +evening star of hope. Then we lost ourselves in the +Ravin de Bitry, and arrived thankfully at Compiègne +two hours later than we had planned. We expected to +have part of a day at Soissons, but—I told you of the +dreadful flies in that ravine of death, and how Mother +Beckett was stung on the throat. The next day she had +a headache, but took aspirin, and pronounced herself +well enough for the trip to Soissons. Father Beckett let +her go, because he's in the habit of letting her do whatever +she wants to do, fancying (and she fancies it, too) that he +is master. You see, we thought it was only a fatigue-headache. +Foolishly, we didn't connect it with the +sting, for Julian O'Farrell was bitten, too, and didn't +complain at all.</p> + +<p>Well, we set out for Soissons yesterday morning (I write +again at night) leaving all our luggage at the hotel in +Compiègne. It was quite a safe and uneventful run, for +the Germans stopped shelling Soissons temporarily some +time ago, when they were obliged to devote their whole +attention to other places. The road was good, and the +day a dream of Indian summer, when war seemed more<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> +than ever out of place in such a world. If Mother Beckett +looked ill, we didn't notice, because she wore her dust-veil. +The same officer was with us who'd been our guide +last time, and we felt like friends, as he explained, with +those vivid gestures Frenchmen have, just how the +Germans in September, 1914, marched from Laon upon +Soissons—marched fast, singing, yelling, wild to take a +city so important that the world would be impressed. +Why, it would be—they thought—as if the whole Île-de-France +were in their grasp! The next step would be to +Paris, goal of all Germanic invasions since Attila.</p> + +<p>It's an engaging habit of Mother Beckett's to punctuate +exciting stories like this with little soft sighs of sympathy: +but the graphic war descriptions given by our lieutenant +left her cold. Even when we came into the town, and +began to go round it in the car, she was heavily silent, not +an exclamation! And we ought to have realized that +this was strange, because Soissons nowadays is a sight to +strike the heart a hammer-blow.</p> + +<p>Of course the place isn't older than Rheims. It's of the +same time and the same significance. But its face looks +older in ruin—such features as haven't been battered out +of shape. There's the wonderful St. Jean-des-Vignes, +which should have interested the little lady, because the +great namesake of her family St. Thomas à Beckett, lived +there, when it was one of Soissons' four famous abbeys. +There's the church of St. Léger, and the grand old gates of +St. Médard, to say nothing of the cathedral itself. And +then there's the history, which goes back to the Suessiones +who owned twelve towns, and had a king whose power +carried across the sea, all the way to Britain. If Mother<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> +Beckett doesn't know much about history, she loves +being in the midst of it, and hearing talk of it. But when +our Frenchman told us a story of her latest favourite, King +Clovis, she had the air of being asleep behind her thick +blue veil. It was quite a good story, too, about a gold +vase and a bishop. The gold vase had been stolen in the +sack of the churches, after the battle of Soissons, when +Roman rule was ended in France. St. Remi begged +Clovis to give the vase back. But the booty was being +divided, and the soldier who had the vase refused to surrender +it to a mere monarch. "You'll get what your +luck brings you, like the rest of us!" said he, striking the +vase so hard with his battle-axe that it was dented, and +its beauty spoiled. Clovis swallowed the insult, that +being the day of soldiers, not of kings: but he didn't forget; +and he kept watch upon the man. A year later, to +the day, the excuse he'd waited for came. The soldier's +armour was dirty, on review; Clovis had the right as a +general to reproach and punish him, so snatching the man's +battle-axe, the king crushed in the soldier's head. "I +do to you with the same weapon what you did to the gold +vase at Soissons!" he said.</p> + +<p>It wasn't until we had seen everything, and had spent +over an hour looking at the martyred cathedral, from +every point of view, inside and out, that Mother Beckett +confessed her suffering. "Oh, Molly!" she gasped, +leaning on my arm, "I'm so glad there's only <i>one</i> tower, +and not two! That is, I'm glad, as it was always like that."</p> + +<p>"Why," I exclaimed, "how odd of you, dearest! I +know it's considered one of the best cathedrals in France, +though it isn't a museum of sculpture, like Rheims. But<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> +the single tower worries me, it looks so unfinished. <i>I'm</i> +not glad there's only one!"</p> + +<p>"You would be if you felt like I do," she moaned. +"If there was another tower, we'd have to spend double +time looking at it, and in five minutes more I should have +to faint! Oh no, I've stood everything so far, not to disappoint +any one, but I <i>couldn't</i> see another tower!"</p> + +<p>With that, she did faint, or nearly, then came to herself, +and apologized for bothering us! Father Beckett hardly +spoke, but his face was gray-white with fear, and he held +the fragile creature in his arms as if she were his last link +with the life of this world.</p> + +<p>We got her back into the car; and the man who had +shown us the cathedral said that there was an hotel within +five minutes' motoring distance. It was not first rate, he +explained, but officers messed there and occasionally +wives and mothers of officers stayed there. He thought +we might be taken in and made fairly comfortable; and +to be sure we didn't miss the house, he rode on the step of +the car, to show us the way.</p> + +<p>It was a sad way, for we had to pass hillocks of plaster +and stone which had once been streets, but we had eyes +only for Mother Beckett's face, Father Beckett and I: +and even Brian seemed to look at her. Sirius, too, for +he would not go into the Red Cross taxi with the others! +Brian, whom in most things the dog obeys with a pathetic +eagerness, couldn't get him to do that: and when I said, +"Oh, his eyes are tragic. He thinks you're going to send +him away, never to see you again!" Brian didn't insist. +So the dog sat squeezed in among us, knowing perfectly +well that we were anxious about the little lady who patted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span> +him so often, and unpatriotically saved him lumps of sugar. +He licked her small fingers, clasped by her husband, and +attracting Mother Beckett's attention perhaps kept her +from fainting again.</p> + +<p>Well, we got to the hotel, which was really more of a +<i>pension</i> than an hotel, and Madame Bornier, the elderly +woman in deep mourning who was <i>la patronne</i>, was kind +and helpful. Her best room had been made ready for +the wife of an officer just coming out of hospital, but +there would be time to prepare another. Our dear invalid +was carried upstairs in her husband's arms, and I put her +to bed while a doctor was sent for. Of course, we had no +permission to spend a night at Soissons, but I began to +foresee that we should have to stay unless we were turned +out by the military authorities.</p> + +<p>When the doctor came—a <i>médecin major</i> fetched from +a hospital by our officer-guide—he said that Madame was +suffering from malarial symptoms; she must have been +poisoned. So then of course we remembered the sting on +her throat. He examined it, looked rather grave, and +warned Father Beckett that <i>Madame sa femme</i> would not +be able to travel that day. She had a high temperature, +and at best must have a day or two of repose, with no food +save a little boiled milk.</p> + +<p>Soissons seemed the last place in France to hope for +milk of any description, but the doctor promised it from +the hospital if it couldn't be got elsewhere, and added with +pride that Soissons was not without resources. "When +the Germans came three years ago," he said, "most of +the inhabitants had fled, taking what they could carry. +Only seven hundred souls were left, out of fifteen thousand,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> +but many have come back: we have more than two +thousand now, and some of them behaved like heroes and +heroines. Oh yes, we may almost say that life goes on +normally! You shall have all the milk you need for +Madame."</p> + +<p>When she had taken some medicine, and smiled at him, +Father Beckett left his wife in my care, and rushed off to +arrange about permission to stop. The <i>médecin major</i> +and our officer-guide were useful. After telephoning from +the military hospital to headquarters, everything was +arranged; and we were authorized to remain in Soissons, +at our own risk and peril. Madame Bornier prepared +rooms for us all; but there weren't enough to go round, +so Brian and Julian O'Farrell were put together, and +Dierdre and I! She, by the way, is in bed at this moment, +whether asleep or not I don't know; but if not she is pretending. +Her lashes are very long, and she looks prettier +than I ever saw her look before. But that may be because +I like her better. I told you, that after what she did for +Brian I could never dislike that girl again: but there has +been another incident since then, about which I will tell +you to-morrow. You know, I'm not easily tired, but this +is our second night at Soissons. I sat up all last night +with Mother Beckett, and oh, how glad I was, Padre, that +Fate had forced me to train as a nurse! I've been glad—thankful—ever +since the war: but this is the first time my +gladness has been so personal. Brian's illness was in +hospital. I could do nothing for him. But you can +hardly think what it has meant to me, to know that I've +been of real use to this dear woman, that I've been able to +spare her suffering. Before, I had no right to her love.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> +I'd stolen it. Now, maybe I am beginning to earn a little +of the affection which she and Father Beckett give me.</p> + +<p>I was all "keyed up" when I began to write to you +to-night, Padre; but I was supposed to spend my three +hours "off" in sleep. One hour is gone. Even if I +can't sleep, I shall pass the other two trying to rest, in +my narrow bed, which is close to Dierdre's.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI</h2> + + +<p>This is the next day. Mother Beckett is better, +and I've been praised by the <i>médecin major</i> for +my nursing. We've got our luggage from +Compiègne, and may be here for days. We shall miss the +pleasure of travelling to Amiens with the war correspondents, +who must go without us, and we women will +get no glimpse of the British front!</p> + +<p>Now I'm going to tell you about the incident which has +made me almost love Dierdre O'Farrell—a miracle, it +would have seemed two weeks ago, when my best mental +pet name for her was "little cat!"</p> + +<p>When I wrote last night, I mentioned that the room +Mother Beckett has in this little hotel had been intended +for the wife of a French officer coming out of hospital. +Another room was prepared for that lady, and it happened +to be the one next door to Mother Beckett's. Through the +thin partition wall I heard voices, a man's and a woman's, +talking in French. I couldn't make out the words—in +fact, I tried not to!—but the woman's tones were soft +and sweet as the coo of a dove. I pictured her beautiful +and young, and I was sure from her way of speaking that +she adored her husband. The two come into my story +presently, but I think it should begin with a walk that +Brian and Dierdre (and Sirius, of course) took together.</p> + +<p>With me shut up in Mother Beckett's room, my blind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> +brother and Julian O'Farrell's sister were thrown more +closely together even than before. I'm sure Julian saw to +that, eliminating himself as he couldn't do when travelling +all three in the Red Cross taxi! Perhaps Dierdre and +Brian had never been alone in each other's company so +long; and Brian found the chance he'd wished for, to get +at the <i>real</i> girl, behind her sulky "camouflage."</p> + +<p>He has repeated the whole conversation to me, because +he wanted me to know Dierdre as he has learned to know +her; and I shall write everything down as I remember it, +though the words mayn't be precisely right. Never was +there any one like Brian for drawing out confidences from +shut-up souls (except <i>you</i>, Padre!) if he chooses to open +his own soul, for that end; and apparently he thought it +worth while in the case of Dierdre. He began by telling +her things about himself—his old hopes and ambitions +and the change in them since his blindness. He confessed +to the girl (as he confessed to me long ago) how at first he +wished desperately to die, because life without eyesight +wasn't life. He has so loved colour, and beauty, and +success in his work had been so close, that he felt he +couldn't endure blindness.</p> + +<p>"I came near being a coward," he said. "A man who +puts an end to his life because he's afraid to face it is a +coward. So I tried to see if I could readjust the balance. +I fell back on my imagination—and it saved me. Imagination +was always my best friend! It took me by the +hand and led me into a garden—a secret sort of garden +that belongs to the blind, and to no one else. It's the +place where the spirits of colour and the spirits of flowers +live—the spirit of music, too—and all sorts of beautiful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> +strange things which people who've never been blind can't +see—or even hear. They're not '<i>things</i>,' exactly. They're +more like the reality behind the things: God's thoughts +of things as they should be, before He created them; artists' +thoughts of their pictures; musicians' thoughts of their +compositions—all better than the things resulting from the +thoughts. Nothing in the outside world is as wonderful as +what grows in that garden! I couldn't go on being unhappy +there. Nobody could—once he'd found the way in."</p> + +<p>"It must be hard finding the way in!" Dierdre said.</p> + +<p>"It is at first—alone, without help. That's why, if I +can, I want to help my fellow blind men to get there."</p> + +<p>"Only men? Not women, too?"</p> + +<p>"I've never met a blind woman. Probably I never +shall."</p> + +<p>"You're talking to one this minute! When I'm with +you, I always feel as if I were blind, and you could see."</p> + +<p>"You're unjust to yourself."</p> + +<p>"No, but I'm unjust to you—I mean, I have been. I +must tell you before we go on, because you're too kind, +too generous. I'm blind about lots of things, but I do +see that, now. I see how good you are. I used to think +you were too good to be true—that you must be a <i>poseur</i>. +I was always waiting for the time when you'd give yourself +away—when you'd show yourself on the same level +with my brother and me."</p> + +<p>"But I am on the same level."</p> + +<p>"Don't say it! I don't feel that horrid, bitter wish now. +I'm glad you're higher than we are. It makes me better +to look up to the place where you are. But I wish I +could get nearer."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You are very near. We're friends, aren't we? You +don't really mind because I'm from the North and you +from the South, and because we don't quite agree about +politics?"</p> + +<p>"I'd forgotten about politics between you and me! +But there are other distances. Do take me into your +garden. You say it belongs only to blind people; but if I +am blind—with a different kind of blindness, and worse—can't +I get there with you? I need such a garden, dreadfully. +I'm so disappointed in life."</p> + +<p>"Tell me how you're unhappy, and how you've been +disappointed," said Brian. "Then perhaps we can find +the right flowers to cure you, in the garden."</p> + +<p>So she told him what Julian had told me: about trying +to get on the stage, and not succeeding, and realizing that +she couldn't act; feeling that there was no vocation, no +place for her anywhere. To comfort the girl, Brian opened +the gate of his garden of the blind, and gave her its secrets, +as he has given them to me. He explained to her his trick +of "seeing across far spaces," with the eyes of his mind, +and heart: saying aloud, to himself, names of glorious +places—"Athens—Rome—Venice," and going there in +the airship of imagination; calling up visions of rose-sunset +light on the yellowing marble of the Acropolis, or moonlight +in the Pincian gardens, with great umbrella-pines like blots +of ink on steel, or the opal colours shimmering deep down, +under the surface of the Grand Canal. He made Dierdre +understand his way of "listening to a landscape," knowing +by the voice of the wind what trees it touched; the buzz +of olive leaves bunched like hives of silver bees against the +blue; the sea-murmur of pines; the skeleton swish of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> +palms; the gay, dancing rustle of poplars. And he showed +her how he gathered beauty and colour from words, which +made pictures in his brain.</p> + +<p>"I never thought of all these things when I could see +pictures with my <i>eyes</i>—and paint them with my hands," +he said. And perhaps he gave a sigh for the past, which +touched Dierdre's heart as the wind, in his fancy, touched +the trees. "Couldn't you use your old knowledge, and +learn to paint without seeing?" she asked. "You might +have a line for the horizon, and with someone to mix your +colours under your directions—someone who'd tell you +where to find the reds, where the greens, and so on, someone +to warn you if you went wrong. You might make +wonderful effects."</p> + +<p>"I've thought of that," said Brian. "I've hoped—it +might be. Sometime, when this trip is over, I may ask +my sister's help——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, your sister's!" Dierdre broke in. "But she may +marry. Or she may go back to nursing again. I wish I +could help you. It would make me happy. It would be +helping myself, more than you! And we could begin soon. +I could buy you paints from a list you'd give me. If +we succeeded, you could surprise your sister and the +Becketts. It would be splendid."</p> + +<p>Brian agreed that it would be splendid, but he said that +his sister must be "in" it, too. He wouldn't have secrets +from her, even for the pleasure of a surprise.</p> + +<p>"She won't let me help you," Dierdre said. "She'll +want to do everything for you herself."</p> + +<p>Brian assured the girl that she was mistaken about his +sister. "She's mistaken about you, too," he added.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +"You'll see! Molly'll be grateful to you for inventing such +a plan for me. She'll want you to be the one to carry it +out."</p> + +<p>No argument of his could convince the girl, however. +They came back to the hotel at last, after a walk by +the river, closer friends than before, but Dierdre depressed, +if no longer sulky. She seemed in a strange, tense mood, +as though there were more she wished to say—if she +dared.</p> + +<p>Dusk was falling (this was evening of the day we arrived, +you must realize, Padre) and Brian admitted that he was +tired. He'd taken no such walk since he came out of +hospital, weeks and weeks ago.</p> + +<p>"Let's go and sit in the <i>salon</i>, to rest a few minutes and +finish our talk," he proposed. "We're almost sure to +have the room to ourselves."</p> + +<p>But for once Brian's intuition was at fault. There were +two persons in the little <i>salon</i>, a lady writing letters at a +desk by the window, and a French officer who had drawn +the one easy chair in the room in front of a small wood fire. +This fire had evidently not existed long, as the room was +cold, with the grim, damp chill of a place seldom occupied +or opened to the air.</p> + +<p>As Dierdre led Brian in, the lady at the desk glanced up +at the newcomers, and the officer in the big chair turned +his head. The woman was young and very remarkable +looking, with the pearl-pale skin of a true Parisian, large +dark eyes under clearly sketched black brows, and masses +of prematurely white hair.</p> + +<p>For a second, Dierdre thought this beautiful hair must +be blonde, as the woman could not be more than twenty-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span>eight; +but the light from the window fell full upon the +silver ripples, blanching them to dazzling whiteness.</p> + +<p>"What a lovely creature," the girl thought. "What +can have happened to turn her hair white?"</p> + +<p>As for the man, Dierdre took an instant dislike to him, +for his selfishness. His face was burned a deep, ruddy +brown, and his eyes, lit by the red glow of the fire, were +bright with a black, bead-like brightness. They stared so +directly, so unblinkingly at Brian, that Dierdre was vexed. +She was his chosen friend, his confidante, his champion +now! Not even Sirius could be more fiercely devoted than +she, who had to atone for her past injustice. She was angry +that blind Brian should be thus coldly stared at, and that +a man in better health than he should calmly sprawl in the +best chair, screening the fire.