THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH
  THE STARS AND STRIPES




BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK


THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES

  THE RANCH GIRLS AT RAINBOW LODGE
  THE RANCH GIRLS’ POT OF GOLD
  THE RANCH GIRLS AT BOARDING SCHOOL
  THE RANCH GIRLS IN EUROPE
  THE RANCH GIRLS AT HOME AGAIN
  THE RANCH GIRLS AND THEIR GREAT ADVENTURE

THE RED CROSS GIRLS SERIES

  THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN THE BRITISH TRENCHES
  THE RED CROSS GIRLS ON THE FRENCH FIRING LINE
  THE RED CROSS GIRLS IN BELGIUM
  THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY
  THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE ITALIAN ARMY
  THE RED CROSS GIRLS UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES

STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS

  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT SUNRISE HILL
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AMID THE SNOWS
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE OUTSIDE WORLD
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS ACROSS THE SEA
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS’ CAREERS
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN AFTER YEARS
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS IN THE DESERT
  THE CAMP FIRE GIRLS AT THE END OF THE TRAIL




  The Red Cross Girls
  With the
  Stars and Stripes

  By
  MARGARET VANDERCOOK

  Author of “The Ranch Girls Series,” “Stories
  about Camp Fire Girls Series,” etc.

  Illustrated

  The John C. Winston Company
  Philadelphia




  Copyright, 1917, by
  THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                         PAGE

      I. THE CALL                                    7

     II. ANOTHER VOLUNTEER                          23

    III. SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE                        37

     IV. WITH THE AMERICAN ARMY IN FRANCE           54

      V. INTRODUCTIONS                              68

     VI. CARRIER PIGEONS                            80

    VII. THE DAYS BEFORE THE GREAT DAY              91

   VIII. LONELINESS                                104

     IX. A DISPUTE                                 118

      X. THE TWO SIDES OF A SHIELD                 130

     XI. THE UNDERTOW                              141

    XII. THE CASINO                                155

   XIII. A CLOSER BOND                             174

    XIV. GREATER LOVE                              187

     XV. AN AMAZING SUGGESTION                     199

    XVI. MEET FOR REPENTANCE                       216

   XVII. AN EXPLANATION WHICH DID NOT EXPLAIN      228

  XVIII. THE COMMAND                               242

    XIX. A PARTING OF THE WAYS                     248




THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITH THE STARS AND STRIPES




CHAPTER I

_The Call_


Barbara Thornton stood at the window of her little drawing-room in New
York City looking over toward Central Park.

It was a charming room and this afternoon was filled with flowers sent
from her mother-in-law’s country place on Long Island. Perhaps as an
expression of his patriotism, the gardener had cut only red, white and
blue flowers, for among the white and red of the fragrant roses were
tall stalks of deep, blue-starred delphiniums.

A table was arranged for tea, but because it was summer time, there
were tall frosted glasses instead of cups and a big cut-glass bowl to
be used later for ice.

Barbara herself was dressed in a thin, white china silk, as if she were
expecting guests. She had now been married to Richard Thornton a good
many months, and yet looked very little older than the Barbara who
had appeared so unexpectedly at the Thornton home, nearly three years
before, on her way to do Red Cross nursing in France.

Of course Barbara felt a good deal older. No girl can pass through
the experience of war nursing and come out of it unchanged. Moreover,
Barbara within three eventful years had also married and had a baby.

Yet this afternoon, amid her lovely surroundings, Bab, who was
ordinarily the most cheerful of persons, did not appear to be happy.
Her cheeks were more deeply flushed than usual, and every once in
a while, in spite of the fact that she was alone, she would wipe
the tears furtively away from her fine eyes with a tiny, white lace
handkerchief.

For Barbara did not desire the visitors, whom she was expecting at any
moment, to discover that she was troubled.

When the ring came at her front door bell, giving herself a hurried
glance in the mirror and forcing a smile, Barbara reached the door just
after her little Irish maid had opened it.

Standing outside were three persons, one of them an older woman in an
exquisite costume of blue and silver, the colors of her eyes and hair,
another a young girl of about sixteen and the third a young man.

“Oh, Sonya, I am so glad to see you. It has seemed such ages and so
strange to think of you and Nona in Italy without the old group of Red
Cross girls! But where is Nona? I thought she was to be with you.”

In the beginning of her speech, Barbara Thornton had taken her guest’s
hand and kissed it with characteristic swiftness and sweetness. Now,
before Sonya Valesky could reply to her, she had turned to her other
visitors.

“Forgive me if I was rude. I am so glad to see you, although we have
never met one another before, I am sure I know who you are. This is
Bianca and this is Mr. Navara. You see, I have had letters about both
of you from Italy.”

And then Barbara led the way into her drawing-room, while Sonya
explained.

“Nona will be here presently. She had to attend to some important
business. I believe she wishes to stay after we have gone and talk the
matter over with you, Barbara. I don’t like to tell you what it is, but
I hope you will try to dissuade her.”

“Something about which you have tried and failed?” Barbara inquired.
“Then I am sure I shall not be successful. You see, Eugenia always said
that Nona was the most difficult of us all to influence because she
seemed to be the gentlest.”

Barbara had seated herself at her tea table and was now trying to serve
her guests; the maid had immediately brought in the ice, and cold and
hot tea as well. Barbara wished that she had not so much to occupy
her as she would like to have been able to devote more attention to
studying her guests.

Bianca, the little Italian girl whom Sonya had brought home with her
to the United States as a protégée, Barbara found less interesting
than Nona’s description of her had led one to expect. Bianca was very
pretty, of a delicate, shell-like type that one would not expect in an
Italian. At present she seemed either very shy and frightened, or else
she was merely demure. Then Barbara remembered that this was exactly
what Nona had written was especially characteristic of her. Bianca was
not all Italian, her father having been an American, and one must not
judge her wholly by appearances.

Moreover, if, as Nona had also said, Sonya had returned to the United
States partly because she wished to see less of the young Italian
singer whom she had cared for during his convalescence in Italy,
apparently she had not been successful thus far.

Even as she looked after her tea party Barbara could see that Carlo
Navara, if it were possible, never looked in any other direction than
toward Sonya. He was, of course, a great deal younger than Sonya and it
was immensely tragic that in fighting for Italy a wound had destroyed
the beauty of his voice; nevertheless, Barbara could not but feel that
his attitude was delightfully romantic.

Sonya treated him almost as she did Bianca, in a half maternal, half
friendly fashion, and yet Barbara wondered if she felt in the same way
toward them both. As Barbara had not seen the young Italian-American
during the crossing to Italy, when he had seemed to be merely a crude,
vain boy, she could not appreciate what Sonya’s influence had done for
him. Barbara now saw a remarkably good looking young fellow of perhaps
something over twenty, with dark eyes and hair, charming manners and
an expression of quiet melancholy which his tragic loss rendered
appealing. At present there was little in Carlo’s artistic face and
manner to suggest his origin, or the little Italian fruit shop in the
east end of New York City, where his parents worked and lived and where
Carlo was also living at this time.

“I suppose Nona intends returning to France to nurse once again and you
do not wish her to make the trip so soon?” Barbara Thornton remarked,
as if she had been following but one train of thought, rather than
making a careful and critical study of her guests at the same time.

Sonya Valesky was sitting in a tall carved chair drinking her tea from
a clear glass in Russian fashion. She was always perfectly dressed, for
she had the art of making whatever costume she wore appear the ideal
one. But today she seemed even more so than usual. With her partly gray
hair, her deep blue eyes with their dark brows and lashes, and the
foreign look she never lost, she was an oddly arresting figure.

She smiled now at her hostess and then shook her head.

“Of course that is true, Barbara, and I am not much surprised at your
guessing. But since this is what Nona herself wishes to talk to you
about, we had best not discuss it, or she may feel I have tried to
influence you. Of course I understand her great desire to help nurse
her own countrymen, for Nona has so long hoped the United States would
join the Allies. But I don’t think Nona has rested sufficiently long
since our return from Italy. You may see a change in her, Barbara, and
I can’t be cross with her just now. I have not yet found a school for
Bianca and I cannot leave her alone in a strange county. When fall
comes it will be different, as her mother especially wished her to
enter an American school.”

This speech was made in a perfectly simple and matter-of-fact fashion
with no suggestion of mystery or misfortune. Nevertheless, Barbara
Thornton observed a slight change in the expression of the youngest of
her three guests. One could scarcely assert that the young Italian girl
flushed, or that she made any very perceptible movement. It was merely
that her delicate eyelids drooped over her wide blue eyes and that her
lips parted with the quick in-taking of her breath. She seemed not so
much to mind what had been said as to fear a further discussion of the
subject. This is ordinarily true of most of us when there is in our
lives any fact which we hope to keep secret.

Barbara Thornton was aware that Bianca’s mother was an Italian peasant
who was now a fugitive, having sold Italian secrets to a German agent
in Florence. Since her disappearance no one knew whether Nannina was
alive or dead, so it was small wonder that Bianca should appear unhappy
at the mention of her mother’s name. However, she answered gently and
submissively:

“I am sorry to have the Signora Valesky allow me to interfere with her
plans. Beyond anything I too would like to be allowed to do something
for the wounded solders. I cannot nurse, but I am stronger than I look
and there are so many things to be done,----”

But no one answered or paid any attention to Bianca, for at this
instant Nona Davis came into the room. Forgetting all her other
visitors Barbara at once jumped up and ran forward to greet her.

This summer afternoon Nona had on a dark-blue silk dress which
accentuated her slenderness and fairness. In truth, she did look too
worn out to be planning to start off, almost immediately, to continue
her Red Cross nursing. With only one real holiday, Nona Davis had been
nursing almost continuously since the outbreak of the war. As a matter
of fact she had the strength which so often seems a characteristic of
delicate, ethereal persons.

After embracing Barbara and nodding to her other friends she dropped
into a big leather chair, in which she appeared lost, except that
it accentuated the shining quality of her pale, yellow hair and the
blueness of her eyes, which looked darker, because of the rather
strained, whiteness of her face.

“Please give me tea, and tea, and tea, Barbara, more than Eugenia ever
allowed us to drink even in our most enthusiastic tea drinking days at
the old château in southern France. I think I have been all over New
York City this afternoon and seen a dozen people on business.”

At this Nona turned with an apologetic glance toward Sonya.

“Don’t be vexed, Sonya, please, but I’m sailing for France in a week
or ten days. Of course we can’t tell just when, or any other details
of our departure. But I find I am very much needed, in spite of all
the other Red Cross nurses who have already gone. Why, every few days
another Red Cross unit sails! Still, with more and more American
soldiers going over every week, until we cannot guess what the number
may come to be some day, it may yet be difficult to find enough nurses
with experience to care for them.”

From its original pallor, Nona’s face had changed and was flushed
deeply with excitement as she talked.

Both to Barbara and Sonya it occurred as they now watched her, however,
that she was trying to show more self-control than she actually felt.

Always, Nona had been intensely interested in her Red Cross work and
had thrown herself into it with all the ardor and devotion of her
southern temperament. But since the entry of the United States into
the great European conflict she had undoubtedly developed an added
enthusiasm and sense of responsibility.

Just how much she was doing this to aid her in forgetting Eugino Zoli’s
death and her experience with him in Italy, Sonya Valesky, who had been
her companion in Florence, could not guess. Of her friend’s interest in
the young Italian aviator, Barbara Thornton understood nothing beyond
Nona’s occasional casual mention of his name in her Italian letters.

“But must you go so soon, Nona? Really I don’t think it wise,” Sonya
remonstrated in response. However, she scarcely spoke as if she
expected her advice to be heeded. For in regard to her nursing, Nona
was strangely obstinate and unmindful of herself and of other people.

Nona nodded. “Yes.” Then she added immediately, “Please do not let us
continue to talk of my plans. I am to have old friends, or almost old
friends go with me. Molly Drew and Agatha Burton are home from Italy
and are crossing with me to France.”

Nona turned toward her hostess.

“I think I wrote you, Barbara, about the three new Red Cross girls
who made the voyage to Italy with us and later were at the American
Hospital in Florence. I learned to like them very much, although we
were never so intimate as our first group of Red Cross girls. The third
girl was Dolores King from New Orleans. I don’t know where she is at
present; perhaps she has remained in Italy.”

“I don’t like Miss Burton. I should prefer not to nurse with her,” an
unexpected voice exclaimed at this instant.

But, as the voice was only Bianca’s and as Sonya had almost at the same
instant risen to say farewell, no one paid any notice to her speech.
Indeed, no one except Barbara Thornton really heard or remembered it.
Moreover, Bianca had seen the girl she now mentioned, scarcely more
than three or four times.

Sonya was anxious to leave the two old friends alone and therefore
hurried Bianca and Carlo away with her, now that tea was over.

As soon as Barbara had said farewell to them and returned to her
drawing-room, Nona went straight up to her and placed her hands on the
smaller girl’s shoulder.

“What is the trouble, Barbara dear? You do not seem so radiant as when
I went away. Don’t tell me unless you like, but haven’t you everything
in the world to make you happy? Better be happy when you can, _Barbara
mia_. You know Eugenia and Mildred and I used always to count on you as
the gayest of the four of us and I want to give only a good report to
them, when I see them in France.”

Barbara drew away slightly.

“So you have started in ahead of me, Nona, in asking questions! I do
not see how I could have permitted it when I had such dozens to ask of
you. But how can you expect me to be selfish enough to be happy when
Poor Mildred and Eugenia are having such tragic times. You know, of
course, that Eugenia’s husband, Captain Castaigne, has been reported
missing. She does not know whether he is a prisoner or dead. Then, too,
General Alexis has been arrested by the new Russian Government. He was
a friend, you remember, of the Czar and is suspected of favoring the
old régime. Sometimes I wonder if he and Mildred will ever marry. He is
so much older and they are so many miles apart. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton,
and even Dick, have written to urge Mildred to come home, but she will
not leave Eugenia. I suppose they are a comfort to each other in their
sorrow.”

Barbara walked a little apart from her friend.

Nona was now looking quietly about the charming room filled with books
and flowers and soft, rose-colored hangings.

“I did not mean to be inquisitive, Bab, forgive me,” she said softly.
“I think I must have been thinking of the old days in Europe when we
used to share one another’s confidences. We were more intimate even
than sisters when we were together out there.”

Then Nona laughed as if she were making the most inconceivable
suggestion in the world:

“Anyhow I don’t suppose anything serious has happened. You are not
leaving Dick and you would have told me if the baby was not well.”

At this speech Barbara Thornton’s entire expression and manner changed.
Nona saw that her eyes were wide open and that there was a deeper look
of pain in them than she had so far realized.

“No,” Barbara answered her quietly; “but then Dick is leaving me, so
perhaps it amounts to the same thing. And I did not believe we could
ever disagree on any subject after we were married.”




CHAPTER II

_Another Volunteer_


Nevertheless, on that same evening, a little before midnight, seeing
Barbara Thornton and her husband, Richard Thornton, together, one could
not believe that the difference between them had been a serious one.

Barbara was sitting on the arm of her husband’s chair with her feet
crossed and slowly swinging them back and forth. She was so small that
this did not appear either unnatural or undignified. The brown hair,
which a few years ago had been the trial of her life because it was so
absurdly short and curling like a young boy’s, was now braided and tied
with rose-colored ribbons, and Barbara wore a light silk dressing gown
over her night dress.

Nevertheless her expression was no less serious, her eyes no further
from tears than they were a few hours before when she had talked with
Nona Davis.

“So you have decided, Dick, to do what you said, although you know it
is against my judgment, and you promised to love, honor and protect me
only a short time ago. It is a strange way to keep your word to leave
the baby and me so soon. But I don’t suppose _we_ count.”

If Barbara Thornton still looked almost as young as she had upon first
meeting Dick Thornton in the front hall of his father’s home a little
before dawn about three years before, Richard Thornton was very unlike
the gay young society man who had first known and rescued her at that
trying moment and whom she had afterwards married.

Richard Thornton was far more like his celebrated father than anyone at
that time would have dreamed him capable of becoming. His brown eyes
were steady, his lips firm, although tonight he appeared tired and
overstrained.

“That is not fair, Bab, and not like you,” he returned slowly. “In most
cases I suppose I should think a man had no right to do what I intend
doing without his wife’s consent. But I have been fighting this matter
out with my conscience for weeks, even for months, and I can see no
other way. Besides, I did not really believe you would oppose me, Bab,
when the hour actually came. It is so unlike you! Who was it who woke
me up and said, goodness only knows what dreadful things to me for not
doing my part in the war not three years ago? I can’t understand you!
Why, when Nona was here at dinner with us a short time ago, you spoke
as if you had changed your opinion, or if not that, at least you had
decided to forgive me. You _must_, you know, Bab, before I go and I do
not know how soon that may be.”

However, Barbara continued to frown for another moment and to swing her
feet more and more slowly back and forth. In her lap her hands were
clenched tight over the same small lace handkerchief.

“Of course I had to pretend to feel differently before Nona Davis,
Dick; you surely understood that,” she murmured finally. “Why, Nona was
so entirely on your side, so completely in sympathy with you, that
she would never have forgiven me if she had realized how I really felt
in this matter. You see, you and Nona always did sympathize with each
other and you were almost in love with her, Dick Thornton, instead
of with me. You need not deny it, for you know you were! There is no
use arguing about it now. So I suppose if you were Nona’s husband at
present, instead of mine, she would be buckling on your armor and
urging you to France, instead of being selfish and just loving you and
wanting to keep you here with me, in spite of your duty and country and
all the other things which may be more important.”

Bab’s funny mixed speech ended with a catch in her breath and by
dropping her face down upon her husband’s shoulder.

“But I won’t discuss the subject with you any more, Dick, because, of
course, I know you are right to do your duty even when I pretend to
disagree with you. After all, you could not act any differently. So I
suppose your mother and father and baby will have to get on without
_us_. I realized all along that you would never allow the fact that the
old trouble with your eyes would make you exempt from military service,
to keep you at home when you know there is so much work to be done in
beautiful wounded France that you are able to do. Your mother has been
braver over your volunteering for ambulance work again than I have this
time, dear. It is funny how being happy so often makes one selfish. I
realized the difference between Nona Davis and me just this afternoon,
and yet I was just as devoted to the Red Cross nursing as Nona, before
I married you.”

Richard Thornton had placed his arm about his wife’s shoulders and was
smiling at her with the expression Bab frequently invoke. One could
never be perfectly sure whether she were wholly or only half-way in
earnest, whether her big, wide-open eyes would be filled with laughter
or tears. For whatever one might be with Bab, angry, hurt or pleased
one could not be bored with her.

“I always knew what you expected of me in your heart, Bab, that is
why I went on with my plans when you seemed to be objecting,” Dick
answered. “Now it has been arranged that, because of my previous
experience, I am to do the first line ambulance work in France. I am
sorry I am not fit enough to be a real soldier, fighting in the first
line as I should like. But my eyes do not seem to have recovered from
that old accident as I hoped they would by this time. Of course I could
stay here at home and after a while, perhaps, be able to help train the
other men for actual service. I have been offered a commission in the
second officer’s reserve corps. However, I do not want to work at home,
but in France, and that as soon as possible.”

Dick Thornton paused a moment, and then asked, frowning: “What did you
mean by saying ‘us’ a little while ago, Bab? That mother and father and
baby would have to get along without us? Surely you did not mean that
you intend to go to France with me, did you, dear? You cannot mean to
leave the baby! Besides, much as I would love to have you near me, if
you were in a perfectly safe place, far enough away from the fighting,
still, the State Department has declared no passports will be issued
to soldiers’ wives, and I should come under the same head as a soldier
in that regard. The government does not wish to have to look after
their women as well as their soldiers in a foreign county. They already
have enough upon their hands. The department is very positive on this
matter.”

During her husband’s lengthy speech Barbara had listened quietly,
but she now made an odd little sound, which one would hardly like to
describe as a sniff at the authority of the United States Government,
nor yet at her husband.

“Oh you need not think I will interfere with you or your work, Dick,
nor yet that the United States Government will consider my presence in
France a burden. If I was useful to them once, when I knew much less
about the Red Cross nursing than I do at present, I believe I can be
useful to them again.”

Then Barbara paused, waiting for an exclamation of surprise, perhaps
for one of disapproval.

However, partly through mystification, partly because Richard Thornton
did not consider that his wife actually meant what she said, even if
she had suggested it he continued silent.

Then with the suddenness which surprised no one who knew her
intimately, Barbara Thornton’s manner all at once became very grave and
sweet.

“I wonder if you understood me, dear?” she asked, turning so that her
eyes now met her husband’s directly.

“If you did, I presume you think I spoke on the spur of the moment and
without being in earnest. I know I often do talk in that way. But I
have been thinking, oh, for a long time, even before you began to say
it was your duty to go back into the ambulance work in France and not
claim exemption because of your eyes, that I had no real right to give
up my Red Cross work and be married and take things easily, before this
terrible war was ended. You and I, who have lived and worked in France
since this war began know only too well how weary, how almost utterly
exhausted by their long strain, the French now are. Why, sometimes I
believe if our country had not entered the war just when she did--but
then I must not speak of failure. For after all, nothing can stop the
progress of evolution, no weariness, no mistakes, and evolution is what
this war for democracy means. Still, that does not give any one of us
the right to be a slacker, and that is the way I have been feeling
lately.”

After this speech Richard Thornton gazed at his wife, not only with
amazement, but with actual disfavor.

“Barbara,” he demanded, “isn’t being married and having a baby and
doing what you can to help with the Red Cross work here and giving all
the money we can possible afford sufficient to content you? I did not
suppose you would allow even the war to change you into one of the
sentimental women who neglect their own duties to take up with outside
ones because they are more interesting, more exciting, perhaps, than
their own responsibilities.”

Barbara was silent an instant. Then she answered slowly, as if she were
thinking quietly concerning her husband’s statement:

“Yes, Dick, but you also are married and also have a baby and also
are doing what you can to help with the Red Cross work and giving
all and more than you can afford to the war work! Yet you are not
content to let the other fellows do the fighting. Why, you have been
trying to enlist ever since the United States entered the war and have
been terribly discouraged because you were found to be not up to the
physical standard.”

Barbara now slipped down from the arm of her husband’s chair and took a
low one of her own. In her dressing gown, with her braids hanging over
her shoulders and her chin resting thoughtfully in her hand, she sat
apparently deep in thought.

“You know it is a funny thing to me, Dick, why in this world there are
in so many cases two rules of conduct, one for a woman and another
for a man. I know, of course, that war has always been considered a
man’s work, but it is not really, at least not this war. When democracy
comes, when it is _real_ democracy, and women have their share in it as
well as men, I expect it will mean even more to women. You know when
things are hard and unfair and there is much poverty and oppression
women have always suffered more. You believe that, don’t you, Dick? I
have heard you say so,” Barbara added, with an appealing note, as if
she wished to find her husband in sympathy with her on this general
subject, if not on the personal one.

