She was not down to dinner when I came eagerly into the crowdedsalon. She was not on the deck when I hurried up, nor did she appear again that night. I slept badly and was out with the dawn, making endless rounds through the sailors, who were swabbing down the decks.
I knew that I was beginning to love her, nor was I so dull as not to feel that to her, too, I was more than just a chance acquaintance. I did not attempt to analyze my feelings or to penetrate the future. The present hour was too imperious. My mood was not of exultation but of fear of her shy and persistent avoidance of me. If only a week were before us! But the day was the last, and the morrow would bring America, and—separation. I think I did not realize the full force of the emotion that had swept over me; nor all the complexities, the hazards, and the tragic destiny that it had, in the twinkling of an eye, laid upon my life. My only thought was to see her again to know from her first look that I still retained what had come to us in the dusk before. I knew that everything was horribly against me. I was certain, for some reason I could not fathom, that she would resist me, had resisted me from the first. I was sure of nothing. But though it meant finally but emptiness and the struggle to forget, I was powerless to draw back now.
Breakfast passed, and the morning drew out, and she did not come. I went to my chair and threw myself down, bodily and mentally tired. A vast feeling of depression possessed me. Magnus came and talked to me. I was conscious of seeming to listen; I caught phrases, heard myself making responses. I knew nothing. Myheart sank within me and such a feeling of physical weakness possessed me, in this new, utter sense of loneliness, that I could do no more than lie there, stretched inertly, saying again and again to myself:
“She will not come. I have frightened her away.”
Yet she had not passed the door before I was instantly aware of it. A wave of happiness and well-being went through me, as though my lungs had filled with the first life-giving breath of air. She was coming, head down and walking fast. I sprang up and hurried to relieve her of the rug she was carrying. I knew she saw me, for she wavered and turned aside to speak to a little French-woman who was traveling with her baby.
“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”
“Good morning, Monsieur.”
“May I take your rug?”
She glanced at her arm as though she had just perceived its burden.
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
I went to her chair and prepared it for her coming. All the depression had left me at the first glance into her gray eyes. She, too, had felt the tumult and the turmoil; it was written there in weariness and strain. A violent joy, a sense of living and of hope, surged up in me, as I awaited her first words. When I turned she had taken the arm of her companion and was silently pacing off the deck.
An intuition, the instinct born of the struggle which is inseparable from love, came to me. I, too, would avoid her and, in my absence, in the longing denied, she would suffer, too, and by that suffering come closer to me. Cruel? Yes, as in such moments the impulse is to beat down all obstacles, to contend without quarter for the happiness that lies beyond the agony of doubt and disbelief! I rose and went into the smoking room, steelingmyself to patience, resolved not to leave it until luncheon. I sat there ten, fifteen, twenty minutes. At the end of a half-hour I could bear it no longer. I went out hurriedly and, all my resolutions forgot, straight to where she waited in her chair.
“Mademoiselle, you have not forgiven me,” I said, without preliminaries.
“Why?”
She turned, startled, and the new conflict I saw in the haunted weariness of her glance brought me a sense of coming victory.
“Because you avoid me.”
“I?”
She could not meet the direct challenge of my look and turned away. Still I pursued, without compassion.
“Yes. You avoid me. Would you rather that I did not remain here?” I asked suddenly, sure of her answer. “For nothing in the world would I do anything that would be distasteful to you. Tell me only what you wish. Shall I go?”
She hesitated and, before the trouble I felt in her, my resolve almost gave way. Yet, because I was fighting for both of us, I held firm.
“Only tell me what you wish.”
Once or twice she seemed to make up her mind to speak, but each time she checked herself.
“Do you realize that by this time to-morrow we shall be steaming up New York harbor?”
“This time to-morrow!”
“This time to-morrow.”
She put down the book she held in her hands with a show of purpose, and looked out gravely.
“A strange world to both of us,” I said.
To my annoyance, the sound of the gong began to rumble through the ship.
“What—already?” she said, to my delight, looking incredulously at her watch.
“Take your luncheon up here; it’s a perfect day.”
“What a good idea! Yes, I think I shall.”
I hesitated, all my assurance melting away.
“I suppose the terrible gods of French etiquette would rock on their thrones if I stayed, too—”
“I should feel very conspicuous.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I knew you would feel that way.”
My tone fell, in such unconcealed chagrin that she could not help noticing it. She sat up and glanced down the deck. Other groups, yielding to the sunlight which poured over the dancing ocean and flung rainbows in the spray, were preparing to picnic above.
“It is the last day,” I repeated.
“Please—I should like if you will stay,” she said, all at once, and then blushed and looked away.
I affected not to notice her confusion and busied myself with a serious contemplation of the menu.
“There, it’ll be just like a meal at the front! Not quite so good cooking as at one of your little country inns. Do you know, what you said the other day’s been in my mind?”
“What was that?”
“About seeing death at first hand. I didn’t feel the way you did. I was all broken up the first time; couldn’t sleep for a week. And yet, you Frenchwomen go through all that and can still smile. Why is it? Have we weaker nerves?”