</p> + +<p>By this time, Padre, you will have learned enough about +Dierdre O'Farrell to know what her temper is! She forgot +that a stranger might not realize Brian's blindness at first +sight in a room where the dusk was creeping in, and she +spoke sharply, in her almost perfect French.</p> + +<p>"There's quite a nice fire," she said, "and I should have +thought there was room for everybody to enjoy it, but it +seems there's only enough for <i>one</i>! We'd better try the +<i>salle à manger</i>, instead, I suppose."</p> + +<p>Brian, puzzled, paused at the door, his hand on Sirius's +head, Dierdre standing in front of them both like a ruffled +sparrow.</p> + +<p>The French officer straightened up in his chair with an +astonished look, but did not rise. It was the woman by +the window (Dierdre had not connected her with the man +by the fire) who sprang to her feet. "Mademoiselle," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> +said quietly, in a voice of exquisite sweetness, "my husband +would be the first one in the world to move, and give +his place to others, if he had known that he was monopolizing +the fire. But he did not know. It was I who placed +him there. Those eyes of his which look so bright are +made of crystal. He lost his sight at the Chemin des +Dames."</p> + +<p>As she spoke, choking on the last words, the woman with +white hair crossed the room swiftly, and caught the hand +of her husband, which was stretched out as if groping for +hers. He stumbled to his feet, and she stood defending +him like a gentle creature of the woods at bay.</p> + +<p>Perhaps at no other moment of her life would Dierdre +O'Farrell have been struck with such poignant repentance. +That she, who had just been shown the secret, inner heart +of one blind man, should deliberately wound another, +seemed more than she could bear, and live.</p> + +<p>Brian remained silent, partly because he was still confused, +and partly to give Dierdre the chance to speak, +which he felt instinctively she would wish to seize.</p> + +<p>She took a step forward, then stopped, with a sob, +shamed tears stinging her eyes. "Will you forgive me?" +she begged. "I would rather have died than hurt a blind +man, or—or any one who loves a blind man. Lately I've +been finding out how sacred blindness is. I ought to have +guessed, Madame, that you were with him—that you +were his wife. I ought to have known that only a great +grief could have turned your wonderful hair white—you, +so young——"</p> + +<p>"Her hair white!" cried the blind officer. "No, I'll not +believe it. Suzanne, tell this lady she's mistaken. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span> +remember, in some lights, it was the palest gold, almost +silver—your beautiful hair that I fell in love with——"</p> + +<p>His voice broke. No one answered. There fell a dead +silence, and Dierdre had time to realize what she had done. +She had been cruel as the grave! She had accused a helpless +blind man of selfishness; and not content with that, +on top of all she had given away the secret that a brave +woman's love had hidden.</p> + +<p>"Suzanne—you don't speak!"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" the trembling woman tried to laugh. "Of +course, Mademoiselle is mistaken. That goes without +saying."</p> + +<p>"Yes—I—of <i>course</i>," Dierdre echoed. "It was the +light—deceived me."</p> + +<p>"And now," said the blind man slowly, "you are trying +to deceive <i>me</i>—you are both trying! Suzanne, why did +you keep it from me that your hair had turned white with +grief? Didn't you know I'd love you more, for such a +proof of love for me?"</p> + +<p>"Indeed, I—oh, you mustn't think——" she began to +stammer. "I loved your dear eyes as you loved my hair. +But I love it twice as much now. I——"</p> + +<p>He cut her short. "I don't think. I <i>know</i>. <i>Chérie</i>, +you need have had no fear. I shall worship you after +this."</p> + +<p>"She could never have been so lovely before. Her hair +is like spun glass," Dierdre tried to atone. "People would +turn to look at her in the street. Monsieur le Capitaine, +you should be proud of such a beautiful wife."</p> + +<p>"I am," the man answered, "proud of her beauty, more +proud of her heart."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But it is I who am proud!" the woman caught him up. +"He has lost his dear eyes that all women admired, yet +he has won honours such as few men have. What does +it matter about my poor hair? You can see by the ribbons +on his breast, Mademoiselle, what he is—what he has done +for his country. You also, Monsieur, you see——"</p> + +<p>"I don't see, Madame, because I, too, am blind," said +Brian. "But I feel—I feel that your husband has won +something which means more than his eyes, more than all +his honours and decorations: a great love."</p> + +<p>"You are <i>blind</i>!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman. "I +should never have guessed. Ah, Madame, it is I who must +now ask your pardon! I called you 'Mademoiselle.' +Already I had forgiven you what you said in error. But +I did not understand, or the forgiveness would have +been easier. Your first thought was for your husband—your +blind husband—just as my thought always is and +will be for mine! You wanted him to have a place by the +fire. Your temper was in arms, not for yourself, but +for him—his comfort. How well I understand now! +Madame, you and I have the same cross laid upon us. +But it's a cross of honour. It is <i>le croix de guerre</i>!"</p> + +<p>"I wish I had a right to it!" Dierdre broke out. +"I haven't, because he is not my husband. He doesn't +care for me—except maybe, as a friend. But to atone to +him for injustice, to punish myself for hurting <i>you</i>, I'll confess +something. I'd marry him to-morrow, blind as he is—perhaps +<i>because</i> he is blind!—and be happy and proud all +my life—if he would have me. Only,—<i>I know he won't</i>."</p> + +<p>"My child! I care too much for you," Brian answered, +after an instant of astonished silence, "far too much to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> +take you at your word. Some men might—but not I! +Monsieur le Capitaine here, and Madame, were husband +and wife before their trouble came. That is different——"</p> + +<p>"No!" cried the woman whose name was Suzanne. +"It is not different. My husband's the one man on earth +for me. If we were not married—if he had lost his legs +and arms as well as his eyes, I'd still want to be his wife—want +it more than a kingdom."</p> + +<p>"You hear, Monsieur," her husband said, laughing a +little, and holding her close, with that perfect independence +of onlookers which the French have when they're +thoroughly in love.</p> + +<p>"I hear, Madame," said Brian. "But you, Monsieur le +Capitaine—you would not have accepted the sacrifice——"</p> + +<p>"I'm not sure I could have resisted," the Frenchman +smiled.</p> + +<p>"You love her!—that is why," Dierdre said. "My +friend—doesn't love me. He never could. I'm not +worthy. No one good could love me. If he knew the worst +of me, he'd not even be my friend. And I suppose, after +this, he won't be. If, by and by, I'm not ashamed of myself +for what I've said, he'll be ashamed for me, because——"</p> + +<p>"Don't!" Brian stopped her. "You know I mustn't +let myself love you, Dierdre. And you don't really love +me. It's only pity and some kind of repentance—for +nothing at all—that you feel. But we'll be greater +friends than ever. I understand just why you spoke, and +it's going to help me a lot—like a strong tonic. You +must have known it would. And if Monsieur and +Madame have forgiven us——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Us? What have <i>you</i> done? If they've forgiven +me——"</p> + +<p>"They have, indeed, forgiven," said the blind Frenchman. +"They even thank you. If possible you've drawn +them closer together than before."</p> + +<p>Brian searched for Dierdre's hand, and found it. "Let +us go now, and leave them," he whispered.</p> + +<p>So they went away, and Brian softly shut the door of the +little <i>salon</i>.</p> + +<p>"I <i>did</i> mean every word I said!" the girl blurted out, +turning upon him in the hall. "But—I shouldn't have +dared say it if I hadn't been sure you didn't care. And +even if you did care—or could—your sister wouldn't let +you. She knows me exactly as I am."</p> + +<p>"She <i>shall</i> know you as you are—my true and brave +little friend!" Brian said.</p> + +<p>He can find his way about wonderfully, even in a house +with which he is merely making acquaintance: besides, +Sirius was with him. But he felt an immense tenderness +for Dierdre after that desperate confession. He didn't +wish the girl to fancy that he could get on without her +just then, or that he thought she had any reason for running +away from him. He asked if she would take him to +his room, so that he might rest there, alone, remembering +an exquisite moment of his life.</p> + +<p>"It's wonderful to feel that for a beautiful girl like you—blind +as I am, I am a <i>man</i>!" he said. "Thank you with +all my heart—for everything."</p> + +<p>"Who told you I was beautiful?" Dierdre flung the +question at him.</p> + +<p>"My sister Mary told me," Brian answered. "Be<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span>sides—I +felt it. A man does feel such things—perhaps all +the more if he is blind."</p> + +<p>"Your sister Mary?" the girl echoed. "She doesn't +think I'm beautiful. Or if she does, it's against her +will."</p> + +<p>"It won't be, after this."</p> + +<p>"Why not? You won't tell her——"</p> + +<p>"I'll tell her to love you, and—to help me not to!"</p> + +<p>It was just then they came to Brian's door, and Dierdre +fled, Sirius staring after her in dignified surprise.</p> + +<p>But Dierdre herself came to me at once, and told me +everything, with a kind of proud defiance.</p> + +<p>"I <i>do</i> love your brother," she boasted. "I <i>would</i> marry +him if he'd have me. I don't care what you think of me, +or what you say!"</p> + +<p>"Why, I love you for loving him," I threw back at her. +"That's what I think of you—and that's what I say."</p> + +<p>I was sincere, Padre. Yet I don't see how they can ever +marry, even if Brian should learn to love the girl enough. +Neither one has a penny—and—<i>Brian is blind</i>. Who can +tell if he will ever get his sight again? I wish Dierdre +hadn't come into our lives in just the way she did come! +I wish she weren't Julian O'Farrell's sister! I hope she +won't be pricked by that queer conscience of hers to tell +Brian any secrets which concern me as well as Julian and +herself. And I hope—whatever happens!—that I shan't +be mean enough to be jealous. But—with such a new, +exciting "friendship" for Brian's prop, it seems as if, for +me—Othello's occupation would be gone!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> + + +<p>We're at Amiens, where we came by way of +Montdidier and Moreuil; and nearly two weeks +have dragged or slipped away since I wrote last. +Meanwhile a thousand things have happened. But I'll +begin at the beginning and write on till I am called by +Mother Beckett.</p> + +<p>We stopped at Soissons three more days after I told you +about Dierdre and Brian, and Captain Devot and his wife. +Not only did they forgive Dierdre—those two—but they +took her to their hearts, perhaps more for Brian's sake +than her own. I was introduced to them, and they were +kind to me, too. Of the blind man I have a beautiful +souvenir. I must tell you about it, Padre!</p> + +<p>The evening before we left Soissons (when the doctor +had pronounced Mother Beckett well enough for a short +journey) I had an hour in the stuffy little <i>salon</i> with +Dierdre and Brian and the Devots. We sat round the +fire—plenty of room for us all, in a close circle—and Captain +Devot began to talk about his last battle on the +Chemin des Dames. Suddenly he realized that the story +was more than his wife could bear—for it was in that +battle he lost his eyes! How he realized what she was +enduring, I don't know, for she didn't speak, or even sigh, +and Brian sat between them; so he couldn't have known +she was trembling. It must have been some electric<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> +current of sympathy between the husband and wife, I +suppose—a magnetic flash to which a blind man would +be more sensitive than others. Anyhow, he suddenly +stopped speaking of the fight, and told us instead about a +dream he had the night before the battle—a dream where +he saw the ladies for whom "The Ladies' Way" was made, +go riding by, along the "Chemin des Dames."</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"In silks and satins the ladies went<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Where the breezes sighed and the poplars bent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Taking the air of a Sunday morn<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Midst the red of poppies and gold of corn—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Flowery ladies in gold brocades,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With negro pages and serving maids,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">In scarlet coach or in gilt sedan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">With brooch and buckle and flounce and fan,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Patch and powder and trailing scent,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Under the trees the ladies went,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Lovely ladies that gleamed and glowed,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">As they took the air of the Ladies' Road."<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>That verse came from <i>Punch</i>, not from Captain Devot. +I happen to remember it because it struck my fancy when +I read it, and added to the romance of the road made for +Louis XV's daughters—daughters of France, where +now so many sons of France have died for France! But +the ladies of Captain Devot's dream were like that, travelling +with a gorgeous cavalcade, and as they rode, they were +listening to a song about the old Abbey of Vauclair on the +plateau of the Craonne. When they came to a place +where the poppies clustered thickest, the three princesses +insisted on stopping—Princess Adelaide, Princess Sophia,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> +Princess Victoire. They wished to gather the flowers to +take with them to the Château de Bove, where they were +going to visit their <i>dame d'honneur</i>, Madame de Narbonne, +but their guards argued that already it was growing +late: they had better hurry on. At this the girls laughed +silvery laughter. What did time matter to them? This +was <i>their</i> road, made and paved for their pleasure! They +would not be hurried along it. No indeed; to show that +time as well as the road was theirs, to do with as they liked, +they would get down and make a chain of poppies long +enough to stretch across the whole plateau before it dipped +to the valley of the Aillette!</p> + +<p>So, in Captain Devot's dream, the princesses descended, +and they and all their pretty ladies began weaving a chain +of poppies. As they wove, the flower-chain fell from their +little white fingers and trailed along the ground in a crimson +line. The sun dropped toward the west, and thunder +began to roll: still they worked on! Their gentlemen-in-charge +begged them to start again, and at last they rose +up petulantly to go; but they had stayed too late. The +storm burst. Lightning flashed; thunder roared; rain +fell in torrents; and—strange to see—the poppy petals +melted, so that the long chain of flowers turned to a liquid +stream, red as a river of blood. The princesses were +frightened and began to cry. Their tears fell into the +crimson flood. Captain Devot, who seemed in his dream +to be one of the ladies' attendants, jumped from his horse +to pick up the princesses' tears, which turned into little, +rattling stones as they fell. With that, he waked. The +princesses were gone—"all but <i>Victoire</i>," he said, smiling, +"she shall stay with us! The thunder was the thunder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> +of German guns. The poppies were there—and the blood +was there. So also were the stones that had been the +princesses' tears. They lie all along the Chemin des +Dames to this day. I gathered some for my wife, and if +you like she will give a few to you, ladies—souvenirs of +the Ladies' Way!"</p> + +<p>Of course we did like; so Dierdre and I each have a +small, glistening gray stone, with a faint splash of red +upon it. I would not sell mine for a pearl!</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Father Beckett proposed to take his wife back to Paris; +but while she rested after the fever, industriously she built +up another plan. You remember, Padre, my telling you +that the Becketts were negotiating for a château, before +they arrived in France to visit their son? When they +heard that Jim had fallen, they no longer cared to live +in this château (which was to let, furnished), nevertheless, +they felt bound in honour to stick to their bargain. Well, +at Soissons, Mother Beckett had it "borne in upon her" +that Jim would wish his father and mother to stay at the +old house he had loved and coveted for himself.</p> + +<p>"I can't go back across the sea and settle down at home +while this war goes on!" she said. "Home just wouldn't +be <i>home</i>. It's too far away from Jim. I don't mean from +his <i>body</i>," she went on. "His body isn't <i>Jim</i>, I know! +I've thought that out, and made myself realize the truth +of it. But it's Jim's spirit I'm talking about, Father. I +guess his soul—Jim himself—won't care to be flitting +back and forth, crossing the ocean to visit us, while his +friends are fighting in France and Belgium, to save the +world. I know my boy well enough to be sure he's too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> +strong to change much just because he is what some folks +call 'dead'; and he'd like us to be near. Paris won't +do for me. No city would. I'd be too restless there. +Do, <i>do</i> let's go and live till the end of the war in Jim's +château! That's what he's wanting. I feel it every +minute."</p> + +<p>I was in the room when she made this appeal to her +husband, and I longed to put into their hearts the thought +Jack Curtis had put into mine. But, of course, I dared +not. It would have been cruel. Jack Curtis had nothing +to go upon except his impression—the same impression I +myself have at times, of Jim's vital presence in the midst +of life. I have it often, though never quite so strongly +as that night in Paris, when he would not let me kill +myself.</p> + +<p>It wasn't difficult to make Father Beckett consent to +the new plan. He told me afterward that his own great +wish was to find Jim's grave, when the end of the war +would make search possible. Beckett interests were +being safeguarded in America. They would not suffer +much from his absence. Besides, business no longer +seemed vitally important to him as of old. Money mattered +little now that Jim was gone.</p> + +<p>He would have abandoned his visit to the British front, +since Mother Beckett could not have the glimpse half +promised by the authorities. But she would not let him +give it up. "Molly" would take good care of her. When +she could move, we would all go to Amiens. There she +and I could be safely left for a few days, while Brian and +Father Beckett were at the front. As for Julian +O'Farrell and Dierdre, at first it appeared as if the little<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> +lady had left them out of her calculations. But I might +have known—knowing her—that she wouldn't do that +for long.</p> + +<p>She believed implicitly in their Red Cross mission, +which, ever since the little car joined the big one, has been +constantly aided with Beckett money and Beckett influence. +Julian would, she supposed, wish to "carry on +his good work," when our trip came to an end. But as +he had no permission for the British front (he hadn't cared +to make himself conspicuous to the British authorities +by asking for it!) he and Dierdre might like to keep us +two women company at Amiens. By the time we wanted +to leave, Mother Beckett confidently expected "Jim's +château" to be ready for occupation, and Dierdre must +visit "us" there indefinitely, while her brother dutifully +continued distributing supplies to hospitals and refugees. +("Us," according to Mother Beckett, meant Brian and me, +Father Beckett and herself, for we now constituted the +"family"!) Telegrams had given the Paris house-letting +agency <i>carte blanche</i> for hasty preparations at the Château +d'Andelle, where several old servants had been kept on as +caretakers: and being a spoiled American millionairess, +the little lady was confident that a week would see the +house aired, warmed, staffed, and altogether habitable.