“But, Dick, I know, of course, that most women should stay in their
own homes and look after their families,” she went on with unusual
humility. “I am not a real suffragette. Now when I speak or even think
about leaving baby I do feel like a criminal and as if I could not bear
it. And yet, oh, Dick, I can be more useful with the Red Cross nursing.
How much do I do for baby at present, when your mother insists on his
having a trained nurse and keeps him with her at the Long Island place
most of the time, because she says New York City is too hot for him
in the summer time? And I am so afraid something may happen to him. I
allow him to remain away from me because I feel you need me more here
in town and because, oh, because I want to be with you even more than
with baby, Dick. Do you think I am a very unnatural mother?”

Barbara asked this question so seriously that in spite of his
unhappiness and disapproval of her point of view, Dick Thornton laughed
aloud.

“You probably are, Bab, but I must say I am glad you still like me as
much as you do our son. It is not usual.”

“Then you will let me go to France to take up my Red Cross nursing
again, Dick dear, won’t you, so I may be near you if anything happens
to you as it did before? I can go to Mildred and Eugenia and so you
need not worry about me; perhaps I can cross with Nona. I did not tell
her my plan this afternoon because I wanted your consent first. Now
don’t you think you ought to permit me to use my conscience since you
have decided you must use yours, regardless of my wish? Perhaps my
country also needs me, Dick. I am not very important, but do you know
I have been thinking recently that what Christ said about, ‘leaving
father and mother and giving up everything to follow Him,’ is what most
of the countries of the world are also asking of us these days.”

Dick nodded quietly, deciding not to argue with Barbara any more for
the present.

Tonight she was in a mood in which few people ever saw her. However,
her husband had known her in just such moods before their marriage, in
the days when they were both doing Red Cross work in Europe, soon after
the outbreak of the war. So, although he could not accept his wife’s
suggestion, could not make up his mind that Barbara should again endure
the dangers and discomforts of the Red Cross nursing, now that she was
his wife and so much nearer and dearer to him, yet he realized that he
must discuss the matter with her fairly and squarely. Barbara would
not go unless he gave his consent, but she must not feel that he had
been arbitrary or selfish in his decision.

“Let us not talk about this any more tonight, Bab. Listen, the clock is
striking midnight and we are both tired. However, even if I do give my
consent, you know mother and father----”

Barbara laughed. “Oh, for once your mother approves of what I wish to
do, husband of mine,” she interrupted “First of all, I spoke to her
about baby and she is glad to have the chance to look after him without
any foolish interference from me. Then do you know I believe she has
another reason, Dick. I don’t suppose you can guess what it is! Yet she
seems to feel that she and father would both be a little happier about
you, if I were only near enough to take care of you, should anything
happen. You know I saved your life once, Richard Thornton, although
you apparently have forgotten all about it. Of all the ungrateful
people----”

However, Barbara did not finish her accusation, for at this instant
Dick picked her up and carried her from the room.




CHAPTER III

_Somewhere in France_


Through a countryside “somewhere in France” a long train was moving
slowly. The journey was from a small seaport town where, not long
before, two American ships had landed their passengers.

Yet, somehow, the news must have preceded the train, for its way was a
triumphal procession. Near the road groups of women and children and
old men and partially convalescent soldiers were waving little American
flags in response to others which, mingled with the Tricolor, flew from
the car windows.

“Long leef to the Uniteed States,” the voices outside the train were
shouting, while inside more voices called back, “Vive La France.”

For the long line of French cars was filled with a thousand of the new
American troops on the way to their permanent war base.

When the train had passed away from the villages, through the car
windows also reverberated an odd combination of sounds made up of
southern drawl, of Yankee twang and the down east and out west
dialects, for Pershing’s regulars were drawn from every part of the
United States.

Some of them were singing “Dixie,” others “There’ll be a Hot Time in
the Old Town Tonight,” or a third group, “We Don’t Know Where We are
Going, but We’re on Our Way.”

But finally the train, entering one of the French towns, began slowing
down. The soldiers were to be given refreshments from a Red Cross unit.
This was one of the little towns which had been partly destroyed,
though since cleared of the enemy. The depot had been struck by a shell
and very badly damaged, the little French Cathedral across the central
square had lost its cross and “Our Lady” now stood with empty arms, the
figure of the Christ-child having been broken away.

At present across this square a pathetic little company was marching,
carrying tiny American flags.

They wore costumes of all colors and kinds, all degrees of vicissitude,
yet somehow each one of the group of children had her own little bit
of tricolor as well, so that the French and the America symbols of
democracy were intimately mingled.

When the train finally stopped, the children, as if from an unseen
signal, kneeled reverently down in the dust of the old square. There
were about twenty of them, all children save one.

“What does that mean?” one of the soldiers in a car nearly opposite the
square inquired of his companion.

“It means that those children are the war orphans of France and that
they think we American soldiers have come to deliver them. If we needed
anything more to make us want to fight like----” He stopped abruptly,
ashamed perhaps of the huskiness in his voice.

The two young Americans, who were sitting beside each other, were both
officers. The young man who had answered was the older and had dark
hair, gray eyes and a grave, rather severe face. He wore the uniform
of a first lieutenant. The other man had light hair, blue eyes, and
delicate features, and although at present his expression was also
serious, it was a gay, boyish face, without a look of responsibility.
However, Hugh Kelley had lately graduated at West Point and received
his commission as second lieutenant.

Both soldiers remained quiet, however, while the other men were
crowding out the windows and doors to receive their gifts of food
from French and American Red Cross nurses and to talk to the French
children, who were now coming up close to the cars.

The attention of them both had been attracted by the appearance of a
little French girl, the leader of the procession, who had come up near
their window. She was not alone, but leading a French soldier by the
hand. The man was slight and dark, although one could see only the
lower part of his face, as the upper part was bandaged.

The little girl, who must have been about ten or eleven, made an
expressive gesture with her hand, touching her head and suggesting a
wound. She wished her new acquaintances to understand that whatever
might be said her companion would comprehend nothing.

“He has been hurt, my officer,” she said, almost with a slight
expression of pride.

Although not trusting themselves to speak, almost simultaneously the
two Americans put their hands into their pockets, drawing out all the
small money they possessed at the moment.

But the French girl shook her head. “We are not beggars, my Captain and
I. We have come to say _bon jour_ to the American troops.” She spoke
in French. Then seeing that the young officers continued to thrust
their money toward her, she accepted it finally with a little graceful
gesture, and nodding a friendly farewell went on along the line of
cars gazing into each window in equally interested fashion, and still
leading her officer by the hand. He went without resisting while now
and then she spoke to him gently as one would to a beloved child.

Lieutenant Hugh Kelley drew in his breath in a faint-hearted whistle.
“Some poor French chap who has lost his mind or his memory or both and
is living in one of the nearby hospitals. I suppose the little French
girl is an orphan and they are somehow trying make things up to each
other. Well, I might as well confess, Lieutenant, I’ll not forget that
child or that poor fellow soon. Maybe our own men----”

“Oh, cut it out, Hugh,” Lieutenant Martin answered, “it is one of the
fortunes of war. But that was an interesting little French girl. There
_is_ something about her one will remember. See they have stopped now
and are talking to Miss Davis and her friends.”

For it was true that in a small compartment, separated from the rest of
the long train, was a small group of American Red Cross nurses, which
included Nona Davis, Barbara Thornton, and the two nurses with whom
Nona had worked in Italy, Mollie Drew and Agatha Burton.

Their presence on the soldiers’ train was due to an accident. Their
Red Cross ship, which had arrived at a French port at nearly the same
time the American soldiers’ transport, had failed to make proper
arrangements with the French authorities. As a matter of fact, the
Red Cross ship got in several days before she was expected and there
were no transportation facilities to take the nurses and doctors to the
various hospital stations at which they expected to work. Therefore a
few of them were obliged to travel whenever any opportunity presented.

Lieutenant John Martin had been right. It was Nona Davis who had first
discovered the little French girl and her companion just outside
their window, looking in at them with the same expression of friendly
interest she had shown the American officers.

After the first sensation of shocked surprise which the young Frenchman
occasioned, Nona smiled and began talking to the little girl.

“Would you mind telling me your name? Mine is Nona Davis, and I am a
Red Cross nurse on my way to one of the new hospitals.”

The child nodded, showing that she understood Nona’s French, which was
fairly good after her past experience in France.

“Jeanne Barbier, and this is Monsieur, Le Capitan. My friend has no
other name now, for he has forgotten his old one,” the little French
girl returned gravely, yet cheerfully, for in a way she had grown too
accustomed to tragedies to be overwhelmed by them. Besides, Jeanne had
the gallantry of her race. Whatever she might suffer, one smiled before
strangers.

“You see, he remembers nothing about himself, neither his family nor
where he has come from, and I, I too was alone, until we found each
other.”

Jeanne still held the French officer’s hand and he clung to her without
speaking, as if she only gave him a hold on earth. Otherwise his mind
wandered into what dim fancies, what tragic memories no one could guess.

But while this conversation was taking place, Barbara Thornton had
crowded up beside Nona and was gazing at the little French girl through
dimmed eyes. Mollie Drew was also looking out her window.

Jeanne was a typical little French girl, with wide-open dark eyes and
heavy lashes, a sallow, colorless skin, bright red lips and a slender,
pointed chin.

She now glanced from Nona to Barbara and her expression became puzzled
and sympathetic. She did not appreciate that she and her companion were
the cause of the American mademoiselle’s tears, but wondered what was
making her unhappy. Jeanne believed Barbara a young girl at this first
sight of her.

The truth was that Barbara had been fighting alternate stages of
regret at having left home and of being glad she was coming to France,
every half hour or so since her departure. But she had been more often
miserable than happy, and Barbara resented unhappiness. Moreover, she
had no one to confide in, since Nona, who was her only intimate friend
in their Red Cross unit, had intensely disapprove of her returning to
France. As nearby as she had been able to have a confidant, Barbara had
made one of Mollie Drew, as the two girls were sufficiently alike in
temperament to feel drawn to each other.

But as Barbara had just suffered a particularly deep wave of
homesickness in the past ten minutes, the French girl with her thin,
half-starved look and her smiling eyes, and the utter pathos of the man
accompanying her, had unnerved her.

“Is Mademoiselle ill, is there anything I can do?” Jeanne asked with
entire seriousness. In the past months she had grown accustomed to
being useful to a great many people. She ran errands at a convalescent
hospital, where they were keeping certain of the soldiers who had no
homes and no families to whom they could be returned. These soldiers
had become the permanent wards of France. It was in this hospital
Jeanne had found her Captain.

In response Barbara could only shake her head helplessly. She was glad
to have Nona and Mollie distracting the little girl’s attention by the
gift of a box of candy, which had been a farewell present. While they
did this she was studying the French officer.

It was strange how one was able to see he had been a gallant gentleman
and soldier of France in spite of his misfortune. There was something
in his appearance which fairly haunted Barbara. He hung his head now
and every movement of his body was uncertain, yet in the once slender,
graceful figure, the small, well-shaped head, the hands and feet,
one could see that Jeanne’s officer had been a man of breeding and
distinction.

“Why don’t his own people look for him? Surely something should be
done,” Barbara murmured, almost indignantly. “Jeanne, you must do your
best to help your Captain find his friends. There must have been some
mark upon him, his number, the uniform of his regiment.”

But before Jeanne could reply, the train upon which the American
soldiers and the four Red Cross nurses were traveling, began pulling
away from the station, and Jeanne stood waving farewell.

During the entire experience Agatha Burton had remained quiet and
uninterested. She was a surprisingly calm and self-possessed person.

Several times since her own introduction to Agatha, Barbara had
recalled Bianca’s unexpected speech in her drawing-room. Barbara
occasionally felt she agreed with Bianca. However, she did not intend
to be prejudiced against anyone, and Agatha certainly had tried to be
kind and considerate of her, more so than Nona, who was her old friend.
Agatha had a fashion of doing one small, unexpected favors; it was
almost as if she deliberately intended to make you like and trust her.

“Would you mind telling me something of Madame Castaigne?” Mollie Drew
asked, after the slight pause which usually follows a train’s leaving a
station. “As she is to have charge of the new American hospital where
we are to work, I am interested. Is she difficult to work under? I feel
a little afraid of her, she seems to be so wonderful herself.”

Nona smiled and shook her head. “Oh, don’t feel afraid of Madame
Castaigne, although I confess that Mildred Thornton, Mrs. Thornton’s
sister-in-law, and Barbara and I were very much so in the days when
we’d just met Eugenia on our first trip to Europe for the Red Cross
nursing. She had not married then. But Madame Castaigne has been
through a great deal since. About a year or more after our work in
Europe she married a French officer, Captain Henri Castaigne. He was a
member of the old nobility, but too democratic in his ideas to use his
title. He has since disappeared and is either dead or a prisoner in
Germany. I don’t think Madame Castaigne knows. But she has kept on just
the same with her hospital work and has been helping to organize the
new hospitals for our American soldiers in France. Eugenia has a great
deal of money, and, except what she uses for her husband’s mother, she
is devoting everything she has to the Red Cross. I only hope we may not
find her too much changed.”

But Nona stopped talking because of an interruption. Someone had just
come to the door of their compartment and knocked, and Barbara was
opening it.

Outside stood two figures, Lieutenant John Martin and his companion,
Lieutenant Hugh Kelley.

The first officer’s manner betrayed the impression that although
intending to be polite, he was greatly bored. As a matter of fact,
he believed that women and girls had no part in a soldier’s life and
except that men were necessary for other work, even Red Cross nurses
were superfluous.

But by chance Lieutenant Martin and Nona Davis had a slight previous
acquaintance. Lieutenant Martin was a native of Georgia, but had been
educated at the Charleston Military Academy before going to West
Point. In Charleston he had known some friends of Nona’s and had been
introduced to her, meeting her, perhaps, only a few times afterward.
For even as a boy, Jack Martin had been supposed to be either very shy
or very disdainful of girls. He did not seem to have the least natural
interest in them. Yet he really knew almost nothing of women, having
been brought up by a bachelor uncle, who was himself a soldier, and
this may have accounted for his ungraciousness.

Both he and Nona were surprised, upon seeing each other, into
acknowledging their former acquaintance. Neither really intended it.
Afterward, Lieutenant Martin had really regretted the accidental
meeting, since it had drawn him into situations a little like the
present one.

Hugh Kelley and he were on the railroad platform, when the sight of
four American Red Cross nurses, standing together and apparently
waiting to take the same train, had attracted their attention.

Yet introducing Hugh had been the real complication. He could scarcely
be accused of disliking girls.

However, he continued to stand at the door of the compartment waiting
for Lieutenant Martin as his superior officer to open the conversation
and explain their presence.

“I, we,” Lieutenant Martin began stiffly, and then stopped, as if he
never were to go on.

Then he turned to the younger man.

“Do, Kelley, speak for us both, won’t you? Give an excuse for our
appearance. For if you are not an Irishman, with that name of yours,
your ancestors surely were.”

Hugh Kelley laughed.

“Oh, the situation isn’t so serious; please don’t be alarmed. It is
only that Lieutenant Martin is so in the habit of issuing commands
lately that he does not know how to ask a favor. And it’s a favor I be
after askin’,” Hugh continued, breaking into a fairly poor imitation of
the Irish brogue, somewhat to Mollie Drew’s amusement.

“You see, I have been feeling rather homesick for the past few hours,
so I mustered up courage to ask our Colonel if Lieutenant Martin and I
could come in here to talk to you. I told him, Miss Davis--hope you do
not mind--that you and Lieutenant Martin were old childhood friends;
kind of boy and girl business, you know the kind. So the Colonel said
we might come if I brought Martin along, and if we did not mention the
fact to any of the other fellows in our car for fear of starting a
riot in your direction. So I dragged Martin with me.” Hugh ended with
a perfectly deliberate intention of confusing his superior officer,
perhaps in revenge for past severities.

Then he dropped down into a seat between Barbara Thornton and Mollie
Drew.

“I say, isn’t this good luck? Anyhow, it is more than I deserve,” he
concluded boyishly.

Lieutenant Martin took a place beside Nona. He appeared really more
uncomfortable than necessary.

“I should like to court-martial Kelley for that speech, Miss Davis. How
can I possibly talk to you with such a beginning?”




CHAPTER IV

_With the American Army in France_


“But, Gene, the hospital is so perfect in every detail! I don’t see how
you have managed and it is so fine to be working here in France with
you again. But best of all, you don’t seem to have changed and I was
afraid----”

Nona ended her speech abruptly, not having intended making this final
remark.

Three or four hours before she and Barbara Thornton and the two other
Red Cross nurses had arrived at the new hospital, set aside for the
care of the American soldiers of which Eugenia, Madame Henri Castaigne
was in charge.

For the first two hours Eugenia had been too occupied to do more than
greet her old friends and make the acquaintance of the new girls. But
since dinner she had been showing the four of them over the hospital.

So far there were not a great many patients, only a few of the
soldiers with not very serious illnesses, so they were receiving the
most devoted attention.

Then, after their survey of the hospital, Eugenia and Mildred Thornton
with the four newcomers had gone up to their own rooms.

The nurses’ rooms were on the top floor of the building, which had
once been a private country place, converted, largely under Eugenia’s
direction, into a modern hospital.

Instead of occupying one long room like a hospital ward, it was one of
Eugenia’s ideas that the Red Cross nurses required privacy and quiet
after the long strain of their work. So the space had been divided into
small apartments, two girls in each room. Nona and Eugenia were to have
one, Barbara Thornton and Mildred Thornton, her sister-in-law, the one
adjoining, while Mollie Drew and Agatha Burton were across the hall.
The half dozen other nurses had the same arrangements.

At Nona’s last words, Eugenia Castaigne’s face had changed in
expression slightly, but she made no reference to what the words had
implied. However, Nona remembered that Mildred Thornton had already
written and had also told them, that Eugenia never discussed Captain
Castaigne’s disappearance and no one knew what her real feeling was, or
even if she believed her husband dead.

Just now and then in this world of ours and but very rarely, one may be
a witness to what may well be called the miracle of love.

Eugenia’s marriage to Captain Castaigne was one of these miracles. The
surprise of his caring for her when she considered herself so unworthy,
the charm of his companionship, although they had seen each other
seldom, whatever it was, the fulfillment of the best in her, which
comes to some women only through marriage had come to Eugenia. This she
could never lose. So the somewhat narrow-minded, even if intelligent
and conscientious, old maid had disappeared forever and Eugenia, or
_Madame Eugenie_, as the French people called her, was one of the most
gracious and sympathetic of women.

Moreover, she had a genius for hospital work. Whatever demands she
might make upon her assistants under the pressure of necessity, she was
never unjust and never spared herself, two great traits in the fine
executive nature.

“Oh, I am all right and never more interested than in our American
hospital, Nona. I thought I could never care for any soldiers as I
have for the gallant French _poilus_, always gay and full of courage
even to the end. But now when I think of our American boys coming on
this long journey to fight for the triumph of Christ’s idea of human
equality--for that is what, in its largest sense, this war against
Germany means--well, perhaps I am too much of an enthusiast.

“But there I am on my present hobby and I did wish to talk just of
personal matters this first night.”

Eugenia had raised her arms and was taking down her long, heavy brown
hair.

It was only about eight o’clock in the evening, but the four friends
had planned to undress and have the hours before bedtime for a long
talk.

In the next room Barbara was re-reading a letter which she had found
waiting for her at the hospital, written by her husband. She and her
sister-in-law were discussing this and other family matters.

Nona had already undressed and put on her dressing gown, a lovely blue
silk negligée which Sonya had given her, since Sonya now insisted on
Nona’s having pretty clothes. She was now half sitting, half lying on
the bed with her pale yellow hair rippling over the pillow.

Eugenia turned to put on her own lavender dressing gown and then stood
looking down on the other girl.

“Tell me, Nona--of course I understand you don’t have to confess unless
you wish--but you know I have often wondered; are you especially
interested in anyone? So far, you alone of our group of four Red Cross
girls seems to have escaped, and I certainty never dreamed in those
early days that both Barbara and I would be married, Mildred engaged
and you remain free. Is it because you are too much of a Fra Angelico
angel (who was it who used to insist you looked like one?) to feel
ordinary emotions?”

Nona laughed, glad that Eugenia could discuss this particular subject
in so cheerful and natural a fashion, yet changing color slightly.

“Do you wish me to confess, Gene, that I am so much less attractive?
Because, after all, that must be the truth.”

Nona tried to keep her voice perfectly steady and her eyes directly
regarding Gene’s. Nevertheless, to her own annoyance she found that
Eugenia’s question had brought back the memory of Eugino Zoli and the
last night in the old Italian garden. Again she wondered if he had ever
really cared for her.

Something in her expression may have betrayed her, for Eugenia changed
the subject.

“Don’t you think Mildred is keeping up wonderfully well when she hears
so little news of General Alexis? He is still a prisoner and must
remain one until the new government discovers that in spite of his
personal friendship for the former Czar, he believes in democracy.
It seems rather a pity at present that they must lose the services of
so fine an officer. But, by the way, Nona, I meant to tell you, I had
a letter from a friend of yours, a Dr. Latham. He wrote me he had not
seen you in the United States, but that Sonya had told him you were
coming to me. He seems to feel he would like to help us here at our
American hospitals, not his one alone, but wherever he may be most
useful. Of course I know him by reputation.”

Nona frowned slightly.

“Oh, I was not sure Dr. Latham had returned from Italy, although he did
not intend to stay after he had been able to teach his new treatments
of wounds to the Italian surgeons. He is a wonderful surgeon, but a
great bear of a man, and in a way I am sorry if he is to come here. He
took up such a lot of my time in Florence.”

But at this instant Barbara Thornton made a pretense of knocking on the
door, although she entered without waiting for a reply.

“Don’t you and Nona think it would be wiser for all four of us to
be in the same room when we talk, Gene, instead of having to repeat
everything we say? I have just had a most cheerful and agreeable letter
from Dick. But do you suppose that husband of mine deigns to tell me
where he is? This ‘somewhere in France’ address must get on a good many
people’s nerves. But he need not be afraid I shall try to look him up
or interrupt him. I expect to be as busy as he is.”

Barbara took hold of Eugenia by one hand and drew her to a seat beside
her on the bed.

“Hope I shall be a more satisfactory Red Cross nurse this time than I
was at the beginning, Gene. Remember, you wished to send me home then?
But you always were wonderful. Do you know, I think you were intended
to be a Mother Superior or a Lady Abbess, if you had lived in other
days, Gene? As it is, I would rather work under you as a Red Cross
nurse than any other woman in Europe.”