“Don’t you think there is something changed in our smiles?” she said, looking up.
“Yes, yes, I feel that. But you have so much faith in the good of the world, you seem so uplifted by your experience, there is something so serene in your eyes—”
I stopped, realizing how personal my analysis was growing.
“Ah, but when you are not just a spectator, when you are helping, it is different. What is uplifting in service is that your own self becomes of such little importance.”
“Yes, but I should think your memories—” I broke off. “When you told that fairy tale to Master Jack, the first day, you could even laugh.”
“It’s because what I remember is not pain and ugliness but only the beauty of sacrifice and the nobility of men who at other times may have been very sordid,” she said warmly. “Do you know what our memories are?” She half closed her eyes, and a tender look touched her lips. “I think of one Christmas Eve—a great barn where I was nursing—a barn that had been improvised into a hospital, with beds in the straw, just like the birthplace of the little Saviour. I don’t like to speak of myself, but I will tell you this. We stayed—my mother and I—in a little village on the frontier—our village—when the Germans came through; and that village, our little village, changed hands six times.”
“And you stayed—you and your mother?”
“We stayed, not to abandon our people and to take care of our poor wounded.”
“And they let you do that?”
“They needed some one to take care of their own,” she said, with a frown, “and we agreed—my mother and I—to do that if we could be permitted to nurse our own men. Six times the village changed hands, but on that night—Christmas Night—it was ours. So we made ready to celebrate. We organized a concert. Oh, it was a strange concert! There were over a hundred wounded in that great barn, and only a dozen could stand on their legs, but they were all so gay, for that is something our brave littlepoilusnever lose,—their gaiety.And there was to be a tree, and all sorts of funny presents. And the concert! There was a quartet, and there was a waiter from the Café de Paris who was lying in a stall—with his feet carried off—who was to sing comic songs, and a real tenor from theConservatoire, who would sing magnificent arias from the opera, and then there was to be a comic recitation, and a classic recitation. Every one quite forgot their troubles in the excitement. But Christmas morning a dozen wounded were brought in, and one, a sergeant of chasseurs, in such a dreadful state that we did not think he would live through the day. So of course, we prepared to give up the celebration: and what do you think? He heard the men talking, and he sent for me.
“‘Mademoiselle, is it true you are giving up the concert on my account?’
“‘You are in a bad way,mon petit!’ I told him.
“‘Bad way!Allons!I am going to die,’ he broke out. ‘Eh, bien!I choose to die gaily, instead of in a corner, like a dog. It is my wish that the concert go on. And tell the comrades to sing out good and strong!’
“It was done, as he wished.”
“And he died?”
“Not that day, but the next,” she said, “without a complaint. Do you think that when I can remember there are men like that in France, I have a right to be sad?”
The deck steward came and went, and we began our luncheon. A hundred questions were on my tongue, but I gave voice to none.
“They were so patient and so simple in their courage,” she continued gravely, “always trying to help me. Many times, I’ve had a soldier who was suffering say to me:
“‘Allons, Mam’zelle, get your sleep to-night. If this arm of mine won’t keep quiet, I can be of some use. I’ll make the rounds.’”
“And the brave fellows who fretted because they couldn’t return soon enough to the lines! They were so gay. I remember a little Breton who had both legs gone, posing for his photograph, with stockings pinned to his trousers, and saying:
“‘When I get up to Paris, I’ll get a pair of legs that’ll make me two inches taller than this old Auvergnat over here!’”
“Those are the things that are good to remember. Poor boys! There were so many that died unnecessarily! We were so few, and we could do so little!”
“But you had doctors?”
She shook her head.
“I am speaking of the first months. Only from time to time a doctor, and, when the Germans had the village, never. But I think that was better.”
“I could not have done that,” I said, shaking my head. “I think I could meet what I had to meet but—day in and day out—to have seen others suffer, others die like that—”
“I only remember the look of gratitude in their eyes,” she said, simply. “And then, I had my part. I had to keep up their morale, you know, and send them back to the front with courage. It would never have done for me to weaken.” She turned with a smile and saw the profound gravity on my face. “Believe me, what I say is true,” she said solemnly. “It had its hardships, but they were days of beauty, and I never think on them without a thrill of pride in the France I have been privileged to know. Please don’t look so grave. I’m afraid I’ve been too serious.”
I was staring at her, looking into the past which she had conjured up, divining things she had passed lightly over.
“Why are you staring so?” she said, a little embarrassed.
“I was trying to imagine you in your white and blue costume,—the most beautiful robe that has ever been given to woman,” I said solemnly. “You have no photograph?”
She shook her head.
“I only meant I should have liked to see it.”
“I love the uniform, too,” she said, and a note of sadness was in her voice.
“But you will go back?” I said, before I could catch myself.
“I shall never go back. Will you take the tray?”
I hastened to obey. When I returned, I saw at once a stiffening of her whole nature against me.
“Confess that you are thinking of the sacred gods of French etiquette,” I said, hoping to make her smile.
She acknowledged the hit, with a little confusion.
“Then please blame me, and not your conscience, for I made you talk.”