</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't object to having that poor little girl +stay with us, would you, dear?" Mother Beckett asked +me, patting my hand when she had revealed her ideas +concerning the O'Farrells.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no," I answered, looking straight into her inquiring +eyes, and trying not to change colour. "But you +shouldn't speak as if I had any right——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You have every right!" she cut me short. "Aren't +you our daughter?"</p> + +<p>"I love you and Father Beckett enough to be your +daughter," I said. "But that gives me no right——"</p> + +<p>"It does. Your love for us, and ours for you. I don't +believe we could have lived through our sorrow if it hadn't +been for you and Brian. He saved our reason by showing +us what Jim would want us to do for the good of others. +And he taught us what we couldn't seem to realize fully, +through religion, that death doesn't count. Now, since +I've been ill, I guess you've saved my life. And much as +I want to see Jim, I want even more to live for Father. +He needs me—and we both need you and Brian. You +two belong to us, just as if you'd been given to us by Jim. +We want to do what's best for you both. I thought, for +Brian, it would be good perhaps to have Dierdre——"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," I murmured, when she paused.</p> + +<p>"You're not sure? I wasn't at first. I mean, I wasn't +sure she was good enough. But since the night when she +threw herself in front of him to keep off the dog, I saw she +cared. Maybe she didn't know it herself till then. But +she's known ever since. You've only to see the way she +looks at him. And she's growing more and more of a +woman—Brian's influence, and the influence of her love—such +a great influence, dear! It might be for his happiness, +if——"</p> + +<p>"I don't think Brian would marry Dierdre or any girl, +unless his sight came back," I said. "He's often told me +he wouldn't marry."</p> + +<p>"Was that before he went to Paris with the O'Farrells? +Things have been rather different since then—and a good<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +<i>deal</i> different since the night we met Jack Curtis with +Sirius."</p> + +<p>"I know," I admitted. "But if Brian wanted to change +his mind about marrying, he couldn't. Neither he nor +Dierdre O'Farrell have a penny——"</p> + +<p>"Brian's got as much as we have," the dear woman +assured me.</p> + +<p>"Do you think he'd take your money to marry on? +No, dearest! Brian's very unworldly. So far, he hasn't +worried about finances for the present. The future is +different. If he doesn't get back his sight——"</p> + +<p>"But he will—he must!" she urged. "That great +specialist you saw in Paris gave him hope. And then +there's the other one that your doctor friend recommended——."</p> + +<p>"He's somewhere at the front. We can't get at him +now."</p> + +<p>"We'll get at him later," Mother Beckett persisted. +"In the meantime—let's give those two hearts the chance +to draw together, if it's best for them."</p> + +<p>I could not go on objecting. One can't, for long, when +that little angel of a woman wants a thing—she who never +wants anything for herself, only for others! But I thought +Fate might step between Brian and Dierdre—Fate, in +the shape of Puck. I wasn't at all sure that Julian O'Farrell +could be contented to leave his sister and continue +his own wanderings. The Red Cross taxi had in truth +been only a means to an end. I didn't fancy that his +devotion to duty would carry him far from the Château +d'Andelle while Dierdre was comfortably installed in it. +Unless he were invited to <i>embusquer</i> himself there, in our<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> +society, I expected a crash. Which shows how little I +knew my Julian!</p> + +<p>When the plan was officially suggested to him, he agreed +as if with enthusiasm. It was only when he'd consented +to Dierdre's visit at the château on the other side of the +Somme, and promised to drop in now and then himself +on his way somewhere else, that he allowed himself a +second thought. To attract attention to it, he started, +ran his hand through his hair, and stopped in the middle +of a sentence. "I am heaven's own fool!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>Of course Father Beckett wanted to know why. (This +was two days before we started for Amiens.) Julian +"registered reluctance." Father Beckett persisted, and +drew forth the information that Julian <i>might</i> have to cut +short his career as a ministering Red Cross angel. "If +it hadn't been for you," he said, "my funds and my +supplies would have run short before this. You've +helped me carry on. But I'm getting pretty close to +the bone again now, I'm afraid. A bit closer and I shall +have to settle down and give music lessons. That's all +I'm fit for in future! And Dierdre wouldn't want me +to set up housekeeping alone. While I'm on this Red +Cross job it's all right, but——"</p> + +<p>Of course Father Beckett broke in to say that there was +no question of not carrying on. Money should be forthcoming +for supplies as long as Julian felt inclined to drive +the Red Cross taxi from one scene of desolation and distress +to another. Holidays must be frequent, and all +spent at the Château d'Andelle. Let the future decide +itself!</p> + +<p>So matters were settled—on the surface. Julian was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> +ready to pose before an admiring audience as the self-sacrificing +hero, giving all his time and energy to a noble +cause. Only his sister and I knew that he was the villain +of the piece, and for different reasons neither of us could +explain the mistake about his rôle. He was sure of us +both; impudently, aggravatingly, yet (I can't <i>help</i> it, +Padre!) amusingly sure of me. He tried to "isolate" +me, as if I'd been a microbe while we were still at Soissons, +and again just after Father Beckett and Brian went away +from Amiens in the big gray car. There was something, +something very special that he wished to say to me, I +could tell by his eyes. But I contrived to thwart him. +I never left Mother Beckett for a moment!</p> + +<p>The first day at Amiens it was easy to keep out of his +way altogether, for I was nurse as well as friend, and my +dear little invalid was worn out after the journey from +Soissons. She asked nothing better than to stop in her +room. The next day, however, exciting news acted +upon her like a tonic. The Amiens address had been +wired to Paris, and in addition to a mass of letters (mostly +for Father Beckett) there was a telegram from the Château +d'Andelle, despatched by an agency messenger, who had +been sent to Normandy. All was going well. The house +would be ready on the date named. Two large boxes +from the Ritz had safely arrived by <i>grande vitesse</i>.</p> + +<p>"Darling Jimmy's own things!" Mother Beckett +explained to me. "Do you remember my telling you +we'd brought over to France the treasures out of his den +at home?"</p> + +<p>I did remember. (Do I ever forget anything she says +about Jim?)<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> + +<p>"They were to be a surprise for him when he came to +see us," his mother went on, tears misting the blueness of +her eyes. "Not furniture, you know, but just the little +things he loved best in his rooms: some he had when he +was a child, and others when he was growing up—and the +picture your brother painted. When we heard—the +news—and knew we shouldn't see our boy again in this +world, I couldn't bear to open the boxes—though I was +longing to cry over his dear treasures. They've been +stored at the Ritz ever since. But the first thing I asked +Father to do when we decided the other day to live in +Jim's château, after all—was to wire for the boxes to be +sent there. I didn't suppose they'd arrive so soon—in +war time. Dear me, I can hardly wait to start, now! +I feel as strong as a girl."</p> + +<p>To prove this—or because she was restless—she begged +to be taken out in a cab to see the town, especially the +cathedral, which Brian had told her was the largest in +Europe except St. Peter's in Rome, St. Sophia in Constantinople, +and something in Cologne which she didn't +<i>want</i> to remember! Julian O'Farrell and his sister must +go with us, of course. It wouldn't be kind to leave them +to do their sightseeing alone. Besides, Julian was so +good-natured, and said such funny things it would be +pleasant to have his society.</p> + +<p>This arrangement made it difficult for me to glue myself +to Mother Beckett's side. Now and then she insisted +upon getting out of the cab to try her strength, and +Dierdre would obediently have taken her in tow, in order +to hand me over to "Jule," if I hadn't been mulishly +obstinate. I quite enjoyed manœuvring to use my dear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> +little invalid as a sort of standing barrage against enemy +attacks, and even though Brian and I were parted for the +first time since his blindness, I felt almost absurdly cheerful. +It was so good to know that Mother Beckett was out of +danger, and that it was I who had helped to drag her out! +Besides, after all the stricken towns that have saddened +our eyes, it was enlivening to be in one (as Mother Beckett +said at Compiègne) with "whole houses." In contrast, +good St. Firmin's ancient city looks almost as gay as Paris. +Our hotel with its pleasant garden and the fine shops—(where +it seems you can still buy every fascinating thing +from newest jewellery and oldest curiosities, to Amiens' +special "<i>roc</i>" chocolates)—the long, arboured boulevards, +the cobbled streets, the quaint blue and pink houses of the +suburbs, and the poplar-lined walk by the Somme, all, all +have the friendliest air! Despite the crowds of soldiers +in khaki and horizon blue who fill the streets and cafés, +the place seems outside war. Even the stacked sandbags +walling the west front and the side portals of the grandest +cathedral in France suggest comfortable security rather +than fear. The jackdaws and pigeons that used to +be at home in the carvings, camp contentedly among +the bags, or walk in the neglected grass where sleep +the dead of long ago. I didn't want to remember just +then, or let any one else remember, that twenty miles away +were the trenches and thousands of the dead of to-day!</p> + +<p>Never can Amiens have been such a kaleidoscope of +colourful animation since Henri II of France and Edward +VI of England signed the treaty of peace here, with trains +of diplomatists and soldiers of church and state and dignified +rejoicings!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span></p> + +<p>It wasn't until we were inside the cathedral that I forgot +my manœuverings. The soft, rich light gave such a bizarre +effect to the sandbags protecting the famous choir carvings, +that I was all eyes for a moment: and during that +moment Julian must have signed to his sister to decoy +Mother Beckett away from me. When I hauled my soul +down from the soaring arches as one strikes a flag, there +was Puck at my side and there were Mother Beckett and +Dierdre disappearing behind sandbag-hillocks, in the +direction of the celebrated Cherub.</p> + +<p>"I suppose you want me jolly well to understand," +said Puck, smiling, "that even if your brother Brian and +my sister Dare are fools over each other, you won't be +fooled into forgiving a poor, broken-voiced Pierrot?"</p> + +<p>"I've nothing to forgive you for, personally," I said. +"Only——"</p> + +<p>"Only, you don't want to be friends?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't want to be friends," I echoed. "Why +can't you be content with being treated decently before +people, instead of following me about, trying always to +bring upon yourself——"</p> + +<p>"A lamp might ask that question of a moth."</p> + +<p>I laughed. "You're less like a moth than any creature +I ever met!"</p> + +<p>"You don't believe I'm sincere."</p> + +<p>"Do moths specialize in sincerity in the insect world?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," Puck said, more gravely than usual. "Come +to think of it, that's just what they <i>do</i>. They risk their +lives for the light they love. I 'follow you about,' as you +put it, because I love you and want to persuade you that +we're birds of a feather, made for each other by nature<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> +and fate and our mutual behaviour. We belong together +in life."</p> + +<p>"Do you really believe you can blackmail me into a +partnership?" I turned at bay. "You must have seen +that I wanted to keep out of your way——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I saw all right. <i>You</i> thought that I thought +Amiens would be my great chance, and you made up +your mind it shouldn't be if you could help it. Well, you +won't be able to help it much longer, because I've got something +you want, and you can't get it except through me."</p> + +<p>"I doubt very much that I could want anything you +have," I said.</p> + +<p>"Give your imagination wings."</p> + +<p>"You are always teasing me to guess things I don't care +to guess!"</p> + +<p>"Here comes Dierdre back with Mrs. Beckett so I +won't worry you to guess. I've got a message from the +Wandering Jew. Do you want it, or don't you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> + + +<p>If Julian had suddenly popped down an apple on +the top of my head, <i>à la</i> Gessler and the son of William +Tell, and thereupon proceeded to shoot it off, I +could have been no more amazed. For once he outflanked +me, caught me completely off my guard! I saw by the +impish gleam in his eye how delighted he was with himself.</p> + +<p>"Yes or no, please; quick!" he fired the next volley as I +stood speechless.</p> + +<p>"Yes!" I gasped. "I do want the message—if it's for +me. But why should he send word through you?"</p> + +<p>"He didn't. I caught it as I might catch a homing +carrier-pigeon. You know, my motto is 'All's fair in love +and war.' In my case, both exist—your fault! Besides, +what I did was for your good."</p> + +<p>"What did you do—what did you <i>dare</i> to do?"</p> + +<p>"Dare!" Puck mimicked my foolish fury. "'Dare' is +such a melodramatic word from you to me. I can't tell +you now what I did, or the message—no time. But I'm +in as much of a hurry as you are. When can I see you +alone?"</p> + +<p>I hesitated, because it would be like him to cheat me with +some trick, and chuckle at my rage. I couldn't see how a +message from Paul Herter for me had reached Julian +O'Farrell, unless he'd intercepted a letter. It seemed far +more likely that Puck was romancing, yet I felt in my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> +bones and heart and solar plexus that he wasn't! I +simply <i>had</i> to know—and in a flurry, before Mother +Beckett and Dierdre were upon us, I said, "This afternoon, +at three, when Mrs. Beckett is having her nap. +I'll meet you in the garden of the hotel."</p> + +<p>Though I dash along with this story of mine, Padre, as if +I went straight on describing the scene between Julian and +me from beginning to end, without a break, it isn't really +so. I've been interrupted more than once, and may be +again; but I shall tell you everything that's happened since +we came to Amiens, as if I wrote consecutively. You +can understand better in that way, and help me with your +strength and love, through your understanding, as I feel +you do help, whenever I make you my confessions. Since +I've begun to write you, as in old days when you were in +the flesh, I've felt your advice come to me in electric +flashes. I'm sure I don't just imagine this. It's real, dear +Padre, and makes all the difference to me that a rope flung +out over dark waters would make to a drowning man.</p> + +<p>At three o'clock I was in the garden. It was cold, but +I didn't care. Besides, I was too excited to feel the chill. +I wanted to be out of doors because there would be people +about, and no chance for Julian to try and kiss my hand—no +vulgar temptation for me to box his ears!</p> + +<p>He was already waiting, strolling up and down, smoking +a cigarette which he threw away at sight of me. Evidently +he'd decided on this occasion not to be frivolous!</p> + +<p>I selected a seat safely commanded by many windows. +"Now!" I said, sitting down close to one end of the bench.</p> + +<p>Julian took the other end, but sat gazing straight at me +without a word. There was an odd expression on his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> +face. I didn't know how to read it, or to guess what was +to come. But there was nothing Puckish about the enemy +at that moment. He looked nervous—almost as if he were +afraid. I thought of something you told me when I was +quite small, Padre: how the Romans of old used to send +packets of good news bound with laurel, or of bad news, +tied with the plumes of ravens. I stared into Julian O'Farrell's +stare, and wished that he'd stuck a green leaf or a +black feather in his buttonhole to prepare my mind.</p> + +<p>"Yes—now!" he echoed at last, as if he'd suddenly +waked up to my challenge. "Well, a man blew into this +hotel last night—a lame Frenchman with a face like a +boiled ghost. I was writing an important telegram (I'll +tell you about that later), when I heard this person ask the +concierge if a Miss Mary O'Malley was staying in the +house. That made me open my eyes—because he was of +the lower <i>bourgeois</i> class, and hadn't the air of being—so +to speak—in your set. It seemed as if 'twas up to me to +tackle him; so I did. I introduced myself as a friend of +Miss O'Malley's, travelling with her party. I explained +that Miss O'Malley was taking care of an old lady who'd +been ill and was tired after a long journey. I asked if he'd +like to give a message. He said he would. But first +he began to explain who he was: an Alsatian by birth, +named Muller, corporal in an infantry regiment; been a +prisoner in Germany, I forget how long—taken wounded; +leg amputated; and fitted with artificial limb in a Boche +hospital; just exchanged for a <i>grand blessé</i> Boche, and repatriated; +been in Paris on important business, apparently +with the War Office—sounded more exciting than he +looked! After I'd prodded the chap tactfully, he came<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> +back to the subject of the message: asked me if I knew +Doctor Paul Herter. I said I did know him. Herter +mended up my sister after an air raid. I inquired politely +where Herter was, but Muller evaded that question. He +led me to suppose he'd seen Herter in Paris; but putting +two and two together, I got a different idea—<i>altogether</i> +different."</p> + +<p>Julian paused on those words, and tried piercingly to +read my thoughts. But I made my face expressionless as +the front of a shut-up house, with "to let unfurnished" +over the door.</p> + +<p>"I expect you've guessed what my idea was, and I bet +you know for a fact whether I was on the right track," he +ventured.</p> + +<p>"The only thing so far which I know for a fact," I +said, "is that you had no right to talk to the man at all. +You should have sent for me at once."</p> + +<p>"You couldn't have come if I had. Dierdre had told me +about five minutes before that you were putting Mrs. +Beckett to bed, and giving her a massage treatment with a +rub-down of alcohol."</p> + +<p>"Why didn't you ask the man to wait?"</p> + +<p>"I did ask him if he <i>could</i> wait, and he said he couldn't. +He'd stopped at Amiens on purpose to deliver his message, +and he had to catch a train on to Allonville, to where it +seems his people have migrated."</p> + +<p>"You asked him that because you hoped he couldn't +wait—and if he could, you'd have found some reason for +not letting me meet him. You thought you saw a way of +getting a new hold over me!"</p> + +<p>"Some such dramatic idea may have flitted through my<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> +head. I've often warned you, I <i>am</i> dramatic! I enjoy +dramatizing life for myself and others! But honestly, he +couldn't wait for you to finish with Mrs. Beckett. I know +too well how devoted you are to think you'd have left the +old lady before you'd soothed her off to sleep."</p> + +<p>"Where is the message?" I snatched Julian back to the +point.</p> + +<p>"In my brain at present."</p> + +<p>"You destroyed the letter?"