“Don’t be a goose, Bab,” Madame Castaigne returned with just a
sufficient reminder of her one-time severity to make the three other
nurses, including Barbara, smile.

“But there, I can’t remember you are a married woman with a baby child.
It was fine of you to come over to us to help, under the circumstances.”

Barbara hesitated and flushed. “I don’t wish to sail under false
colors, Gene, with you or Mildred or Nona. I think I came to Europe
half because Dick is here and the other half because I wish to help.
Do you think I can ever manage to see him? I couldn’t have endured his
being so far away.”

Barbara looked so absurdly childish and forlorn that both Nona and
Mildred were amused. It was Gene these days who understood.

“Of course you will, Bab. Dick may even be helping with the ambulance
work not far from here some time. In any case I expect we can manage a
meeting. But if you children are not too tired tomorrow I want to take
you over to our American camp. I have special permission for us to be
shown as much as we have time to see. Later the officers may not wish
us and also we may be too busy. It is all so wonderful and inspiring.”

Eugenia ceased talking and for an instant no one spoke. This was
because they all heard a curious noise just outside the closed door,
one that puzzled Nona and Barbara. However, the next instant the door
swung slowly open and a great silver-gray figure entered the little
room and padded softly up to Eugenia and there stood gravely regarding
the two newcomers.

“This is our American hospital mascot. You remember Monsieur Le Duc, or
Duke as we used to call him, don’t you, Nona, you and Bab? After Henri
disappeared, in the most curious fashion, without anyone being able
to explain how he could have known, Duke grew so utterly wretched my
mother-in-law wrote me she thought the poor fellow would die. So I went
back to the château to see him. He grew better then, but I had to bring
him away with me. He never leaves me when it is possible to be near. I
think he has an idea he must take care of me. At first I was afraid he
was going to be a nuisance, but wherever I have been the soldiers have
adored him. Come, Duke, won’t you speak to your old friends?”

And, as if he had only been waiting for Eugenia’s suggestion, the great
dog walked softly over first to Nona and then to Bab, gravely extending
his paw to each of them in turn.

“You look older, don’t you, poor old Duke,” Bab whispered, putting
her brown head down on the dog’s silver-gray one. “Here is hoping for
happier days!”

But she said this so that Eugenia did not hear her. Aloud she announced:

“I should think I _would_ like to see the American camp. I never
imagined such a privilege. You know, Gene, there was the dearest
young officer whom we met on the train, a Kentucky boy. He said he
was awfully anxious to introduce some of his brother officers to me,
only he did not see how he was ever to manage, the regulations were so
severe.”

Nona raised herself up on one elbow.

“Barbara Thornton, kindly remember you are married and Eugenia merely
said she wished to show us the American camp, not to entertain us by
having us meet the soldiers. Really, you know I never approved of your
coming over to nurse again, but I did not anticipate this particular
form of frivolity, considering that Mildred is your sister-in-law.”

Barbara looked so extremely comfortable at this accusation that both
Eugenia and Mildred laughed, and this was what Nona had hoped for,
since Duke’s unexpected appearance had brought back memories difficult
to take lightly.

The American hospital, where the four American Red Cross girls and
their new companions were to work, was at the edge of one of the
villages in which the great permanent war camp for the United States
soldiers had been located.

Yet one could scarcely say the camp had been located in the village,
since it not only included the French village, but also covered the
surrounding country on all sides. In the little French houses of frame
and plaster the officers and as many of the soldiers as possible
were quartered. But wherever it was necessary, with the number of
men increasing each day, barracks were being built by the soldiers
themselves and their French comrades, while a few tents dotted the
fields like a sudden up-springing of giant mushrooms.

Not long after daylight next morning Eugenia, Mildred Thornton and the
four new nurses started for the village.

They wished to be in time for the morning drill. A moment or so before
their arrival, a little way off they heard the clear, sharp call of the
bugle and then the tramping of many thousands of feet.

After a sentry had investigated her permit, Eugenia led the way to
the roof of one of the little French houses. She seemed to know its
occupants and to have received permission beforehand. The roof was
not flat, few roofs of the houses in French villages are, though one
finds them almost always with the broad straight roofs in the larger
apartment dwellings in Paris. But this small house had a little balcony
at the top, and steep steps, almost like a ladder, leading from the
inside.

From the balcony one could see the great drill ground, where the United
States troops were now forming in lines.

Over the fields of France floated the Stars and Stripes.

But the American girls, who had lately arrived, could not see plainly,
for the mist in their eyes.




CHAPTER V

_Introductions_


But when the drill was over the American girls did not come down from
their place of observation. There was still so much of absorbing
interest. The soldiers, having completed this work, had still more
important training to be gone through with during the morning.

The girls were able to watch a number of them learning to throw hand
grenades, small bombs not much larger than oranges. The practice bombs
were not explosive, nevertheless Barbara and Nona and Mollie Drew found
themselves intensely interested. They had almost the sensations of
enthusiastic baseball fans, for the American boys showed such skill
with the grenades, that their boyhood playing of the national game must
have been of value.

Other soldiers were working at trench digging and farther along on the
artillery practice range big guns were being moved, trained on their
target and made ready for firing with amazing swiftness. Beyond was
also an aviation camp, scarcely discernible because of the distance.
Here other American boys were completing their final lessons in air
fighting, preparing themselves to rival the gallant Lafayette corps of
American airmen in the service of France, who had become world famous
for their amazing feats of valor and skill.

But most extraordinary of all the spectacles to the Red Cross nurses
was the encampment of “tanks.” These giant monsters were rolling about
on their parade ground, looking like prehistoric monsters. The soldiers
were like midgets beside them. They lumbered along like huge turtles
carrying houses on their backs and climbing great objects, set in their
paths, as if they did not exist.

However, there are scenes to which one is now and then a witness which
may be too overwhelming. Actually one sees and feels so much that the
eyes and mind and even the emotions become exhausted.

Mollie Drew was the first of the six girls to feel she could endure
no more. She had seen such tremendous things and, moreover, had gone
through with such a conflict of sensations, joy that the American
soldiers were now to play a great part in the world struggle and sorrow
over the inevitable tragedies which must befall them, and a strong urge
that they learn these final lessons in making war soon as possible,
that they might get into the fight and have it all over with, perhaps,
before another year.

So that by and by, Mollie began to feel not only tired but almost
exhausted. Yet she did not wish to interrupt the others nor to ask any
one of them to return to the hospital with her.

She could overhear Eugenia talking to Agatha Burton and had seldom seen
Agatha so animated or in earnest.

“No, I cannot tell you how many American troops have arrived in France.
No one outside the government is informed. But in any case it would be
impossible, as new contingents of soldiers are reaching France almost
every day.”

Mollie caught the sense of this speech, but realized that each word
was becoming more and more indistinct. She had a stupid habit of
occasionally growing faint, but not for a great deal would she have
Madame Castaigne discover her weakness so soon after her journeying to
France for the Red Cross nursing.

If she could only get down the narrow staircase and away from the
others before she was observed! Mollie could not of course realize how
completely her usual bright color had faded. She took a few steps and
at the top of the stairs caught hold of the narrow railing.

But, fortunately for Mollie, although she was not aware of it, Barbara
Thornton had been watching her for the past few moments.

She had noticed Mollie becoming steadily paler until the little
freckles, which were ordinarily inconspicuous, showed plain, had seen
the peculiar strained look in Mollie’s deep gray eyes. Also, she
understood that Mollie would not wish to create a scene and above all
wished to avoid Eugenia’s attention.

So, when Mollie moved away, Barbara moved quietly after her, placing
her arm firmly about the other girl’s waist.

“Miss Drew and I are tired and are going down; we will wait for you,
don’t hurry,” she called back.

As a matter of fact, as soon as she reached the landing, Mollie did
feel almost herself again. She wished to go outdoors at once, but
Barbara insisted that they find a place to sit down and rest.

The stairs from the tower ended in a tiny hall and opposite was a room
with the door open.

Barbara was under the impression that this room was the usual sacred
drawing-room of some French family. But as soon as they crossed the
threshold she appreciated that, whatever the room had been, it was
now being used by American soldiers. There was a variety of boots and
army leggings in one corner, a khaki coat swung over a chair and a
disordered table covered with American books and papers. Dust and mud
were on the floor.

“I don’t think we ought to intrude in there,” Mollie objected,
hesitating and speaking a little nervously.

But Barbara, who was very difficult to awe, walking calmly in, seated
herself in one of the empty chairs.

“Certainly we must stay here until you are rested and feeling a little
stronger. You can scarcely stand up and I don’t wonder, after being
on your feet for hours, the first day after our trip. I am awfully
tired myself. No one is coming back to this room for the present; the
soldiers and officers are too busy. If anyone does appear we must
simply explain. I am curious anyhow to know how Eugenia managed to
bring us here without introducing us to anyone. Perhaps the French
people in this neighborhood are becoming accustomed to Americans taking
possession of their homes.”

Barbara talked quietly and without any suggestion of possible
embarrassment, really because she had no idea that anyone would
discover them before Eugenia came down.

She was therefore more surprised and embarrassed than Mollie at an
unexpected noise just outside the open door.

However, both girls jumped to their feet looking conscience stricken.

The young solder at the door uttered a low whistle, took off his
wide-brimmed hat and then made a low bow.

“Do you know,” he began, “I was as mad, well, we will say mad as a
March hare, although that was not my original speech over being sent
here to clean up my superior officers’ quarters. I came over to France,
you know, to fight Germans, not to act as a housemaid. But, of course,
if I had any idea that Lieutenant Martin was giving a reception, why
before his guests arrived----”

The young private was over six feet tall, had fine white teeth and
broad shoulders and at this moment his eyes were so full of surprise
and amusement that no one would have thought of their color.

“But we are not guests and we are going right away,” Barbara stammered.
“For goodness sake don’t let anyone else find us here!”

Barbara was older and married and, of course, should have been the more
self-possessed of the two intruders. But somehow Mollie experienced an
immediate understanding and sympathetic appreciation of the situation
existing between her and the newcomer.

“We have been watching the morning drill and afterwards came in here
to rest, not dreaming anyone would discover us at such a time. Did you
say it was a part of your duty to help keep your officers’ quarters
in order. If it is, do you know I don’t think you have been very
successful,” and Mollie’s color returned and her lips parted in a
rather pretty Irish fashion of suddenly turning up at the corners to
express amusement, as she looked around the disordered apartment.

The young man nodded.

“I don’t suppose I could hold my job for a week in your house, would
I, unless you happened to take a fancy to me and wished to show me how
housecleaning is accomplished? You see, before I undertook to be a
soldier, why I’m afraid I belonged to the ‘idle rich’. I did not even
know this business of keeping one’s own possessions in order was a
part of every regular private’s job. I have had some training in the
last months, but I can still shoot straighter and ride better than I
can do other things.”

And the young fellow looked in such utter disgust and consternation at
the task ahead of him that Mollie laughed a second time.

“There is to be an inspection of quarters this afternoon and, as the
Lieutenant is busy, I’ve been detailed to have this room shipshape.”

Mollie glanced toward Barbara.

“Suppose we help?” she suggested, “at least until Madame Castaigne
and the others come down. No one will ever know. You see, ‘Monsieur
Sammee,’ (that is what French people are calling you, isn’t it?) if you
were a Red Cross nurse as Mrs. Thornton and I both are, you would know
everything worth knowing of domestic tasks.”

Then, without waiting for Barbara’s agreement, Mollie began
straightening the dusty, disordered table in a quiet, skilful fashion.

The next instant Barbara had joined her at another task and soon the
three of them were hard at work, the young soldier obeying orders.

When Eugenia and Mildred, Nona and Agatha finally looked into the room
to see if Barbara and Mollie could possibly be found in there, they
were for an instant overcome with amazement.

Eugenia was far from pleased. However, the scene was too absurd to take
seriously or to speak reprovingly about.

This time Mollie became embarrassed and past being able to explain the
situation. Moreover, she was conscious that the soldier, whose name
she did not even know and therefore was unable to introduce to Madame
Castaigne, was now laughing at her, although he kept every part of his
face grave except his eyes.

However, Barbara spoke at once.

“Hope we have not done anything very wrong, Eugenia. But you see, after
all, our Red Cross rules are that we succor anyone in distress. We
do not know whom we have helped this time, but he was undoubtedly in
distress.”

At this Barbara turned to the young man, who came forward to speak to
Madame Castaigne. He had recognized her as having charge of one of the
nearby American hospitals.

He gave his name, Guy Ellis, to Eugenia, but of course the others heard
him.

“I don’t know exactly what I am to say to any of you,” Eugenia
protested in answer to Barbara and shaking hands with their new
acquaintance, “because I never dreamed of any such situation. However,
I am glad I discovered you instead of an officer. But please come with
me and meet Madame Bonnèt. She has given up this house of hers to
our soldiers, but she and her daughter, Berthe, are living in a tiny
place in the garden. She is a great friend of mine and managed to get
us permission to use her tower upstairs this morning for watching the
drill. She told me no one would be here, so we would not be a nuisance.”

Eugenia turned to Nona.

“Madame Bonnèt is raising carrier pigeons for the use of the French
army. The ones she has now are to be our American messengers when we
need them.”

Eugenia made no suggestion that the young soldier accompany them, but
he walked on quietly beside Mollie and Barbara. After all, Madame
Bonnèt was his friend as well.




CHAPTER VI

_Carrier Pigeons_


Behind the officers’ house was a carefully tended little home garden.
There were no flowers, except a few perennials, blooming on unconscious
of the war which for the past three years had been destroying the land
that nourished them.

But between the rows of feathery carrots and the stiff spikes of
onions, a girl was kneeling.

She looked up in surprise at the approach of so large a number of
people, then smiled in response to Eugenia’s greeting, although she did
not rise immediately.

She wore a smock of a coarse blue material, covering her from her
throat to her ankles. Her head was bare and she seemed to have the very
blackest hair one could imagine and her eyes were equally so. Her face,
however, was tanned, and was a little worn and sad. But seated on her
head and shoulders and hovering everywhere about her, were a flock of
pigeons, fluttering and talking apparently to themselves and to her.

Close behind the garden was the pigeon house, set high up and painted
gray, with bright blue lines about the small windows. From the inside
came the cooing and mourning, the sounds of the most delicate and
romantic of love murmurings, as well as the noises necessary to the
smoothing of small, new famines. But the sounds were unmistakable;
there are no others like those of a dove cote.

A little farther to one slide stood a small house, which could hardly
contain more than two rooms.

Coming out of the front door, attracted by the footsteps of so many
visitors, was Madame Bonnèt. She was not young or graceful like her
daughter, Berthe, yet the greater number of the girls found their eyes
turning admiringly toward the older woman. Without immediately knowing
why, they recognized her attraction. But this was because Madame Bonnèt
typified so much that is finest and strongest in the French national
life.

She was large, with a deep bosom and broad shoulders, but with narrow
hips. She had dark hair, black almost as Berthe’s and as free from
gray; her skin was as smooth and clear one might say as satin, but
there was a softness and a fragrance to Madame’s skin that no satin
ever had.

She wore a mourning dress, but with a wide white apron over it and a
white collar about her full throat.

Smiling a welcome to her unknown guests, Madame Bonnèt opened her arms
to Eugenia Castaigne and Eugenia kissed her as no one had ever seen her
do to anyone else.

Their display of affection was perfectly simple and natural and of
course over in a moment. However, Mildred and Barbara and Nona,
Eugenia’s old friends, who had been with her at the time of her
marriage, understood that there was some close bond between the two
women, the one who had lost her husband, the other whose position was
perhaps worse, since she did not know what fate had come to hers.

“I nursed Madame Bonnèt’s son. Her husband, who was an officer, and
one son have been killed since the war began; the other is at Verdun,”
Eugenia whispered quietly to Nona, while Madame Bonnèt was shaking
hands with Mildred Thornton and while Barbara and Mollie and Agatha
were waiting to speak to her. Eugenia spoke as if she were making a
perfectly ordinary statement.

“She and her husband were raising carrier pigeons more as an amusement
than for any other reason when the present war broke out,” Eugenia
continued. “They immediately sent all they had to the French government
and the government has been using them for their messengers, when all
their wonderful telephone and telegraph systems break down, as they do
now and then. But I am going to ask Madame Bonnèt to talk to you. It is
fascinating to learn what part carrier pigeons can play in war.”

Madame Bonnèt was now walking toward the dove cote with her visitors.

A few moments before she had picked up a large platter of corn, which
the American soldier had afterwards taken from her. At present he was
walking in front of the little procession and evidently he and Madame
Bonnèt were great friends, since he was looking back over his shoulder
and telling her of his recent domestic rescue.

And Madame Bonnèt was laughing and shaking her head.

“It is all right so long as Lieutenant Martin does not find you out.”

“Oh, Martin is a martinet,” Guy Ellis returned. “Yet even Martin should
feel honored by Mrs. Thornton and Miss Drew’s attention. However, the
favor was done for me, wasn’t it, Miss Drew?”

At this moment the young man’s expression changed rather oddly from its
gay look to one that was almost sullen. Yet his hand went up to his
forehead in a military salute. He had just seen the officer, whom they
had been discussing, walking along the same path in their direction
with Lieutenant Hugh Kelley.

But no one else had observed them. For at this instant Madame Bonnèt
had come close up to her dove cote and having taken the bowl of corn
into her own hands, held it up for a moment, as if before feeding her
flock she were invoking a blessing from the sun.

The pigeons must have been accustomed to this. For they came out of
their house and ranged themselves in a long, fluttering row on the
eaves. But although they moved impatiently, they did not at once fly
down.

The birds were of several colors, white and black and a soft gray, yet
the larger number were iridescent, shining like bright jewels under
water. The girls discovered that carrier pigeons are a little larger
than ordinary ones, with long wings reaching to the end of their tails.

Then, at a little signal from Madame Bonnèt, they came, enfolding
her in a moving cloud, setting on the edge of the bowl, eating the
corn from her hand. Yet the most of them were on the ground where she
scattered handfuls of grain.

The group of Red Cross girls were fascinated, but Nona Davis
particularly so.

Leaving Eugenia, she slipped over and stood next Madame.

“I wonder if you will do me a favor? Allow me to come over some morning
and take your picture here with your pigeons? I have a friend in New
York whom I should so like to have see it.”

Madame Bonnèt smiled and then shook her head.

“You can have my picture at any time you like, so far as I am
concerned, my dear. But you see, my house has been given up to the army
and several of the officers are quartered here. I am afraid Lieutenant
Martin would object to photographs of any part of the encampment. We
are having to be so careful that the enemy does not discover where the
camp is located and there is always the danger from spies.”

Nona flushed. She was glad that no one except Madame Bonnèt had heard
her request.

“Of course. I should have thought of that. One would suppose I was a
novice and knew nothing of military requirements, when I have been
nursing since the beginning of the war. But tell, me, please, are the
carrier pigeons ever used to carry messages of importance? I have heard
of their being used and yet it seems almost absurd in a war of such
amazing scientific inventions that one should employ such a messenger.”

Madame Bonnèt shrugged her shoulders in French fashion.

“Child, this is a war of both little things and great. Nothing is too
simple, nothing too wonderful to have its use. I can only hope my birds
are of some service; what messages they bear I am, of course, not told.
Yet they must be of some value, since the French government has been
able to employ all I could furnish them. It is more difficult to train
the young birds now. One takes them away from home for a short distance
when they are young, then the distance becomes greater, a hundred
miles, five hundred, sometimes six hundred. In the Franco-Prussian war,
when my beloved city of Paris was besieged, the carrier pigeons kept
Paris always in touch with the outside world. That shall not happen
again. Paris will not be besieged, and yet who can say what service my
pets may not give?”

Nona held out her hand. “How interesting, Madame Bonnèt! Do you think
one of them will come to me?”

Madame Bonnèt slipped a grain of corn in Nona’s outstretched palm
as she stood waiting. She was not in her nurse’s uniform, but wore
a simple white dress and a moment before had taken off her hat. She
looked very young and slender and picturesque in contrast with Madame
Bonnèt’s size and her mourning.

A particularly lovely gray pigeon with delicate lavender shades of
color in her full throat had for several moments been hovering about
Nona, coquetting with her.

Now, at her invitation, the pigeon rose and flew off, then returned and
for a breathless instant settled in Nona’s hand.

Madame Bonnèt reached over and lifted it up.

“My pigeons rarely do that for anyone except my daughter or me. So I
mean to name this one for you. Will you tell me your name again? I do
not think I heard, there were so many ones.”

Madame Bonnèt was speaking in French, but Nona understood her without
difficulty. Madame Bonnèt seemed to be able to understand English, but
not to use it fluently.

Nona repeated her name. Then slipping her hand into her pocket she drew
out a little purse and opened it.

“I have been carrying around a little gold luck piece someone gave me
as a child. May I tie it around my pigeon, so if we ever meet again I
may recognize her as my namesake?”

Then Nona felt embarrassed by her own sentimentality. She had thought
no one was paying attention to her except Madame Bonnèt, and here were
the two young American officers whom they had met upon their railway
journey through France, waiting to speak to their hostess. Evidently
they had been quartered in Madame Bonnèt’s home.

Candidly, Nona did not like Lieutenant Martin and had never liked him
in their slight acquaintance as boy and girl.

Yet these repeated meetings with persons whom one does not expect to
see again are always taking place.

Madame Bonnèt shook hands with the two young officers. One could see
how much they both admired the fine French woman.

“I am told Lieutenant Martin is a wireless expert, so he is probably
scornful of my carrier pigeons,” Madame Bonnèt said good naturedly.
“You see, he represents the newest, while my pigeons represent the
oldest method of communication in war. Pigeons were used by the
Saracens in the first crusade. Nevertheless, Lieutenant Martin, when
you leave for the front, I intend to make you a present of one of my
old-fashioned messengers. It would be strange if you should find my
gift useful.”

To Nona’s surprise Lieutenant Martin said quickly:

“Then may I have the pigeon I just overheard you naming for Miss Davis?”

And Madame Bonnèt laughed and agreed.




CHAPTER VII

_The Days Before the Great Day_


So the first summer with the American Expeditionary force in France
passed swiftly on.

For long hours during the day, and sometimes into the night, the
American soldiers were occupied in learning their final lessons in the
great war game which had been fought out in Europe for the past three
years.

Never did men work with greater energy or enthusiasm, or with more
impatience, knowing how greatly the Allies needed their aid and longing
to meet the test. The work was grilling and the strain of waiting
severest of all. Yet the greater number of the American boys met the
situation gallantly. Already the first divisions, who had arrived in
the early part of the summer in France, had broken all previous records
in military training.

It remains an historical fact that civilization has always moved
westward to test democracy, until the United States remained the last
county in which the right of human beings to govern themselves could
be proved, since there were no countries farther west. Moreover, it
appeared again as if in the great war that the United States had come
to be the last stronghold. For Europe alone had not been equal to
the fight against autocracy. Unless the United States could turn the
balance in favor of the Entente Allies, the cause of democracy might be
set back many hundreds of years.

