Several weeks later Barbara Meade walked down the steps of a house in Brussels out into one of the streets near the Palais de la Nation. The house had once been a private residence, but since the coming of war into the heart of Belgium had been turned into a relief hospital by the American Red Cross Society.
Barbara walked slowly, looking at all the objects of interest along the way. She wore a dark-blue taffeta suit and white blouse and a small blue hat with a single white wing in it.
Evidently she was not in a hurry. Indeed, she behaved more like an ordinary tourist than an overworked nurse. Yet a glance into Barbara's face would have suggested that she was dreadfully fagged and anxious to get away from the beaten track for a few hours. It chanced to be herone afternoon of leisure in the week, so for the time she had discarded her nurse's uniform. She was also trying to forget the trouble surrounding her and to appreciate the beauty and charm of Brussels.
Yet Barbara found it difficult to get into a mood of real enjoyment. These past few weeks represented the hardest work she had yet done, for the funds for the Belgian Relief work were getting painfully low. Therefore, as there were still so many demands, the workers could only try to do double duty.
Finally Barbara entered the church of St. Gudula, which happened to be near at hand. It was a beautiful Gothic building, dedicated to the patron saint of Brussels. Once inside, the girl strolled quietly about, feeling herself already rested and calmed from the simple beauty of the interior. The tall rounded pillars and sixteenth century stained glass represented a new world of color and beauty. Although she was not a Catholic, Barbara could not refrain from saying a short prayer in the "Chapel of Notre-Dame-de-Deliverance"for the safety of the Belgian people and their gallant king and queen. Barbara was too loyal an American to believe that kings and queens were any longer useful as the heads of governments. Nevertheless, as a noble man and woman, King Albert and Queen Elizabeth of Belgium, commanded her admiration and sympathy. Since the outbreak of the war neither of them seem to have given thought to their royalty, remembering only their common humanity with the people of their land.
Already comforted by the few minutes of quiet, finally Barbara slipped out of one of the side doors that chanced to be open. Afterwards she stood looking about her in order to find out just where she was.
The side street was almost entirely free from passers by. Therefore, as Barbara desired to inquire her way to the nearest tram line, she waited for a moment. At some distance down the street she could see the figure of a man walking in her direction.
She did not look very closely or she might have discovered something familiarin the quick stride and the graceful carriage of the head and shoulders. The men of Brussels are rather more French than Flemish in their appearance, yet this man did not resemble a foreigner.
Indeed, he walked so much more rapidly than Barbara expected that she was extremely startled when a voice said close beside her:
"Why, Barbara, this is good luck. To think I have not seen you since the first afternoon of my arrival! I'm sorry you have been so tremendously busy every time I have had a chance to run into the hospital for a few moments. But Mildred and Nona have given me news of you."
Dick Thornton had taken Barbara's hand and was looking searchingly into her face. But after her first recognition of him she had dropped her lids, so it was not possible to see her eyes.
"I have just been up to your hospital now, but could not get hold of either Mildred or Nona. I am sorry. Nona had promised me, if she could be spared, to spend the afternoon seeing sights. Ihave investigated thirty destitute Belgian families since eight o'clock this morning and reported their cases, so I feel rather in the need of being cheered."
Barbara's chin quivered a little, although it was not perceptible to her companion.
"I am dreadfully sorry too," she answered the next instant. "Certainly you are deserving of Nona's society for a reward. And if I had only known your plan you might have carried it out. It is my afternoon of freedom, but I would very cheerfully have changed my time with Nona."
"You are awfully kind, I am sure," Dick returned. But he scarcely showed the gratitude at Barbara's suggestion that she expected.
He glanced up at the beautiful Gothic tower of the church near them, remarking irritably, "I expect you are quite as much in need of a rest as any one else. Really, Barbara, it is all very well to do the best one can to help these unfortunate people, but there is no especial point in killing yourself. You look wretchedly. You are not trying to play at being thepatron saint of Brussels, are you? Is that why you haunt the church of Saint Gudula?"
Barbara smiled. "I am the farthest person from a saint in this world," she replied, wrinkling up her small nose with a faint return to her old self. "Nona and Mildred and I have decided recently that we haven't but one saint among us. And she is the last person I should ever have awarded the crown at our first meeting. Moreover, I wouldn't dare present it to her now, if she could see or hear me in the act. She would probably destroy me utterly, because my saint is very human and sometimes has a dreadful temper, besides a desire to boss everybody else. I wonder if real saints ever had such traits of character? Of course, you know I mean Eugenia! I am on my way now to her Hotel des Enfants, if I can ever find the right street car. She already is taking care of twelve children, and I have never seen her nor her house since we separated. Gene has promised to send some one to meet me at the end of thecar line. Her house is a deserted old place where a ghost is supposed to hold forth. But I am assured the ghost has not turned up recently. It is nice to have met you. Good-by." And Barbara was compelled to stop talking for lack of breath after her long speech, as she held out her hand. Dick ignored the outstretched hand. His face had assumed a charming, boyish expression of pleading. Barbara was reminded of the first days of their meeting in New York City.
"I say, Barbara, why can't I go along with you?" he demanded. "Of course, I realize that for some reason or other you are down upon me. I am not such a chump as not to understand you could have seen me for a few minutes in these last few weeks if you had tried. But Eugenia is friendly enough. I haven't seen her, but I had a stunning note from her. Besides, as I sent her five of her twelve Belgian babies, I think I've the right to find out if she is being good to them. I am a kind of a godfather to the bunch. Let's stop by a shop and get some stuffeddolls and whistles and sugar plums. Some of the Belgian children I have discovered seemed to be forgetting how to play."
Barbara had not answered. Indeed, Dick had not intended to give her a chance. Nevertheless, her expression had changed to a measure of its former brightness. It would be good fun to have Dick on the afternoon's excursion! She had rather dreaded the journey alone into a strange part of the countryside, one might so easily get lost. Beside, Barbara knew in her heart of hearts that she had absolutely no right for her unfriendly attitude toward Dick Thornton. If he had chosen to treat her with less intimacy than in the beginning of their acquaintance, that was his own affair. If he now preferred Nona to her—well, he only showed a better judgment in desiring the finer girl.