</p> + +<p>"There wasn't a letter. Oh, make grappling hooks of +your lovely eyes if you like! You can't drag anything out +of me that doesn't exist. Herter's message to you was +verbal for safety. That was one thing set me thinking the +men hadn't met in Paris. Muller admitted going to a +bank to get your address. The people there didn't want +to give it, but when he explained that it was important, +and mentioned where he was going, they saw that he +might have time to meet you at Amiens on his way home. +So they told him where you were. Now, there's no good +your being cross with <i>me</i>. What's done is done, and +can't be undone. I acted for the best—<i>my</i> best; and in +my opinion for your best. Listen! Here's the message, +word for word. You'll see that a few hours' delay for me to +think it over could make no difference to any one concerned. +Paul Herter, from somewhere—but maybe not +'somewhere in France'—sends you a verbal greeting, because +it was more sure of reaching you—not coming to +grief <i>en route</i>. He reminds you that he asked for an address +in case he had something of interest to communicate. He +hoped to find the grave of a man you loved. Instead, he +thinks he has found that there is no grave—that the man<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> +is above ground and well. He isn't sure yet whether he +may be deceived by a likeness of names. But he's sure +enough to say: 'Hope.' If he's right about the man, you +may get further news almost any minute by way of Switzerland +or somewhere neutral. That's all. Yet it's enough +to show you what danger you're in. If Herter hadn't +been practically certain, he wouldn't have sent any +message. He'd have waited. Evidently you made +him believe that you loved Jim Beckett, so he wanted to +prepare your mind by degrees. I suppose he imagined a +shock of joy might be dangerous. Well, you ought to +thank Herter just the same for sparing you a worse +sort of shock. And I thank him, too, for it gives me +a great chance—the chance to save you. Mary, the +time's come for you and me to fade off the Beckett scene—together."</p> + +<p>I listened without interrupting him once: at first, because +I was stunned, and a thousand thoughts beat dully +against my brain without finding their way in, as gulls +beat their wings against the lamp of a lighthouse; at last, +because I wished to hear Julian O'Farrell to the very end +before I answered. I fancied that in answering I could +better marshal my own thoughts.</p> + +<p>He misunderstood my silence—I expected him to do +that, but I cared not at all—so, when he had paused and +still I said nothing, he went on: "Of course I—for the +best of reasons—know you didn't love Jim Beckett, and +couldn't love him."</p> + +<p>Hearing those words of his, suddenly I knew just what I +wanted to say. I'd been like an amateur actress wild +with stage fright, who'd forgotten her part till the right<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> +cue came. "There you're mistaken," I contradicted him. +"I did love Jim Beckett."</p> + +<p>Julian gave an excited, brutal laugh. "Tell that to +the Marines, my child, not to yours truly! You never set +eyes on Jim Beckett. He never went near your hospital. +You never came near the training-camp. You seem to +have forgotten that I was on the spot."</p> + +<p>"I met him before the war," I said.</p> + +<p>"What's that?" Julian didn't know whether to believe +me or not, but his forehead flushed to the black line of his +low-growing hair.</p> + +<p>"I never told you, because there was no need to tell," +I went on. "But it's true. I fell in love with Jim Beckett +then, and—<i>he cared for me</i>."</p> + +<p>For the first time I realized that Julian O'Farrell's +"love" wasn't all pretence. His flush died, and left him +pale with that sick, greenish-olive pallor which men of +Latin blood have when they're near fainting. He opened +his lips, but did not speak, because, I think, he could not. +If I'd wanted revenge for what he made me suffer when he +first thrust himself into my life, I had it then; but to my +own surprise I felt no pleasure in striking him. Instead +I felt vaguely sorry, though very distant from his plans +and interests.</p> + +<p>"You—you weren't engaged to Beckett, anyhow. I'm +sure you weren't, or you'd have had nothing to worry +about when Dierdre and I turned up," he faced me +down.</p> + +<p>"No, we weren't engaged," I admitted. "I—was just +as much of a fraud as you meant Dierdre to be with Father +and Mother Beckett. I've no excuse—except that it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> +for Brian's sake. But that's no excuse really, and Brian +would despise me if he knew."</p> + +<p>"There you are!" Julian burst out, with a relieved sigh, +a more natural colour creeping back to his face. "If Jim +Beckett let you go before the war without asking you to +marry him, I'm afraid his love couldn't have been very +deep—not deep enough to make him forgive you after all +this time for deceiving his old father and mother the way +you have. My God, no! In spite of your beauty, he'd +have no mercy on you!"</p> + +<p>"That's what I think," I said. "My having met him, +and his loving me a little, makes what I've done more +shameful than if I'd never met him at all."</p> + +<p>"Then you see why you must get away as quick as you +can!" urged Julian, his eyes lighting as he drew nearer to +me on the garden bench. "Oh, wait, don't speak yet! +Let me explain my plan. There's time still. You're +thinking of Brian before yourself, maybe. But he's safe. +The Becketts adore him. They say he 'saved their +reason.' He makes the mysticism they're always groping +for seem real as their daily bread. He puts local colour +into the fourth dimension for them! They can never do +without Brian again. All that's needed is for him to propose +to Dierdre. I know—you think he won't, no matter +how he feels. But he'll have missed her while he's away. +She's a missable little thing to any one who likes her, and +she can tempt him to speak out in spite of himself when he +gets back. I'll see to it that she does. The Becketts +will be enchanted. The old lady's a born match-maker. +We can announce our engagement at the same time. While +they think Jim's dead, they won't grudge your being happy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> +with another man, especially with me. They're fond of +me! And you're young. Your life's before you. They're +too generous to stand in your way. They look on you as +a daughter, and Brian as a son. They'll give each of +you a handsome wedding present, and I don't doubt +they'll ask Brian to live with them, or near them, if he's to +be blind all his life. He'll have everything you wanted +to win for him. Even when they get into communication +with Jim, and find out the truth about you, why I +bet anything they'll hide it from Brian to keep him +happy! Meanwhile you and I will be in Paris, safely +married. An offer came to me yesterday from Jean De +Letzski—forwarded on. He's getting old. He wants +me to take on some of his pupils, under his direction. +I telegraphed back my acceptance. That's the wire I was +sending when Herter's man turned up last night. There +was a question last summer of my getting this chance with +De Letzski, but I hardly dared hope. It's a great stroke of +luck! In the end I shall stand in De Letzski's shoes, and +be a rich man—almost as rich as if I'd kept my place as +star tenor in opera. Even at the beginning you and I +won't be poor. I count on a wedding gift from the +Becketts to you of ten thousand dollars at least. The one +way to save our reputations is to marry or die brilliantly. +We choose the former. We can take a fine apartment. +We'll entertain the most interesting set in Paris. With +your looks and charm, and what's left of my voice, we——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>stop</i>!" I plunged into the torrent of his talk. +"You are making me—<i>sick</i>. Do you really believe I'd +accept money from Jim Beckett's parents, and—marry +you?"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p> + +<p>He stared, round-eyed and hurt, like a misunderstood +child. "But," he blundered on, "don't you see it's the +only thing you can do—anyhow, to marry me? If you +won't accept money, why it's a pity and a waste, but I +want you enough to snap you up without a franc. You +must marry me, dear. Think what I gave up for you!"</p> + +<p>I burst out laughing. "What you gave up for me!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Have you forgotten already? If I hadn't fallen +in love with you at first sight, and sacrificed myself and +Dierdre for your good, wouldn't my sister have been in +your place now, and you and your brother Lord knows +where—in prison as impostors, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"According to you, my place isn't a very enviable one at +present," I said. "But I'd rather be in prison for life +than married to you. What a vision—what a couple!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know having you for my wife would be a good +deal like going to heaven in a strong mustard plaster; but +I'd stand the smart for the sake of the bliss. If you won't +marry me and if you won't take money from the Becketts, +what will become of you? That's what I want to know! +You can't stay on with them. You daren't risk going to +their Château d'Andelle, as things are turning out. Herter's +certainly in Germany—ideal man for a spy! If he +runs across Jim Beckett, as he's trying to do, he'll move +heaven and earth to help him escape. He must have influence, +and secret ways of working things. He may +have got at Jim before this for all we can tell. Muller +let it leak out that he left Herter—somewhere—a week +ago. A lot can happen in a week—to a Wandering Jew. +The ground's trembling under your feet. You'll have to +skip without Brian, without money, without——"<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> + +<p>"I shall not stir," I said. "I can't leave Mrs. Beckett, +I won't leave her! The only way I can atone even a +little bit, is to stop and take care of her while she needs +me, no matter what happens. When she finds out, she +won't want me any longer. Then I'll go. But not +before."</p> + +<p>We glared at each other like two fencers through the +veil of falling dusk. Suddenly I sprang up from the bench, +remembering that, at least, I could escape from Julian, if +not from the sword of Damocles. But he caught my dress, +and held me fast.</p> + +<p>"What if I tell the old birds the whole story up to date?" +he blustered. "I can, you know."</p> + +<p>"You can. Please give me fair warning if you're going +to—that's all I ask. I'll try to prepare Mrs. Beckett's +mind to bear the shock. She's not very strong, but——"</p> + +<p>"If I don't tell, it won't be because of her. It will be +for you—always, everything, for you! But I haven't +decided yet. I don't know what I shall do yet. I must +think. You'll have to make the best of that compromise +unless you change your mind."</p> + +<p>"I shall not change my mind," I said.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX</h2> + + +<p>Later, Padre, when I'd broken away from Julian, +I wondered if he had made up the whole story. +The cruel trick would be impishly characteristic! +But I went straight to the concierge to ask about Muller. +He said that a man of that name had called the night before, +inquiring for me, and had talked with "the Monsieur who +looked like an Italian." This practically convinced me +that Julian hadn't lied.</p> + +<p>If only I could get direct advice from you! Do try to +send me an inspiration of what to do for the best.</p> + +<p>My first impulse was to give Mother Beckett a faint +hint of hope. But I dared not run the risk. If Paul +Herter proved to be mistaken, it would be for her like +losing her son a second time, and the dear one's strength +might not be equal to the strain. After thinking and unthinking +all night, I decided to keep silent until our two +men returned from the British front. Then, perhaps, I +might tell Brian of the message from Doctor Paul, and ask +his opinion about speaking to Father Beckett. As for +myself, I resolved not to make any confession, unless it +were certain that Jim lived. And I'm not sure, Padre, +whether that decision was based on sheer, selfish cowardice, +or whether I founded it partly on the arguments I +presented to myself. I said in my mind: "If it's true +that everything you did in the beginning was for Brian's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> +good, why undo it all at the most critical hour of his life, +when perhaps there may never be any reason to speak?" +Also I said: "Why make it impossible for yourself to give +Mother Beckett the care she needs, and can hardly do +without yet? Every day counts with her now. Why not +wait unless you hear again more definitely?"</p> + +<p>The annoying part of a specious argument is that there's +always some truth in it, and it seems like kind advice from +wise friends!</p> + +<p>Anyhow, I <i>did</i> wait. Julian made no further appeal to +me, and I felt sure that he said nothing to Dierdre. If he +had taken her into his confidence, I should have known by +her manner; because, from the shut-up, night-flower of a +girl that she was, she has rather pathetically opened out +for me into a daylight flower. All this since she came of +her own free will and told me of the scene in the chill +boarding house <i>salon</i> at Soissons. I used to think her as +secret as the grave—and deeper. She used to make me +"creep" as if a mouse ran over <i>mine</i>, by the way her +eyes watched me: still as a cat's looking into the fire. If +we had to shake hands, she used to present me with a +limp little bunch of cold fingers, which made me long to +ask what the deuce she wanted me to do with them? Now, +because I'm Brian's sister, and because I'm human enough +to love her love of him, the flower-part of her nature sheds +perfume and distils honey for me: the cat-part purrs; the +girl-part warms. The creature actually deigns to like me! +It could not now conceal its anxiety for Brian and Brian's +kith and kin, if it knew what Julian knows.</p> + +<p>I waited until our last day at Amiens, and Father Beckett, +Brian, and Sirius are back from the British front.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> +Perhaps I forgot to tell you that Sirius went. He wasn't +on the programme, but he knew somehow that his master +was planning a separation, and refused to fall in with the +scheme. He was discovered in the motor-car when it +was ready to start, looking his best, his dear face parted +in the middle with an irresistible, ingratiating smile. +When Brian tried to put him out he flattened himself, and +clung like a limpet. By Father Beckett's intercession, he +was eventually taken, trusting to luck for toleration by the +British Army. Of course he continued to smile upon all +possible arbiters of his fate; and the drama of his history, +combined with the pathos of his blind master who fought +on these battlefields of Flanders, which now he cannot see, +made Brian's Sirius and Sirius's Brian <i>personæ gratæ</i> everywhere.</p> + +<p>"I should have been nobody and nothing without +them!" modestly insisted the millionaire philanthropist +for whom all the privileges of the trip had been granted.</p> + +<p>To me, with the one thought, the one word "Jim—Jim—<i>Jim</i>!" +repeating in my head it was strange, even irrelevant +to hear Jim's unsuspecting father and my blind brother +discoursing of their adventures.</p> + +<p>We all assembled in Mother Beckett's sitting room to +listen to the recital, she on a sofa, a rug over her feet, and +on her transparent face an utterly absorbed, tense expression +rather like a French spaniel trying to learn an +English trick.</p> + +<p>Father Beckett appointed Brian as spokesman, and then +in his excitement broke in every instant with: "Don't +forget this! Be sure to remember that! But so-and-so +was the best!" Or he jumped up from his chair by the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> +sofa, and dropped his wife's hand to point out something +on the map, spread like a cloth over the whole top of a +bridge-table.</p> + +<p>It was his finger that sketched for our eyes the sharp +triangle which the road-journey had formed: Amiens to +Albert: Albert to Péronne: Péronne to Bapaume: Bapaume +to Arras: Arras to Bethune, and so on to Ypres: his +finger that reminded Brian of the first forest on the road—a +forest full of working German prisoners.</p> + +<p>At Pont-Noyelles, between Amiens and Albert, they +were met by an officer who was to be their guide for that +part of the British front which they were to visit. He +was sent from headquarters, but hadn't been able to afford +time for Amiens. However, Pont-Noyelles was the most +interesting place between there and Albert. A tremendous +battle was fought on that spot in '70, between the French +under famous General Faidherbe and the Germans under +Manteuffel—a <i>perfect</i> name for a German general of these +days, if not of those! There were two monuments to +commemorate the battle—one high on a hill above the +village; and the officer guide (with the face of a boy and +the grim experience of an Old Contemptible) was well up +in their history. He turned out to be a friend of friends of +Brian and knew the history of Sirius as well as that of all +the war-wasted land. He and Brian, though they'd never +met, had fought near each other it seemed, and he could +describe for the blind eyes all the changes that had come +upon the Somme country since Brian's "day." The +roads which had been remade by the British over the shell-scarred +and honeycombed surface of the land; the aerodromes; +the training-camps; the tanks; the wonderful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> +new railways for troops and ammunition: the bands of +German prisoners docilely at work.</p> + +<p><span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">When the great gray car stopped, throbbing, at special</span><br /> +view-points here and there, it was Brian who could listen +for a lark's message of hope among the billowing downs, or +draw in the tea-rose scent of earth from some brown field +tilled by a woman. It was Father Beckett who saw the +horrors of desolation—desolation more hideous even than +on the French front; because, since the beginning, here +had burned the hottest furnace of war: here had fallen a +black, never-ceasing rain of bombardment, night and day, +day and night, year after year.</p> + +<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">It was the cherubic Old Contemptible who could tell</span><br /> +each detail of war-history, when the car reached Albert. +It was Brian who knew the ancient legend of the place, and +the modern story of the spy, which, together, double the +dramatic interest of the Bending Virgin. In the eleventh +century a shepherd boy discovered, in a miraculous way, +a statue of the Virgin. There was a far-off sound of music +at night, when he was out in search of strayed sheep, and +being young he forgot his errand in curiosity to learn +whence came the mysterious chanting, accompanied by +the silver notes of a flute. The boy wandered in the direction +of the delicate sounds, and to his amazement found +all the lost flock grazing round a statue which appeared to +have risen from the earth. On that spot was built the +basilica of Notre-Dame de Brébières, which became a +place of pilgrimage. The Virgin of the Shepherds was +supposed to send her blessings far, far over the countryside, +and her gilded image, with the baby Christ in her +arms, was a flaming beacon at sunrise and sunset. Thus<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> +on her high tower the golden Lady stood when the war +began. Albert was pitilessly bombarded, and with a +startling accuracy which none could understand: yet the +church itself, with its temptingly high tower, remained +intact. Through October, 1914, the shining figure blazed +against the sky, while houses fell in all quarters of the town: +but on November 1st, three bombs struck the church. +They were the first heavy drops of rain in a thunderstorm. +The roof crashed in: and presently the pedestal of the +Virgin received a shattering blow. This was on the very +day when Albert discovered why for so long the church +had been immune. A spy had been safely signalling from +the tower, telling German gunners how and where to strike +with the most damage to the town. When all the factories +which gave wealth to Albert, and the best houses, +had been methodically destroyed, the spy silently stole +away: and the Virgin of the Shepherds then bent over, +face down, to search for this black sheep of the fold. Ever +since she with the sacred Child in her arms has hung thus +suspended in pity and blessing over mountainous piles of +wreckage which once composed the market-place. She +will not crash to earth, Albert believes, till the war is over. +But so loved is she in her posture of protection that the +citizens propose to keep her in it for ever to commemorate +the war-history of Albert, when Albert is rebuilt for future +generations.</p> + +<p>From there the gray car ran on almost due east to +Péronne, out of the country of Surrey-like, Chiltern-like +downs, into a strange marshy waste, where the river +Somme expands into vast meres, swarming with many +fish. It looked, Father Beckett said, "Like a bit of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> +the world when God had just begun to create life out of +chaos."