This idea was in the mind of almost every American soldier in France,
although perhaps not expressed in these words. Yet each man and boy
understood that the United States not only expected him to do his duty
in the war, but to fulfil his own and his country’s ideal.

Yet naturally the life in the American camp in France was by no means
all plain sailing. Besides the obstacles one might have reasonably
expected, there was one thought which haunted the men and officers
alike.

Could it be possible that here in their midst and in spite of every
effort there might yet be a traitor?

In all the past we know there has been nothing of the same kind to
equal the German spy system. It would seem that after three years of
war, after the eternal vigilance of the nations, the last Teuton spy
would have been unearthed. Yet they have reminded one of the ancient
story of the giant who whenever he was thrown to earth, rose up again
the stronger.

Nevertheless, here in the American camp in France a spy could not well
be imagined. There were only the soldiers, the French people devoted to
their interests, the Red Cross nurses at their hospital. Now and then
an occasional outsider came on some business connected with the army
and went away again, but always his business and his history were well
known.

However, there was always the chance. The enemy would like to hear how
many American soldiers had arrived at the permanent camp, how many
more were to come later and at what moment they would enter the great
drive with their Allies. It was true that both the French and British
plans were being constantly transmitted to Germany before they could be
carried out.

Therefore the American soldiers were watchful, sometimes almost
suspicious, of one another.

But, beside this serious side of American camp life in France, there
was also a cheerful side.

The American soldiers were living among the race of people nearest akin
in nature to them. For no amount of adversity can make the French or
the Americans anything but valiant and pleasure loving.

Besides their work the American soldiers in France wished also to be
amused. If the entertainment of the soldiers in the camps all over the
United States was important, this was equally true in France.

Therefore it chanced that the American Red Cross girls, who were
stationed at the hospital nearest their own men, were called upon among
their first duties to help with other things than nursing.

Of course, if there had been many soldiers ill this would have been
impossible. But during the early weeks after the arrival of the
American Regulars, there were but few patients in Madame Castaigne’s
splendidly equipped hospital.

So the nurses were, of course, glad to do whatever was useful. But
rather to her old friends’ surprise, Barbara Thornton seemed to develop
such an intense interest in the amusement of the soldiers that it was
difficult to know whether she was making the effort more to entertain
herself than them.

However, no one at the present time really understood Barbara
Thornton’s character. Marriage had changed her as it does most people.
And it was not until a number of things had taken place that Barbara
began even faintly to understand herself.

Upon her arrival at the hospital, instead of continuing her former
intimacy with Eugenia, with Mildred and with Nona, the other three of
the four original Red Cross girls, Barbara developed an unexpected
intimacy with Mollie Drew and with Agatha Burton. Yet one could hardly
say, truthfully, that Mollie and Barbara were intimate with Agatha. If
one watched closely enough it was merely that they appeared to find her
useful to them. Neither girl would have agreed to this. However, they
had not at first liked her, and something in her quiet, unobtrusive
personality must have had its influence.

In spite of the fact that Eugenia, Mildred and Nona were all aware of
Barbara’s attitude, at the beginning they did not discuss the matter.

Eugenia, who would have been apt to influence the younger girl, had she
spoken to her, was only vaguely conscious of what was taking place. For
naturally, Eugenia was absorbed in her duties as the superintendent of
the new American hospital and wished to be absorbed in them until she
had neither time nor strength for anything else. For if Eugenia were
intensely occupied she was not so apt to be haunted by the thought of
the possible fate of her husband. What could have become of him? There
were many times when Eugenia believed that if she could only hear he
were dead, she would be satisfied, even comparatively happy. There were
so many other women learning to bear this burden. But the uncertainty
was torture.

Nevertheless, Eugenia would not betray herself by revealing her
unhappiness, believing that one of the first duties of war nursing is
to put one’s personal sorrows out of one’s mind. Yet now and then a
letter arriving from a friend, or from some person in authority who
was endeavoring to discover what fate had befallen Captain Castaigne,
Eugenia would sometimes be led to hope and then, at other times, to
feel an even deeper despair.

So it was small wonder that, so long as Barbara and the other nurses
did whatever was needed of them in the hospital and kept well, Eugenia
was glad to know they were being helpful and also entertaining the
soldiers until the time of their greater service. Certainly she would
never have dreamed of feeling concerned over what any one of the
original Red Cross girls might do. Eugenia believed she loved and
understood them too completely.

There were other and different reasons why Mildred Thornton would not
criticise her sister-in-law. In the first place, Mildred was reserved
and not critical and was also occupied with her own experiences.
Moreover, the very fact of being a sister-in-law made her too loyal
both to Barbara and to Dick to think of resenting Barbara’s present
behavior.

Therefore it was left to Nona Davis, as the only one of the four old
friends to puzzle over and not altogether to approve of one of their
original group. But this may have been partly due to the fact that Nona
felt a little on the outside and was frequently lonely for Sonya during
the first few weeks of this second coming to France to continue her Red
Cross nursing.

Yet, whatever defense one might make, or whatever excuse be given,
there was little doubt that Barbara was behaving strangely. Nor was it
heir friendship with Mollie Drew nor with Agatha Burton which excited
Nona’s unexpressed criticism. Nona herself had worked with Mollie and
Agatha in Italy and had liked them fairly well. It was she who had
introduced them to Barbara. But it looked at present as if Barbara
Thornton were only using the friendship of the two comparatively
unknown girls to further her own plans.

For, the slight acquaintance with young Lieutenant Hugh Kelley, which
Barbara had started in idle fashion on board the train bringing them
both through France, had apparently developed into a real interest.
This was rather extraordinary in view of the fact that Barbara was
married to Richard Thornton and was supposedly utterly devoted to him.
Moreover, she had a baby and yet was behaving as if she were a girl
again.

Sometimes Nona wondered if Barbara had ever explained to Lieutenant
Kelley that she was Mrs. Thornton, not Miss Thornton. He had received
this impression upon their first meeting and Barbara did appear so
absurdly childish. However, it was just as well Nona had never felt at
liberty to inquire, for as a matter of fact Barbara had deliberately
continued the false impression, persuading Mollie and Agatha to assist
her. At first the misunderstanding had struck her as amusing, later she
had concluded that it would do no possible harm to go on with it, as a
new friendship would keep her from being so lonely and unhappy over her
separation from Dick.

As for Lieutenant Kelley, she really did not consider him, only she
knew, of course, he was the type of man who always enjoyed a mild
flirtation. And Mollie and Agatha made particularly agreeable friends
at present, because they were comparative strangers and therefore would
not criticise her, and also because they were interested in two of the
American soldiers.

Mollie and Guy Ellis who had met in such an absurd fashion, had
developed a surprising interest in each other for so short an
acquaintance. But then these were war times and they were both in a
foreign land.

It also turned out that Agatha Burton had a friend among the American
soldiers encamped in the village close to Eugenia’s hospital. This
may have influenced her coming abroad to nurse, since the friendship,
Agatha declared, was an old one. The soldier, whose name was Charles
Anderson, was not prepossessing in appearance. He was small and
squarely built and had rather a sullen manner. But then Agatha was not
the type of girl who would attract many people. She was too quiet and
unobtrusive.

However, the three girls discovered another bond. The three young men
in whom they were interested were musical.

If Lieutenant Kelley had to preserve discipline as an officer at other
times, the three men could meet on a more common ground with their
music. Then Mollie Drew had an attractive voice and a gift for singing
old Irish ballads which the solders especially loved.

And in the long twilights of those first summer evenings in France,
music played a more important part in some of the boys’ lives than they
ever believed possible.

Barbara could not sing, was not musical in the least, but she did
develop an unexpected executive ability, for it was she who arranged
the weekly concerts at the little French Casino near the edge of the
village.

She also made friends with Berthe Bonnèt, who had been studying at
the _Conservatoire_ in Paris before the beginning of the war. Now all
of Madame Bonnèt’s, all of Berthe’s time and strength was given to
the service of the American soldiers. If Berthe could do for them one
thing more, she was happy while Bonnèt had become _La Mère_ to half the
American soldiers in her one-time quiet old French village.

Therefore Barbara found many reasons, whenever she was free from her
hospital work, for spending many hours in Madame’s old garden.

If Nona thought of this as a convenient place for Barbara to see
Lieutenant Kelley, who was quartered with Madame, she could not, of
course, mention it. Moreover, Barbara seldom left the hospital unless
either Agatha or Mollie were with her.

Moreover, Nona’s own spare time from her Red Cross nursing was being
given to acting as interpreter. She had a small class of American and
French soldiers whom she was teaching to understand each other and
found the task extremely amusing.




CHAPTER VIII

_Loneliness_


One afternoon Nona went to Barbara’s bedroom, adjoining her own, and
knocked.

She had recently decided that she did not intend to allow Barbara to
separate herself from her old friendships, if it were possible to
prevent it. For, if Barbara were doing something of which she could not
altogether approve, then all the more reason why she should hold to her
affection in order to influence her should trouble come.

So, as Mildred Thornton was at present in charge of the hospital,
Eugenia having gone away on one of the fruitless trips she made now
and then in order to seek news of her husband, Nona asked that she and
Barbara be given their two hours for recreation at the same time. Then
she had managed an engagement with Barbara for a late afternoon walk.

Of course Nona appreciated how difficult it often is to revive an
old affection which time and circumstances have altered. Certainly
Barbara must have changed since her marriage, grown more spoiled and
self-centered. One could scarcely imagine the old Barbara behaving
as this new one was doing. Nevertheless, Nona did not intend the
separation between the four original Red Cross girls to continue
indefinitely.

Since the evening of her own and Barbara’s arrival at the hospital and
their reunion with Eugenia and Mildred, there had been nothing like the
intimacy they had known in the Countess Castaigne’s tiny house with the
blue front door in southern France. Yet here there should be a deeper
emotion between them, now that the Stars and Stripes were to float with
the Tricolor over the scarred fields of France.

Barbara did not answer and Nona, turning the handle of the door, walked
in.

To her surprise she found that Barbara was not waiting, but that Agatha
Burton was in the room glancing over something which she had written
upon a pad. It was rather an amusement to her companions that Agatha,
who did not appear particularly clever, had confessed that she intended
writing a book upon the war at its close and was keeping notes with
this idea in mind.

She flushed now, apparently with annoyance at Nona’s intrusion.

“I am awfully sorry. I thought Mrs. Thornton was waiting for me. I did
not realize anyone else was here,” Nona apologized.

Agatha’s manner immediately changed. She had a fashion, which few of
the girls working with her liked, of now and then behaving in a kind
of apologetic way, as if she were accused of something and trying to
defend herself, when no one had considered her.

“Oh, it does not matter; I was expecting you. Mrs. Thornton asked me to
wait here for a few moments to give you this note. She cannot keep her
engagement.” Then Agatha slipped hurriedly out of the room.

Barbara had written only a few lines to explain that she had
unexpectedly made an appointment to see one of the superior officers
at the American camp. She was to find out if he approved of an
entertainment on a good deal larger scale than they had yet undertaken
for the amusement of the soldiers.

Nona bit her lips for an instant with disappointment and annoyance.
Then she laughed. Barbara was a good deal of a diplomatist, and
doubtless the entertainment would take place. Yet it was rather a
surprise to find Barbara devoting the greater part of her energies
to something so unlike serious Red Cross nursing. Well, that would
come later! However, Nona remembered Barbara never had cared for the
nursing to the extent she and Eugenia and Mildred had. This was one
of the many reasons why she had disapproved of Barbara’s returning to
France to undertake Red Cross work a second time. However, they were
all in France to do whatever was required, and if Barbara’s talent and
inclination took this particular outlet, she had no right to criticise,
so long as Eugenia did not.

However, Nona had no idea of giving up her walk. She had been in the
hospital all day and was tired.

She took the road from the hospital toward the village, where the
largest number of the American soldiers were encamped. Yet she did not
intend going into the village but merely to keep on the outskirts.

It was late afternoon and the work in camp was, in all probability,
over, so that the men would be resting. Yet she wished to be
sufficiently near to see the little once sleepy old French town,
with its former prosperous neighboring fields, and to dream of the
great change which had taken place. For at present it seemed the most
strenuous village in the world.

However, Nona had not gone far from the hospital when she heard
footsteps following her own. Then a cold nose was thrust into her hand.
She allowed her hand to remain affectionately on Duke’s great head.
He was always lonely and wretched when Eugenia was away, and seemed
to know when she left the hospital by the same intuition which had
informed him of Captain Castaigne’s disappearance. For the larger part
of the time Duke could not be near his mistress in the hospital yet was
content if he felt her not far away.

Nona wondered for a moment if Duke would get into any mischief by
going with her. But then he was usually discretion itself and already
hundreds of the American soldiers knew and loved him.

Besides, Nona was a little lonely herself and Duke’s society would be
a consolation. Only this morning she had receive a letter from Sonya
Valesky, telling her that she and Bianca were away at a quiet seaside
resort in New Jersey in order to escape the heat. Sonya also mentioned
that Carlo Navara had been spending a few days with them.

The friend who had been paying for Carlo’s musical education before
his departure to join the army in Italy and his subsequent injury had
arranged for Carlo to see the most eminent throat specialist in New
York. The specialist had advised an operation. He gave Carlo no certain
hope that the operation would give him back his beautiful voice, but
there was one chance in a hundred. The operation was a dangerous one,
would he go through with it? So Carlo had come to ask Sonya’s advice.
She had done so much for him in the past and they were such friends, he
would not do what she did not think wise. Sonya added at the last that
she had told Carlo to take the one chance, yet Nona could guess from
her letter that she was worried over her decision.

And the letter had made Nona a little homesick. Since she had no family
of her own, although Sonya was only her friend, she had come to feel
closer to her than to anyone else. Besides, she was not reconciled to
Sonya’s not coming with her to France, but preferring to remain in the
United States to chaperon Bianca for the present at least.

But when Sonya had last been in France she had just returned from
a Russian prison after having been sentenced to Siberia and then
reprieved. So it was small wonder that her memory of those days was
not pleasant. Sonya now seemed to love the United States and, in spite
of the turmoil in Russia in her effort for freedom, to be content to
remain away from her own country.

But while she was thinking, Nona had turned from the road into a side
path which skirted the edge of the village. She was not afraid at being
alone. For one thing, Duke was with her; for another, the soldiers had
so far been universally courteous. One of General Pershing’s first
requests to the American soldiers arriving in France was that they show
entire respect to French women. They would surely not show less to
American girls.

Running through the village which had been given over by France for the
training grounds of the American soldiers, was a little river, which in
this country would be thought of only as a stream. Here it curved and
wound round to the left. Nona could see the lights and shadows on the
water through the trees which separated her from it.

She believed the woods empty, then she thought for an instant that she
saw the flutter of a woman’s dress going swiftly past in the opposite
direction. There was something oddly familiar about the figure, and
yet, disappearing so swiftly, Nona not only did not recognize who it
was, but was scarcely convinced she had seen anyone.

At some little distance farther on, however, she did discover an
American soldier half sitting and half lying down under one of the
trees. He was smoking, yet Nona recognized what his attitude of
discouragement revealed. She had been doing war work too long not to
know! Moreover, in these past few weeks she had been a witness to
deeper if more self-contained homesickness than she had ever seen. But
then no other soldiers have been forced to fight so far from their own
people.

Nona wondered for an instant if there were anything she could do to
help, just to talk to another human being is often a consolation.

But while she was hesitating the young man glanced in her direction.
Then, jumping up, Lieutenant Kelley came toward her and Nona wondered
for the shadow of a second how long he had been alone.

“Sorry to have you catch me loafing, Miss Davis! I confess I am in a
bad humor and trying to fight it off. An officer hasn’t any right to be
homesick or have the blues; one must leave that privilege to a private,
as he is still a human being. My, but it is good to see you standing
there in that white gown with that great dog! It makes a fellow feel as
if he were back in Kentucky, meeting unexpectedly some girl he likes in
a country lane. The country about here isn’t so unlike Kentucky.”

Lieutenant Kelley was now near Nona, leaning over a little fence which
divided the woods from the path.

Nona smiled. Lieutenant Kelley was just a charming, well-bred boy; it
was small wonder Barbara liked and enjoyed him. Only Nona wondered a
little if Barbara were making the young man more contented or less so.

“Do you think you ought to walk about like this alone?” he inquired.
“You see, most of our soldiers are well behaved, but there are a whole
lot of us and you cannot expect us all to be alike. Lieutenant Martin
and I were out together a few hours ago trying to round up a few who
have fallen from grace. I’m not much on discipline, I’m too easy; but
Martin is a great fellow for discipline. I must say, though, he is
equally hard on himself; but then he thinks and dreams of nothing but
this war, does not seem to have another wish, not even an affection
outside of it. Do you mind my confiding in you? He has just been raking
me over the coals for what he says is my too great familiarity with the
men. But you see, I thought we were fighting to make the world safe for
democracy and I’ve an idea the men will do as much for me as for him.
Martin is not popular; I worry over the fact sometimes since he really
is a fine fellow once you know him. But at present he is worked up over
the idea that there may even be spies here among our own men, has had
some such suggestion made to him from those higher up. So he keeps on
the lookout and if the soldiers find out he is watching them they won’t
like it.

“To me the idea of a traitor in our own camp is incredible, but this
whole German spy business always has been. I don’t know whether I ought
to speak of this even to you.”

Nona shook her head. “No, I suppose not, although it is the thing we
all think about, even if we do not speak of it. To have the Germans
find where our camp is, or how many men we have over here, or when the
great moment of real work comes, these things must never happen! Yet I
agree with you I simply cannot believe there is anyone who would, or
who could betray us for that matter. But I won’t walk far and I am not
alone.” Nona still held her hand on Duke’s silver-gray head, the dog
quiet as the Proverbial sentinel.

“Wish I could go along with you,” Lieutenant Kelley answered. “But I
must be back in camp as I’ve important work to do before taps.”

Then, vaulting over the fence, he went on toward camp.

After their conversation Nona naturally thought nothing more of his
having had a companion with him before she came on the scene. There
was nothing in what he had said to indicate it and nothing in his
appearance or manner to suggest deception. Besides, why should he have
wished to deceive her?

She did think, however, of what he had said and of how universal this
fear he had expressed had become. The whole world seemed obsessed by
it. In almost every one of her Red Cross experiences, since the present
war began, Nona had come in contact either with the actual business of
spying, or with the suspicion of it. Here in France, guarded as they
all were, they must be safe. Nona was sorry that the idea had again
been presented to her. She hoped never to be brought into touch with
anything or person connected with the business of spying again. For
one thing, their recent Italian experience with Nannina was too fresh
in her mind. No news had, so far, been heard of what had become of the
Italian woman.

Naturally, Nona walked on farther than she realized, thinking of these
things.

Then somewhat sharply she suddenly came upon some barbed wire
entanglements, making further progress impossible.

Evidently this portion of the French countryside had been used by the
American soldiers for learning to construct these entrenchments. Nona
knew that this was one of the tasks they had been working upon as a
part of their intensive military training in these past few weeks in
France. For modern wire entanglements of the same character had never
been used before in any war.

Leaning over, intensely interested, Nona began studying the intricate
twisting and weaving in and out of the heavy wires.

The next instant, however, she jumped up both surprised and frightened,
for not many feet away a man was keeling on the ground making a more
careful study of the entanglements than her own had been and he was not
in the uniform of a soldier.




CHAPTER IX

_A Dispute_


“I am not a German spy,” the young man announced, half resentfully and
half in a tone of amusement, as he rose up from the ground and faced
Nona Davis.

“Yes, of course you thought I was one for the moment. Everybody is
obsessed with this same idea out here and are all on the lookout, but I
happen to be an American newspaper writer. If you would like to see my
credentials I carry them about with me, because I grant you my behavior
may now and then appear suspicious.”

Rather to Nona’s chagrin her unknown companion was openly laughing over
her confusion at his immediate interpretation of her first impression.

He was a tall, slender fellow, not a bit good looking, with a thin
face, a large nose and humorous eyes. Yet he had a fine mouth with
strong white teeth, which Nona immediately noticed as he laughed at her.

“You see, I have been in Europe, in one country and another, almost
ever since this war began and I have seen a lot of this barbed wire
work, so I was interested to find out how well our American boys were
learning the business. They have done a good job. I beg your pardon,
but do you think it particularly safe for you to be walking alone in
this neighborhood at this hour? If you don’t mind I’ll walk along back
to the hospital with you.”

With apparent gravity Nona stood listening to her latest acquaintance.
Now that she saw him more distinctly, he was so absolutely of the type
one would expect him to be that it was scarcely necessary that he
should present his literary credentials.

“This is the second time in the last quarter of an hour that this same
warning about walking alone has been given me,” Nona answered, trying
to appear demure, but in realty rather surprised at the unexpected
feeling of friendliness, which this brief conversation with an entire
stranger had inspired in her.

It is curious how frequently a man’s profession affects his appearance.

The young man before Nona had a slight stoop to his shoulders, or else
it was only that his head was thrust the slightest bit forward, as
though his ideas went always a little beyond the movement of his body.
Then his eyes were keen as well as humorous and his forehead broad and
intellectual.

“You are very kind,” Nona returned, “but really I am not in the least
nervous and I--”

“You don’t know me, do you? And I may be more dangerous than anybody or
anything you might meet along the way. Was that what you were about to
say? I don’t believe I had thought of that. Of course I recognize you
as one of the nurses at the American hospitals which Madame Castaigne
has in charge. I know her, or at least I know her slightly. She is
rather splendid, isn’t she? As a matter of fact, the American newspaper
correspondents have had a château turned over to their use not far
from the American camp. Just at present I am sending a little story
of our Expeditionary Force back to the papers each day. It is rather
difficult writing, since we are not allowed to tell anything that is
worth while.”

Nona was hardly aware that she and her companion had, by this time,
turned and were walking along side by side in the direction from which
she had just come. She had certainly never given her consent to being
accompanied by him, although neither had she refused it.

But she was entertained. It might be disloyalty and one would never
confess it aloud, but Nona was interested to talk occasionally to
some man who was not a soldier. It was not that military men were not
interesting, but merely that one enjoyed variety. She could scarcely
imagine a soldier with the unfortunate stoop this young man had, nor
with his unconventional manner.

Yet, almost instantly, Nona had felt that she liked him, although she
did not ordinarily enjoy too great unconventionality. This was probably
due to her southern rearing.

However, she decided immediately that it would be of interest to hear a
number of things her present companion must know. After having seen so
many different phases of the war, if he were clever, he must give one a
broader outlook on the entire subject.