Barbara now put her hand in a friendly fashion on Dick's sleeve.
"I am awfully glad to have you come along and I am sure Gene will be," she answered happily. "Lead on, Sir Knight, to the nearest street car."
After an hour's ride into the country, through one of Belgium's suburbs, Dick and Barbara arrived at a tumble-down shed. Eugenia had carefully described this shed as their first destination.
Not far off they found Bibo waiting for them with a rickety old wagon and an ancient horse. Money and Eugenia's determined character had secured the forlorn equipage. For it was difficult to buy any kind of horse or wagon in these war days.
However, the small driver, who was the boy Eugenia had rescued some weeks before, drove with all the pomp of the king's coachman. That is, he allowed the old horse to pick her way along a grass-grown path for about a mile. Then he invited his two passengers to get down, as there was no road up to the old house that a horse and wagon could travel.
So Dick and Barbara found themselves for the first time in their acquaintance wandering along a country lane together. Their position was not very romantic, however. Barbara led the way along the same narrow avenue that Eugenia hadfollowed on the day of her first visit to the supposedly deserted place.
Yet although Barbara almost ran along in her eagerness to arrive, Dick noticed that she looked very thin. She was not the Barbara of his first acquaintance; something had changed her. Well, one could hardly go through the experiences of this war without changing, even if one were only an outsider. And Dick Thornton glanced at his own useless arm with a tightening of his lips. He probably owed his life to the little girl ahead of him.
Eugenia did not at first see her guests approaching until they had discovered her. She was in the front yard and the grass had been cut, so that there was a broad cleared space. Moreover, every window of the supposedly haunted house was thrown wide open, so that the sun and air poured in.
It was as little like either a deserted or a haunted house as one could humanly imagine. For there were eight or ten children at this moment in the yard with Eugenia. She held a baby in her arms and a small boy stood close beside her.
Barbara saw the little fellow at the same moment she recognized her friend. Instantly she decided that he was the most exquisite child she had ever seen in her life. The boy was like a small prince, although he wore only the blue cotton overalls and light shirt such as the other boys wore.
But he must have said something to Eugenia, for she glanced up and then ran forward to meet her guests. The baby she dumped hastily into her discarded chair.
"But I thought I was to be your guest of honor, Gene?" Barbara protested a few moments later. "Never should I have allowed Dick to come if I had dreamed he was to put me in the shade so completely."
Eugenia laughed. Her new responsibilities did not appear to have overburdened her.
"Come and meet my family," she insisted. "There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, who had so many children she didn't know what to do."
"But she seems to me a very unusual person to be a servant, Gene," Barbara remarked argumentatively. "Of course, I know she was wearing a maid's apron and cap so that her hair was completely hidden, and her dark glasses concealed her eyes. Still, I could see very plainly the woman you call 'Louise' is not an everyday servant. She spoke to Dick and me with perfect self-possession, although she did seem nervous. But it is ridiculous to think one can hide a personality under such a slight disguise."
Barbara spoke pettishly. She and Eugenia were wandering about the big house together. They were looking over the arrangements Eugenia had made for her recently acquired family. These were, of course, of the most primitive kind. Therewere about eighteen army cots in the bedrooms, some light coverings, and a few wooden chairs. In the big front room downstairs long planks had been laid across wooden supports. This formed a large and informal dining room table. Yet by accident this same room contained a magnificent Flemish oak sideboard that had been left in the house by the former owners of the place.
However, Barbara and Eugenia were in Eugenia's own bedroom when the present conversation started. They had already seen the lower floor of the house, where Barbara had been introduced to Eugenia's cook, who was a plain Flemish woman. But it was the history of the housemaid, a woman of between forty and fifty, whose identity Barbara was questioning.
In reply Eugenia gazed at her friend earnestly for a few moments and then slowly shook her head.
"These are war times, Bab. I thought you and I had agreed long ago to ask no unnecessary questions."
Eugenia had seated herself on the sideof her cot bed, Barbara was on a high wooden box, which served as a chair, near the window.
She did not reply at first, but this was merely because she was thinking, not because she intended to consider Eugenia's suggestion.
She had one foot crossed under her, while the other swung in the air. Her brow was wrinkled into a painfully heavy frown for so miniature a person. Unconsciously Barbara pulled meditatively at a brown curl that had escaped from the knot at the back of her head.
During her long study Eugenia smiled at her guest. She too could not grow accustomed to considering Barbara as responsible a person as the rest of the Red Cross girls. This was only because of her appearance, for she had learned to have faith in her.
All of a sudden Barbara began talking again, just where she had left off.
"It is all very well to preach, Gene, about not asking unnecessary questions because we are living and working in wartimes. But you know very well we never expected that point of view to apply to asking questions of each other. We came abroad as strangers, except that Mildred and I knew each other slightly, but since then we have become friends. At least, we care a great deal about each other's interests. Now I don't think for a minute we have the right to keep secrets from one another. That is, unless they happen to be of a kind one simply can't bear to tell." And at this Barbara hesitated for an instant.
"But about this woman, this 'Louise', we were discussing. Eugenia, you know perfectly well she isn't a real servant. I am dreadfully afraid you are hiding some one and it may get you into serious trouble," the younger girl continued, making no effort to hide her anxiety. "Really, you ought to be careful, Gene. You came to Europe to act as a Red Cross nurse, not to interfere with questions of government. If you do, you may be put into prison, or something else dreadful. Do you know I thought all along it was funny yourdeciding so suddenly to give up your Red Cross work and then knowing exactly where to find a house. Well, I might as well tell you," Barbara now got off her stool and came over and put a hand on either of her friend's shoulders, "I mean to find out what you are trying to hide if I possibly can," she concluded.
Eugenia did not stir. But she let her own dark eyes rest gravely upon Bab's blue ones.