</p> + +<p>Poor Péronne! In its glorious days of feudal youth its +fortress-castle was invincible. The walls were so thick +that in days before gunpowder no assaults could hope to +break through them. Down in its underground depths +was a dungeon, where trapped enemy princes lay rotting +and starving through weary years, never released save by +death, unless tortured into signing shameful treaties. +The very sound of the name, "Péronne," is an echo of +history, as Brian says. Hardly a year-date in the Middle +Ages could be pricked by a pin without touching some +sensational event going on at that time at Péronne. +I remember this from my schooldays; and more clearly still +from "Quentin Durward," which I have promised to +read aloud to Mother Beckett. I remember the Scottish +monks who were established at Péronne in the reign of +Clovis. I remember how Charles the Bold of Burgundy +(who died outside Nancy's gates) imprisoned wicked +Louis XI in a strong tower of the château, one of the four +towers with conical roofs, like extinguishers of giant +candles and kingly reputations! I remember best of all +the heroine of Péronne, Catherine de Poix, "la belle +Péronnaise," who broke with her own hand the standard +of Charles's royal flag, in the siege of 1536, threw the bearer +into the fosse, and saved the city.</p> + +<p>When Wellington took the fortress in 1814, he did not +desecrate or despoil the place: it was left for the Germans +to do that, just a century later in the progress of +civilization! My blood grew hot as I heard from our two +men the story of what the new Vandals had done. Just<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> +for a moment I almost forgot the secret burning in my +heart. The proud pile of historic stone brought to earth +at last, like a soldier-king, felled by an axe in his old age: +the statue of Catherine thrown from its pedestal, and replaced +in mockery by a foolish manikin—this as a mean +revenge for what she did to the standard-bearer, most of +Charles's men in the siege being Germans, under Henry of +Nassau.</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">"Toujours Francs-Péronnais<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Auront bon jour,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Toujours et en tout temps<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Francs-Péronnais auront bon temps,"<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>the girls used to sing in old days as they wove the wonderful +linens and tissues of Péronne, or embroidered banners of +gorgeous colours to commemorate the saving of the Picard +city by Catherine: as Brian repeated to Father Beckett +wandering through the ruins redeemed last spring for +France by the British. And though Brian's eyes could not +see the rubbish-heap where once had soared the citadel he +saw through the mystic veil of his blindness many things +which others did not see.</p> + +<p>It seems that above these marshy flats of the Somme, +where the river has wandered away from the hills and disguised +itself in shining lakes, gauzy mists always hover. +Brian had seen them with bodily eyes, while he was a +soldier. Now, with the eyes of his spirit he saw them +again, gleaming with the delicate, indescribable colours +which only blind eyes can call up to lighten darkness. He +saw the fleecy clouds streaming over Péronne like a +vast, transparent ghost-banner. He saw on their filmy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> +folds, as if traced in blue and gold and royal purple, the +ever famous scene on the walls when Catherine and her +following beat back Nassau's men from the one breach +where they might have captured the town. And this +mystic banner of the spirit Germans can never capture +or desecrate. It will wave over Péronne—what was +Péronne, and what will again be Péronne—while the world +goes on making history for free men.</p> + +<p>After Péronne, Bapaume: the battered corpse of +Bapaume, murdered in flame that reddened all the skies of +Picardy before the British came to chase the Germans out!</p> + +<p>In old times, when a place was destroyed the saying was, +"Not one stone is left upon another." But in this war, +destruction means an avalanche of stones upon each other. +Bapaume as Father Beckett saw it, is a Herculaneum +unexcavated. Beneath lie buried countless precious +things, and still more precious memories; the feudal +grandeur of the old château where Philippe-Auguste +married proud Isabelle de Hainaut, with splendid ceremony +as long ago as 1180: the broken glory of ancient +ramparts, where modern lovers walked till the bugles of +August 2, 1914, parted them for ever; the arcaded +Town Hall, old as the domination of the Spaniards in +Picardy; the sixteenth-century church of St. Nicolas with +its quaint Byzantine Virgin of miracles: the statue of +Faidherbe who beat back the German wave from Bapaume +in 1871: all, all burned and battered, and mingled inextricably +with débris of pitiful little homes, nobles' +houses, rich shops and tiny <i>boutiques</i>, so that, when +Bapaume rises from the dead, she will rise as one—even +as France has risen.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of the halting places on this pilgrimage along the British +front, I should best have liked to be with Brian and +Father Beckett at Arras. Brian and I were there together +you know, Padre, on that happy-go-lucky tramping tour of +ours—not long before I met Jim. We both loved Arras, +Brian and I, and spent a week there in the most fascinating +of ancient hotels. It had been a palace; and I had a huge +room, big enough for the bedchamber of a princess (princesses +should always have bedchambers, never mere bedrooms!) +with long windows draped like the walls and stiff +old furniture, in yellow satin. I was frightened when an +aged servant with the air of a pontiff ushered me in; +for Brian and I were travelling "on the cheap." But +Arras, though delicious in its quaint charm, never attracted +hordes of ordinary tourists. Consequently one could +have yellow satin hangings without being beggared.</p> + +<p>Oh, how happy we were in that hotel, and in the adorable +old town! While Brian painted in the Grande Place and +the Petite Place, and sketched the Abbey of St. Waast (who +brought Christianity to that part of the world) I wandered +alone. I used to stand every evening till my neck ached, +staring up at the beautiful belfry, to watch the swallows +chase each other back and forth among the bells, whose +peal was music of fairyland. And I never tired of wandering +through the arcades under the tall old Flemish houses +with their overhanging upper storeys, or peeping into the +arcades' cool shadows, from the middle of the sunlit +squares.</p> + +<p>There were some delightful shops in those arcades, where +they sold antique Flemish furniture, queer old pictures +showing Arras in her proud, treaty-making days (you know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> +what a great place she was for treaty-making!) and lovely +faded tapestries said to be "genuinely" of the time when +no one mentioned a piece of tapestry save as an "arras." +But the shop I haunted was a cake-shop. It was called +"<i>Au Cœur d'Arras</i>," because the famous speciality of Arras +was a heart-shaped cake; but I wasn't lured there so much +by the charm of <i>les cœurs</i> as by that of the person who +sold them.</p> + +<p>I dare say I described her to you in letters, or when I got +back to England after that trip. The most wonderful old +lady who ever lived! She didn't welcome her customers +at all. She just sat and knitted. She had an architectural +sort of face, framed with a crust of snow—I mean, a +frilled cap! And if one furtively stared, she looked at +one down her nose, and made one feel cheap and small +as if one had snored, or hiccupped out aloud in a cathedral! +But it seems I won her esteem by enquiring if "<i>les cœurs +d'Arras</i>" had a history. Nobody else had ever shown +enough intelligence to care! So she gave me the history +of the cakes, and of everything else in Arras; also, before +we went away, she escorted Brian and me into a marvellous +cellar beneath her shop. It went down three storeys and +had fireplaces and a well! The earth under La Grande +Place was honeycombed with such <i>souterrains</i>, she said. +They'd once been quarries, in days so old as to be forgotten—quarries +of "tender stone" (what a nice expression!), +and the people of Arras had cemented and +made them habitable in case of bombardment. They +must have been useful in 1914!</p> + +<p>As for the cakes, they were invented by an abbess who +was sent to Spain. Before reluctantly departing, she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> +gave the recipe to her successor, saying she "left her heart +in Arras." According to the legend (the old shop-lady +assured me) a girl who had never loved was certain to fall +in love within a month after first eating a Heart of Arras. +Well, Padre, I ate almost a hundred hearts, and less than +a month after I met Jim!</p> + +<p>You may believe that I asked Brian and Father Beckett +a dozen questions at once about dear Arras. But alas, +alas! all the answers were sad.</p> + +<p>The beautiful belfry? Only a phantom remaining. +The Hôtel de Ville? Smashed. La Grande Place—La +Petite Place? Stone quarries above ground as well +as below, the old Flemish façades crumbled like sheets of +barley sugar. The arcades? Ruined. The charming +old shops? Vanished. The seller of Hearts? Dead. +But the Hearts—<i>they</i> still existed! The children of Arras +who have come back "since the worst was over" (that +is their way of putting it!) would not feel that life was +life without the Arras Hearts. Besides, Arras without the +Hearts would be like the Altar of the Vestal Virgins without +the ever-burning lamp. So they are still baked, and +still eaten, those brave little Hearts of Arras—and Brian +asked Father Beckett to bring me a box.</p> + +<p>They bought it of a cousin of my old woman, an ancient +man who had lurked in a cellar during the whole of the +bombardment. He said that all Arras knew, in September, +1914, how the Kaiser had vowed to march into the +town in triumph, and how, when he found the place as hard +to take "as quicksilver is to grasp," he revenged himself +by destroying its best-beloved treasures. He must have +rejoiced that July day of 1915, when Wolff's Agency was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> +able to announce at last, that the Abbey of St. Waast +and its museum were in flames!</p> + +<p>As the gray car bumped on to Bethune, Vimy Ridge +floated blue in the far distance, to the right of the road, +and Father Beckett and Brian took off their hats to it. +Still farther away, and out of sight lay Lens, in German +possession, but practically encircled by the British. The +Old Contemptible had been there, and described the +town as having scarcely a roof left, but being an "ant +heap" of Boches, who swarm in underground shelters +bristling with machine guns. Between Lens and the road +stood the celebrated Colonne de Condé, showing where the +prince won his great victory over Spain; and farther on, +within gun-sound distance though out of sight, lay Loos, +on the Canal de l'Haute Deule. Who thinks nowadays +of its powerful Cistercian Abbey, that dominated the +country round? Who thinks twice, when travelling this +Appian Way which Germany has given France, of any +history which began or ended before the year 1914?</p> + +<p>Bethune they found still existing as a town. It has +been bombarded often but not utterly destroyed, and from +there they ran out four miles to Festubert, because the +little that the Germans have left of the thirteenth-century +church and village, burns with an eternal flame of interest.</p> + +<p>Bethune itself was a famous fortress once, full of history +and legend: but isn't the whole country in its waste and +ruin, like a torn historic banner, crusted with jewels—magic +jewels, which cannot be stolen by enemy hands?</p> + +<p>On the way to Ypres—crown and climax of the tour—the +car passed Lillers and Hazebrouck, places never to be +forgotten by hearts that beat in the battles of Flanders.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> +Then came the frontier at Steenwoorde; and they were +actually in Belgium, passing Poperinghe to Ypres, the +most famous British battleground of the war.</p> + +<p>When Brian was fighting, and when you were on earth, +Padre, everyone talked about the "Ypres Salient." Now, +though for soldiers Ypres will always be the "salient" +since the battle of Wytschaete Ridge, the <i>material</i> salient +has vanished. Yet the same trenches exist, in the same +gray waste which Brian used to paint in those haunting, +impressionist war sketches of his that all London talked +about, after the Regent Street exhibition that he didn't +even try for leave to see! The critics spoke of the mysterious, +spiritual quality of his work, which gave "without +sentimentality" picturesqueness to the shell-holes and +mud, the shattered trees and wooden crosses, under eternally +dreaming skies.</p> + +<p>Well, Brian tells me that going back as a blind man to +the old scenes, he had a strange, thrilling sense of <i>seeing</i> +them—seeing more clearly than before those effects of +mysterious beauty, hovering with prophecy above the +squalor of mud and blood, hovering and mingling as the +faint light of dawn mingles, at a certain hour, with the +shadows of night. People used to call his talent a "blend +of vision with reality." Now, all that is left him is +"vision"—vision of the spirit. But with help—I used to +think it would be <i>my</i> help: now I realize it will be Dierdre's—who +knows what extraordinary things my blind Brian +may accomplish? His hope is so beautiful, and so strong, +that it has lit an answering flame of hope in me.</p> + +<p>He and I were in Ypres for a few days, just about the +time I was wondering why "Jim Wyndham" didn't keep<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> +his promise to find me again. It was in Ypres, I remember, +that I came across the box of "<i>Cœurs d'Arras</i>" I'd +brought with me. Opening it, I recalled the legend about +a girl who has never loved, falling in love within a month +after first eating an Arras Heart. It was then I said to +myself, "Why, it has <i>come true</i>! I have fallen in love with +Jim Wyndham—and <i>he has forgotten me</i>!"</p> + +<p>Oh, Padre, how that pain comes back to me now, in the +midst of the new pain, like the "core of the brilliance +within the brilliance!" Which hurt is worse, to love a +man, and believe oneself forgotten, or to love and know +one has been loved, and then become unworthy? I can't +be sure. I can't even be sure that, if I could, I would go +back to being the old self before I committed the one big +sin of my life, which gave me Jim's father and mother, and +the assurance that <i>he had cared</i>. For a while, after Mother +Beckett told me about Jim's love for "The Girl," in spite +of my wickedness I glowed with a kind of happiness. I +felt that, through all the years of my life—even when I +grew old—Jim would be <i>mine</i>, young, handsome, gay, +just as I had seen him on the Wonderful Day: that +I could always run away from outside things and shut +the gate of the garden on myself and Jim—that rose-garden +on the border of Belgium. Now, when I know—or +almost know—that he will come back in the flesh +to despise me, and that the gate of the garden will be +forever shut—why, I shall be punished as perhaps no +woman has ever been punished before. Still—<i>still</i> I +can't be sure that I would escape, if I could, by going +back to my old self!</p> + +<p>It is writing of Belgium, and my days there with Brian<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> +while I still hoped to see Jim, that brings all these thoughts +crowding so thickly to my mind, they seem to drip off my +pen!</p> + +<p>But what a different Ypres Father Beckett has now +seen, and Brian <i>felt</i>, from that dear, pleasant Ypres into +which we two drove in a cart, along a cobbled causeway as +straight as a tight-drawn string! Tourists who loved the +blue, and yellow, and red bath-houses on the golden beach +of Ostend, didn't worry to motor over the bumpy road, +through the Flemish plain to Ypres. The war was needed +to bring its sad fame to "Wipers!" But Brian and I interrupted +our walking tour with that cart, because we +knew that the interminable causeway would take us deep +into the inner quaintness of Flanders. We adored it all: +and at every stopping-place on the twenty-mile road, I +had the secret joy of whispering; "Perhaps it is <i>here</i> that +He will suddenly appear, and meet us!"</p> + +<p>There was one farmhouse on the way, where I longed to +have him come. I wanted him so much that I almost +<i>created</i> him! I was listening every moment, and through +every sound, for his car. It never came. But because I +so wished the place to be a background for our meeting I +can see the two large living-rooms of the old house, with +the black-beamed ceilings, the Flemish stoves, the tall, +carved sideboards and chests with armorial bearings, the +deep window-seats that were flower-stands and work-tables +combined, and the shelves of ancient pottery and +gleaming, antique brass. There was a comfortable fragrance +of new-baked bread, mingling with the spicy scent +of grass-pinks, in that house: and the hostess who +gave us luncheon—a young married woman—had a mild,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> +sweet face, strongly resembling that of St. Geneviève +of Brabant, as pictured in a coloured lithograph on the +wall.</p> + +<p>St. Geneviève's story is surely the most romantic, the +most pathetic of any saint who ever deigned to tread on +earth!—and her life and death might serve as an allegory +of Belgium's martyrdom, poor Belgium, the little country +whose patron she is. Since that day at the farmhouse on +the road to Ypres, I've thought often of the gentle face +with its forget-me-not eyes and golden hair; and of Golo +the dark persecutor who—they say now—was a <i>real</i> person +and an ancestor of the Hohenzollerns through the first +Duc de Bavière.</p> + +<p>At Ypres, Brian painted for me a funny "imagination +picture" imitating earliest Flemish work. It showed +Ypres when there was no town save a few tiny houses and +a triangular stronghold, with a turret at each corner, built +on a little island in the river Yperlee. He named the +picture "The Castle of the Three Strong Towers," and +dated it in the year 900. A thousand years have passed since +then. Slowly, after much fighting (the British fought +as hard to take Ypres once, as they fight to save it now), +the town grew great and powerful, and became the capital +of Flanders. The days of the rough earthen stockades and +sharp thorn-bush defences of "Our Lady of the Enclosures" +passed on to the days of casemates and moats; +and still on, to the days when the old fortifications could be +turned into ornamental walks—days of quaintly beautiful +architecture, such as Brian and I saw before the war, +when we spent hours in the Grand' Place, admiring the +wonderful Cloth Hall and the Spanish-looking Nieuwerck.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> +The people of Ypres told us proudly that nothing in Bruges +itself, or anywhere in Flanders, could compare with those +noble buildings massed together at the west end of the +Grand' Place, each stone of which represented so much +wealth of the richest merchant kings of Europe.</p> + +<p>And now, the work of those thousand busy years has +crumbled in a few monstrous months, like the sand-houses +of children when the tide comes in! What Father Beckett +saw of Ypres after three years' bombardment, was not +much more than that shown in Brian's picture, dated 900! +A blackened wall or two and a heap of rubble where stood +the <i>Halle des Drapiers</i>—pride of Ypres since the thirteenth +century—its belfry, its statues, its carvings, its paintings, +all vanished like the contours and colours of a sunset cloud. +The cathedral is a skeleton. Hardly a pointed gable is +left to tell where the quaint and prosperous houses once +grouped cosily together. Ypres the town is a mourner +draped in black with the stains of fire which killed its +beauty and joy. But there is a glory that can never be +killed, a glory above mere beauty, as a living soul is +above the dead body whence it has risen. That glory is +Ypres. She is a ghost, but she is an inspiration, a name +of names, a jewel worth dying for—"worth giving a man's +eyes for," Brian says!</p> + +<p>"Has your brother told you about the man we met at +the Visitors' Château?" asked Father Beckett, when +between the two men—and my reminiscences—the +story of the tour was finished with those last words of +Brian's.</p> + +<p>"No, I haven't told her yet," Brian answered for me.</p> + +<p>My nerves jumped. I scarcely knew what I expected to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> +hear. "Not Doctor Paul Herter?" I exclaimed—and +was surprised to hear on my own lips the name so constantly +in my mind.</p> + +<p>"Well, that's queer she should speak of <i>him</i>, isn't it, +Brian? How did you come to think of Herter?" Father +Beckett wanted to know.</p> + +<p>"<i>Was</i> it he?" I insisted.</p> + +<p>"No. But—you'd better tell her, Brian. I guess you'll +have to."