Then Nona suddenly remembered that before she began trying to acquire
outside information it might be just as well for her to find out her
companion’s name. Yet she did not like deliberately to ask him.

“I wonder if you would mind telling me your name?” an agreeable
masculine voice inquired at this instant. “Even if I do know that you
are one of the American Red Cross nurses it is extremely important to
me to hear which one.”

Nona flushed slightly, although biting her lips to hide a faint
smile. But after all it was agreeable to have all of one’s thoughts
anticipated before one was able to speak.

However, Nona gave her name; there was really nothing else to do. But
since her companion did not volunteer his in return, she had a little
streak of obstinacy which made her determined not to inquire. He
evidently intended that she, also, should show sufficient interest to
ask. And why, after all, should she wish to know?

Nevertheless, as they continued their walk, Nona began to be glad that
Barbara had failed her. She was finding the afternoon more amusing than
she had anticipated.

It was an exquisite summer day and the French landscape held a peculiar
softness and beauty of form and color.

Perhaps it is well for us to recall now and then that nature has gone
on with her same unchanging seasons of spring, summer, fall and winter
for these past three years, when human nature has suffered such strange
transformation. So Nona was glad to enjoy the landscape and her new
acquaintance and to forget everything else for a little while.

She did not talk very much, just answered sympathetically. But she
realized she was smiling more often than usual.

However, she did not observe that her companion kept his eyes upon her
whenever it was possible without staring, and that he not only did not
seem interested, he seemed hardly conscious of the charm of the French
country.

Nona had on the same white dress she had worn at Madame Bonnèt’s. When
she was not at work she did not often go out of the hospital in her
nurse’s uniform. This dress was cooler than most things she owned, and
although perfectly simple, since Sonya had it made for her, it held the
distinction which Sonya knew how to give to all clothes.

Nona looked frail and there was an added charm in her face. For the
past three years she had seen so much heroism and so much suffering.
Since she was fine and sensitive, the impressions were deeply implanted
within her heart and mind. Then, although she had never spoken of the
subject often, her own experience in Italy and Eugino Zoli’s gallant
death had also left their impression. Whether she had cared for Eugino
or not, at least Nona had determined that she would keep herself free
from any such emotion again. Sonya would probably never marry and they
would have each other.

Nona was listening and thinking at the same time, as only girls and
women can do, when she and her companion came to an abrupt pause.

It was not quite dusk and one should have been able to distinguish
faces.

Yet the figure before them had cried “halt” in a peremptory tone, and,
at the same instant, Nona found herself gazing more closely into the
mouth of a pistol than at any moment in her war nursing adventures. She
also heard the young man with her mutter something under his breath
which is not supposed to be polite, but which really equally expressed
her own point of view for the moment.

“Who goes there?” a voice demanded with unnecessary sternness, for
since she had been able to recognize Lieutenant Martin, there seemed no
especial reason why he should not also recognize her.

“Miss Davis, one of the Red Cross nurses at the American hospital and
Phillip Dawson. I wonder if you recall me? Yes, I understand we should
not be so near camp after dusk, but it is not yet dark and I am seeing
Miss Davis back to the hospital as quickly as we can manage.”

Nona felt annoyed. It seemed to her to be characteristic of Lieutenant
Martin to try to make a display of his authority. She did not believe
that she was breaking any of the rules of the encampment by merely
walking on the outskirts of the village at this hour. He had a
disagreeable reputation for unnecessary harshness among his own men,
but there was no possible excuse for his making an exhibition of it
before her. Nona wished she could think of something to say which might
express her attitude.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Davis,” Lieutenant Martin volunteered before
she could speak. “I am afraid I did not look closely at either you or
Dawson. I have been out searching for some of our men who have been
giving trouble. One of them is still missing. Nevertheless, it is
against orders to be in the neighborhood of camp after dark without a
permit. I’ll see you home.”

Lieutenant Martin placed himself on Nona’s right, as if he deliberately
ignored the fact that she was not alone. Yet the road was narrow and
it was self-evident that there was someone on her left.

Nona did not know just what to say or do and then decided to allow
the two men to meet the situation, as she was perfectly capable of
returning home without the escort of either of them. But since they
were both bent upon rescuing her from no possible danger, it was
simpler not to dispute the question.

Moreover, almost immediately after Lieutenant Martin’s speech, she
heard the other man laugh.

“See here, Lieutenant Martin, I know I have to yield to you in military
matters and since I am not a soldier you probably do not think much of
me. Nevertheless, you know I believe I am capable of getting Miss Davis
safely back home, even of defending her, if anything should happen in
this next half mile. And after all, I secured the privilege first.”

Lieutenant Martin did not laugh. If he had a sense of humor, it was not
in evidence. Yet Nona was surprised by his offer to accompany her. She
knew he disliked feminine society so intensely, and although he would
have done his duty had he felt she _required_ his escort, it was hardly
necessary for him to volunteer under the present circumstances.

“You are not armed. I prefer to see Miss Davis back to the hospital.”

Then Nona walked on between the two men, not knowing whether to
laugh or to be annoyed and finding it difficult to make any kind of
conversation which should include the three of them, since both men
refused to speak again.

In sight of the hospital Lieutenant Martin said good-bye without
ceremony and walked off toward camp. Nona could not help thinking that
he was rather better looking than he was agreeable, as she watched his
fine upright figure and the splendid military carriage of his shoulders
and head.

She did try to thank him, but he seemed bored by her efforts.

The next moment she and her more recent acquaintance had reached the
gate of the hospital.

Above the gate hung the French and American flags, the one crossed over
the other.

As a matter of course, Philip Dawson lifted his hat.

“I would like to come to see you if I may, Miss Davis, and it is not an
infringement of hospital rules,” he asked straightforwardly. “But if I
cannot, and at any time or in any way I can be of service to you, you
must give me the privilege. Strange things are taking place about us
these days and one never knows when something of an unexpected kind may
develop.”

Nona shook hands, then rather idly watched the second of her companions
walk away. The two men formed an amusing contrast.




CHAPTER X

_The Two Sides of a Shield_


But curiously enough it was not Philip Dawson whom Nona was to see soon
again and see very frequently, but Lieutenant Martin.

However, she saw him not in a social fashion, but as a very ill patient
at the American hospital.

His disaster, which was partly an accident and partly through
intention, was never openly discussed. Indeed, the facts were kept from
the knowledge of as many persons as possible, except those who were
obliged to know and others to whom the circumstances had to be reported.

Naturally, no one in authority wished anything except fair news to
be sent abroad from the American headquarters of the army in France,
and there was enough of gallantry and skill and steadfastness to be
reported. Like a great family, it was wiser, perhaps, to conceal one’s
family’s short-comings.

Yet never is there a large number of human beings together without some
difficulties! One evening Lieutenant Martin and Lieutenant Kelley were
having a short walk after dark. Taps had been sounded some time before
and the men were supposed to be in their quarters, except for those who
had special permits such as the two young officers.

They were walking along a fairly open road only a few miles from their
own village, but bordered with a number of old trees on either side.
By chance, as he explained afterwards, Hugh Kelley had dropped behind
for a few moments when he was surprised by the report of a pistol.
Running on ahead he discovered that his former companion had apparently
stumbled and fallen and that his own weapon had shot him in the left
arm.

Yet Martin was unconscious and in lifting him the younger man found he
had been struck in the back of the head. Not far away was a stone which
must have been thrown at him from someone in hiding, and as the blow
caused him to fall forward, his own pistol had exploded.

Lieutenant Kelley said later that he had looked for a moment, but could
find no other human being in their neighborhood. Then he concluded that
the thing of first importance was to secure aid for his friend and
afterwards to play detective.

He had therefore brought Lieutenant Martin directly to the American
hospital, which happened to be closer to them than the village. There,
Madame Castaigne had herself received him and he had left his injured
friend and officer in her charge.

The doctor at first reported that neither of the young officer’s wounds
was particularly serious and that it was only a question of a few weeks
before Martin’s recovery. But the young man was found to be overworked
and overstrained, with his vitality lower than anyone could have
imagined from his appearance. So the few weeks had already passed.

Late one afternoon Nona came quietly into Lieutenant Martin’s room,
a private room, as the hospital was still uncrowded and he had been
found to be an exceptionally nervous patient.

Nona had been off duty all day and as she had passed the other nurse,
Agatha Burton, in the hall the moment before, she discovered him alone.

The young man was propped up on pillows, with the bandage still about
his head and his arm in a sling. Yet somehow Nona did not feel that
either of these misfortunes warranted the expression she observed on
his face.

He had rather a thin face always and now the skin was drawn tightly
over his fine, slightly arched nose and the prominent bones of his
cheeks. His gray eyes, which looked darker since his illness, were
sunken and his hair pushed carelessly back showed the best of him,
a high, pure forehead, unlined and white as a girl’s. Yet he seemed
wretched and miserable and Nona heard his sigh deepen into a groan as
she came nearer his bed.

“I don’t see how you could have left me alone so long suffering like
this. It’s been, oh, it’s been Hades!”

“You are not worse, are you?” Nona asked, “and you can’t have been
alone long, because I saw Miss Burton just leaving your room and Madame
Castaigne told me she had seen you a short time ago.” Lieutenant Martin
made no answer, while Nona adjusted his pillow and then moved to open
a blind so that he could see the yellow lights of the sun casting the
last of the day’s glory over the nearby valley of France.

“I thought nurses were not supposed to argue with patients,” Lieutenant
Martin murmured irritably and then in a little different tone, “But
thank you for raising that shade without asking me if I wished it.
The sunrise and the sunset are about all the beauty I ever see these
days, except--the truth is that Miss Burton has asked me so many
questions in the last few hours that if she had not gone just when she
did there would have been another outburst. And did Madame Castaigne
tell you that she scolded me as if I had been about six years old and
without the least regard for my being a First Lieutenant, with a fair
chance of a captaincy, until this blasted accident? She assured me
that if I was not more considerate of the nurses--well, I suppose I
was not to be allowed to have one, I was not quite certain what my
punishment was to be. But that same Miss Burton seems to have shed
tears over something she thinks I said to her. But I am sure I have
never been inconsiderate, although I don’t like Miss Burton. She gives
me the creeps; for one thing, she won’t fight back. I have never been
disagreeable to you, Miss Davis.”

Nona laughed. “How are the mighty fallen!” she thought a trifle
wickedly to herself. But aloud she answered. “Oh, not especially;
besides, I don’t pay any attention to what men say when they are ill.
They are scarcely responsible. Besides, your illness must have been
particularly hard on you, shut up all these weeks with women and girls
when all your interest and thought are with our soldiers. Even though
we did not know each other very well when we were younger, I remember
you had the reputation of being immensely scornful of girls.”

Lieutenant Martin colored unexpectedly.

“I call that hitting below the belt and when a man is down, Miss Davis,
and I thought you were a good sport.”

Nona held up both her slender hands bare of any rings.

“Hands up, I apologize.” Then she came and leaned over the bed.

“But you are better, or at least you do not seem to be suffering from
anything except personal grievances. Is there anything I can do for you
before dinner?”

“Sit down and talk to me, if you will.”

Without discussion Nona drew up a low chair and sat down.

In spite of the fact that he had been generally acknowledged as an
extremely disagreeable and ungrateful patient, Nona had really come
to like Lieutenant Jack Martin rather unusually well. Of course this
was partly due to the fact that however slight their acquaintance in
the past, at least this and the knowledge of common friends was a bond
between them. Besides, Lieutenant Martin’s bad tempers were merely
those of an undisciplined boy, and this was amusing in view of the
fact that he was so stern a disciplinarian both with himself and with
the men in camp. But Nona had not taken three years of experience in
nursing to find out how different a man may be in illness and in health.

The young man’s expression had changed again in the last moment,
however.

“I suppose I am a pretty bad sort,” he said quietly, “or at least I
give people that impression, which amounts to the same thing. This
accident, for instance, would never have happened if I had not a genius
for making enemies. But I can’t guess what fellow hates me sufficiently
to wish to get rid of me at least temporarily; and I don’t want to find
out. I wish I could persuade our Colonel and Kelley and some of the
other men just to let the whole business drop. I would rather have gone
out altogether than have a scandal in our unit.”

Nona shook her head almost subconsciously. Lieutenant Martin was too
fine a soldier, there was too much work for him to do for this to
happen.

When he turned his head away and said nothing more for a few moments,
Nona leaned over and laid her hand lightly on the young officer’s. They
were strong rather beautiful with breadth and yet with long, sensitive
fingers.

“I would not think of this any more if I were you, not until you are
entirely well. I agree with you, perhaps it may be just as wise not to
make too much effort to find out the coward, unless he may be dangerous
to you or to someone else at another time. Sooner or later he must
reveal himself, and----”

“And I don’t count a great deal, do I? Well, I can’t say I enjoy your
agreeing with me in this,” Jack Martin answered, frowning and drawing
away slightly from Nona’s kindly gesture.

This time Nona did flush and, for the first time, betrayed temper.

“You know I did not mean that and you do make an effort to be
disagreeable,” she returned.

This time her patient laughed.

“Perhaps I did this time, but somehow you are just a little too cool,
Miss Davis; I would say too good, if I did not fear it would make you
angry with me. And I don’t want you to be angry. I want you to do me a
favor instead. I am better now and I won’t be so much trouble, so won’t
you ask Madame Castaigne if you can take charge of me altogether both
the day and night work? You could rest in between times and I promise
you that from that moment I shall change from a lion into a lamb.”

“I am afraid Madame Castaigne----”

“Oh, please don’t give that excuse. I grow tired of hearing Madame
Castaigne’s name. Of course I understand you can’t accept such a task.
Please forget I asked you. The truth is, Nona--Miss Davis--I wish you
could make up your mind to bear with me for longer than just this time
of nursing. I know I only look like half a man with the other half in
bandages, and I may be a boor and a bully, but you see I have never had
a single woman’s affection in my life----”

Nona was by this time standing up looking very grave and angry.

The yellow light through the window flooded her white nurse’s dress to
the color of her hair.

She was like a slender yellow lily, as cold and as remote, which Jack
Martin remembered growing in certain aristocratic gardens he had seen
in the South.

“I am your nurse, Lieutenant Martin, if you wish me to continue to care
for you, please never say anything of that character again, else you
make my work impossible.”

Then to Nona’s intense relief she heard someone at the door with her
patient’s dinner.

This was not her first experience of this kind. Men who are
convalescing are apt to make love to their nurses from a combination of
sentimentality and gratitude. But for some reason Nona felt especially
annoyed and surprised.

Yet she did not observe Lieutenant Jack Martin’s jaw set, nor his gray
eyes flash as he said softly to himself,

“But I shall not always be your patient, my lady.”




CHAPTER XI

_The Undertow_


Nona’s absorption in her work of nursing Lieutenant Martin had
naturally separated her from any complete knowledge of what was taking
place outside the hospital during the time.

In a half-way fashion she was aware that Barbara Thornton was spending
a good many hours away from her nursing duties and was tremendously
interested in the entertainment for the American soldiers which she had
in charge.

Mildred Thornton spoke of this once or twice to Nona, saying that she
hoped Barbara would not over-fatigue herself, as she seemed to be a
little nervous and restless. But of course Barbara had not been working
for some time and had gotten out of the discipline. Mildred even
discussed writing her brother Dick to come to see Barbara for a short
time if it were possible. Then she changed her mind in regard to this,
knowing that Dick was doing ambulance work in a part of France where at
this time his services were most necessary.

Moreover, Barbara had insisted, not once, but half a dozen times, that
no matter what happened, she would not interfere with her husband’s
work. She had promised him this and had promised herself.

Besides, Barbara was slightly irritated by her sister-in-law’s
suggestion that she was not perfectly herself. In fact, she had
never been more interested in anything in her life than her present
occupation. The entertainment which she was engineering was to be the
most successful one any soldiers’ camp had ever enjoyed.

Nona also asked Mildred as a special favor that she would not mention
to Eugenia any nervousness she might feel concerning her, as Eugenia
had given her consent to the entertainment and Barbara did not wish it
withdrawn.

Barbara had been in correspondence with a number of prominent persons
in Paris, and a distinguished French actress, Madame Renane, had
promised to come all the way to camp to give a recitation for the
American soldiers. Madame Renane was to remain over night at the
hospital as Madame Castaigne’s guest.

Berthe Bonnèt was also to recite. Berthe had known Madame Renane in
Paris and was anxious to have the great lady become interested in her
ability.

Then Lieutenant Kelley had been permitted to waive his dignity as
an officer sufficiently to assist in the training of a fine chorus
of the American soldiers. Two or three of the men were found to be
professional singers and were to take part.

At one moment Mollie Drew solemnly agreed that she would sing the few
old Irish ballads which had entertained the soldiers on less important
occasions, yet the next she was apt to say that no power upon earth
could induce her to appear.

So, Barbara was apparently going through the trials which beset the
theatrical manager before an important production and had at least
this reason for her nervousness. Moreover, what she was pleased to
call rehearsals took a great deal of time and strength. As these
rehearsals could only be held in the evenings, Barbara had finally
managed to persuade Mildred Thornton, whenever she was free, to play
the accompaniments for a number of the singers, as Mildred was an
exceptionally well-trained pianist.

She had also induced Eugenia to purchase a piano, insisting that
nothing would give greater and more innocent pleasure to the American
soldiers in their vicinity.

So, Barbara could scarcely be accused of idleness, even if she had
altered the nature of her Red Cross duties. Nor was there a girl in
the hospital excepting Nona Davis, perhaps, who did not, in a small
measure, share in Barbara’s plans.

Eugenia thought of this fact one day, as she observed Nona going
through the hall on her way to Lieutenant Martin’s room.

Madame Castaigne would not have felt it loyalty to discuss the matter
with herself, but in a way Nona Davis was her present favorite among
the original group of Red Cross girls. She was devoted to Mildred
Thornton and had seen more of her than of Nona or Barbara. But Mildred
was undemonstrative, and her deep affections were given to her own
family and to the Russian General to whom she had become engaged during
her fine work as a war nurse in Russia.

At one time Eugenia may have considered that she was especially
attached to Barbara. But although she was not supposed to have noticed,
she, too, had seen that Barbara Thornton had changed since her marriage
and not for the better. Yet there must be some hidden reason for
Barbara’s present restlessness. Eugenia hoped that her work outside
the hospital might be an outlet and that she would buckle down to more
serious work later, else her coming abroad for the Red Cross was a
decided mistake.

But now Eugenia decided that Nona looked a little tired and wondered
if more work was being put upon her than the other nurses. She did not
wish this. Lieutenant Martin had been a trying patient, not because he
had been so ill, but because his nerves had been so overstrained by
the severe demands he made upon himself in camp.

However, he was growing better and Eugenia had several times thought of
removing Nona from the case. Yet Lieutenant Martin had begged so hard,
had promised such impossible improvement and reformation that she had
been turned aside.

Moreover, Eugenia liked the young officer with his stern sense of duty,
his strong will and high temper. With these traits of character there
were other far more appealing ones, and he was one of the finest types
of a soldier. Besides, Eugenia was amused by Nona’s present softening
influence upon him. Eugenia knew she could reduce him to whatever terms
she desired by threatening to change his nurse.

So she said nothing to Nona at the moment of seeing her in the hall,
only smiled at her in a fashion which had the most surprising influence
upon the people working under her. Eugenia’s approval seemed to make
all the cogs in the wheel run smoother.

Madame Castaigne was on her way to a small room which was reserved as
a kind of reception room at the front of the hospital. Someone had sent
up a card asking to see her and she always saw people when this did not
interfere with her work.

Ten minutes later she stopped by Lieutenant Martin’s room and after
knocking Nona admitted her.

Nona was now on duty a part of each day, as her patient did not require
a special night nurse.

The room looked very clean and comfortable, with its white bed and
white walls, and some few photographs which Nona had discovered and
placed around. And the patient appeared extremely cheerful and handsome.

The bandage had been removed from his head and Eugenia thought she had
seldom seen anyone reveal breeding more distinctly.

He and Nona had been laughing over something the moment before she
entered and Lieutenant Jack Martin’s gray eyes were still so filled
with amusement, his whole expression had changed.

“Miss Davis is a great bully. You would not guess it from looking at
her, would you, Madame Castaigne?”

Eugenia shook her head. “Well, if she is I am just coming to relieve
you of her--oh, only for a little while.”

And Eugenia’s sudden understanding made the young man flush.

“Nona, someone named Philip Dawson has just been seeing me and says he
knows you and if you are free, will you take a walk with him? I told
him I rather thought it might do you good to get out of doors more. He
is waiting for your answer.”

Nona hesitated an instant.

“You don’t mean that fellow Dawson has presumed to come here to the
hospital to call upon you?” a masculine voice growled.

“Do you know anything against Mr. Dawson, Lieutenant Martin?” Eugenia
inquired. “I was under the impression that he was one of the most
brilliant of the newspaper men who are to follow the fortunes of our
American army in France. I believe also the correspondents are to be
accredited as officers without special rank. But is there anything that
is personal?”

Lieutenant Martin looked very much as if he wished to answer “yes;”
nevertheless he shook his head.

“No, it is simply that I don’t like him. I presume he is clever enough.
But if Miss Davis does not mind, I am not sufficiently well for her to
leave me this afternoon. Tomorrow perhaps--”

“Nonsense, Lieutenant,” Eugenia laughed. “I’ll see that you are not
neglected. Go on, Nona dear, and decide when you talk with Mr. Dawson.
I found him very agreeable. He is in the reception room.”

More than an hour later Nona and Philip Dawson sat down in an orchard
several miles from the American hospital. They were under one of many
peach trees now covered with ripening fruit, as it was late summer.

“I am glad you have liked our walk, Miss Davis. Yes, I have explored
this French countryside for many miles. Is it not splendid, whenever
there has been the least chance, the French have gone on cultivating
their orchards and gardens with their wonderful, patient thrift? I
am going to find you some fruit, then, later, when you have rested,
perhaps you will walk up with me to the little French farmhouse over
there, as I should rather pay for it. The French people will probably
refuse, so you must help me. But one never knows how many people they
may be trying to support from one of these small farms.”

Nona allowed Philip Dawson to sacrifice his handkerchief and to
peel her a great number of peaches which she ate with the deepest
satisfaction.

She had just had a charming afternoon. Her companion had been gay and
agreeable and had told her many interesting facts. Unlike the greater
number of the members of his profession, he seemed to have but little
personal vanity and seldom figured as the hero of his own stories.

She had been right, during their one brief former meeting, in thinking
she would like him. She had already forgotten any peculiarities in his
personal appearance. His hat was on the ground at this moment and his
high forehead and humorous eyes, his fine mouth, made his face too
interesting to be ugly.

“Do you know I have been envying Lieutenant Martin recently, Miss
Davis? I have been to the hospital to find you several times since my
first walk with you, but always before you and Madame Castaigne have
been too busy to see me.”