“That is so. You make me talk against my will.”
“And now you are wondering how you can run away.”
“How do you know me so well?” she said, forced at last into a smile.
“Oh, I do. There is a very stern, uncompromising Mademoiselle Duvernoy, and there is a very gay, happy Mademoiselle Duvernoy.”
“Once, there was a very frivolous one,” she said, nodding.
“I didn’t say that—”
“But it is so; oh, very frivolous—verymondaine, before the war—who loved good things, as a child loves sugar plums!”
“What terrible sins you must have had on your conscience!” I said, laughing.
“Oh, but I loved pleasure, very much, and the things of this world. I did, very much.”
I smiled.
“I smile, as the Father who heard your confession must have smiled.”
She shook her head.
“I was a very superficial little person; not at all tolerant, very satisfied with myself, and very dissatisfied with others.”
“Good heavens; I don’t think you have ever been anything but the spirit of gentleness!” I broke out.
She drew back instantly, and I hastened to repair the blunder my impulsiveness had made.
“You women of France all have that quality of gentleness,” I said hastily, in a more guarded tone. “That is what I notice about all of you.”
She relaxed, though not quite convinced.
“You idealize me, Monsieur. We have done our duty, that is all, and we have found in it a great happiness.”
“I wish my sister—I used to think of her as my little sister; good heavens, she must be twenty now!—I wish my sister Molly could know you. Of all the family, she is closest to me. I hate to think of her going through four or five years of useless life, dancing herself to death, learning to get bored with every pleasure: she’s such a little trump, now.” I took out my pocketbook and brought out a photograph of a youngster in pigtail, tanned and straight, looking out with innocent laughter at the most beautiful of worlds.
She took it, and glanced from the photograph to me.
“Yes, I understand. There is something very noble, very pure, very brave. She is your favorite?”
I began to laugh.
“What is it?”
“Do you know, that’s only the second time I think you’ve really looked me in the eyes.”
She blushed—as she did easily—and tried to laugh.
“We are told never to look a man in the eyes. It is very old-fashioned to you?”
“But why?”
“Because,” she hesitated a little and then went on, looking away from me, “because, when you look in a man’s eyes, they say, you are seeking a different meaning to his words.” She blushed furiously. “It’s not that exactly but—how shall I say?—we are taught that it is too forward—too provocative. But you are laughing at me,” she said, covered with confusion.
“I am not laughing, Mademoiselle,” I said seriously, “and I like that in you.”
The conversation became difficult and a certain diffidence overcame us. A moment before, she had been talking to me freely and impulsively, though a little shy and hesitant, as a young girl. I saw her mood change and a certain womanly dignity come to her.
“Monsieur, I have been thinking much of the confidence you entrusted to me. Have you—have you no photograph of Miss Brinsmade?”
My pocketbook was still in my hand. I drew out a little snapshot and handed it to her. She held it a long time, studying it intently.
“She is very beautiful,” she said at last.
“Yes.”
“This is how long ago?”
“Three—four years; when she was just out of school.”
She nodded, still studying it.
“Monsieur, there is a great deal that is waiting there—a great deal of love—a great deal of nobility. A woman like that will be what you want her to be; only, don’t make her wait too long.”
I took the photograph, looked at it wondering if she had said all her thought, and slowly replaced it in my pocket.
“Mademoiselle, I, too, have been thinking over our conversation and I feel I may have given you a wrong impression—”
“How so?”
“I was only discussing something that was a remote possibility, nothing that I have really considered. I reproach myself a little; I had not the right—on her account.”
“Why?”
“Because I know now that it is quite impossible.”
Heavens, how much I wished to say to her, and how little I dared. I waited, wondering if she would understand. She did not answer, but I saw her hands clasp and unclasp in her lap.
“What you have said of marriage is natural to your traditions. Some other man might do as you suggest and find happiness. I know—I know I could not, and keep my self-respect. I shall never marry, Mademoiselle, unless my whole heart goes with it.” I hesitated and, despite myself, knowing the danger of it, I added, very low, “I know that now.”
She did not hesitate but answered me, instantly and lightly.
“Perhaps, Monsieur, the future will settle that. Will you permit me to hope that it may be so?”
She rose, with a formal nod and made a pretext to descend to her cabin. I saw her to the door and returned, my brain in a whirl. At one moment she had seemed to come to me with such impulsiveness; at the next, to be a thousand miles away. I dropped back into my chair, uneasy and tortured by regrets. A flash of gold on the gray scarf she had left behind her caught my eye and, leaning over, I picked up a little brooch I had always seen at her throat. It was in the form of a locket, heart-shaped, such as children wear. I turned it over in myhands and saw an inscription on the back, a date and a name written in a free hand:
BERNOLINE
The next moment I realized that unwittingly I had trespassed on the mystery of her identity. I put the pin hastily in my pocket and rose, with an idea to restore it to her immediately. I went into the Ladies’ Cabin, hoping to find her there, and then into the writing room. I could not take it, myself, to her stateroom and I did not wish to entrust it to a steward. In the end, I kept it and waited for her reappearance.