</p> + +<p>"There isn't much to tell, really," Brian said. "It was +only that oculist chap Herter told you about—Dr. Henri +Chrevreuil. He's been working at the front, as you know: +lately it's been the British front; and they'd taken him in +at the château for a few days' rest. We met him there +and talked of his friend—your friend, Molly—Doctor +Paul."</p> + +<p>"What did he say about your eyes?" Dierdre almost +gasped. (I should not have ventured to put the question +suddenly, and before people. I should have been too +afraid of the answer. But her nickname is "<i>Dare!</i>") +"He must have said something, or Mr. Beckett wouldn't +have spoken so. He <i>did</i> look at your eyes—didn't he? +He would, for Herter's sake."</p> + +<p>"Yes, he did look at them," Brian admitted. "He +didn't say much."</p> + +<p>"But what—<i>what</i>?"</p> + +<p>"He said: 'Wait, and—see.'"</p> + +<p>"And see!" Dierdre echoed.</p> + +<p>The same thought was in all our minds. As I gazed +mutely at Brian, he gave me the most beautiful smile of his +life. He must have felt that I was looking at him, or he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> +would not so have smiled. Let Jim hate and—punish me +when he comes back, and drive me out of Paradise! Wherever +I may go, there will be the reflection of that smile and +the thought behind it. How can I be unhappy, if Brian +need only wait, to see?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX</h2> + + +<p>Padre, my mind is like a thermometer exposed +every minute to a different temperature, but always +high or low—never normal.</p> + +<p>To tell, or not to tell, Father Beckett what the man I +didn't see said about Jim—or rather, what Julian O'Farrell +said that he said! This has been the constant question; +but the thermometer invariably flies up or down, +far from the answer-point.</p> + +<p>When our men came back to Amiens, I almost hoped +that Puck would do his worst—carry out his threat and +"give me away" to Father Beckett. In that case I should +at least have been relieved from responsibility. But +Puck didn't. In my heart I had known all along that he +would not.</p> + +<p>If I could have felt for a whole minute at a time that it +would be fair to wake hopes which mightn't be fulfilled, +out would have burst the secret. But whenever I'd +screwed up my courage to speak, Something would remind +me: "Herter sent word that there might be a message +from Switzerland. Better wait till it comes, for he +wasn't sure of his facts. He may have been misled." +Or, when I'd decided <i>not</i> to speak, another Something +would say: "Jim is alive. You <i>know</i> he is alive! Herter +is helping him to escape. Don't let these dear old +people suffer a minute longer than they need."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p> + +<p>But—well—so far I have waited. A week has passed +since I wrote at Amiens. We have arrived at Jim's +château—the little, quaint, old Château d'Andelle, with +thick stone walls, black-beamed ceilings, and amusing +towers, set in the midst of an enchanted forest of Normandy. +No wonder he fell in love with the place before +the war, and wanted to live there! It must have seemed +an impossible dream at the time, for the owners (the +château has been in the same family for generations) had +money in those days, and wouldn't have let their home to +strangers. The war has made all the difference. They +couldn't afford to keep up the place, and were eager to let. +Beckett money is a boon to them, so everyone is satisfied. +The agents in Paris secured two or three extra servants +to help the old pair left in the house as caretakers; and +there is a jewel of a maid for Mother Beckett—a Belgian +refugette. I shall give her some training as a nurse, and +by and by I shall be able to fade away in peace. Already +I'm beginning to prepare my dear lady's mind for a parting. +I talk of my hospital work, and drop hints that +I'm only on leave—that Brian's hopes and Father Beckett's +splendid new-born plan for him, will permit me to +take up duty again soon.</p> + +<p>The plan developed on the trip: but I'm sure the first +inspiration came from Mother Beckett. While she was +ill, she did nothing but lie and think of things to do for +other people. And she was determined to make it possible +for Brian to have a love story of his own, provided he +wanted one. It only needed Father Beckett's practical +brain and unlimited purse to turn her vague suggestion +into a full-grown plan. A whole block of buildings on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> +the outskirts of Paris, let as apartment houses, is to be +bought by Mr. Beckett, for the use of blinded soldiers. +Already his agents have got the refusal of the property +for him; and with a few changes such as knocking down +inner walls and putting in doors where doors don't exist, +the houses will become one big mansion, to accommodate +five or six hundred men. Each will have his own bedroom +or cubicle. There'll be a gymnasium, with a Swedish instructor, +and every trade or profession in which a blind +man could possibly engage will be taught by experts. +There will be a big dining hall with a musicians' gallery, +and a theatre. The library will be supplied with quantities +of books for the blind. There'll be a garden where the +men will be taught to grow flowers and vegetables. They +will have a resident doctor, and two superintendents. One +of these two will himself be a blind man taught by his +own experience how to teach others. Of course, Padre, +you know that this blind teacher is already chosen, and +that the whole scheme centers round him!</p> + +<p>In a way Brian realizes that, if it were not for him, it +would never have been thought of. In a way. But—it +is <i>his</i> way. He doesn't torture himself, as I probably +should in his place, by thinking: "All these immense sums +of money being spent as an excuse to provide for me in +life! Ought I to let it be done? Ought I to accept?"</p> + +<p>Brian's way is not that. He says: "Now I understand +why I lost my eyesight, and it's worth it a thousand times. +This wonderful chance is to be given me to help others, as +I never could have helped if I hadn't been blind. If sight +comes back, I shall know what it is to be blind, and I can +give counsel and courage to others. I am glad, glad to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> +be blind. It's a privilege and a mission. Even if I never +see again, except with my spirit's eyes, I shall still be glad!"</p> + +<p>He doesn't worry at all because carrying out the plan +will cost Father Beckett one or more of his millions. What +is money for, except to be spent? What pleasure is like +spending to do good? He finds it quite natural that +Father Beckett wants to do this thing; and though he's +immensely grateful, he takes it blithely for granted that +the benefactor should be happy and proud.</p> + +<p>Travelling back from Ypres to Amiens they seem to +have settled all the details between them, though they +told us their adventures before even mentioning the Plan. +Brian is to be guide, philosopher, and friend to the +inmates and students of the James Wyndham Beckett +College for the Blind. Also he is to give lectures on +art and various other subjects. If he can learn to +paint his blind impressions (as he believes he can, with +Dierdre's promised help) he will be able to teach +other blind artists to follow his example. And he +is to have a salary for his services—not the big one Father +Beckett wished: Brian wouldn't hear of that—but enough +to live on. And Dierdre and Julian are offered official +positions and salaries too. It's suggested that they +should take a flat near by the College, within easy walking +distance. Dierdre is to entertain the blind men with +recitations, and teach the art of reciting to those who wish +to learn. Julian is to sing and play for the men in the +house-theatre, once or twice a week, as he can spare time +from his work with De Letzski. Also he will give one +lesson a week in singing and voice production.</p> + +<p>Both the O'Farrells are to be well paid (no trouble in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> +persuading Julian to accept generous proposals for himself +and his sister; for him the labourer is indeed +worthy of his hire): and with American dash and money the +scheme is expected to be in working order by next June. +It's now well into November. But after seeing how other +schemes have worked, and how this Château d'Andelle +business has been rushed through, I have the most sublime +faith in Beckett miracles.</p> + +<p>They are astonishing, these Becketts! Father, the simplest, +kindest man, with the air of liking his fireside +better than any adventure: Mother, a slip of a creature—"a +flower in a vase to be kept by her menfolk on a high +shelf," as I told myself when I first saw her. Yet what +adventures they have had, and what they have accomplished +since the day Brian proposed this pilgrimage, two +months ago! Not a town on our route that, after the war +won't have cause to bless them and the son in whose name +their good works have been done—cause to bless Beckett +kindness, Beckett money for generations in the future! +Yet now they have added this most ambitious plan of all +to the list, and I know it will be carried out to perfection.</p> + +<p>You see now, Padre, from what I've told you, how easy +it is being made for me to slip out of this circle. Brian, +beaming with happiness, and on the point of opening his +heart to Dierdre's almost worshipping love: Mother +Beckett slowly getting back a measure of frail, flower-like +health, in this lovely place which she calls Jim's: Father +Beckett more at ease about her, and intensely interested +in his scheme: the small, neat Belgian refugette likely to +prove at least a ministering mouse if not a ministering +angel: above all, hope if not certainty that Jim will one<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> +day return—not only in spirit but in body—to his château +and his family. If I am needed anywhere on earth, it +isn't here, but down in the south at my poor Hôpital des +Épidémies. Would it be cowardly in me to fly, as soon +as I've persuaded the Becketts to spare me, and throw the +responsibility I haven't dared decide to take, upon my +brave, blind Brian?</p> + +<p>Ah, I don't mean telling him about myself and my sins. +I shouldn't have the courage for that, I fear! I mean, +shall I tell him about Doctor Paul's message—or <i>supposed</i> +message? It has just occurred to me that I might do +this, and let Brian decide whether Father Beckett ought to +know, even if no further news comes through Switzerland. +You see, if I were gone, and Jim came, I could trust the +new Dierdre to do her best for me with Brian. He +could never respect me, never love me in the old way—but +he might forgive, because of Dierdre herself—and because +of the great Plan. Hasn't my wickedness given them both +to him?</p> + +<p>Writing all this to you has done me good, Padre. I see +more clearly ahead. I shall decide before morning what +to do. I feel I <i>shall</i> this time! And I think it a good idea +to speak to Brian. He will agree, though he doesn't know +my secret need to escape, that it's right for me to take up +hospital work again. But, Padre, I can't go—I <i>won't</i> +go—until I've helped Mother Beckett arrange Jim's treasures +in the room to be called his "den." She has been +living for that, striving to grow strong enough for that. +And I—oh, Padre!—I want to be the one to unpack his +things and to touch each one with my hands. I want to +leave something of myself in that room where, if he's dead,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> +his spirit will surely come: where, if he lives, his body +will come. If I leave behind me thoughts of love, won't +they linger between those walls like the scent of roses +in a vase? Mayn't those thoughts influence Jim Beckett +not to detest me as I deserve?<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI</h2> + + +<p>Five days later.</p> + +<p>I did talk to Brian, Padre, and he said, better +wait and give the letter from Switzerland a fair +chance to arrive, before telling Father Beckett about Doctor +Paul's messenger at Amiens.</p> + +<p>Now I have had a letter, but not from Switzerland. I +shall fold it up between the pages of this book of my confessions. +I believe you will read it, Padre.</p> + +<p>It came to-day. It explains itself. The envelope, +postmarked Paris, was addressed to me in typewriting. +If Mother Beckett had not had a slight relapse from working +too hard in the den, I might perhaps have been gone +before the letter came. Then it would have had to be +forwarded. It's better that I stayed. You will see why. +But—oh, Padre, Padre!</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>THE LETTER</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">Miss O'Malley</span>,</p> + + +<p>"Once I met a lady whose name, as I understood it, was not +unlike yours now, given me by Doctor Paul Herter. I cannot +think that you and she are one. That lady, I'd swear, would be +incapable of—let me say, placing herself in a false position.</p> + +<p>"Though you will not recognize my handwriting, I've said +enough for you to guess that James Wyndham Beckett is your +correspondent. I have had the address typed because, for my +parents' sake and to spare them distress, it seems that you and I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> +must reach some understanding before I venture to let them +know that I'm alive.</p> + +<p>"If you are worthy to be called 'friend' by such a man as Paul +Herter, you will wish to atone for certain conduct, by carrying +out the request I make now. I must trust you to do so. But +first let me relieve my mind of any fear for yourself. I have not +contradicted the story you told Herter about our engagement. +What I shall say to my parents when I meet them, as I hope soon +to do, depends upon circumstances. Till you and I have had a +private conversation, you will oblige me by letting things remain +as they are. I have strong reasons for this wish. One of +them—the only one I need explain now, is that it will seem +natural to them I should write to my fiancée—a young, strong +girl able to bear the shock of a great surprise—asking her to break +the news gently and tactfully to my father and mother. I do +ask you to do this. How to do it I must leave to you. But +when you've told my parents that I'm alive, that I've escaped, +that I'm in Paris with Herter, that as soon as my official business +of reporting myself is finished, I'll get leave, you may put into +their hands the following pages of this letter. They will not +think it strange that the girl I am engaged to should keep the +first part for her own eyes. Thus, without your being compromised, +they will learn my adventures without having to +wait until I come. But there's just room enough left on this +first sheet to reiterate that, when Herter found me, and gave +me the somewhat disconcerting news of my engagement to +his friend, a Miss O'Malley travelling with my parents, I—simply +listened. Rather than excite his suspicions I did not even +yield to curiosity, and try to draw out a description. I could +not be sure then that I should ever see you, or my people, for +escape was difficult and there were more chances against than +for my getting out of Germany alive. Now, in all human certainty +I shall arrive at the Château d'Andelle (I got the address<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> +at the bank), and you owe it to me to remain on the spot till we +can thrash out our affair together. I will begin on a <i>new</i> sheet +the story of the last few months since my capture. You must +forgive me if it bores you. In reality it is for my parents, when +you have prepared their minds, and I don't think it will bore +them....</p> + +<p>"We came a bad cropper. I was thrown clear of the machine, +but knew nothing until I waked up, feeling like a bag of broken +bones. It was night, and I saw a huge fountain of red flame and +a lot of dark figures like silhouettes moving between it and me. +That brought me out of my stupor. I knew my plane must have +taken fire as it crashed down, and I was pretty sure the silhouettes +were Germans. I looked around for my observer, and +called to him in a low voice, hoping the Bosch wouldn't hear, +over the noise of the fire. Nobody answered. Later I found out +that the poor chap had been caught under the car. I pray he +died before the flames reached him!</p> + +<p>"As I got my wits back, I planned to try and hide myself under +some bushes I could see not far off, till the coast was clear; but I +couldn't move. I seemed to be thoroughly smashed up, and +began to think it was the end of things <i>ici-bas</i> for me. After +a while I must have fainted. By and by I had a dream of jolting +along through a blazing desert, on the back of a lame camel. It +was rather fierce, that jolting! It shook me out of my faint, and +when I opened my eyes it was to find myself on a stretcher +carried by fellows in German gray. They took me to a field +hospital, and I guessed by the look of things that it was close to +the first lines. It made me sick to think how near I must be to +our own front—yet so far!</p> + +<p>"Well, I won't be long-winded about what happened next. +I can go into details when we meet. It turned out that I had +a leg, an arm, and some ribs smashed. The Bosch surgeon +wasn't half bad, as Bosches go, but he was a bit brusque. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> +heard him say right out to the anæsthetist, it seemed a pity +to waste good ether on me, as there wasn't one chance in five +to save my life. Still, I'd be an experiment! Before I went +off under the stuff I told them who I was, for I'd heard they were +sometimes fairly decent to enemy aviators, and I hoped to get a +message through to my people. I was feeling as stupid as an +owl, but I did think I saw a change come over the men's faces +when they heard my name. Later, putting two and two together, +I concluded that Germany was just the kind of business +nation to know all about the dear old Governor. I might have +realized that, out of sheer spite against the United States for +bursting into the war, they'd enjoy letting a man of James Beckett +Senior's importance go on believing his son was dead. I bet +they put my name over the grave of my poor, burned pal, Hank +Lee! It would be the thoroughgoing sort of thing they do, when +they make up their minds to create an impression.</p> + +<p>"I didn't die, though! Spite for spite, I got well. But it +took some time. One of my lungs had been damaged a bit +by a broken rib, and the doctors prescribed an open-air cure, +after I'd begun to crawl again. I was put with a lot of T. B.'s, +if you know what that means, in a camp hospital. Not far +off was a huge 'camouflaged' aerodrome and a village of hangars. +I heard that flying men were being trained there. I used to think +I'd give my head to get to the place, but I never hoped to do it—till +Herter came.</p> + +<p>"Now I will tell you how he came—which I can freely do, +as we are both safe in Paris, having come from somewhere +near Compiègne. One of the first things Herter said about you +was that you must have guessed where he was going, and more +or less for what purpose. For that purpose he was the ideal +man: a Lorrainer of Germanized Lorraine; German his native +tongue—(though he hates it)—and clever as Machiavelli. He +"escaped" from France into Germany, told a tale about killing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> +a French sentry and creeping across No Man's Land at night, in +order to get to the German lines. It was a big risk, but Herter +is as brave and resourceful a man as I ever met. He got the +Bosches to believe that he was badly ill in Paris when the war +broke out and couldn't slip away, otherwise he'd have sprung to +do his loyal duty to the Fatherland. He persuaded them that +his lot being cast in France for the time, he'd resolved to serve +Germany by spying, until he could somehow bolt across the +frontier. He spun a specious tale about pretending to the French +to have French sympathies, and winning the confidence of +high-up men, by serving as a surgeon on several fronts. To +prove his German patriotism he had notes to show, realistically +made on thin silk paper, and hidden inside the lining of his +coat.</p> + +<p>"Herter's mission in Boschland isn't my business or yours; +but I'm allowed to say that it was concerned with aeroplanes. +There was something he had to find out, and he <i>has</i> found it +out, or he wouldn't be back on this side of the lines. Because he +hoped to be among German flying-men, he hinted to you that +he might be able to do you some service. It occurred to him +that he might learn where my grave was and let you know. +Nothing further was in his thoughts then—or until he happened +to draw out a piece of unexpected information in a roundabout +way.