"Please don't," she asked. "I suppose I might have guessed that you would have discovered there is something unusual about my family. But, Bab, I want you to promise me on your honor that you will not mention your suspicion to any one—not to Nona, or Mildred, or Dick Thornton. I am trying in a fashion to help some one who is in deep trouble. As you have guessed, she is a woman, and that was her little boy, Jan, whom you saw standing by me when you arrived. But if questions are asked of you, Barbara, you know absolutely nothing of this. I prefer to manage my own affairs."
Eugenia made this announcement in her haughtiest fashion. However, her companion was not deceived. Eugenia simply meant that if disaster followed her attempt to shield a prisoner, she alone must bear the penalty.
Quietly for another moment, still with her hands on the older girl's shoulders, Barbara continued to consider the situation.
"I won't make you any promises, Gene," she answered at last. "I must decide what to do later. But I won't tell Nona, or Mildred, or Dick, as I can't see any special point in confiding in them at present. However, I am not willing to stand aside and let you run deliberately into danger. It was all very well your taking care of Captain Castaigne. He was desperately ill. Your finding him wounded on the battlefield was so romantic. But this is quite a different affair. We were under certain obligations to the Countess Amelie, while this 'Louise' and her 'Jan' are utter strangers. I think I'll go this instant and tell the woman she has no right to make you undergo such risks."
Again Eugenia did not stir, but this time neither did Barbara.
"You will do no such thing, my dear; you must let me manage my life for myself," she declared quietly instead. "Of course, I am not going to take any more chances than I must. Come now, let us go downstairs and have tea. You and Dick were angels to have come on such a long journey and you must be nearly famished. I have managed to get a few supplies in Brussels and I have sent to Boston for a great many more. So when you girls are able to visit me, we can at least regale ourselves with a Boston Tea Party."
Eugenia put an arm across Barbara's shoulder as they moved toward the door.
A few feet further on the younger girl stopped. "Are you very rich, Eugenia Peabody?" she demanded. "Unless you are, it is perfectly mad for you to have undertaken the expenses of this household. Most of these children have not had anything to eat for a year and must be nearly famished."
Eugenia nodded. "I suppose I am fairly wealthy, although I find it hard to realize it, as I grew up such a poor girl."
"Then why—why, Eugenia (I have been simply dying to ask you this ever since you told us you were rich)—why did you wear such old-fashioned—if you will excuse me—such perfectly awful clothes?"
Barbara fairly shuddered, recalling how she and Nona and Mildred had suffered over Eugenia's ancient Alpine hat.
But Eugenia only laughed. She had been sensitive enough over the other girls' attitude toward her appearance when they first knew one another. But Barbara's way of expressing things was too absurd.
"I told you I had been so poor I didn't know how to spend money," she explained. "Besides, I have always been so plain it never occurred to me that clothes could make much difference in my appearance."
"Goose!" Barbara looked up at Eugenia searchingly. "If ever this wretched war is over, I mean to go with you to Paris and make you spend heaps and heaps of money on clothes. Nona and I havedecided that we could make you look quite stunning if we had the money to spend. Then I should insist that you pay a visit to the Chateau d'Amelie. The Countess insisted you never could look like anything but a New England old maid, no matter what exquisite toilets you wore."
Then the younger girl's cheeks grew so hot that she could actually feel the tears being forced into her eyes.
"I wonder if I shall ever learn what to say and what not to say, Gene?" she asked wretchedly. "Oh, don't tell me you don't mind what I say. That is not the point. The trouble is I can't learn when to hold my tongue. I only wish the Countess could have seen you when Dick and I arrived today."
Eugenia was not wearing her nurse's uniform. Instead, she had fished an old gray crepon dress out of her trunk. But in order to make it more attractive for her little guests, she wore a white fichu about her neck. Then her hair was wound in two heavy braids around her head.
"There isn't any particular reason whyI should deny being an old maid," she returned. "Only I am sorry that you girls discussed my appearance with a stranger."
Again Barbara flushed. "The Countess isn't a stranger to us, Gene," she apologized, "and I don't think you should feel that way toward her since you and Captain Castaigne have grown to be good friends. I don't see how you can still consider him unattractive. But you are terribly prejudiced, Eugenia."
The two girls had left Eugenia's bedroom and were now walking toward the back stairs.
All of a sudden, when Eugenia chanced to be unconscious of her companion, Barbara moved away. She at once placed her hand on the knob of a door leading into a room at the back of the house.
"Whose room is this, Eugenia? May I go inside and see?" she queried.
Her hand was upon the knob, but, of course, she made no effort to enter the room, awaiting the other girl's reply. She was interested merely because this seemedto be about the only room that Eugenia had not exhibited.
But Eugenia immediately looked unaccountably angry. Yet she had kept her temper perfectly through all Barbara's annoying speeches!
"Please don't attempt to go in that room, Barbara!" she ordered sharply, quite in the manner and temper of the former Eugenia. "If I had desired you to see the room I should have taken you into it myself."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," Barbara replied, angry with herself for the sudden lump that had risen in her throat. "I suppose this room is Bluebeard's chamber, or the place where you keep your ghost locked up. I did not mean to interfere."
"The room is not locked and is entirely empty," Eugenia replied. However, she must have parted with her New England conscience at the moment of making this statement. For Barbara had distinctly heard some one moving about inside the room. And quite by accident, as her hand turned the knob, she realized that the doorwaslocked.
In the yard the two girls found Dick Thornton playing with the children. He had discovered some ivy growing on one side of the old house. Therefore, each girl and boy had been decorated with an ivy leaf, as if it were a badge of honor. Moreover, Dick also wore a leaf in his buttonhole.
"Louise" soon brought the tea, which Dick drank with satisfaction. Barbara tried to pretend that she enjoyed hers, but it was extremely difficult. Not that she was angry with Eugenia, for her discomfort went deeper than that. The fact is she was frightened for her.
Some one more important than "Louise" was being guarded by Eugenia. Who on earth the man or woman could be, Barbara could not even hazard a guess. Yet it must be some one whose safety her friend considered of great importance, for had she not deliberately lied to her?