“Then you have heard about Lieutenant Martin?” Nona answered. “I
thought the matter had been hushed up. But he should hear you say you
were envious of him. Of all the impatient, bored invalids I have ever
nursed, he is almost the worst. But I _am_ sorry for him. He is not
interested in anything apparently except his soldiering, and is so
afraid the men in his unit will be ordered into the trenches before he
is able to join them.”

Philip Dawson took out a cigarette.

“Do you mind my smoking?” he queried. Then, when Nona shook her head,
he went on:

“Yes, I heard about Martin soon after the trouble. The truth is, I
have been quietly trying to find out the reason for the difficulty
ever since it occurred. You see, newspaper men often do a kind of
detective work, since they have rather exceptional opportunities for
investigating and are a kind of unofficial intelligence bureau, and we
have all the same mania these days.”

Philip Dawson smoked a moment or two in silence.

“Miss Davis, I wonder if I should tell you something disagreeable. I
hate dreadfully to make you uncomfortable and yet, perhaps, it is just
as well for you to be on your guard. You may be able to help.”

“Please don’t talk in riddles,” Nona returned with some irritation.
“Besides, I wish you would not spoil our afternoon.”

Philip Dawson smiled.

“It may not be so bad as that. The truth is, I suppose you may have
guessed this yourself. Most of us who are interested in finding out
who is responsible for the injury to Lieutenant Martin, believe the
man who struck him had a personal reason for getting Martin away from
camp for a certain length of time. So far we don’t know the man and we
don’t know the reason. It may have been personal spite or it may have
been due to his great diligence in investigating the German spy menace.
There are two or three of our own men under suspicion, yet so far there
is nothing sufficiently definite for any accusation. It is abominable,
isn’t it?”

Nona nodded sympathetically.

“Yes, it does spoil my afternoon in a way to have to think there may
be traitors in our own American camp. But I really don’t see why I
should be on my guard, or what I can do to help, except perhaps to warn
Lieutenant Martin, and he hates to discuss the subject, says he prefers
anything to a scandal in camp. Besides, I am not the proper person to
talk of it.”

“No,” Philip Dawson agreed. “When Martin is well enough his superior
officer will discuss the situation with him. Martin is one of the
favorite officers of the Colonel of his regiment. But the truth is, I
might as well tell you frankly, one of the suspicions is that there is
a woman who is also concerned in the trouble. As I said before, the
information is far too uncertain to take seriously, yet there is just
one chance in a hundred she may be someone whom you know.”

“Someone whom I know,” Nona repeated rather stupidly. “But that is out
of the question. I only know the dozen or more nurses who are at our
American hospital, and Madame Bonnèt and Berthe. I have met no one else
since I came to France this time, and I don’t see why I should so often
be involved in suspicions of this kind. Please let us go on back.”

Philip Dawson got up instantly. He was one of the agreeable persons who
did not dispute small matters.

“Just as you like, only come first to the little French farmhouse. You
may find it sufficiently interesting to forgive my being annoying.”




CHAPTER XII

_The Casino_


The soldiers had brought in small branches of trees and whatever wild
flowers they could find in the countryside. The wild asters were
in bloom and a few cornflowers and some wild trillium, so that the
bouquets were of tricolor.

At the back of the stage in the Casino hung two great flags, one the
French, the other the United States. The flags were the property of the
American hospital, but Eugenia had loaned them to Barbara, under the
promise that they were to be treated with especial care.

The chief decoration, however, hung suspended above the front of the
stage. This was a great wreath made from leaves as nearly like the
laurel as could be found and tied with two great bows of ribbon, the
one showing the design of the French, the other the design of the
American flag.

This wreath and another smaller one, which was at present not on
display, represented many hours of work by the Red Cross nurses at
Eugenia’s hospital. But the wreaths had been Barbara’s idea. Indeed,
she had revealed herself as a fairly good general in the amount of work
and enthusiasm she had inspired other people into exhibiting toward
making her entertainment for the American soldiers an unusual success.
The paramount difficulty was that the Casino could hold only a limited
audience and that the entire camp of American soldiers would have liked
to have been present, as well as the adjoining French camp.

But at least Barbara understood some of the rules of the game, for she
had left the selection of the audience entirely to the discretion of
the officers at camp, only reserving the privilege of inviting Madame
Castaigne and the staff of nurses and physicians at her own American
hospital.

However, Madame Renane was Eugenia’s guest and, in a measure, the guest
of the American hospital staff, and as Barbara was one of their Red
Cross nurses, it was natural they should feel a kind of proprietary
interest in the occasion.

The patients at the hospital, who were sufficiently convalescent, were
also invited. Among them was Lieutenant Martin, who asked Nona Davis as
a special favor if she would go with him and sit next him during the
performance.

As a matter of fact, Nona would greatly have preferred accompanying
Madame Castaigne and Mildred Thornton. Madame Renane was to be with
them and remain with them until her part of the program, and Nona
would have enjoyed the opportunity of knowing the great French woman
more intimately. Nevertheless, she did not feel that she could refuse
Lieutenant Martin, as he was still her patient and had not been out of
doors except to walk for a few yards at a time.

So as to secure their places before the crowd of soldiers appeared,
he and Nona started a little earlier than the others. On their way to
the Casino, Nona became the more convinced that she might not have so
agreeable an evening. For, however much he might be trying to conceal
the fact, Lieutenant Martin was again not in a specially amiable humor,
although recently he had been showing more self-control. Neither was he
in sympathy with the prospect ahead of them.

“Seems utter nonsense to me, Miss Davis, this business of coddling
solders and keeping them amused as if they were children who needed
toys. Surely there is work enough to keep everybody occupied and we
should all be tired enough to wish to go to bed when work is over.”

Nona shook her head.

“Nonsense, Lieutenant. I hoped you intended to reform since your
illness and become a more popular officer. I had a talk with your
Colonel and, although he seems to like you pretty well, I am convinced
he believes your stern views are simply due to the fact that you are so
young and have had so little experience of life. The Colonel is a dear
himself; I nearly fell in love with him. Pretty soon you will be going
back to work, so please promise me to remember that you yourself have
not always been so averse to being amused, even to being coddled during
these past weeks.”

And Nona laughed with a faint suggestion of teasing.

She liked Lieutenant Martin, but he was too narrow and too
self-assured, requiring to be snubbed now and then, and Nona had the
subtle knowledge, which most girls and women do have, that he would
accept occasional discipline from her rather better than from anyone
else.

She saw him flush a little now at her speech.

It was still not dark and they were walking slowly.

“Oh, well, I have been ill and a man is unlike himself when he is ill,”
he answered, trying not to display temper. But Nona did make him angry,
perhaps oftener than she knew, although she was every once in a while
aware of it. But Nona’s coolness, her little air of aloofness after
doing her full and complete duty as a nurse, would have annoyed any
man, who chanced to believe he was falling in love with his nurse.

However, Lieutenant Martin meant to go slowly and circumspectly, being
determined in the end to have his way. He had not forgotten Nona’s
attitude toward him, nor her words, when he had once or twice ventured
too far in his revelations.

“Patients who are convalescing always think they are in love with their
nurses. Please spare me the illusion,” was a never-to-be-forgotten
reply.

“I will try to make the men in camp like me better if it is possible,
when I return,” he answered. “It is not agreeable, is it, to be
unpopular? But then you have never known that misfortune,” Lieutenant
Martin continued, with such humility and good humor that it was Nona
who felt reproached.

“You have read ‘Vanity Fair,’ of course, Miss Davis. Funny, I keep
thinking of certain portions of it tonight! That is because my mind is
ever upon this war! But do you remember when Amelia and George Osborne
and Dobbin and Becky and Sir Rawdon Crawley were all in Brussels and
there was a great ball given by a Duchess on the night of June 15,
1815, the night before the Battle of Waterloo? That night there were
many people more interested in the ball than the enemy at the front. I
always recall the command that came: ‘The enemy has passed the Sambre
and our left is already engaged. We are to march in three hours.’ I
keep hoping and waiting for a message of that kind, only I trust our
American soldiers will be in camp and ready to march on the night that
command reaches us.”

Nona shivered a little.

“Please don’t talk of war tonight. Of course I long for our American
soldiers to get into action, I mean great numbers of them, not just a
comparatively few soldiers, such as are here now. Nevertheless, I think
I dread the moment when that word shall come more than almost anything
in life. I shall worry over you, too, Lieutenant Martin; you see, one
is always especially interested in one’s patients.”

“Thank you,” Lieutenant Martin answered so sternly that Nona was a
little embarrassed and a little amused.

“No, I had forgotten that part of ‘Vanity Fair,’” she added quickly.
“I only remember the conclusion, which I learned by heart when I was
a small girl and took a more misanthropic view of life: ‘Ah! Vanitas,
Vanitatum! Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his
desire, or, having it, is satisfied?’”

Unconsciously Nona sighed as one naturally would after expressing such
a sentiment.

But she was stirred out of her self-centered mood by Lieutenant
Martin’s suddenly stopping and directly facing her.

“That is nonsense; when Thackeray expressed a sentiment like that he
was simply tired and disappointed with his own work for the moment.
Life isn’t all vanity and it means a great deal to do one’s task once
it is started. Besides, finding love means happiness, and love and work
are the fulfilment of desire. As for being satisfied, no one wishes to
be satisfied who has any brains.”

Then, observing that Nona appeared even more than mildly surprised by
such a wholly unexpected outburst, Lieutenant Martin laughed.

“That does not sound like me, does it? You scarcely look for a
sentiment of that character from me. Well, I realize your friend
Mr. Dawson would have expressed the idea far better and it may be
impertinent for a soldier to differ with a great novelist’s philosophy
of life. However, I have said exactly what I feel. You see, as a
soldier I like a fighter, never a quitter in any cause.”

But by this time Nona and Lieutenant Martin had reached the Casino,
where Barbara and Mollie Drew, who were already there, found them seats.

Later, Nona was pleased by the places Barbara had chosen, for after
Eugenia and Madame Renane and Mildred arrived, she discovered that she
had a fairly distinct view of them.

Tonight Eugenia looked unusually tired and worn, in spite of her
determined effort at animation and the entertainment of her guest.
But then anything apart from the regular routine of her hospital work
appeared to arouse in Eugenia unhappy memories. This large gathering
of gay and comparatively untried soldiers could not but fill one with
the recollection of what the French soldiers had suffered in the past
three years. Surely the American boys would be spared an equal ordeal!

Madame Renane, Nona found oddly interesting.

She was plain, as many French women are, according to our American
standards. She must have been nearly middle-aged and was even a little
stout. Her brown hair, which was arranged simply, had some gray in it;
her face was pale, her expression quiet, except for her eyes. They
mirrored a hundred emotions, a hundred ideas.

She sat very quietly beside Eugenia during the first of Barbara’s
entertainment, applauding with as much enthusiasm and abandon as anyone
in the audience at the conclusion of each act, not all of which were of
a professional character.

The chorus of American soldiers, whom Lieutenant Kelley had trained,
led by Guy Ellis, sang almost every well-known American patriotic air,
the French and American soldiers cheering whole-heartedly, without
favoritism.

Then Mollie Drew, looking very pretty in a white dress, with her
red-brown hair piled high on her head and her cheeks flushed from
excitement to a deep rose, sang in a small voice her two most popular
Irish ballads, “Mother Machree” and “A Little Bit of Ireland.”

In the last rows of seats it was impossible to hear her; however, this
did not take away from the applause she received from every listener in
the room.

Mollie refused to sing an encore, but returning to bow her thanks to
the audience, a soldier presented her with a great bouquet of red
hothouse roses.

Not many roses were blooming these days in this neighborhood in France;
besides, Mollie’s roses bore the unmistakable suggestion of Paris. But
then, although Guy Ellis was only a private in the American army in
France, his father was a New York millionaire and intensely proud of
his son, and Mollie scarcely needed to find the card hidden inside.

A quartette of French soldiers from the nearest French camp, all of
them with well-trained voices, sang the Marseillaise as an introduction
to Madame Renane’s appearance.

She had disappeared from the audience before they began and after the
last verse, when her countrymen had gone, she came quietly out on the
improvised stage.

It may be that certain of the American soldiers were disappointed in
Madame Renane’s appearance, having expected someone younger and more
beautiful.

But this did not interfere with the united cheer with which they
greeted her, the entire audience rising to its feet and the soldiers
waving their hats.

Madame Renane had been accustomed to many greetings. But the surprise
and the ardor of this one seemed almost to unnerve her for a moment.
Then she removed a little American flag which had been pinned to her
dress and waved it enthusiastically in response to the cheers.

When the audience had resumed their seats and were quiet again, the
great French woman said simply, speaking of course in French, but as
slowly as she could, that the soldiers might understand:

“It is a great pleasure to me that you wish to hear me recite to you
tonight. I am a French mother who has lost her son in this war. All
honor to the American boys who have left their homes and come to a far
country to help us toward victory. Let France be your adopted country,
let every French woman be your adopted mother, until your own land and
your own mothers shall claim you again.”

What Madame Renane said was so simple that any other woman could have
used the same words. But behind her words was the personality of a
great woman and in her voice the music of a great actress.

Next she recited a gay little French poem, filled with the courage and
good humor of life in camp.

Then Madame Renane spoke again:

“It has been difficult to decide what to recite to you tonight. A
speech from one of my plays might not interest you if you were not
familiar with the story, since I cannot speak your language. But there
is one story which the whole world knows, the story of, perhaps, the
greatest soldier and patriot of France. I mean the story of Jeanne
d’Arc. There are those of us in France who have wished recently that
Jeanne would come to us again, or someone like her.”

Afterwards, Madame Renane recited in the words of a great French writer
the life of Jeanne, the Maid sent of God:

“And the Angel appeared unto her and the Maid understood.

“The humble Maid, knowing not how to ride a horse, unskilled in the
arts of war, is chosen to bring to our Lord his temporal vicar of
Christ. Henceforth Jeanne knew what great deeds she was to bring to
pass.”

Madame Renane told the entire story, from Jeanne’s first vision at
Domremy, her meeting with King Charles at Rheims and her instant
recognition of him, disguised in shabby clothes and hid from her among
his courtiers. She told of Jeanne’s victories, of her triumphs and of
her martyr’s death.

And as she spoke the great French actress seemed to be Jeanne herself.
The American soldiers forgot her middle age, her quiet half-mourning
costume, and saw that wonderful young peasant girl, first in her
peasant’s dress in the woods near her father’s home, listening to her
voice. She was only a dreaming girl then, with her short hair, her bare
feet and peasant’s smock and those great wide-open gray eyes.

Then Jeanne as a soldier in a suit of armor on her wonderful white
horse, riding always in front of her troops to the glory and salvation
of France. At the last she is again a frightened girl, torn from her
friends, betrayed and forsaken.

The room was perfectly still for a moment after Madame Renane had
finished. For she had created an impression too vivid to be lost
immediately. The American boys and their French companions were seeing
not the modern battlefield, which was ever before their thoughts, but
the older one the great actress had intended them to see.

However, Madame Renane stood waiting, perhaps expecting the applause
with which she was familiar. Then she recognized the silence as the
finer tribute. For she put out her hands in a beautiful gesture and
added:

“May I say one of Jeanne’s own prayers to you tonight, before my
farewell?

“‘Oh, Jesus Christ, who hast surrounded the heavens with light and
kindled the sun and the moon, command, if it be thy will, the martyrs,
not one only, but all, to clasp their hands and on bended knee to
remove the great sorrow from France, and by that holy and august merit
ordain that they may have a righteous peace.’”

Then Madame Renane with a little nod of appreciation and thanks quickly
left the stage.

She came back later to receive the smaller laurel wreath, which
Lieutenant Kelley presented her in the name of the American camp.

But, like the French woman she was, after holding it for a moment and
pressing her lips to the evergreen, she flung the wreath back into the
audience.

“Keep it, my Sammees,” she exclaimed, “for the laurels of France are
for you!”

However, when, after a few moments, Eugenia Castaigne joined the great
French woman, she found her deeply depressed.

“Ah!” she murmured, “you have asked me here to amuse your American boys
and what have I done? If I have done anything I have made them sad.
You do not wish a French tragedienne these days; what you want is your
Charlée Chaplin.”

And she spoke with such a funny combination of sorrow and chagrin, and
withal pronounced Charlie Chaplin’s name with such an amusing French
accent, that Eugenia, who had been sternly holding back her tears all
evening, broke into a laugh.

“We may have Charlie Chaplin many evenings, you but one, Madame Renane,
and you are mistaken if you do not know you have given us the highest
kind of pleasure, which is inspiration.”

When the greater number of the audience had departed, Nona and
Lieutenant Martin walked slowly out together. Lieutenant Martin was
tired and did not feel equal to talking to many of his comrades.

However, Madame Bonnèt and Berthe were waiting near the door to speak
to him, and as Berthe’s recitation had been one of the most successful
of the evening, Lieutenant Martin felt he must congratulate her.

They were talking only a moment or two, but Nona stood a little apart.
She was glancing carelessly about, when she saw standing only a few
feet behind Madame Bonnèt a little French girl, holding a French
soldier by the hand.

Another moment she continued staring and then touched Lieutenant Martin
on the arm, directing his attention to what had attracted hers.

Madame Bonnèt observed them both.

“Why are you both so interested?” she asked. “It cannot be possible
you know my little French girl? She wandered into our camp only two or
three days ago, bringing a French soldier with her, some poor fellow
who has been injured and has forgotten his own history. She says they
have been tramping from village to village, hoping to find his regiment
or someone who would recognize him. People have been kind to them
everywhere and have fed them along the way. It seems the French soldier
was stripped of his uniform, his number, everything that might identify
him. Only his little friend insists upon calling him Captain. They came
to the American camp by mistake, believing it a French one. Then some
of the soldiers brought them to me and I am caring for them before they
move on again.”

Nona went over to the little girl and held out her hand.

“Jeanne,” she began, “you will not recognize me, but I saw you one day
from a car window and we talked to each other. It is late tonight, but
I am coming to Madame Bonnèt’s tomorrow to talk to you again if I may.”

Jeanne made a little curtsey.

“I do remember and I shall be happy to see you,” she returned, with
unfailing French courtesy.




CHAPTER XIII

_A Closer Bond_


Next day as soon as she had the opportunity Nona walked over to Madame
Bonnèt’s.

She had made an effort to see Barbara and try to awaken her
interest in their little French acquaintance, but again Barbara had
disappeared. But then she naturally had a good many things to attend
to in connection with winding up the business connected with the
entertainment of the night before.

And Nona did not object to going to Madame Bonnèt’s alone. This was one
of the things she had been fond of doing ever since her meeting with
the splendid French woman. However, one could not expect the privilege
often, for no one was so busy as Madame Bonnèt, nor had a greater
number of calls upon her time. Scarcely a soldier in the division
located within her village, but came to Madame Bonnèt for advice or
sympathy whenever anything went wrong.

Nona was never to forget the morning of this day when so many strange
things were to occur.

It was a day caught between summer and early fall, with the beauty and
fragrance of both. Moreover, in the French country there is ever a
curious appeal that only a few lands have. It is a sense of intimacy,
a sense of nearness to nature, as if she were really the great mother,
viewing birth and life and death with a wonderful patience, knowing
that within her lie always the seeds and the garden for the new
generations to come.

Besides, Nona had brought Duke with her. He seemed to like to walk
with her more than with anyone beside his mistress. But recently Duke
had been growing noticeably older and wore a look of noble depression,
which one observes now and then in the aging of a fine dog.

Nona went past Madame Bonnèt’s former home which she had given up to
the American officers, only glancing up at the tower where she and the
other nurses had seen their first American drill upon French soil.

Of course, Madame Bonnèt had probably taken Jeanne and her soldier into
her own tiny home with herself and Berthe, finding a place for them
somehow.

But perhaps the little girl and her companion would be outside in the
garden. As Nona went down the path between the vegetables she had the
impression that there were figures near the dove cote, a little hidden
from observation.

Within a few yards of them she stopped and to her own annoyance uttered
a slight exclamation.

Barbara Thornton and Lieutenant Kelley were deep in some kind of
intimate conversation.

Nona saw that Barbara flushed with anger on recognizing her; there was
in her manner almost a suggestion that she believed Nona had purposely
come to spy upon her.

But Lieutenant Kelley came forward immediately.

Nona thought he looked tired and a good deal older since his arrival in
France. But then she knew how hard the younger American officers were
working with the idea of being able to assist in the training of the
new troops when they arrived.

“Is there anyone you wish, or anything I can do for you?” he asked with
his usual courtesy.

Nona shook her head.

“I am sorry to have interrupted you. I was merely looking for Madame
Bonnèt. A little French girl is here with her whom I wish to see.”

“You mean Jeanne?” Lieutenant Kelley answered “Isn’t it strange, her
coming here to our camp. I saw the little girl with the French solder
only yesterday and recalled our having seen her at the railroad station
that day on our way to camp. But you are not interrupting us, or at
least Mrs. Thornton and I were having a conversation which could bear
being interrupted.”

Barbara had come forward by this time looking ashamed of her lack of
self-control, although her face was still a little flushed.

“Don’t be absurd, Nona!” she exclaimed. “I was talking to Lieutenant
Kelley on business. But what is this about a little French girl?”

Nona explained and Barbara linked her arm in hers, almost equally
surprised and interested.

“Queer that we should all have remembered the child and her soldier so
well. But no, it is not queer; one could scarcely have forgotten such a
companionship. May I come with you?”

So Nona and Barbara started toward Madame Bonnèt’s tiny house, leaving
Lieutenant Kelley talking to Duke and trying to make friends with him.
The great dog was friendly enough, but not disposed toward intimacies.

Just outside the door the two girls stopped. Someone was about to open
it, perhaps having heard their approach.

The next moment Jeanne stepped out, leading her friend as she always
did. But at the sight of Barbara and Nona she left him standing a
moment alone and came forward, giving her hand to Nona, but fixing her
eyes upon Barbara Thornton.

“It was you who told me to do my best to help my Captain find his
friends. I did not forget. When we could manage we slipped away
from our convalescent hospital without saying good-bye, as we would
have been forbidden to leave. Since then we have traveled many
miles, yet nothing has come of it.” She gave a tiny shrug of her
childish shoulders, half as an expression of philosophy, half as an
acknowledgment of defeat.

“But isn’t the Captain himself better?” Nona inquired, although
convinced beforehand of the truth.

The French soldier, whom, as an act of courtesy both to him and to
his guardian, everyone spoke of as “Captain,” remained in the same
spot Jeanne had placed him, his head hanging down and with a great
bandage tied over the upper part of his face. As a matter of fact, he
was thinner and more shrunken and vaguer than before he and Jeanne
had started upon their pilgrimage. But then they had walked so far,
reached so many strange places and so many questions had been asked
of him, impossible for him to answer! More than ever was the French
soldier dependent on the touch of Jeanne’s little hand.