</p> + +<p>"His trick of getting across to the flying-men was smart, like +all his tricks. The valuable (?) notes he'd brought into Germany +mostly concerned new French and American inventions in that +line. That was his 'speciality.' And when he had handed the +notes over with explanations, he continued his programme by +asking for a job as surgeon in a field hospital. (You see, he hoped +to get back to France before the worthlessness of his notes was +discovered.) When he'd proved his qualifications, he got his +job like a shot. They were only too glad of his services. Pre<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span>tending +to have been in American training-camps, it was easy +to bring up my name in a casual way. Laughing that rather +sinister laugh of his, which you will remember, Herter told a +couple of flying chaps he had promised a girl to find Jim Beckett's +grave. One of the fellows laughed too, and made a remark +which set Herter thinking. Later, he was able to refer to +the subject again, and learned enough to suspect that there was +something fishy about the Bosch announcement of my death and +burial. He tells me that, at this point, he was able to send you a +verbal message by a consumptive prisoner about to be repatriated. +Whether you got that message or not who knows?</p> + +<p>"His idea was to send another (in a way he won't explain +even to me) when he'd picked up further news. But as things +turned out, there was no time. Besides, it wasn't necessary. +It looked hopeful that we might be our own carrier pigeons, or +else—cease to exist.</p> + +<p>"What happened was that Herter heard I was alive and in a +hospital not far behind the lines. Just at this time he had got +hold of the very secret he'd come to seek. The sooner he could +make a dash for home the better: but if possible, he wished to +take me with him. He had the impression that to do so would +please his friend Miss O'Malley! How it was to be worked he +didn't see until an odd sort of American bombing machine fell, +between an aerodrome it had attempted to destroy, and Herter's +hospital. They knew it was American, only because of its two +occupants, both killed. The machine was considerably smashed +up, but experts found traces of something amazingly novel, which +they couldn't understand. Herter was called to the scene, because +he had pretended to be up in the latest American flying +'stunts.' The minute he saw the wreckage an inspiration +jumped into his head.</p> + +<p>"He confessed himself puzzled by the mysterious details, +thought them important, and said: 'It seems to me this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span> +resembles the engine and wings of the James Beckett invention +I heard so much about. But I didn't know it was far enough +ahead yet to be in use. A pity the inventor was killed. He +might have come in handy.</p> + +<p>"Well, they put those words in their pipes and smoked them—knowing, +of course, that I was very much alive and almost +within a stone's throw.</p> + +<p>"I had always pretended not to understand German: thought +ignorance of the language might serve my plans some day or +other. The chap they sent to fetch me dropped a few words to a +doctor in my hearing. And so, though I wasn't told where I was +being taken or why I was to go, I'd about caught on to the fact +that I was supposed to have invented the plans for a new bombing +biplane. That made me wonder if a friend was at work under +the rose: and I was ready for anything when I got to the scene +of the smash.</p> + +<p>"Fortunately, none of the Bosches on the spot could speak +English fluently, and I appeared more of a fool at French than +German. Herter—entirely trusted by his German pals—was +told off to talk English with me; and a flash of his eye said, <i>here</i> +was the friend! It was only a flash, and I couldn't be sure, but +it put me on the <i>qui vive</i>. I noticed that in asking me the +question he was told to ask, he emphasized certain words which +needed no emphasis, and spoke them slowly, with a look that +made me determine to fix each one in my mind. This I did, and +putting them together when I got the chance, I made out, 'I +want to get you home. Say you invented this model, and could +put the thing in working trim.'</p> + +<p>"That was a big order! If I said it and could keep my word, +would it be a patriotic job to present the enemy with a +perfectly good machine, of a new make, in the place of a wreck they +didn't understand? This was my first thought. But the +second reminded me of a sentence I'd constructed with some of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> +the emphasized words; '<i>I want to get you home</i>.' How did he +expect to get me home—if not by air?</p> + +<p>"With that I caught a glimpse of the plan, as one sometimes +catches sight of the earth through a break in massed +clouds when flying. If the man meant to help me, I would help +him. If he turned out a fraud, the Germans shouldn't profit +by his treachery I'd stop that game at the last moment, if I died +for it!</p> + +<p>"You will know nothing about the new and curious bombing +biplane of super-speed invented by Leroy Harman of Galbraith, +Texas. But Father knows as much as any one not an expert in +aeronautics can know. When the Government wouldn't believe +in Harman, Father financed him by my advice. I left home for +France before the trial machine that was to convince officialdom +had come into being; and I didn't even know whether it had +made good. But the minute I saw what lay on the ground, +surrounded by a ring of Germans, I said to myself; 'Good old +Leroy!'</p> + +<p>"I'd seen so much of his plans that they remained printed on +my brain, and I could—if I would—set that biplane on its wings +again almost as easily as if I <i>had</i> invented it.</p> + +<p>"Odd that the Bosches and I both trusted Herter, seeing he +must be false to one side or other! But he's that sort of man. +And I always take a tip from my own instinct before listening to +my reason. Maybe that's why I didn't do badly in my brief +career as a flier. Anyhow, I played up to Herter; and I got the +job of superintending the reconstruction of poor Harman's +damaged machine. It was a lovely job for a prisoner, though +they watched me as a German cat would watch an Allied mouse. +Herter was nearly always on the spot, however, for he'd made +himself responsible for me. Also, he'd offered to pump me about +what was best in the air world on my side of the water: how +many aeroplanes of different sorts America could turn out in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> +six months, etc. We contrived a cypher on diagrams I made. +It was a clever one, but the credit was Herter's.</p> + +<p>"The Bosches were waiting impatiently for my work to be +done, in order to try out the machine, and if satisfactory, spawn +a brood of their own on the same model. I was equally impatient. +I hoped to fly off with the biplane before they had time +to copy it!</p> + +<p>"A wounded Ace of theirs, Anton Hupfer, was for ever hanging +round. He was to take up the 'plane when it was ready. +But Herter industriously chummed with him, and not for nothing. +To Herter was due the 'discovery' of the inventor; +and as he boasted experience in flying, he asked the privilege +of being Hupfer's companion on the trial trip.</p> + +<p>"The success of this trip would depend even more on the +machine's worth as a bomber than on her speed and climbing +qualities. It was, therefore, to be undertaken at night, with a +full complement of real bombs to drop upon headquarters at +Compiègne. Herter had suggested this. Daylight wouldn't +have suited for a start.</p> + +<p>"An hour before the appointed time he dashed in upon Hupfer +to confide that a sudden suspicion concerning me was troubling +him. He had noticed a queer expression on my face as I gave +the engine a last look over! If I had done some obscure damage +to this so new type of machine, the mechanics might not detect +its nature. Herter didn't wish to harm me, if his suspicion +was unfounded, he explained, but he proposed a drastic proof +of my good faith. I was to be hauled out of bed, and hurried +without warning to look at the biplane in her hangar. The +mechanics were to be sent outside, there to wait for a signal to +open the doors: this to avoid gossip if I was honest after all. +Hupfer was to spring it on me that he'd decided to take me up +instead of Herter. My face was to be watched as this news was +flung at me. If I showed the slightest trace of uneasiness, it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> +would be a sign that I had played a trick and feared to fall its +victim. In that case the 'third degree' was to be applied until I +owned up, and could be haled away for punishment.</p> + +<p>"There was just time to carry out this programme, and +Hupfer fell for it. Herter had put me wise beforehand, and +I knew what to expect. His real plan was to stand behind +Hupfer, the Bosch Ace, and bash him on the head with a +spanner, while his (Hupfer's) whole attention was fixed on +me. We would then undress the fellow. I would take his +clothes, and we'd put him into mine. Hupfer's body (stunned, +not dead, we hoped) we would lay behind a pile of petrol tins. I +acting as pilot, would trust to my disguise and the darkness of +night not to be spotted when the two mechanics threw open the +hangar doors.</p> + +<p>"Everything happened as we'd arranged, without a hitch—again, +all credit to Herter! When we'd hidden the limp Ace, +trussed up in my prison rig, Herter yelled to the waiting men, in a +good imitation of Hupfer's voice. We ran smoothly out of the +hangar, and were given a fine send off. How soon the Bosches +found out how they'd been spoofed, I don't know. It couldn't +have been long though, as my prison guard was in attendance. +The great thing was, we went up in grand style. Otherwise—but +we needn't now think of the 'otherwise'!</p> + +<p>"Our next danger lay in taking the wrong direction, getting +farther back in Boschland instead of over the frontier. I kept +my wits, fortunately, so that turned out all right. Still, there +remained the chance of being shot down by the French, and +blown with our own bombs into kingdom come. But, by good +luck it was a clear night. No excuse for getting lost! And +when I was sure we were well over the French lines, I planed +down to alight in a field.</p> + +<p>"The alert was out for us, of course, and a fierce barrage put +up, but I flew high till I was ready for a dive. We'd hardly land<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span>ed, +when the <i>poilus</i> swarmed like bees, but that was what we +wanted. You must imagine the scene that followed, till I +can tell you by word of mouth!</p> + +<p>"I shall have made my report, and have been given leave +to start for a visit to my family by to-morrow I hope.</p> + +<p>"Yours till the end,</p> + +<p>"<span class="smcap">JIM</span>."</p></div> + +<p>"Yours till the end!" Rather a smart, cynical way of +winding up those "exhibition pages" was it not, Padre? +The secret translation of that signature is: "Yours, you +brute, till I can get rid of you with least damage to my +parents' susceptibilities!"</p> + +<p>I shall obey, and wait for the interview. It's like waiting +to be shot at dawn!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII</h2> + + +<p>I persuaded Brian to tell Father Beckett. I wasn't +worthy. But the dear old man came straight to me, +transfigured, to make me go with him to his wife, +even before he had finished reading the letter.</p> + +<p>"You must come," he said—and when Father Beckett +says "must," in a certain tone, one does. It's then that +the resemblance, more in expression than feature, between +him and his son shines out like a light. "It will save +mother the trouble of asking for you," he went on, dragging +me joyously with him, his arm round my waist. "She'd +do that, first thing, sure! Why, do you suppose we forget +Jim's as much to you as to us? Haven't you shown us +that, every day since we met?"</p> + +<p>What answer could I give? I gave none.</p> + +<p>Mother Beckett had been lying down for the afternoon +nap which by my orders she takes every day. She'd just +waked, and was sitting up on the lounge, when her husband +softly opened the door to peep in. The only light +was firelight, leaping in an open grate.</p> + +<p>"Come in, come in!" she greeted us in her silver tinkle +of a voice. "Oh, you didn't disturb me. I was awake. I +thought I'd ring for tea. But I didn't after all. I'd had +such a beautiful dream, I hated to come out of it."</p> + +<p>"I bet it was a dream about Jim!" said Father Beckett. +He drew me into the room, and the little lady pulled me<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> +down beside her on the wide, cushiony lounge. Her husband's +special arm-chair was close by, but he didn't subside +into it as usual at this cosy hour of the afternoon. +Instead, he knelt stiffly down on one knee, and took the +tiny, ringed hand held out to him. "You wouldn't think +a dream beautiful, unless Jim was in it!"</p> + +<p>"Yes I would, if <i>you</i> were in it, dear," she reproached +him. "Or Molly. But Jim was in this dream. I saw +him as plainly as I see you both. He walked in at the door, +the way he used to do at home, saying: 'Hello, Mother, I've +been looking for you everywhere!' You know, Father +how you and Jimmy used to feel injured if you called me +and I couldn't be found in a minute. In this dream though, +we didn't seem to be back home. I wasn't sure where we +were: only—I was sure——" She stopped, with a catch in +her voice. But Father Beckett took up the sentence where +she let it drop. "Sure of Jim?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He was so real!"</p> + +<p>"Well then, Mother darling, I guess the dream ought not +to have been back home, but here, in this very house. For +here's where Jim will come."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I do feel that!" she agreed, trying to "camouflage" +a tear with a smile. "Jim's with me all the time."</p> + +<p>"Not yet," said Father Beckett, with a stolid gentleness. +"Not yet. Not the real Jim. But he'll come."</p> + +<p>"You mean, when Molly and I've finished putting out +all his treasures in the den, just as he'd like to see them?"</p> + +<p>"He might come before you get the den ready. He +might come—any day now—even to-morrow." The +gnarled brown hand smoothed the small, shrivelled white +one with nervous strokes and passes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Father!" she sat up suddenly, straight and rigid among +her cushions. "You've heard—you're trying to break +something to me. Tell me right out. Jim's alive!"</p> + +<p>She snatched her hand free, and bending forward, flung +both arms round the old man's neck before he could +answer. I sprang up to give them room. I thought +they had forgotten me. But no. Out came Father Beckett's +big hand to snatch my dress.</p> + +<p>"This child got the news—a letter," he explained. +"The boy was afraid of the shock for us. He thought +she——"</p> + +<p>"A shock of joy—why, <i>that</i> gives life—not death!" +sobbed and laughed Mother Beckett. "But it was right +to let Molly know first. She's more to him than we are +now. Oh, Father—Father—our Jim's alive—<i>alive</i>! I +think in my soul I knew it all the time. I never felt he +was gone. He must have sent me thoughts. Dear ones, +I want to pray. I want to thank God—now, this instant, +before I hear more—before I read the letter. We three +together—on our knees!"</p> + +<p>Padre, when I was on my knees, with the thin little arm +of Jim's mother thrilling my shoulder, my face hidden in +the cushions, I could only say: "God, forgive!" and echo +the thanksgiving of those two loving hearts. I didn't +pray not to be punished. I almost want to be punished—since +Brian is safe, and my punishment can't spoil his +future.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>The patriotic Becketts have given up the big gray car, +now they've settled down at the Château d'Andelle: and +our one-legged soldier-chauffeur has departed, to conduct<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> +a military motor. For the moment there's only the +O'Farrell Red Cross taxi, not yet gone about its legitimate +business; so it was Julian who took Father Beckett +to the far-off railway station, to meet Jim Beckett the next +day but one—Julian—of all people on earth!</p> + +<p>Father Beckett begged me to be of the party, and +Mother Beckett—too frail still for so long and cold a +drive—piled up her persuasions. But I was firm. I +didn't like going to meet trains, I said. It was prosaic. +I was allowed to stop at home, therefore, with my dear +little lady: the last time, I told myself, that she would +ever love and "mother" me. Once Jim and I had settled +our affairs in that "interview" I was ordered to wait for, +I should be the black sheep, turned out of the fold.</p> + +<p>There was just one reason why I'd have liked to be in the +car to bring Jim back from the station. Knowing Julian-Puck, +I was convinced that despite Father Beckett's presence +he'd contrive a chance to thrust some entering wedge +of mischief into Jim Beckett's head. Not that it was +needed! If he'd read the first pages of Jim's letter—the +secret pages—he would have known that. But the night +the great news came to the château, he whispered into +my ear: "You seem to be taking things easy. Sure you +won't change your mind and bolt with me?—or do you +count on your invincible charm, "<i>über alles</i>"?</p> + +<p>I didn't even answer. I merely looked. Perhaps he +took it for a defiant look, though Heaven knows it wasn't. +I was past defiance. In any case, such as the look was, it +shut him up. And after that the brooding storm behind +his eyes made me wonder (when I'd time to think of it) +what <i>coup</i> he was meditating. There would never be a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span> +chance like the chance at the station before Jim had met +me. Julian was sharp enough, dramatic enough to see +that. I pictured him somehow corralling Jim for an +instant, while Father Beckett carried on a conversation +of signs with a worried <i>porteuse</i>. Julian would be able +to do in an instant as much damage to a character as most +men could do in an hour!</p> + +<p>A little added disgust for me on Jim's part, however, +what could it matter? I tried to argue. When a thing is +already black, can it be painted blacker?</p> + +<p>Still, I was foolish enough to wish that our good old one-legged +soldier might have stayed to bring Jim home.</p> + +<hr style='width: 45%;' /> + +<p>Mother Beckett would have compelled me to be with +her at the open door to meet "our darling boy," but that +I could not bear. It would be as trying for him as for me, +and I had to spare him the ordeal at any price.</p> + +<p>"Don't make me do that," I begged, with real tears in +my voice. "I—I've set my heart on seeing Jim for the +first time alone. He wants it too—I know he does."</p> + +<p>She gazed at me for some long seconds, with the clear +blue eyes which seemed—though only seemed!—to read +my soul. In reality she saw quite another soul than mine. +The darling crystallizes to radiant beauty all souls of +those she loves, as objects are crystallized by frost, or by +sparkling salt in a salt mine.</p> + +<p>"Well, you must have a good and loving reason, I'm +sure. And probably your love has taught you to know +better than I can, what Jim would want you to do," she said. +"It shall be just as you wish, dear. Only you must grant +one little favour in return to please me. You are to wait<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> +for Jim in the <i>den</i>. When his Father and I have hugged +and kissed him a few times, and made certain he's not one +of my dreams, we'll lead him up to that door, and leave +him outside. It shall be my hand that shuts the door when +he's gone in. And I shan't tell him one word about the den. +It shall be a surprise. But he won't notice a thing until—until +you and he have been together for a while, I guess—not +even the hobby-horse! He'll see nothing except you, +Molly—<i>you</i>!"</p> + +<p>I implored—I argued—in vain. The making of the den +had been her inspiration. It was monstrous that I should +have to greet her son there. The pleasure of the den-surprise +would be for ever spoilt for Jim. But I couldn't +explain that to his mother. I had to yield at last, tongue-tied +and miserable beyond words.</p> + +<p>I haven't described the den to you, Padre. I will do it +now, in the pause, the hush, before the storm.</p> + +<p>It's a quaint room, with a little round tower in each of +the two front corners. One of these Mother Beckett has +turned into a refuge for broken-down toys, all Jim's early +favourites, which he'd never let her throw away: the +famous spotted hobby-horse starred in the centre of the +stage: oh, but a noble, red-nostrilled beast, whose eternal +prance has something of the endless dignity of the Laocoön! +The second tower is a miniature library, whose shelves +are crowded with the pet books of Jim's boyhood—queer +books, some of them, for a child to choose: "Byron," +"Letters of Pliny," Plutarch's "Lives," Gibbon's +"Rome," "Morte d'Arthur," Maeterlinck's "Life of the +Bee," Kingsland's "Scientific Idealism," with several quite +learned volumes of astronomy and geology, side by side<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span> +with Gulliver and all kinds of travel and story-books +which we have most of us adored. It was I who had +the task of sorting and arranging this motley collection, +and I can hardly tell you, Padre, how I loved doing it!