Certainly Eugenia was facing a grave situation! At present no one suspected her of treason. She was simply regarded as an eccentric American woman, whodesired to spend her money in caring for the destitute Belgian children. No outsider had yet visited her "Hotel des Enfants." But, of course, once the news that something unusual was going on in her establishment reached the German authorities, Eugenia could not hope to escape their vigilance a second time.
On the trip back into Brussels Dick Thornton found his companion unusually quiet. He was under the impression that it was because of the change in her once friendly attitude toward him. He was sorry, because he very much wanted to talk to her about a personal matter, but never found a sufficiently intimate moment.
Only once did she arouse herself in the effort to make conversation.
"Why do you happen to be wearing that spray of ivy so proudly, Dick?" she inquired carelessly. "I was amused at your decorating all the Belgian children with leaves."
Dick glanced carefully about, but the tram car was almost empty.
"Don't you understand what the ivymeans?" he asked. "I expect itwaspretty absurd of me. But the other day the German commandant ordered that no Belgian should wear his national colors. Indeed, they were not to be displayed anywhere. Well, the result is, that almost everybody one meets upon the street has been wearing a leaf of ivy lately."
Dick took the ivy spray from his coat and handed it to his companion.
"Do you know what ivy stands for?" he asked. "It means attachment, faithful unto death. Won't you wear this?"
But although Barbara took the shaded, dark green leaf into her hand and looked at it for a moment, she slowly shook her head.
"There is something charming and pathetic in the idea, Dick. Remember to tell the story to Mildred and Nona. And give the ivy to Nona; I am sure she would love to have it," Barbara finished, as she gave the leaf back to her companion.
A curious division had developed between the four American Red Cross girls since their arrival in Belgium. Perhaps this was due to the arrangement of their work, perhaps to spiritual conditions which are not always easy to see or define.
Eugenia, for reasons of her own, had given up the regular Red Cross nursing, preferring to devote herself to the children whom the war had made homeless. After Barbara's first visit to her and the discussion that had arisen between them, she had not urged the younger girl to come to see her often.
Barbara had been several times without invitation, but had not referred to their past difference. Indeed, she hoped that Eugenia would believe the idea had completely vanished from her mind.Nevertheless, she watched affairs at the old house more closely than her friend dreamed. There were other suspicious circumstances that Barbara kept tabulated. Later on, if she considered Eugenia in danger, she meant to fight for her and with her when the occasion arose.
However, Barbara had her own life and labor to occupy her time and was apparently busier than ever before. For although she and Nona and Mildred were working at the same hospital, they saw very little of one another.
The American Red Cross hospitals in Brussels were not given up entirely to the care of the wounded soldiers. The Germans looked after their own men and their prisoners as well. But there were many ill and friendless Belgians, unable to leave their country, who must have died without the help of the American Red Cross.
Fifty thousand Belgian babies were born during the first year of the present war. Their fathers had either been killed in defence of their country or were awayat the front fighting with their king. So there were fifty thousand mothers as well as babies who must be looked after.
Barbara's work was among the women and children in the American hospital, while Mildred and Nona were engaged in general nursing. The hospital was not a large one; indeed, it had been a private home before the coming of the Germans. But the Red Cross Societies of the United States had outfitted the hospital and only American doctors and nurses were taking part in the relief work.
So both from choice and opportunity Mildred and Nona were frequently together. They shared the same bedroom and grew daily more intimate.
This had not been true at first. Indeed, Barbara had appeared as the favorite of both girls, until a new bond had developed between them.
Always Mildred Thornton had been peculiarly devoted to her brother, Dick. Even in his selfish, indolent days in New York City she had been unable to see his faults. In her heart she had resentedBarbara Meade's criticism of him. Now it was charming to find that Nona was as enthusiastic about Dick as she was.
Whenever the opportunity came, the three of them used to go upon long excursions about Brussels. They visited the Royal Museums, the Palais des Beaux Arts, the parks, the Palais de Justice, which is the largest and most beautiful modern building in the world. And these parties did each member of the expedition a great deal of good. No one of them ever neglected work for pleasure, but the occasional happy times kept them cheerful and well.
It might have been better for Barbara had she shared these amusements. But after inviting her three or four times, finding that she always refused, the others made no further efforts to persuade her. For they seemed to be extremely content to be three, in spite of the old adage.
Indeed, Mildred cherished the unexpressed hope that Dick might be falling in love with Nona. So whenever it was possible she used to leave the two of themtogether. But she was wise enough never to have made this conspicuous. Neither had she intimated any such idea either to her friend or brother.
But it was fairly simple to find one self interested in a picture at one end of a gallery when her two companions were strolling in the opposite direction. Also one could grow suddenly weary just as the others had expressed the desire to investigate some remote picture or scene.
Certainly it is not usual for a devoted sister to wish her only brother to marry. But then, Mildred Thornton was an exceptional girl. Selfishness had never been one of her characteristics, and, moreover, she was deeply devoted to Nona. Besides this, she felt that the best possible thing that could happen to Dick was to marry an attractive girl. For ever since the loss of the use of his arm Mildred had feared that he might become morose and unhappy. Indeed, he had seemed both of these things during their stay in Paris. It was only since coming into Brussels that he had regained a portion of his old debonairspirit. So naturally Mildred believed Nona to have been largely responsible for this.
There were few people in their senses who would have cared at the present time to dispute Nona Davis' charm and beauty. She had always been a pretty girl, but the past year in Europe had given her a delicate loveliness that made persons stop to gaze at her as she passed them on the street. A great deal of her former shyness had passed away. In spite of the hard work and the sight of so much undeserved suffering, she had grown stronger physically.
For before coming to Europe Nona had led too shut-in and conservative a life. She had almost no friends of her own age and her poverty was not a pretence like Eugenia's, but a very certain and to her a very distasteful thing.
Nona wanted to see the world and to occupy an important place in it. In spite of her real talent for her work and her unusual courage under danger, she had no thought of being a hospital nurse all her life.