And she, for the moment, had deserted him!

Then, for a brief time, Nona and Barbara and Lieutenant Kelley were
overcome with surprise and consternation. It chanced that Jeanne did
not notice at once or she might never have allowed the thing to take
place.

Lieutenant Kelley had remained where he was in the lower part of the
garden, allowing Barbara and Nona to have their meeting with Jeanne
undisturbed. As a precaution he had placed his hand on Duke’s collar,
thinking perhaps the dog might frighten the little girl, or more
likely, since it was difficult to associate timidity with Jeanne, that
he might startle her companion.

Suddenly, when he was not anticipating any action on Duke’s part, the
dog had looked at him with an expression which was imploring and at the
same time savage. Afterwards, he had broken away and with a few leaps
had crossed the small space of the garden, making directly for the
injured soldier.

The situation seemed incredible, Duke had never deliberately attacked
any human being before. Now to attack a defenseless man!

Hugh Kelley ran a few steps, drawing his pistol. He would not hurt the
dog seriously, if it were possible to avoid, but Jeanne’s friend must
be protected.

However, the great dog had not thrown the soldier down, as they had
all expected As he reached him he stopped short, looked at him closely
and then with indescribable gentleness and affection began licking his
hand, pressing his great silver-gray body as close as possible to the
emaciated figure without disturbing him.

And the French soldier did not seem frightened. Gropingly, it is true,
nevertheless he reached down and laid his hand on Duke’s head.

An instant before Jeanne had witnessed the meeting, but seeing that the
dog did not intend to hurt her friend, she had remained still.

Now she turned to Nona and Barbara her eyes filled with tears.

“My Captain has found someone who knows him,” she remarked quietly.
Then she went over and took the French soldier’s disengaged hand.

“Jeanne,” he whispered.

“Are we mad, Nona? I think perhaps I am,” Barbara murmured, her face
suddenly having grown white and her voice shaking.

Nona shook her head.

“Barbara, if what we think is true, would it not be better never to
have found out. Besides, you did not recognize him, nor did I? Can Duke
have been wiser?”

Barbara was crying. “Of course, Duke has senses we do not possess.
Besides, we were only his friends and Duke loved him. I thought there
was something familiar in the figure. No, I did not, there was never
any human being so changed. Poor Eugenia! I can’t bear it.”

Lieutenant Kelley was now standing nearby, looking extremely unhappy
over Barbara’s distress and extremely puzzled.

“We think perhaps Jeanne’s friend is someone we know,” Nona tried to
explain, “only we cannot really believe it and there seems no way of
finding out without great difficulty and sorrow.”

“Whoever he may be, Duke knows his master,” Hugh Kelley answered in a
tone of entire conviction. “I believe in all the cases of this kind of
which one has ever heard, there has never been a mistake.”

“Jeanne, why does your Captain always wear that bandage over his face?
Is it that he is blind, or has he some wound, there? Please don’t think
I ask from curiosity, but unless one can see him----”

Jeanne whispered something and the French soldier immediately bent his
head. Slowly Jeanne unwound the bandage.

“He can see a little, my Captain,” Jeanne answered proudly, “only the
surgeons have thought it best that he rest his eyes for a time, until
his sight comes wholly back.”

“Please look: and decide, Nona dear, I don’t dare,” Barbara whispered.
However, she did look of course and both she and Nona recognized in
Jeanne’s soldier Eugenia’s husband, Captain Henri Castaigne.

And yet he was so changed it was not strange that they had not
recognized him in their chance meeting before today.

The Captain Castaigne whom they remembered, the friend who had said
farewell to them at the little house with the blue front door, which
was a part of his own estate, had been young and gallant. He had borne
himself with a fine soldierly erectness, had been full of gayety and
good humor and charm, one’s ideal of a French soldier and lover, for he
and Eugenia had been married only lately.

Now he was Jeanne’s friend, but the pathos of him was beyond
expression. Not in death, but in life one measures the tragedies of war.

However, the eyes, the shape of the head, even the figure itself, left
no chance for doubting in either Nona’s or Barbara’s consciousness,
much as they would have preferred to doubt.

“You know Madame Castaigne, Lieutenant Kelley,” Nona said, as soon as
she could speak. “Her husband, Captain Castaigne, has been reported as
among the missing for a good many months. We believe Jeanne’s friend is
Captain Castaigne; it may even be that Jeanne’s name made some slight
impression upon his memory, for Gene is the name by which Captain
Castaigne always called his wife. But we don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t feel we ought to tell Eugenia; at least, I know I never can,”
Barbara interrupted.

“But we must, Barbara, we have no right to hide such a discovery,” Nona
argued. “Still, I do not think I can be the one to go to Eugenia first.
Oh, I did not dream I was such a coward!”

But at this moment another figure came walking toward them, with a
great bowl in her arms and an expression of ever triumphant courage
on her smooth, fine face. It was Madame Bonnèt on the way to feed her
carrier pigeons.

“We must ask Madame Bonnèt what to do. She will be able to tell us,”
Nona exclaimed and went forward with her story.




CHAPTER XIV

_Greater Love_


Of course there was but one decision possible and Nona volunteered to
bring Eugenia to Madame Bonnèt’s.

She was not to give a reason for her coming except to say that Madame
Bonnèt wished to speak to Madame Castaigne on a matter of great
importance.

Yet even this responsibility Barbara refused to share with Nona. For,
although finally agreeing that Eugenia must be told, she vanished at
once after reaching the hospital and went on duty without seeing her
friend, for fear there might be something in her expression that would
arouse suspicion.

Naturally, Nona felt the same fear; however, she could not escape the
situation and Eugenia must have the friends who cared for her with
her at so crucial an hour. Nona could scarcely conceive of Eugenia’s
failing one of them at a time of like need.

She managed to have a moment with Mildred Thornton and to confide
their impression to her. But Nona did not feel that there could be any
possibility of a mistake. Another point had been that Duke had refused
to return to the hospital with them, that so far neither physical force
nor persuasion had induced him to leave the French soldier’s side.
There could be no one save Captain Castaigne to whom he would show this
allegiance.

It chanced that Eugenia was extremely busy when Nona found her to
deliver Madame Bonnèt’s message. A number of American soldiers, who had
been fighting as volunteers with the French army, having been wounded
at the front, had just been sent on to Eugenia’s hospital for special
care.

“I am sorry, I shall not be able to see Madame Bonnèt until tomorrow.
Someone will please deliver my message to her; not you, Nona dear, you
already look tired,” and Eugenia had actually started to move away to
her work, as if the conversation were closed.

But to Nona any postponement appeared impossible. Eugenia herself would
never forgive them, should anything now interfere with her meeting with
her husband, however tragically he may have changed.

“But, dear, it is something _really_ important Madame Bonnèt wishes to
tell you. I don’t think you should wait until tomorrow. Please come
with me at once.”

Then Eugenia had turned around and looked at Nona searchingly.

“Very well, Nona, as soon as you have had lunch. You feel you wish to
go with me to Madame Bonnèt’s? You would rather I did not go alone?”

And Nona nodded, not trusting herself to speak and praying that Eugenia
would ask no more questions.

Nor did she, even during their walk to Madame Bonnèt’s, which seemed to
Nona Davis about five times longer than it had when she had taken it
alone on the morning of the same day.

Eugenia talked of matters connected with the hospital. Once she said
that she hoped Barbara would now be content to devote more energy to
her Red Cross nursing. They would be a good deal busier at the hospital
in the future and she had merely allowed Barbara a greater freedom in
her hours of work, expecting that she would be more content to adjust
herself to the regular hospital routine later on.

“Marriage does not seem to have made Bab settle down; it appears rather
to have had the opposite effect,” Eugenia had commented.

She had smiled at the moment, but Nona did not feel so convinced
afterwards that Eugenia had not been more conscious of Barbara’s
attitude than she had believed.

Then, just before they entered the garden at Madame Bonnèt’s, Eugenia
stopped a moment.

“Nona, has Madame Bonnèt’s wish to see me anything to do with news of
my husband?”

Eugenia asked the question quietly, yet she must have had the thought
in her mind all the while. Her face was a little white, but except for
this her self-control was wonderful.

“Yes,” Nona answered, not appreciating that her own expression made it
impossible for Madame Castaigne to think the information she so desired
could be of a happy kind.

For Nona’s one predominating fear was that Jeanne would be outdoors
with her soldier and that Eugenia should first see her husband being
led about by his little French friend. Yet would she recognize him in
such a situation? Nona could not feel sure.

However, Madame Bonnèt was watching for their approach and came out at
once and put her arm through Eugenia’s.

“We have news of your husband, Captain Castaigne. No, it is not good
news, my dear, although he is not dead, nor is he a prisoner,” she said
without waiting, knowing how hard delay would be for Eugenia.

Besides, she must take up her burden.

“You would rather not be with us, Nona. Then you stay here in the
garden while I talk to Madame Castaigne alone.”

Nona had a sensation of utter gratitude when she saw Eugenia and Madame
Bonnèt enter the tiny little French house together. There had been
that in Madame Bonnèt’s face and manner which made Nona feel no one
else could be so wise or so kind. Besides, Eugenia would be braver than
most people. She had not been so young as the rest of the group of
American Red Cross girls at the beginning of the war and certainly her
experiences since had left their impression.

Nona found a little bench in the garden at some distance from Madame
Bonnèt’s house and sat down. She had not fully realized how her knees
were trembling and how utterly cowardly she felt, so much so that she
wished even now to be as far away as possible, so as not by any chance
to see Eugenia’s meeting with her husband, or hear any sound that she
might make.

She had been sitting there alone for several moments when the little
French girl, Jeanne, came slowly down the path toward her. For the
first time Jeanne was without her Captain and for the first time she
appeared unhappy. Indeed, she looked as if she were fighting back tears.

“She wished to see him alone and without me,” Jeanne explained, taking
the seat next her, which Nona indicated. “I think it would have been
wiser had I stayed with him. Madame Bonnèt came out to tell me that he
did not know her when they first met. She thinks he may know her later.
Madame Bonnèt left them alone, also, but I hope she will not ask him
any questions. It makes him so tired when people ask questions.”

Nona noticed that Jeanne carefully avoided using Eugenia’s name or even
Captain Castaigne’s. But it was simple enough to understand Jeanne’s
emotions, they were not so unlike many older persons’. She had found
her Captain’s friends; more than that, she had discovered the one human
being who cared for him most, and this was what they had set out upon
their pilgrimage to seek. But now her Captain had no longer the same
need for her and Jeanne had no one else.

Understanding her mood, Nona slipped her arm across the little girl’s
shoulders, but very gently and hesitatingly, for Jeanne might not care
for her caress. She had a curious pride and dignity, this little
French Jeanne, which no one could fail to respect.

“But, Jeanne, Madame Castaigne, and Captain Castaigne’s old mother,
indeed all of his friends must be always grateful to you. You see,
without you they might never have known what had become of him and he
could never have had the same care. Now he may grow so much better that
he will some day be able to thank you himself.”

Nona did not really believe this last part of her speech, but Jeanne
looked a little happier.

“He is better _now_,” she returned, “and I could have cared for him. He
understands almost everything I say and you see he must have recognized
Duke, since he has wished to have him beside him since their meeting
thus morning.”

Jeanne spoke as proudly as a mother would speak of a child, but her
words and manner made Nona almost ill, remembering Captain Castaigne as
she had known him.

She was grateful when, a little later, Eugenia sent word that she
return to the hospital and leave her for a time with Madame Bonnèt.
She was to ask Mildred Thornton to take charge of the hospital for the
rest of the day, Eugenia would return toward evening.

Since she occupied the same room with her, Nona dreaded the return. But
it chanced that she did not know when Eugenia finally came back.

It was ten o’clock when Nona, having competed her hospital work, was
free to go to bed.

Then she found Eugenia in their bedroom already undressed.

“I was tired, Nona. I hope things at the hospital have gone on all
right without me. But then I know they have, Mildred is more capable
than I am.”

Then, when Nona came and put her arms about her friend, Eugenia said:

“You must not be too sorry for me, dear. After a time I shall be
happier to have Henri like this than never to have known what became of
him. But for his own sake, that is what is hardest to bear. He would so
much rather have gone out altogether.”

“But don’t you think he will grow better in time?” Nona asked,
wondering again at Eugenia’s strength.

“I don’t know. I am going to hope for it and fight for it with all my
strength and with all the skill we can find in the world. I shall not
give up my work if it is possible to keep on, but my husband must be
first. He will come here to the hospital; Madame Bonnèt and I think
that best just now. We can care for him here and the great thing will
be first to make him physically strong. He did not seem to wish to come
tonight, but tomorrow everything will be arranged.”

“And Jeanne?” Nona inquired almost involuntarily. “What is to become of
her?”

But she might have known.

“Jeanne? Why she will come here to be with us too. At least, I think
she will. I shall do my best. Of course she does not like me now; she
feels that I must inevitably separate her from her Captain. But I think
I will be able to persuade her that her Captain still needs her. He
turned to her with such relief from me when she came back to join us.
Oh, yes, it is pretty hideous, Nona. But after a while----”

And Nona was glad to see Gene’s courage fail for a little time.

Then she added: “Do you mind my talking? Somehow it is a relief to
talk. You see, after three years of war nursing I have not many
illusions left. And if ever this war is over, we women must not allow
another war in this world. It is our responsibility, our sin, I
sometimes feel. We have accepted this world as men have made it and
we have not tried to mold it nearer to our ideals. But there----” and
Eugenia smiled. “What a time for me to be talking suffrage and how
all this modern woman attitude hurts Henri’s preconceived ideas! I am
still filled with wonder at his ever having cared for me. It helps
to know that Jeanne declares Henri is already better in the months
she has been his friend. It is odd isn’t it, that our names should
sound somewhat alike? Yet somehow I keep thinking of the great Jeanne
whom Madame Renane impersonated the other night. For it was almost an
impersonation, we saw the Jeanne d’Arc so plainly. Well, a little Saint
Jeanne has appeared to me! But good-night, Nona, we must both go to
sleep.”

And Nona did go to sleep immediately, and so could not know when
Eugenia was able to follow her example.




CHAPTER XV

_An Amazing Suggestion_


It is extraordinary how important a part routine plays in this human
life.

A week or more after Captain Castaigne’s installation at the American
hospital his presence and condition came to be an accepted fact.

Mildred Thornton had taken charge of his case for Eugenia. Indeed,
Eugenia had asked the favor of her and Mildred knew just how much faith
and confidence such a request indicated.

However, at first her work was just to build up Captain Castaigne’s
general health and to keep him amused and untroubled.

For this reason Eugenia did not see her husband very often, since her
presence appeared always to disturb him. He did not know her, but he
seemed to feel that he should know her and that he was wounding her or
angering her by his stupidity. Neither did the old Countess Castaigne
make an effort to visit her son. Eugenia wrote her of his condition,
but taking the most cheerful view and saying that later, when Captain
Castaigne was better, they would both feel happier in meeting.

Even Jeanne spent less time in the society of her Captain. Yet she was
with him several hours each day, when they took walks together, or she
merely sat talking quietly with him. But when there were other people
about Jeanne would not remain. Neither would she live at the hospital.
There was still a prejudice against Eugenia which Jeanne did not
endeavor to conquer. But for Nona Davis and Barbara Thornton she felt
an affection; it was as if she had adopted them as her first American
friends.

Moreover, this friendliness she extended to include Lieutenant Martin
and Lieutenant Kelley, whose acquaintance she had made on the same day.

But as a matter of fact, among the four, Lieutenant Martin was Jeanne’s
closest friend. One would scarcely have suspected him of knowing how to
make friends with a little girl; nevertheless, they were most devoted
to each other.

Lieutenant Martin had recovered sufficiently to return to his quarters
at camp and as Jeanne continued living with Madame Bonnèt and Berthe,
they were able to meet frequently.

However, Jeanne had become a tremendous favorite with a large number
of the American soldiers in camp, they insisting that she was their
especial little French Jeanne and that her arrival at their camp and
her presence among them must bring good luck both to them and to France.

So, by way of amusing themselves and her, Jeanne was taught to shoot
and to ride horseback. She was even taken for short flights in American
aeroplanes when the men in the nearby aviation practice fields were
making unimportant ascensions near at home.

Guy Ellis wrote to his mother the entire romantic story of the
appearance of Jeanne and her French Captain, and in response Mrs. Ellis
sent Jeanne a trunk of clothes, with an outfit which included two
khaki suits, with the riding trousers and coat, the skirt and hat.

So Jeanne became not the little daughter of this particular American
division, but a kind of adopted sister. And it was small wonder that
the little French girl did not find life at the hospital entertaining
in the hours when she could not be with her Captain.

“Jeanne will have to go to school some day, but for the present let her
be happy in her own way. Madame Bonnèt and Berthe will see that she
does not get into mischief,” was Eugenia’s only comment.

Although no longer a patient, Lieutenant Martin came now and then to
the hospital to call on his friends whenever he had leisure. But this
was not often, as he had returned to the work at camp with all his
former vigor and enthusiasm. It was rumored that a certain number of
the American soldiers were soon to be chosen and sent to the trenches
to have actual experience in fighting. There was no doubt that
Lieutenant Martin hoped to be among the number.

As far as he could, Lieutenant Martin appeared to be trying to make
amends for his bad temper during the early days of his illness. But no
one of his nurses had paid any serious attention to this, knowing it
to be a common masculine failing when a man is not dangerously ill.
Courage and gayety come more often to the soldier when he is seriously
hurt, when all his pluck, all his sporting blood must be called upon to
help.

Personalty, Nona Davis, who had devoted more of her time than any one
of the other nurses to Lieutenant Martin, felt nothing but friendliness
toward him. Besides, she could not fail to admire the spirit in which
he had received his injury. There had been never any resentment or
bitterness against the man who must have intentionally wounded him, but
only a determined effort not to allow a scandal to mar the fair name of
his camp.

Moreover, Nona had not entirely forgotten Lieutenant Martin’s farewell
to her, although she had made a determined effort to thrust his words
out of her mind. He had thanked her, of course, for her care, and
had then added with a determined expression in his gray eyes and a
slight tightening of the muscles of his mouth which she had learned to
recognize as concealing deep feeling,

“Please remember that I am not your patient any longer, Miss Davis,
and therefore whatever I may say to you in the future will not be
an illusion of illness. I know you do not care for me, do not even
especially like me, but perhaps I may make you proud of me. In any case
it may be worth while for you to remember some day that you are the
only girl, and not only that, the only woman I have ever cared for in
my life, or ever will.”

Then, although Nona had replied as politely as she could to Lieutenant
Martin that he was altogether mistaken and had afterwards said the same
thing to herself, she was not entirety convinced.

However, the real truth was that she was having more enjoyment at the
present time from her acquaintance with Philip Dawson than from any
other source.

She had written to Sonya that she had never known so clever or so
agreeable a fellow and that she was seeing him whenever either of them
were free.

Something in the letter, Sonya could not have told just what, had
conveyed the impression, made her a little anxious, so much so that she
had even sent a short note to Eugenia, apologizing for taking her time,
but inquiring just what Eugenia knew of Philip Dawson.

As Eugenia could imagine no reason for Sonya’s interest and did not
take Nona’s friendship seriously, she had simply replied that she
knew very little, except that Mr. Dawson was regarded as a brilliant
newspaper correspondent, was very agreeable and had an excellent
reputation in his profession. She also wrote that she considered Sonya
need give the young man no especial consideration, as Nona was much
more interested in her Red Cross nursing than in any other thing or any
other person.

However, this had not persuaded Eugenia to interfere with Nona’s new
friendship, nor to oppose Nona’s taking long walks with Philip Dawson
two or three times a week.

Eugenia had so many cares, so many anxieties, she could not be a very
watchful chaperon.

In coming abroad to do war nursing she felt that only American girls
who knew enough of life to take care of themselves should be trusted
with the experience.

But Eugenia was afterwards to be sorry she had not been more vigilant.

Philip Dawson and Nona in the weeks of late summer and early autumn had
really explored the greater part of the nearby French countryside.

The two hours of freedom which she had each day from work, unless there
was some unusual pressure, Nona liked best to spend outdoors. And never
before had she known so delightful a companion.

There seemed to be endless subjects of conversation between them, of
which neither grew weary. Yet now and then they would walk beside each
other or in single file, not speaking for a quarter of an hour or more.

There was no suggestion of an emotion between them. Philip Dawson had
never said anything which Nona could construe in any such fashion. He
was the most restful and at the same time the most stimulating friend
she had ever known. There was none of the restlessness and the changing
tempers she had felt in her brief interest in Eugino Zoli.

It was only that if Nona had an idea, she was anxious to know if Mr.
Dawson thought it worth while, or if she were ill or tired she wished
to count upon his sympathy. But she was not selfish in this. She knew
that Philip Dawson came to her as freely and that he insisted his talks
with her inspired him to better work and to a wiser judgment of people
and affairs.

However, on this particular afternoon when Nona had only two hours to
give to their walk, he had kept her waiting for half an hour. In spite
of her effort toward keeping a perfectly reasonable attitude in their
friendship, Nona felt undeniably cross.

Moreover, when Philip Dawson arrived there was no pretense of an
apology.

“We will not be able to walk any distance this afternoon, there is
something very special I have to tell you. Only we must get away from
the hospital and in some place where no one will be able to hear us,”
he began at once in a rather business-like manner to which Nona was
unaccustomed.

However, Nona immediately found herself in a properly humble and
obedient state of mind, with none of the feeling of resentment or of
opposition which Lieutenant Martin more often than not aroused in her.

Having come out to the hospital gate to wait for him in the fresh air,
and being prepared to be politely reproachful, instead Nona made no
reply except to walk quickly along beside her companion, wondering what
possible serious thing he could have to tell her.

One of the great reliefs of their friendship had been that they were
not often serious together for any great length of time. For, however
serious the subject of their conversation might be for a few moments,
there was soon the relief of a gently humorous point of view.

But today there was no suggestion of anything except gravity in Philip
Dawson’s face and Nona felt slightly uneasy. But she did not feel
deeply so; really there did not appear to be any cause that could
seriously interfere with their understanding of each other, and this
was, of course, the important thing. Neither did Nona realize that this
was an unusual conviction on her part concerning a friend whom she had
known so short a time, nor as a matter of fact did she really know
anything of his personal history, except what he had told her himself.

The little French farmhouse with the peach orchard could be reached by
strenuous walking in half an hour, although frequently Nona and Philip
Dawson had taken an hour to arrive there. This would leave half an hour
for their talk and nearly anything may be said in half an hour.

Besides, there really was no nearer place where one could feel safe
from interruption. For anywhere in the neighborhood of the camp
soldiers were apt to turn up at any moment.