</p> + +<p>The room isn't large, so the ten or twelve pictures on the +walls are not lost in a desert of bare spaces. These pictures, +the toys, the books, tennis-rackets, golf-clubs and +two lovely old Persian prayer-rugs are all of Jim's treasures +brought to France. He must have been a boy of individual, +independent nature, for it seems he disliked the +idea of killing things for pleasure, and was never a hunter +or even a fisherman. Consequently, there are no monster +fish under glass, or rare birds or butterflies, or stuffed +animals. He must have loved wild creatures though, for +five of the beloved pictures are masterly oil-paintings by +well-known artists, of lions and tigers and stags, <i>chez eux</i>, +happy and at home, not being hunted, or standing agonized +at bay. Oh, getting this den in order has taught me more +about the real Jim than a girl can learn about a man in +ordinary acquaintance in a year! But then I had a wonderful +foundation to begin building upon: that day in the +rose-arbour—the red-rose day of my life.</p> + +<p>Well, when the car was expected back from the station, +bringing Jim home to his mother, I went by her command +to the den. Even that was better than having to meet +him in the presence of those two dear souls who trusted +and loved me only second to him. And yet everything in +the den which had meant something in Jim's life, seemed to +cry out at me, as I shut the door and stood alone with them—and +my pounding heart—to wait.</p> + +<p>I didn't know how to make the time pass. I was too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> +restless to sit down. I wouldn't let myself look out of the +window to see the car come along the drive. I dared not +walk up and down like the caged thing I was, lest the floor +should creak, for the tower-room—the den—is over the +entrance-hall. I felt like a hunted animal—I, the one +creature to whom Jim Beckett deliberately meant to be +cruel! I, in this room which was a tribute to his kindness +of heart, his faithfulness, his loyalty! But why should it +not be so? I had no right to call upon these qualities of +his.</p> + +<p>The horn of the little Red Cross taxi! It must be +turning in at the gate. How well I knew its gay, conceited +tootle! An eighth of a mile, and the car would +reach the house. Even the poor worn-out taxi couldn't +be five minutes doing that!...</p> + +<p>If I ran to the window between the towers I could see! +No, I wouldn't; I <i>couldn't</i>. I should scream—or faint—or +do something else idiotic, if I saw Jim Beckett getting +out of the car, and his mother flying to meet him. I had +never felt like this in my whole life—not in any suspense, +not in any danger.</p> + +<p>Instinctively I walked as far from the window as I could. +I sought sanctuary under Brian's cathedral picture—the +picture that had introduced me to Jim. Yes, sanctuary I +sought, for in that room my brother's work was my one +excuse to intrude!</p> + +<p>By this time the car must have arrived. The front door +must have flown open in welcome. Now Mother Beckett +must be crying tears of joy in the arms of her son, Father +Beckett gazing at the blessed sight, speechless with +ecstasy!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span></p> + +<p>What should I be doing at this moment, if I had yielded +to their wish and stopped downstairs with them? Just +how far would Jim have gone in keeping up the tragic +farce? Would he have kissed me? Would he——?</p> + +<p>The vision was so blazing bright that I covered my eyes +to shut it out. Not that I hated it. Oh no, I loved it too +well!</p> + +<p>So, for a while, I stood, my hands pressed over my eyes, +my ears strained to catch distant sounds—yet wishing not +to hear. Suddenly, close by, there came the click of a +latch. My hands dropped like broken clock weights. I +opened my eyes. Jim Beckett was in the room, and the +door was shut.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> + + +<p>I stared, fascinated. Here was Jim-of-the-rose-arbour, +and a new Jim-of-the-war—a browner, +thinner, sterner Jim, a Jim that looked at me with +a look I could not read. It may have been cruel, but it +was not cold, and it pierced like a hot sword-blade through +my flesh into my soul.</p> + +<p>"<i>You</i>—after all!" he said. The remembered voice I +had so often heard in dreams, struck on my nerves like a +hand on the strings of a harp. I felt the vibration thrill +through me.</p> + +<p>"Yes—it's I." The answer came in a whisper from +dry lips. "I'm sorry!"</p> + +<p>"What are you sorry for? Because you are you?"</p> + +<p>"It wouldn't be—<i>quite</i> so horrible if—I'd been a stranger."</p> + +<p>"You think not?"</p> + +<p>"I—it seems as if I took advantage of—oh, that's just +what I did! I'm not asking you to forgive me——"</p> + +<p>"It isn't so much a question of forgiving, as putting +things straight. We <i>must</i> put them straight——"</p> + +<p>"I'll do whatever you wish," I promised. "Only—let +me go soon."</p> + +<p>"Are you afraid of me?" There was sharpness in his +tone.</p> + +<p>"Not afraid. I am—utterly humiliated."<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why did you do this—thing? Let's have that out +first."</p> + +<p>"The thought came into my head when I was at my wits' +end—for my brother. Not that that's an excuse!"</p> + +<p>"I'm not worrying about excuses. It's explanations I +need, I had my own theories—thinking it all over—and +wondering—whether it would be you or a stranger I +should find. The name was the one thing I had to go on: +'O'Malley' and its likeness to Ommalee. That was the +way I heard your name pronounced, you know, when we +met. I was coming back to see you and make sure. But +I was laid up in Paris with an attack of typhoid. Perhaps +Mother told you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. But please, let us not talk of that! There isn't +much time. You'll have to go back to Fath—to Mr. and +Mrs. Beckett. Tell me quickly what you want me to +do."</p> + +<p>"I was forgetting for a minute. You look very pale, +Miss O'Malley. Hadn't you better sit down?"</p> + +<p>"No, thank you. I like standing—where I am."</p> + +<p>"Ah!" he gave a sudden exclamation. At last he had +seen Brian's sketch. He had not noticed it, or any of the +"den treasures," before. He had looked only at me.</p> + +<p>"Why—it's <i>the</i> picture! And—Gee!"—his eyes travelled +round the room—"all my dear old things! What a +mother I've got!" He gazed about during a full minute +of silence, then turned abruptly back to me. "You love +her—don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Who could help loving her?"</p> + +<p>"And the dear old Governor—you're fond of him?"</p> + +<p>"I should be even worse than I am, if I didn't adore<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> +them both. They have been—angels to me and my +brother."</p> + +<p>"I'm told that you and he have been something of the +same sort to them."</p> + +<p>"Oh, they would speak kindly of us, of course!—They're +so noble, themselves, they judge——"</p> + +<p>"It was another person who told me the particular thing +I'm thinking of now."</p> + +<p>"Another person? Doctor Paul, I suppose."</p> + +<p>"You must guess again, Miss O'Malley."</p> + +<p>"I can't think of any one else who would——"</p> + +<p>"What about your friend, Mr. O'Farrell?"</p> + +<p>"He's not my friend!" I cried. "Oh, I <i>knew</i> he'd +somehow contrive a chance to talk to you alone, about +me!"</p> + +<p>"He certainly did. And what he said impressed me a +good deal."</p> + +<p>"Most likely it's untrue."</p> + +<p>"<i>Too</i> likely! I'm very anxious to find out from headquarters +if it's true or not."</p> + +<p>"If you ask me, I'll answer honestly. I can't and won't +lie to you."</p> + +<p>"I'll take you at your word and ask you—in a minute. +You may be angry when I do. But—it will save time. +It'll clear up all my difficulties at one fell swoop."</p> + +<p>"Why wait a minute, then?" I ventured, with faint +bitterness, because <i>his</i> "difficulties" seemed so small compared +with mine. He was in the right in everything. +This was his home. The dear Becketts were his people. +All the world was his.</p> + +<p>"I wait a minute, because something has to be told you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> +before I can ask you to answer any more questions. When +I didn't know who or what my—er—official fiancée would +turn out to be, this was the plan I made, to save my +parents' feelings—and yours. I thought that, when we'd +had the interview I asked you to give me, we could +manage to quarrel, or discover that we didn't like each +other as well as before. We could break off our engagement, +and Father and Mother need never know—how it +began."</p> + +<p>"A very generous idea of yours!" I cried, the blood so +hot in my cheeks that it forced tears to my eyes. "It had +occurred to me, too, that for <i>their</i> sakes we might manage +that way. Thank you, Mr. Beckett, for sparing me the +pain—I deserve. I couldn't have dared hope for such a +happy solution——"</p> + +<p>"Couldn't you?"</p> + +<p>"No. I——"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm hoping for an even happier one—a lot happier. +But of course it depends on what you say to Mr. +O'Farrell's—accusation."</p> + +<p>"He—made an accusation?"</p> + +<p>"Listen, and tell me what you'd call it. He said you +told him at Amiens, when he asked you to marry him, that—<i>you +loved me</i>."</p> + +<p>"Oh!"</p> + +<p>"Is it true?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I did tell him that——"</p> + +<p>"I mean, is it true that you've loved me?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Beckett, after all, you are cruel! You're punishing +me very hard."</p> + +<p>"I don't wish to 'punish you hard'—or at all. Why am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> +I 'cruel,' simply asking if it's true that you've loved me? +Of course, when Mother told you of my fever, and what +I'd said of this cathedral picture, she told you that I was +dead in love with 'the Girl,' as I called you, and just about +crazy because I'd lost her. Why shouldn't you have loved +me a little bit—say, the hundredth part as much as I loved +you? I'm not a monster, am I? And we both had exactly +the same length of time to fall in love—whole hours on +end. Cruel or not cruel, I've got to know. Was it the +truth you told the O'Farrell man?"</p> + +<p>I could not speak. I didn't try to speak. I looked up +at him. It must have been some such look as the Princess +gave St. George when he appeared at the last minute, to +rescue her from the dragon. The tears I'd been holding +back splashed over my cheeks. Jim gave a low cry of pity—or +love (it sounded like love) as he saw them; and the +next thing, he was kissing them away. I was in his arms +so closely held that my breath was crushed out of my +lungs. I wanted to sob. But how can you sob without +breath? I could only let him kiss me on cheeks, and eyes, +and mouth, and kiss him back again, with eager haste, lest +I should wake up to find he had loved me for a fleeting instant, +in a divine dream.</p> + +<p>When he let me breathe for a second, I gasped that, of +course, it <i>couldn't</i> be true, this wonderful thing that was +happening?</p> + +<p>"I've dreamed of you—a hundred times," I stammered. +"Waking dreams—sleeping dreams. They've seemed as +real—almost as real—as this."</p> + +<p>"Did I kiss you like this, in the dreams?"</p> + +<p>"Sometimes. But not in the realest ones. It never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> +seemed real that you could care, in spite of all—that you'd +forgive me, if you should come back——"</p> + +<p>"Did you want me to come?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, 'want' isn't the word to express it!"</p> + +<p>"Even though you dreaded—being found out!"</p> + +<p>"That didn't count, against having you alive, and knowing +you were in the world—if only for your parents' sake. +I wanted them to be happy, more than I wanted anything +for myself except Brian's good. I had you for my own, +in my dreams, while you were dead, and I expected to +lose you if you were alive. But——"</p> + +<p>"You really expected that?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, indeed, yes!"</p> + +<p>"Although you knew from Mother how I'd loved you, +and searched for you?"</p> + +<p>"You thought I was <i>good</i>—then."</p> + +<p>"I think so now."</p> + +<p>"But you can't! You know what a wicked, wicked +wretch I was! Why, when you came into this room and +looked at me, I <i>saw</i> how you felt! And your letter——"</p> + +<p>"Don't you understand, I was testing you? If you +hadn't cared for me, what you did might have been—(only +'might', mind you, for what man can judge a girl's +heart?) what you did to my people <i>might</i> have been cruel +and calculating. I had to find out the truth of things, before +letting myself go. The letter was written to let a +stranger see—if you turned out to be a stranger—what to +expect. But O'Farrell made me sure in a minute, that the +girl here must be <i>my</i> Girl. After that, I'd only to see +you—to ask if he told the truth—to watch your face—your +precious, beautiful face! I thought of it and pic<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span>tured +it. But I never thought of those tears! Forgive +me, my darling, for making them come. If you'll let me +love you all your life, they shall be the last I'll ever cause."</p> + +<p>I laughed, and cried a little more, at the same time. +"What a word from you to me—'Forgive'!"</p> + +<p>"Well, it's more suitable than from you to me, because +there's nothing you could do that I wouldn't forgive before +you did it, or even be sure it was just the one right thing to +do. My Girl—my lost, found love—do you suppose it +was of your own accord you came to my people and said you +belonged to me? No. It was the Great Power that's in +us all, which made you do what you did—the Power they +call Providence. You understand now what I meant, +when I said that one question from me and an answer from +you, would smooth away all my difficulties at once? Bless +that O'Farrell fellow!"</p> + +<p>I'd never thought to bless Julian O'Farrell, but now I +willingly agreed. Sometimes, dimly, I had divined latent +goodness in him, as one divines vague, lovely shapes floating +under dark depths of water. And he had said once +that love for me was bringing out qualities he hadn't +credited himself with possessing. I had taken that as one +of Puck's pleasantries! But I knew the true inwardness +of him now, as I had learned to know the true inwardness +of Dierdre. Julian had had his chance to hurt me +with his rival. He had used it instead to do me good. He +had laughed the other day, "Well, I'll always be <i>something</i> +to you anyhow, if only a brother-in-law." But now, he +would be more than that, even if he went out of my life, +and I never saw him again.</p> + +<p>"Bless O'Farrell. Bless Providence. Bless you. Bless<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> +me. Bless everybody and everything!" Jim was going +on, joyfully exploding, still clasping me in his arms; for +we clung as if to let each other go might be to lose one +another forever! "How happy Mother dear—and the +good old Governor are going to be! They absolutely +adore you!"</p> + +<p>"Did they say so?"</p> + +<p>"They did. And almost hustled me into this room to +meet you. I'm glad the best thing in my life has come +to me here, among all the odds and ends of my childhood +and youth, that I call my treasures! Of course Mother +planned it specially that you should welcome me here."</p> + +<p>"Yes, the darling! But it seemed to me a terrible +plan. I thought you'd hate me so, I'd spoil the surprise +of the room for you."</p> + +<p>Those words were uttered with the last breath he let me +draw for some time. But oh, Padre, if it had been my last +on earth, how well worth while it would have been to live +just till that minute, and no longer! I am <i>so</i> happy! I +don't know how I am going to deserve this forgiveness, +this deliverance, this joy!</p> + +<p>"Even if I'd found a strange girl looking after my +parents and saving their lives and winning their love, it +would have been pretty difficult to chuck her," Jim was +laughing. "You, on this side of the door, waiting to face +the ogre Me, couldn't have felt much worse than I felt on +my side, not knowing what I should see—or do. Darling, +one more kiss for my people's sake, one more for myself, +and then I must take you to them. It's not fair to keep +them waiting any longer. But no—first I must put a ring +on the Girl's finger—as I hoped to do long ago. You re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span>member—the +ring of my bet, that almost made me lose +you? I told you about it, didn't I, on our day together, +when I thought I should come back in two weeks?"</p> + +<p>"You told me you hoped not to lose a thing you wanted. +You didn't say it was a ring. But at Royalieu—the +newspaper correspondents' château near Compiègne—we +came across a friend of yours, the one you made the +bet with——"</p> + +<p>"Jack Curtis!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. He told me about the ring. And he was sure +you were alive."</p> + +<p>"Good old Jack! Well, now I'm going to slip that magic +ring on your darling finger—the 'engaged' finger."</p> + +<p>"But where is it?"</p> + +<p>"The finger? Just now on the back of my neck, which +it's making throb—like a star!... Oh, the <i>ring</i>? +That's in the hobby-horse which I see over there, as large +as life. At least, it's in him unless, unlike a leopard, he's +changed his spots."</p> + +<p>Jim wouldn't let me go, but drew me with him, our arms +interlaced, to the tower end of the room where the hobby-horse +he had once rescued from fire endlessly pranced. +"This used to be my bank, when I was a little chap," he +said. "Like a magpie, I always hid the things I valued +most in a hole I made under the third smudge to the left, +on Spot Cash's breast. 'Spot Cash' is the old boy's +name, you know! When I won the bet and took the ring +home, I had a fancy to keep it in this hidie hole, for luck, +till I could find the Girl. Mother knew. She was with +me at the time. But I was half ashamed of myself for my +childishness, and asked her not to tell—not even the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> +Governor. I shouldn't wonder if that was why it occurred +to her to pack up my treasures for France. Maybe she +had a prophetic soul, and thought, if I found the Girl, I +should want to lay my hand on the ring. Here it is, safe +and sound."</p> + +<p>As he spoke, he had somehow contrived to extract a particularly +black smudge from the region of the hobby-horse's +heart. It came out with a block of wood underneath, +and left a gap which gave Spot Cash the effect of +having suffered an operation. At the back of the cavity +a second hole, leading downward, had been burrowed in +the softish wood; and in this reposed a screwed-up wad +of tissue paper. Jim hooked the tiny packet out with a +finger, opened the paper as casually as though it enclosed a +pebble, and brought to the light (which found and flashed +to the depths of a large blue diamond) a quaintly fashioned +ring of greenish gold.</p> + +<p>"This belonged to the most beautiful woman of a day +that's past," Jim said. "Now, it's for the most beautiful +woman of a better day and a still grander to-morrow. +May I wish it on your finger—with the greatest wish in +the world?"</p> + +<p>I gave him my hand—for the ring, and for all time.</p> + +<p>One more moment in his arms, and he opened the door, +to take "his Girl" to Father and Mother Beckett.</p> + +<p>Somewhere in the distance Julian O'Farrell was singing, +as he had sung on the first night we met, Mario's heartbreaking +song in "La Tosca"—the song on the roof, at +dawn. Always in remembering Julian I must remember +Mario's love and sacrifice! I knew that he meant it +should be so with me.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span></p> + +<p>The voice was the voice of love itself, such love as mine +for Jim, as Jim's for me, which can never die. It made me +sad and happy at the same time. But, as Jim and I paused +at the door to listen, hand in hand, the music changed. +Julian began to sing something new and strangely beautiful—a +song he has composed, and dedicated to Brian. +I was sad no longer, for this is a song of courage and +triumph. He calls it: "Everyman's Land."</p> + +<p class='center'>THE END</p> + + +<p class='center'>THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span></p> +</div><!-- end book-content --> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Everyman's Land, by +C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EVERYMAN'S LAND *** + +***** This file should be named 19806-h.htm or 19806-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/9/8/0/19806/ + +Produced by V. L. 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