Nona's father was an old man at her birth. He had once belonged to a familyof wealth and prominence. But after the civil war had destroyed his fortune he had made little effort to rise superior to circumstances. Yet he had spent a great many hours talking to Nona about the true position which sheshouldoccupy and telling her long stories of her family's past.
Charleston, South Carolina, is one of the most beautiful and at the same time one of the most old-fashioned cities in the world. The tide of the new American life and spirit has in a measure swept past it. At least the new Americanism had never entered the doors of Nona's home during her father's lifetime.
The old gentleman would have perished had he dreamed of his daughter's becoming a trained nurse. However, after his death Nona had felt a strong impulse toward the profession and so far had never regretted the step.
But it was true that she had been greatly influenced by the possible romance and adventure in her decision to help with the Red Cross work in Europe. This did not mean that Nona was not tremendously inearnest. But she was a girl who had read a great deal and dreamed many dreams. All her life poetry and passion would appeal to her more than cold arrangements of facts. There was no fault in this, it was merely a matter of temperament. Perhaps it was partly responsible for the soft light in Nona's brown eyes with their curiously golden iris. Also she had a fashion of opening her lips slightly when she was specially interested in a subject, as if she wished to breathe in the essence of the idea.
A part of Nona's dreaming was due to the fact that she had never known her mother after she was a small girl. More than this, she had been brought up in such curious ignorance of her mother's history. Any child in the world must have dreamed strange dreams under like circumstances.
Often Nona used to have a vision of her mother coming to stand at her bedside. Always she appeared dressed in the white muslin and blue ribbons, in which she remembered seeing her on a special Sunday afternoon.
Moreover, there was always the question of her mother's family to be pondered over. Naturally Nona believed that her mother must have been a great lady. Her imagination even went so far as to conceive of her as a foreign princess, who for reasons of state had been suddenly carried off to her own land.
Until she grew old enough to laugh at herself, Nona often sat with her delicate little nose pressed against the window pane in the drawing room of her old Charleston home. If questions were asked she could invent many reasons to explain her presence. She was actually waiting for a splendid coach and four to drive up to the door and bear her away. The coach was always decorated with a splendid coat of arms, and for some absurd childish reason the coachman and footmen were dressed in pumpkin-colored satin and wore tall black top hats.
As a matter of fact, as Nona Davis grew older these ridiculous fancies faded; nevertheless, a few of her old dreams remained. For one thing, she retained the impression that her mother had probably been aforeigner. Yet she never could understand why, even after her father's death, his few old friends continued to decline to give her any information. Surely one of them must know something of her mother.
It was all too mysterious and disheartening. On coming to Europe, Nona had made up her mind to put the trying mystery back of her and to forget it as completely as she could. In a measure she had succeeded, but since her confession to the Red Cross girls the old haunting desire had come back to her. Shemustfind out whether her mother was dead or living and in either case why she had been told nothing of her.
Then suddenly one day, without knowing why, she chose Dick Thornton for a confidant. More than this, she asked for his advice. Whatever the mystery, it was her right to be told the exact truth, she insisted, and Dick agreed with her.
This was on one of the occasions when they were walking together out from Brussels in the direction of the sea. They were not allowed to travel very far, since the roads were all patrolled by German soldiersin command of the fortifications along the way.
Mildred had chosen to rest for a few moments, so that Dick and Nona were alone. Not that Mildred's presence would have interfered; this was simply an accident.
Dick listened with unusual gravity to Nona's history. Perhaps it struck him as even queerer than it did the girl herself. She had always been accustomed to the mystery. Really, the entire story sounded like a fabrication. Mysteries were out of fashion in these modern days in the United States. Although, of course, there was nothing too mad or too inconceivable that was not taking place in Europe at the present time.
Nothing was more antagonistic to Dick Thornton's nature than concealment of any kind. Yet he felt profoundly touched by Nona's confession. The girl herself was so attractive! She was still wearing the black silk dress and hat she had bought in Paris the autumn before. Her face had flushed, partly from embarrassment and partlyfrom the emotion she always felt at any mention of her mother.
Her eyes were luminous and brown and her features as exquisitely carved as a Greek statue's.
Dick also had no other idea except that Nona's mother must have been a woman of grace and breeding. The daughter was entirely aristocratic to the tips of her slender fingers. For half a moment Dick thought of suggesting that he or Mildred write to their own mother for advice. In reality Mrs. Thornton would have enjoyed tremendously the unveiling of anagreeablemystery. But only if she should discover in the end that Nona was the heir to a fortune or a great name. If the conclusion of the mystery were disagreeable Mrs. Thornton would be profoundly bored.
Therefore he naturally hesitated. "I don't know exactly what to advise, Nona," he confessed, since they were by this time calling each other by their first names. "The sensible thing is to write to your lawyer and demand to be told all that can be found out. If there are any letters orpapers, you must be twenty-one, so they are legally yours. Then perhaps with something to go on, you can find out the truth later for yourself. Only please don't consider my advice too seriously."
Here Dick's manner and voice both changed. He had grown accustomed to relying upon his own strength and decision in the past year. Yet every once in a while he remembered that not many months before he had seldom given a serious thought to any subject except deciding what girl he should invite to the theater or a dance.
"It was awfully kind of you to have thought my judgment worth while," he concluded. Then his sudden turning of the subject of conversation surprised Nona.
"I have a secret of my own which I may some day tell you, because I hope to have the benefit of your advice," he added. "At present I am not sure whether it would be wise to speak of it. For so far there is nothing to be done with my secret but smile and bear it like a man."
Then Dick smiled. "Do you know, I have been thinking lately that perhaps it is thewomen who smile and bear their burdens. A man is rather apt to want to make a noise when he is hurt."
Nona glanced down at Dick's sleeve. "I don't think you have a right to accuse yourself of that fault," she said gently.
But Dick shook his head. "I was not thinking of my arm; I am learning to get on fairly comfortably with one arm these days."
