I think I must have gone off into a half-sleep, for all at once my eyes opened to gray and wavering shapes.The skeleton outline of the creaking ship grew out of the fluid dawn, figures of sleeping passengers rose out of the obscurity and across the rail glimmered the white curl of the clearing sea. My first instinctive impulse was to the woman at my side.
The veil had been thrown back; the long lashes lay on the brown cheek across which clung a spray of dark hair. The front of the rough Breton hood half concealed the clear rise of the forehead and soaring eyebrows, the fine delicacy of the high-bridged nose, the full and sensitive lips. One hand lay at her throat, a rosary entwined in her fingers and the silver flash of a crucifix. I thought then that I had never looked upon anything so gentle, so fragile, so pure. She was so far removed from the things of this heavy world that in her semi-recumbent position, I thought of some sculptured saint, asleep in an olden monastery.
Her eyes opened, rested in mine a full moment, read my thoughts, and dropped away. Instantly, she drew her veil, sat up, and averted her head. Within me everything grew troubled and confused. I rose hastily and went down the deck.
I can remember to this day the sudden timidity that overcame me always in her presence, the eagerness to speak to her, and the hesitancy whenever I found an excuse. In her, too, I see now, two impulses fought, for at times, in her instinct to repel me, she was brusque almost to the point of rudeness and her manner so determinedly antagonistic that I grew diffident as a boy. What had become of the man of the world? I, who prided myself on my knowledge of women, was as awkward in her presence, as helpless and at loss as the veriest schoolboy. I can remember that I had but one thought on awakening,—to do her some service. Yet when I had returned from below-decks with a thermos bottle ofhot coffee I was utterly nonplussed for some pretext to approach her.
I came hesitantly down the strewn deck. The sky was graying rapidly now, as the dawn crept in chill and sickly. Astern, the low-huddled funnels of our escort,—guardian of our night. Brinsmade and Magnus had wakened and gone below. The lady with the child was sitting up, rearranging her veil. A sudden inspiration came to me. I stopped and made my offer.
“A drop of hot coffee, Madame?”
She took it, smiling and grateful, refusing a second cup. I breathed more freely, for I felt I had removed all personal emphasis. I passed on.
“Won’t you also, Mademoiselle, have a bit of coffee? It’s a long way to breakfast.”
Yet, as I said this, I had a sudden weak feeling of intruding, and I looked away from her for fear she would read beneath the studied impersonality of my tone. Behind the veil, I felt a moment of hesitation.
“If you will hold the bottle, I will get some clean glasses.”
When I returned, I brought a box of crackers, taking the precaution to offer them along the way. This action evidently disarmed her prejudices, for she had drawn her veil when I came to her chair. I poured a full glass.
“But you, Monsieur?”
“Oh, I’ve had my cup, below. Take it—you need it. I’m afraid you had a bad night.”
She took the glass but made no answer. When I referred to the night, her gray-eyed glance rose to my face, rested a furtive moment in thoughtful inquiry, and retreated; but the moment was not one of embarrassment or hesitation, but rather of a settled attitude of aloofness.
“There is just a little more.”
“Some one else, then.”
I poured out what remained and handed it to her, pressing her acceptance.
“Thank you—no more.”
She drew on her glove, lowered her veil, and sank back once more.
Feeling a certain irritation that in this first clash of authority she should have resisted, I sat down.
“To-morrow morning I’ll be better provided.”
“To-morrow? We spend another night on deck?” she said, in surprise.
“That’s orders. But you don’t obey orders,” I said, glancing at the deck. “Orders are to bring your life belt, and you’ve not done it.”
“No—I didn’t think of it.”
“You are not afraid?”
“Afraid? Of that?” she said slowly. She shook her head and I wondered at the look behind her veil.
The tone in which it was said, coupled with the memory of that meeting on the upper deck, thrilled me. I sought to make her talk, to establish a natural acquaintance, through no forward curiosity but out of a genuine sympathy. Yet I was so keenly aware of the bar which her traditions interposed that I waited a long moment before I had courage to say:
“Mademoiselle, I hope you will forgive my presumption of last night.”
“Presumption?”
“Yes, it was that. I hope you did not misunderstand my action.”
She turned.
“I did not misunderstand that, no,” she said reluctantly, for I was forcing her into a conversation against her will, “and yet, why should you have done it?”
“Mademoiselle,” I said, surprised at the quickening of my pulses, “I have done what little I could to help,because I love your people. I have lived among sorrow and terror. Am I not allowed to understand, and try to help, just—because it is one of my own kind?”
She did not reply at once. I felt that her eyes were on me.
“You Americans have kind hearts, Monsieur, and I thank you again.”
To this day I can remember the thrill of pleasure that came to me with the first softening of her voice, that first note which told me that in her eyes I was no longer just one of the passing crowd.
“I know how a young girl is brought up in France,” I beganhurriedly—
“We are no young girls now, Monsieur. There are only women in France.”
The voice was back into the measured, impersonal tone.
I looked at her, amazed, started to speak and stopped. I understood that I should gain nothing by forcing a conversation, and though every instinct urged me to remain near her, I rose to withdraw.
“May I present myself, Mademoiselle, since we are to be companions for a while? I am Mr. David Littledale.”
She bowed in acknowledgment but made no answer, and I went down the deck with a stirring uneasiness at the awkwardness which it seemed to me I had displayed in every word and action. Later in the day I found a card on her chair. The name was like herself, a veil thrown up against my curiosity.
“Mademoiselle Renée Duvernoy.”