One afternoon one of the young doctors in the American hospital invited Barbara to go with him to visit one of the German prisons. These prisons sheltered a number of wounded British and French soldiers. There were scarcely a sufficient number of hospitals to take care of the German wounded alone.
Dr. Mason, the young American surgeon, was about twenty-five years old. He had been sent into Belgium by the Red Cross societies in his own village in Minnesota. So, although his home and Barbara Meade's were many miles apart, at least they were both westerners. On this score they had claimed a fellow feeling for each other.
The truth was Dr. Mason felt sorry for Barbara. She seemed so young and so much alone in the unhappy country they had come to serve. She did not seem to wish to be intimate with the other Americannurses at their hospital and her two former friends evidently neglected her.
So only with the thought of being kind, Dr. Mason had issued his invitation. He was not attracted by Barbara. She seemed rather an insignificant little thing except for her big blue eyes. This was partly because Barbara so seldom laughed these days. There was little in Belgium that one could consider amusing. Just now and then she did manage to bubble over inside when no one was noticing. For there is no world so sad or so dull that it does not offer an occasional opportunity for laughter.
Certainly an excursion to a prison could scarcely be considered an amusing expedition. Nevertheless, Barbara accepted the invitation with alacrity, although she had previously declined far pleasanter suggestions from Dick Thornton and the two girls.
But she had several reasons for her present decision. She liked Dr. Mason and she was interested to see the inside of a German prison. Moreover, it was not unpleasant to have her friends find out that other persons found her agreeable.
Have you ever been in the ridiculous state of mind of secretly yearning to be intimate with an old friend and yet refusing the opportunity when it is offered you? It is a common enough state of mind and usually comes from a curious combination of wounded pride and affection. Yet it is a difficult mood to get the better of and often one must wait for time to bring the adjustment.
If Barbara had not been a Red Cross nurse she would never have been allowed to accompany the American surgeon to the German prison. But as he might need some one to assist him in cases of severe illness among the prisoners, Barbara's presence would not be resented.
The prison was a short distance out from the city of Brussels. It had formerly been used for persons committing civil offenses, but was now a military prison.
The building was of rough stone and was situated in the center of a large court yard. It was built around an enclosed square, where the prisoners were sometimes allowed to enjoy air and exercise.
But conditions were not so unpleasant here as in many other places, although the discipline was fairly severe. For the Germans were making their prisoners useful.
In the early spring crops had been planted by the imprisoned men upon many of the waste spaces of conquered Belgium. Now the prisoners were employed in reaping some of the harvests. Only a small proportion of the food would ever fall to their consumption, yet the work in the fields was far better for the health and spirits of the captured men than idleness. It left them less time for thinking of home and for fretting over the cruel fortunes of war.
Barbara and Dr. Mason drove out to the German prison in one of the automobiles connected with their hospital. On the outside frame of the car was the Red Cross sign with their motto: "Humanity and Neutrality."
The German commandant of the prison was a big, blond fellow, disposed to be friendly. Straightway he invited the two Americans to investigate the prison,declaring that the Germans had nothing to conceal in the treatment of their captives.
Dr. Mason, however, was a strictly business-like person. He insisted upon seeing the sick men first. After doing what he could to relieve them, if there were time, they would then be pleased to inspect the prison.
So Barbara and the young physician were shown into a big room on the top floor of the building. A sentry sat on a stool outside the door. Inside there were a dozen cots, but not another article of furniture. The room was fairly clean, but was lighted only by two small windows near the ceiling and crossed with heavy iron bars.
On the cots were half a dozen French and as many English soldiers. Several of them were evidently very ill, the others were merely weak and languid. A heavy-footed German woman, more stupid than unkind, was the solitary nurse.
Once again Barbara had a return of her half whimsical, half sorrowful outlook upon life. This excursion with Dr. Mason was in no sense a pleasant one.
For no sooner had she entered the sick room than she moved with her peculiar light swiftness toward the bed of a young soldier. His arms were thrown up over his head, as if even the faint light in the room tortured him.
Barbara pulled his arms gently down. As she did this he made no effort to resist, but murmured something in French which she could not comprehend. Yet at the same moment she discovered that the boy's eyes were bandaged and that he had a quantity of yellow hair, curling all over his head in ringlets like a baby's.
The German nurse strode over beside them.
"He is blind; no hope!" she announced bluntly.
At the same instant Barbara's arms went around the boy soldier. For hours he must have been fighting this terrible nightmare alone. Now to hear his own worst fears confirmed in such a cold, unfeeling fashion swept the last vestige of his courage away.
Barbara literally held the young fellowin her arms while he shook as if with ague. Then he sobbed as if the crying tore at his throat.
Barbara made no effort not to cry with him. She kept murmuring little broken French phrases of endearment which she had learned from her year's work in France, all the time patting the boy's shoulder.
He was a splendidly built young fellow with a broad chest and strong young arms. Even his injury and the confinement had not broken his physical strength. This made the thought of his affliction even harder to bear, to think that so much fine vigor must be lost from the world's work.
"I don't believe it is true that you are going to be blind forever," Barbara whispered, as soon as she could find her voice. She had no real reason for her statement, except that the boy must be comforted for the moment. But he had covered up his eyes as though the light hurt them, and if he were totally blind neither light nor darkness would matter.
Dr. Mason had at once crossed the room to talk to another patient. But at thesound of sobbing, he had turned to find his companion.
Certainly Barbara was entirely unconscious of the charming picture she made. She was so tiny, and yet it was her strength and her sympathy at this moment that were actually supporting the young soldier.
Never before had the young American physician looked closely at Barbara. Now he wondered how he could ever have believed her anything but pretty. Her white forehead was wrinkled with almost motherly sympathy. Then even while her eyes overflowed, her red lips took a determined line.
With a glance over her shoulder she summoned the physician.
"Please tell this boy you will do everything in your power to see that his eyes are looked after before it is too late," she pleaded. Then she stood up, still with her hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder.
"I am a Red Cross nurse. This is Dr. Mason, one of the surgeons who is giving his services to the American hospital inBrussels," she explained to the boy, who had by this time managed to regain control of himself. "Miss Winifred Holt is coming over from New York just to look after the soldiers whose eyes have been injured in this war," Barbara continued. "Besides, I know there are eye specialists here who must be able to do something for you." Barbara's tone each instant grew more reassuring. "I am sure Dr. Mason and I will both persuade the prison officers to let you have the best of care. They are sure to be willing to have us do all that is possible for you."
By this time the young fellow had straightened himself up and taken hold of Barbara's other hand.
"You are more than kind," he answered, speaking with the peculiar courtesy of the French, "but it is useless! A shell exploded too near my face. No matter, it is all in the day's business! I was only thinking of my mother and our little farmhouse in Provence and of the French girl, Nicolete, who used to dance before our soldiers."
Suddenly Barbara smelt the odor of pinksand mignonette. For odors are more intimately associated with one's memories than any other of the senses. Then the next moment Barbara saw Eugenia and herself standing near the opening of a trench in southern France. As usual, they were arguing. But they were interrupted by a French soldier boy, who stood beside them holding out a small bunch of flowers. He had light hair and big blue eyes and rosy cheeks like a girl's.
"Monsieur Bebé," Barbara whispered.
Relieved that Dr. Mason and the German nurse had both been called to attend to another patient, Barbara now climbed up on the cot and sat beside the French boy.
"I want to tell you something that no one else must hear," she went on, lowering her voice until it was as mysterious as possible.
"You do not know it, but you and I are old friends. At least, we have met before, and that is enough to make us friends in war times. Besides, you once gave me a bouquet. Do you remember two RedCross nurses to whom you gave some flowers that you and the other soldiers had made grow in the mouth of your trench? Then afterwards we both watched Nicolete dance and you threw her a spray of mignonette?"
"Yes, yes," the boy answered, clutching now at Barbara's skirt as if she were a real link with his own beloved land. "It is the good God who has sent you here to help me. You will write my mother and say things are well with me. It will be time enough for her to hear the truth if I ever go home."
"You are going to get well, but if you don't you shall at least go home," Barbara returned resolutely. "The Germans are exchanging prisoners, you know. But I have another secret to tell you if you will promise not to tell."
The boy, who had been crying like a cruelly hurt child the moment before, was now smiling almost happily. Barbara could be a little witch when she chose.
She put her own curly brown head in its white nurse's cap down close beside the boy's blond one.
"What would you give to have that same little French girl, Nicolete, talk to you some day not very far off?" she whispered. Then she told the story of Nicolete's coming into Belgium with Eugenia and of her living not far away in the house which Eugenia had taken. But she also made the boy promise not to breathe to any one the fact of Nicolete's identity. She was not supposed to be a French girl, but a little Belgian maid under the protection of a wealthy but eccentric American Red Cross nurse.
By the time Barbara had finished this conversation she was compelled to hurry away. But she promised to come again to the prison as soon as she was allowed. Dr. Mason needed her help.
There was far more work to be done than he expected. For the next two hours Barbara assisted in putting on bandages, in washing ugly places with antiseptic dressings, in doing a dozen difficult tasks.
Nevertheless, whenever Dr. Mason had a chance to glance toward his assistant she managed to smile back at him. It was atrick Barbara had when nursing. It was never a silly or an unsympathetic smile. It merely expressed her own readiness to meet the situation as cheerfully as possible.
But before the afternoon's work was over the young American doctor had become convinced that she was the pluckiest little girl he had ever worked with. What was more, she was one of the prettiest.
However, though the nurse and doctor were both worn out when their service for the day was over, they were not to be allowed to return to the hospital at once. The German officer in command still insisted that they be shown about the prison building and yard.
Barbara did not enjoy the thought of being shown over the prison. For one thing, she was tired; another, she feared she would find the imprisoned soldiers terribly downcast. She had nursed among them so long she felt a deep sympathy for their misfortunes.
Yet she discovered that the imprisoned soldiers go through about the same variety of moods as men and women engaged in ordinary occupations. They have their sad days and their cheerful days. There are times when the confinement and depression seem unendurable, and others when a letter comes from home with good news. Then one is immediately buoyed up.
It was now between four and five o'clock on a summer's afternoon.
Barbara and Dr. Mason went through the prison hastily. There was nothinginteresting in the sight of the ugly, over-crowded rooms; but fortunately at this hour most of the men were out of doors.
So, as soon as they were allowed, the two Americans gladly followed the German commandant out into the fresh air. They had not been permitted to talk to the prisoners and Dr. Mason had made no such effort. It was merely through the courtesy of the German commandant that the American physician and nurse were given the privilege of visiting the ill prisoners. Therefore, Dr. Mason considered it a part of his duty not to break any of the prison rules.
But Barbara, being a woman, had no such proper respect for authority. Whenever the others were not looking she had frequently managed to speak a few words.
But she breathed better when they were again outdoors. It had been hot and sultry inside the prison, but now a breeze was blowing, stirring the leaves of the solitary tree in the prison yard to a gentle murmuring.
Underneath this tree was a group of adozen or more soldiers. Some of them were smoking cherished pipes, while others were reading letters, yellow and dirty from frequent handling.
The International Red Cross had done its best to secure humane treatment for all the war prisoners in Europe. For this purpose there is a Bureau of Prisoners, having its headquarters in Geneva, Switzerland. They have sent forth a petition to the various governments at war, asking among other things that prisoners be allowed to receive money, letters and packages from their friends. These last must of course be carefully censored, and yet they keep life from growing unendurably dull. Think of long weeks and months going past with never a line from the outside world!
Barbara studied the faces of the imprisoned men closely. With all her experiences as a war nurse it chanced she had never before seen any number of prisoners. Now and then a few of them had passed her, being marched along the Belgian roads to the measure of the German goose step.
Now she managed to bow to the men resting under the tree and they returned her greeting in the friendliest fashion. Every Red Cross nurse is a soldier's friend. Yet in the character of an ordinary girl Barbara would have been almost as cordially received. She looked so natural and so human. Somehow one recalled once again the vision of "the girl one had left behind."
But Barbara was not to linger inside the prison yard. As the day was nearing its close the men who had been working in the fields were to return. The German commandant wished Dr. Mason to see how well his prisoners looked.
Surrounding the prison was a high stone wall. In the rear of this yard was a wide gate which could be swung back on hinges, allowing a half dozen men to be herded through at the same time.
So Dr. Mason and Barbara were escorted outside the prison wall and given chairs to await the marching past of the soldiers.
Barbara sat down gratefully enough. But when five or ten minutes passed andnothing happened she found herself growing bored. Dr. Mason could not talk to her. The German officer was discoursing so earnestly in his own language that it was plain the American physician had to devote all his energies to the effort to understand him.
So by and by, when neither of the men was observing her, Barbara got up and strolled a few paces away. There was little to see except the stretch of much-traveled road. The fields where the prisoners were at work were more than a mile away.
But the girl's attention was arrested by an unmistakable sound. It was the noise of the imprisoned soldiers being marched back to their jail. The tread was slow and dead, without animation or life. It was as if the men had been engaged in tasks in which they had little concern and were being returned to a place they hated.
Barbara stood close to the edge of the road along which the men must pass. She was naturally not thinking of herself. So it had not occurred to her that the soldiers might be surprised by her unexpected appearance.
She was frowning and her blue eyes were wide open with excitement. She had left her nurse's coat thrown over the back of her chair. So she wore her American Red Cross uniform, whose white and crimson made a spot of bright color in the late afternoon's light.
A young French soldier in the first line of prisoners chanced to catch Barbara's eye. She smiled at him, half wistful and half friendly. Instantly the young fellow's hand went up to his cap, as he offered her the salute a soldier pays his superior officer.
Then the prisoners were all seized with the same idea at the same time. For as each line of soldiers, with their guards on either side, passed the spot where Barbara was standing, every hand rose in salute.
The girl was deeply touched. But she was not alone in this feeling. The American physician had a husky sensation in his throat and his glasses became suddenly blurred. The German commandant of the prison said "A-hum, a-hum," in an unnecessarily loud tone.
There was nothing in the spectacle ofthe girl herself being thus honored by the imprisoned men that was particularly affecting. The truth was it was not Barbara who was being saluted, but the uniform she wore, the white ground with its cross of crimson. In a world of hate and confusion and sometimes of despair the Red Cross still commands universal respect.
Barbara could not see distinctly the faces of the soldiers. She recognized them to be both French and English and of various ages and ranks. But there were too many of them and they moved too rapidly to study the individual faces. However, as the men finally entered the prison gate the line halted a moment. Then something must have occurred to delay them still more. Six or eight rows of men were compelled to stand at attention.
One of the guards near Barbara moved ahead to find out what caused the obstruction. This was Barbara's chance to get a good look at the soldiers. So she began with the one in the line directly opposite her.
The young man was undeniably anEnglishman. He was about six feet tall and as lean as possible without illness. He wore no hat and his hair was tawny as the hay he had just been cutting. Moreover, his eyes were the almost startling blue that one only sees with a bronzed skin.
He did not look unhappy or bored, but extremely wide awake and "fit," as the English say. Besides this, he seemed enormously interested in Barbara. Obviously the young soldier was a gentleman, and yet equally obvious was the fact that he was staring.
All at once Barbara moved forward a few steps until she was nearer the prisoner than she should have been. This was because she had seen him somewhere before but could not for the moment recall his name.
"Lieutenant Hume!" Barbara exclaimed suddenly under her breath. "I am sorry; I did not know you were a prisoner!"
The young soldier did not move a muscle in his face, yet his eyes answered the girl with sufficient eloquence.
There was not a second to be lost. Barbara knew the prisoner was not allowed to speak to her. Also she was not expected to speak to him. But she had an unlooked-for chance to say a few words, and what feminine person would have failed to seize the opportunity!
"We are nursing here in Brussels, all of us," she went on rapidly, keeping as careful a lookout as possible. "The other girls will be grieved to hear of your bad luck. If possible, would you like one of us to write you?"
For half a second Lieutenant Hume's rigidity relaxed. Yet once again his answer was in the look he flashed at the girl. Then next the order came. The soldiers were marched inside the prison and the gate swung to.
Immediately after Barbara and Dr. Mason started back to the hospital.
Really, Barbara felt ashamed of herself, she was such an extraordinarily dull companion during the return journey. But she was both tired and excited.
What an extraordinary experience tohave spent a few hours at a German prison and to have discovered two acquaintances. True, poor Monsieur Bebé was scarcely an acquaintance, yet she had seen and spoken to him before. As for Lieutenant Hume, he was almost a friend. At least, he had been a friend of Nona's. She would be grieved to hear of his misfortune and no doubt would try to be kind to him if it were possible.
As for Barbara, she meant to devote her energies to doing what she could for the young Frenchman. If he were totally blind, surely the German authorities might be persuaded to exchange him for one of their own men, should proper interest be shown in his case. As soon as possible Barbara decided she would go and consult Eugenia. She would be sure to have some intelligent suggestion to make.
Barbara and Dr. Mason said farewell to each other outside the hospital front door, as the man had other work before him.
Just as he was leaving the girl slipped her small hand inside his.
"I have had a more interestingafternoon than you realize," she insisted, "and thank you for taking me with you. I am sorry that I have been such a tiresome companion on our way home."
The young man smiled down upon the tired little nurse. The fact that she was a nurse struck him as an absurdity, as it did almost every one else.
"You have been a perfect trump, Miss Meade, and if anybody is to blame it is I, for taking you upon such a fatiguing expedition. Will you go with me upon a more cheerful excursion some day?"
Barbara nodded. Dr. Mason was looking at her with the frankest admiration and friendship. It was good to be admired and liked. Then she turned and disappeared inside the big hospital door.
Dr. Mason continued to think of her until he reached the house of his next patient.