“You look worried; I hope nothing has happened to annoy you,” Nona
began, as soon as they had found their favorite resting place and she
could recover her breath.

Philip Dawson stopped frowning and laughed.

“I am afraid I have tired you out; I did not think of it. But then so
few girls really know how to walk. You did not at first, Miss Davis,
but you are learning.”

Nona shook her head. “Don’t be tiresome, I am not going to argue that
question with you now since we have discussed it so many times before.
Besides, you scarcely ran me all the way out here to give me that
valuable information.”

Nona laid her hand lightly on her companion’s.

“Don’t worry over what you must tell me and please don’t break it to me
gently, I hate that method. Are you going away?”

“Not now. Would you care?” Philip Dawson answered, and then as if he
wished to disregard both their speeches:

“No, I am not going to waste time and I am not going to talk of either
of us this afternoon, fond as we are of talking about ourselves. I
hope we may have a great many other chances. But today I want to talk
to you about something in which, thank heaven, neither of us has any
part, except as it may affect our friends. You know I told you some
time ago that every effort was being quietly made to find out the
soldier in camp who tried to get rid of Lieutenant Martin and just what
his reason was for wishing to have him away from camp for a time. Well,
the reason has been discovered. There was spying going on and it was
reasonable to suppose that Martin, who was watching pretty closely,
would have soon made the discovery. The man who is suspected is pretty
close to him.”

“Yes,” Nona returned, “but whom do you mean? I know only a few men in
camp at all intimately.”

“The man who is suspected is Lieutenant Kelley, Martin’s companion and
intimate friend,” Philip Dawson answered dryly, “and the particularly
ugly part of it is that there is a girl in the case, or perhaps I
should say a woman, since she is married. I mean your friend Mrs.
Richard Thornton.”

“That is the most ridiculous statement I ever heard in my life and one
of the wickedest,” Nona responded instantly, wondering how she could
ever have thought she had any faith in the man beside her and seeing
another house of cards come tumbling down.

“As a matter of fact, I agree with you in part,” Philip Dawson
answered, perfectly understanding Nona’s attitude, but showing no
resentment. “I know nothing of your friend. I think if she is married
she has been seeing Lieutenant Kelley too often for his good or hers.
Oh, I don’t mean anything, except that they have taken walks together
and gone in for this business of arranging entertainment for the
soldiers and----. But I really don’t know anything of this at first
hand, only what I have heard whispered recently. Nothing has yet been
said openly, that is why I am telling you now, Nona. Perhaps you can
help your friend, if she deserves your help. My own view is that
Lieutenant Hugh Kelley is about as innocent of mischief as I am. He
is only a kind of kid, if he is a West Point graduate, and even if
he has been neglecting his work a little, he is utterly incapable of
treachery. He has been homesick and I suppose he is a bit in love when
he knows he has no right to be, which takes the edge off of things. But
as for sending news to Germany about the American camp, it is the most
preposterous idea I ever heard. No West Pointer was ever a traitor.
But goodness, Nona, I did not mean to frighten you; please don’t look
so wretched. The thing will have to be cleared up. Lieutenant Martin
insists that Kelley had nothing on earth to do with the injury to
him, nor to the fact that some American camp news has been getting to
a source we would most of us give our lives to keep it away from. He
wants Kelley told what the suspicion is against him. The mere fact
that they happened to be together at the time of the injury and that
Lieutenant Kelley had dropped behind and, oh, well, there are a few
other peculiar circumstances which have been discovered since, but
to my mind no circumstantial evidence is proof against a man’s clean
record.”

“But it is not Lieutenant Kelley I am thinking of; it is Barbara,” Nona
interrupted. “Of course Lieutenant Kelley is innocent; no one could
look at him or talk to him five minutes and have any other conviction.
The men in camp who are saying things against him are merely trying to
shield themselves.”

Nona was unashamedly crying.

“But the dreadful thing to me is that you, or that anyone has dared to
talk in an unkind way about Barbara Thornton, to feel that her name has
even been discussed. Why she is younger than any one of us and Eugenia
and Mildred and I should have taken better care of her. Oh, I do not
know what to do or say, Barbara will be so heartbroken.”

“Nevertheless please do not talk of this with me, Nona,” Philip Dawson
responded gently. “It has been difficult enough for me to tell you.
Madame Castaigne and Mrs. Thornton are the persons with whom you must
discuss it. I believe in any case Lieutenant Kelley will be entirely
cleared. But it will be wiser for her sake and his if Mrs. Thornton
gives up their friendship in the future.”

Philip Dawson had never spoken to her, calling her by her first name
before this afternoon. But Nona was too engrossed to give the fact any
particular attention.




CHAPTER XVI

_Meet for Repentance_


Nona did not know what to do, whether to go first to Eugenia Castaigne
or to Barbara herself. Then she decided that it would possibly be
fairer to go directly with her warning to Barbara. In Barbara’s place
she would have preferred not having Eugenia prejudiced by an outside
person.

However, Nona felt that she was having rather more responsibilities
toward her friends than she cared to undertake.

Certainly the duty ahead of her was an utterly disagreeable and
thankless one! To warn Barbara that her name was being associated with
that of Lieutenant Kelley, that there were even other disagreeable
rumors, having some mysterious connection with spying, in which she
might possibly be supposed to be playing a part, well, Barbara could
scarcely be expected to receive such information calmly, or to feel
anything but anger and resentment toward the person who brought her
such ill news.

Moreover, Nona knew that Barbara had realized she had not altogether
approved of her recent behavior and would be the more annoyed for this
reason that she should be the messenger.

Several times Nona almost concluded that she would let the whole matter
drop. Sooner or later, in some fashion, the gossip or, perhaps, a
serious accusation, would eventually reach Barbara. Possibly someone
would come to Madame Castaigne or to Mildred Thornton with the story.
In either case she would escape all responsibility.

But, seriously, Nona believed that Barbara should be warned. Her
entire behavior, although it had been indiscreet, was perfectly
innocent. Therefore, it was unfortunate that she should be the
subject of disagreeable discussion, when Barbara herself could, in
all probability, end it, whatever she might be forced to suffer as
a consequence. Nona finally concluded that she owed it not only to
her old friendship with Barbara, but to Barbara’s husband, Richard
Thornton, to tell Barbara what Philip Dawson had confided to her. For
it had been Philip Dawson’s judgment that Barbara should know, and Nona
had confidence in his opinion, if not in her own.

That same evening, after dinner, Nona went directly to Barbara’s room.
Whether or not she would find her there she had no idea, as Barbara had
not been in the dining-room. But then she might possibly be on duty
with a patient.

Fortunately, Barbara now occupied a room to herself. After Mildred
Thornton had undertaken the care of Captain Castaigne, she had changed
into a small room adjoining his, in order that she might be near should
he require her attention during the night.

A little later Mollie Drew was to move across the hall to share
Barbara’s room. The week before, Agatha Burton had unexpectedly
departed for Paris, saying that she had been called home to New
York by the illness of her mother and probably could not return to
continue her Red Cross work for several months. However, as Eugenia was
expecting two new nurses who had just sailed from a port in the United
States, the loss of Agatha’s aid was not important.

When Nona knocked at her friend’s door, there was a brief silence, and
then a voice inquired:

“Who is it wishes to speak to me? I would prefer to see no one; I am
not very well.”

But when Nona had given her name in response, Barbara immediately
opened her door.

“Come in, do, Nona, I am so glad to see you. I have been thinking that
I would send word for you to come to me, only I was afraid that I might
interfere with your work.”

Barbara spoke in the quick fashion characteristic of her. Tonight,
however, there was something unusual in her manner, a kind of
suppressed nervousness. Now, before Nona could reply to her, she began
walking up and down the tiny room.

It was not dark, yet the early dusk had fallen. So Nona could see
that Barbara really did look ill. She was extremely pale and her big
dark-blue eyes revealed unaccustomed shadows beneath them.

So, instantly Nona made up her mind that her own disagreeable
information must wait until a serener hour.

“Of course you should have sent for me, Barbara. But suppose, if
you are not well, you lie down and then tell me what is the matter
afterwards.”

Impatiently Barbara shook her head.

“Oh, I am not ill, at least not in the way you think. I only told that
story in order to keep anyone from coming in whom I did not wish to
see. Then I was afraid that it might be either Mildred or Gene, and I
did not even wish to see them. I did not _really_ wish to see anyone
except you, Nona.”

Barbara was talking in a somewhat incoherent fashion, but Nona did not
attempt to interrupt her nor to ask for an explanation.

She had not taken off her nurse’s costume, the white cap and dress
with the Red Cross band.

But then, in her Red Cross uniform Barbara Thornton frequently made
people think of a stage nurse, she looked so little and young and so
extremely piquant.

Even at the present moment Nona thought that no one had the right to
take Barbara too seriously. She was really too young to have assumed
the responsibilities of marriage.

“I have been behaving very badly, Nona,” Barbara confessed suddenly,
but not ceasing her walking up and down, “and I am being punished for
it with the comfortable knowledge that I deserve my punishment. But the
worst is my punishment has only begun. I don’t know what will become of
me when Dick finally hears.”

Nona sat down on one of the two little stiff-backed chairs in the room,
but made no suggestion that Barbara should follow her example.

She knew that Barbara would be able to talk more easily if she
continued moving.

“You know, Nona, that I have been allowing Lieutenant Kelley to think
I was unmarried. No, you do not know this. You only heard me speak of
his making this mistake at first, and you must have supposed I had
told him the truth before now. But I did not tell him, and, well, I
might as well confess the whole story, as I have no right to spare
myself anything. Ever since our meeting I have been flirting with him
a little. Oh, I did not consider that it would make any difference to
him, I presumed he would soon be going away to fight and I meant to
confess then. I simply thought as he was a Kentuckian, and accustomed
to making himself charming to girls, he was amusing himself with me
just as I was having a good time with him. I even supposed he might be
engaged to someone at home. Certainly I never dreamed of his taking his
feeling for me seriously. Then, this afternoon, when Lieutenant Kelley
had an hour off duty and I met him in the garden at Madame Bonnèt’s,
why--why, Nona, he told me he loved me, and actually asked me to marry
him. Some day, perhaps, I may get over the shame and pain of it, but
tonight I feel that I never can.”

And, dropping down on the side of her bed, Barbara covered her face
with her hands.

“I had to tell him the truth then, Nona, and there is something else
I shall never forget, and that is the way Lieutenant Kelley looked at
me and the apology he made, oh, not to me, but to my husband: ‘It has
been my mistake, of course, all along, Mrs. Thornton, you cannot have
intended me to misunderstand you. I have simply been inconceivably
stupid, and I hardly know what amends I do not owe to your husband.’
Then, Nona, he looked such a boy and as if he had been so horribly
hurt in his faith in women and in his own sense of honor. I don’t know
what I said to him afterwards, I scarcely know what I am saying to you
now. Of course I told him that he did not really care for me, but,
somehow, I am afraid he does, Nona, and oh, isn’t it dreadful that one
cannot suffer alone for one’s sins in this world? I deserve anything,
but Hugh isn’t responsible and neither is Dick, and yet they must
both be unhappy for my fault. I think, perhaps, when I tell Dick of my
deception he may not care to have me for his wife any longer.”

Barbara appeared so utterly dejected that if the situation had been
less serious Nona would have smiled. Yet, somehow, she could not find
anything to make her feel like smiling at this moment. She thought of
saying to Barbara that, perhaps, she need not make a confession to her
husband. Then Nona decided that she had no right to offer any possible
advice. Since she was unmarried herself, she did not understand how
complete a confidence should exist between a man and wife. It might
also be a safeguard to Barbara’s future if she felt impelled to confide
her first breach of faith to her husband. Nona knew Dick Thornton well
enough not to envy Barbara her confession.

“Dick is coming tomorrow. I had a letter from him today saying he
had been given a short leave and would take the first train to me. I
suppose I ought to be happy over his coming, but I am not. Later it
might have been easier to have told him what I must tell him. Perhaps,
after a while, I won’t even feel quite so wicked as I do now. It is a
perfectly horrid sensation, Nona! Of course you are such a saint you
can’t even imagine how I feel!”

Then Nona did manage to laugh, and getting up from her chair she went
over and sat down on the bed beside Barbara, putting her arm about her.

“I know you do not wish me to say, Bab, that I think you have been
quite square. But please don’t think I desire to criticise you; I am
just dreadfully sorry and wish there were something I could say or do
that might help. I know you were simply lonely and that life at the
hospital has seemed rather hard and dull after your happy time in your
own home with Dick. If we had only been very busy at the hospital it
would have made a great difference. Perhaps Mildred or Eugenia----”

“Mildred and Eugenia!” Nona felt her hand being tightly clutched.

“Oh, for goodness sake promise me never to breathe a word of what I
have told you either to Mildred or Gene. I am sure Gene would never
allow me to remain at the hospital afterwards. And, somehow, to have
one’s right to be a Red Cross nurse taken away would make one feel as
a soldier must who is stripped of his uniform and sword. Then you see
Mildred might possibly tell my mother-in-law what I have done and she
has never been any too enthusiastic over me as a wife for Dick.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile appearing on Barbara’s face at this
moment, Nona felt the gloom of the situation a bit lightened.

“Suppose you allow me to help you to bed then, Bab, and let us not
talk about disagreeable things any more tonight. As Dick is to arrive
tomorrow, at least there is no point in your looking as if you had
been ill. Just remember you can count on me if I can be useful in any
possible fashion.”

“You are a dear, Nona,” Barbara answered, as she began slowly to follow
her friend’s advice, “especially as I have been pretty neglectful and
have seemed to be indifferent to you lately. But you know I never have
been indifferent really. It was only that I was doing something of
which I realized you would not approve and I did not wish you to know.”

Nona made no answer, but after waiting until Barbara was comfortably in
bed she kissed her and went quietly away.

As a matter of fact, she had told Barbara nothing of what she had
intended telling her. But she could not make up her mind to burden her
further with the information that Lieutenant Kelley might have to meet
another disillusion, more serious, perhaps, than the loss of his faith
in her. For there can be nothing in the life of a soldier that comes so
close to him as having his loyalty doubted.

Neither did Nona mention that Barbara might also have to clear herself
of an impossible suspicion. But she was not sorry that Richard Thornton
was to be with his wife for the next few days. If any difficulty should
arise, Dick’s reputation was a sufficient guarantee for them both.




CHAPTER XVII

_An Explanation which did not Explain_


Following his letter, the next afternoon Richard Thornton arrived at
the American hospital on a short visit to his wife.

He looked thin, but bronzed and strong, and intensely enthusiastic over
his recent ambulance work. Since the United States had entered the
war with the Allies, the American ambulance men were permitted to run
greater risks and to render more valuable service.

On his breast Richard Thornton wore the medal of the _Croix de Guerre_,
presented him by the French government for bravery under fire. With six
other ambulance men he had been present at a gas attack near Verdun and
with them had succeeded in rescuing nearly a thousand soldiers.

Preferring to tell Barbara the news himself, Dick had not written her
of his recent honor.

The thought of his wife’s being in France at the same time with him
and engaged in Red Cross work was seldom out of Dick Thornton’s mind;
nevertheless, he had not allowed his unceasing desire to see her to
interfere for a moment with his work. Not until he believed he had
earned a short respite did Dick ask for and receive a short leave of
absence.

Therefore, during her husband’s stay, Eugenia arranged that Barbara
should have but few duties at the hospital, that she might remain
continuously with him.

Only Eugenia asked as a favor that on some afternoon Dick go in with
her for a brief call upon Captain Castaigne. From his wife’s letters
Dick, of course, knew of Captain Castaigne’s condition and of the
strange discovery of him.

It was two days after Dick’s arrival when, one afternoon just before
dinner, Eugenia and Dick decided to make their visit.

For the first time since his arrival at the hospital Eugenia changed
from her Red Cross uniform to a dress of which her husband had at one
time been especially fond, a smoke-colored chiffon, with lavender and
gray tones in it. The dress Captain Castaigne had once said reminded
him of the soft colors of the twilight and suggested the peace and
happiness which Eugenia’s presence always gave him.

In a chair by the window, with his hand resting upon Duke, Captain
Castaigne was sitting, when Eugenia and Richard Thornton went in to him.

The bandage had been removed from his eyes, now covering only the wound
over his temple. Again he wore the uniform of a Captain in the army of
France.

In returning to his old uniform Eugenia had hoped that it might in some
fashion affect her husband’s memory of the past. But Captain Castaigne
had made no comment upon putting it on and no one knew whether it had
made the slightest impression upon him.

Eugenia entered the room first.

Since her original discover that her husband had no memory of her,
Eugenia had never come into his presence without an almost morbid sense
of pain and shrinking. Whatever misfortune had befallen him, she still
cared for him so deeply, it seemed incredible that he should even
desire her society less than he did that of the other people around
him. Certainly he preferred Jeanne’s, the little French girl, who had
first rescued him, and Mildred Thornton’s, who was now giving him such
devoted care.

With the noise of Eugenia’s and Richard Thornton’s approach, Captain
Castaigne slowly turned his head. In the past he and Dick had known
each other but slightly, yet Eugenia felt she wished some man friend’s
opinion of her husband, who was not a physician.

“Gene, where have you been? I have a headache and am lonely. I don’t
understand your leaving me so long alone,” Captain Castaigne began in
an injured tone, as Eugenia walked toward him.

She thought that he had mistaken her for little Jeanne, whom he never
forgot and was never weary of seeing. Frequently when Jeanne did not
appear at the hospital at the hour he desired her, Captain Castaigne
became annoyed and disappointed.

“It is late, Jeanne will be here tomorrow. But I brought a friend
who wishes to talk to you, Henri,” Eugenia answered quietly, yet not
looking at her husband, because of the tears which had suddenly blinded
her eyes.

Duke had deserted his master and walked over to her. He never left his
master alone, but if Eugenia were in the room, he understood that she
required his sympathy and understanding the more.

But Captain Castaigne’s manner was now both aggrieved and puzzled.

“You won’t be with me until tomorrow, Gene? Why are you deserting me
tonight?”

Apparently Captain Castaigne had not noticed Richard Thornton’s
presence.

Dick had come only a few feet into the room, for at Captain Castaigne’s
first words he had stopped and without speaking was observing the other
man closely.

He saw, of course, that Captain Castaigne appeared like a man who had
been wretchedly ill. He was thin and languid, his face had the wounded
man’s pallor; besides, there was the effect of the bandage. But Dick
was accustomed to seeing wounded men. What he did not behold in Captain
Castaigne’s face was the blankness, the expression of weakness which he
had been led to expect.

Yet even while he watched, Eugenia had walked over and taken both of
Captain Castaigne’s hands into her own and was leaning over, holding
them closely for a moment.

Then she said with perfect calmness:

“No, dear, I did not understand you. Of course I shall not leave you
tonight and never again until you wish me to go.”

Then Captain Castaigne had laughed with a suggestion of his old teasing
gayety toward his wife.

“Do I often send you away from me, Gene? But tell me what does all this
mean? Why do I find myself here? Have I been ill and have you brought
me to your own hospital to care for me? But no, you are not wearing
your Red Cross uniform.”

Then, without waiting to hear more, Richard Thornton had slipped
quickly away to find Barbara, and Barbara had then found Nona and
Mildred to confide her husband’s great news.

That same evening after dinner Barbara chose for her own confession.

Perhaps she believed that Dick would be more lenient because of the
scene he had witnessed. Perhaps the thought of the exquisite happiness
in the reunion between Eugenia and Captain Castaigne made the shadow
between herself and her husband the more painful. Whatever the reason,
Barbara selected the hour when they were walking together after dusk to
whisper the history of the past few weeks.

At first, without in the least understanding and afterwards in deeper
and deeper silence, Dick listened to the story.

Only when Barbara had broken down did he reply in a voice which she had
never heard from him before:

“Suppose we go back to our room, Barbara, so that I can fully grasp
what this is you are telling me. It is so unlike any conception I ever
had of you that you must forgive my appearing stupid. No, of course,
Lieutenant Kelley was in no way to blame. I am almost as sorry for him
as I am for myself. Only you cannot have hurt his ideal of you as you
have mine. But please don’t cry out here where people can see you.”

“But I will unless you tell me what you are going to do?” Bab insisted
like a frightened child.

“What I am going to do isn’t so important as the way I feel, is it,
Bab?” Dick answered.

Afterwards, no one except Nona Davis appreciated why Barbara went about
during the rest of her husband’s visit with a white, unhappy face and
frightened dark-blue eyes.

Nona did not speak to her on the subject of her confession to her
husband, realizing that she must wait until Barbara showed a desire to
bestow her confidence. Yet several times Nona wished that she felt she
had the right to talk to Dick. They had been good friends in the past,
surely he must see that Barbara had merely behaved like a spoiled child
and would not allow her one offense to spoil their happiness. Yet
certainly he looked even more unhappy than Barbara.

But without doubt neither Dick nor Barbara received the attention that
would have been bestowed upon them under ordinary circumstances.

For the entire staff at the hospital, including Mildred Thornton, who
was Richard Thornton’s sister and Barbara’s sister-in-law, and also
Mollie Drew, were too excited by the unexpected change for the better
in Captain Castaigne.

Captain Castaigne had not miraculously recovered. He had no
recollection of his injury nor his illness afterwards, neither could he
recall many circumstances in his past life before or since the outbreak
of the war. Yet the great fact was that he had recognized his wife and
now wished her with him constantly.

Very slowly, very painstakingly, Eugenia, under the doctor’s advice,
was teaching Captain Castaigne to recall other things. Yet, after all,
it was better that he should not remember too much at the beginning.
The thought of the war, of his own suffering, of the tragedy through
which his beloved land was passing, were happily gone from his mind.

Perhaps, never in their married life had he and Eugenia been so happy.
Always until now they had enjoyed only a few hurried days or weeks
together, with Captain Castaigne about to return to the front and
Eugenia to her nursing.

On the day following Captain Castaigne’s recognition of his wife,
Mildred Thornton quietly assumed management of the hospital. This, of
course, was after consultation with the doctors and nurses on the staff
and was regarded as only temporary. But for the present Eugenia must be
spared every outside responsibility.

Yet there was one serious piece of information she could not be spared.

Three days after Captain Castaigne’s partial recovery the officer in
command at the American camp sent Lieutenants Martin and Kelley and a
secret service officer for a private interview with Madame Castaigne.
She spent two hours with them behind a locked door.

By accident Nona Davis chanced to be in the front of the hospital when
the officers arrived, and although they bowed to her formally, not one
of them showed the least inclination to talk to her, nor to explain the
nature of the errand.

Knowing what she did from Philip Dawson’s confidence, so much and
at the same time so little, Nona naturally endured a miserable day.
She was fearful that Barbara Thornton would have to face even graver
charges. For after her interview Eugenia had gone directly to her
husband and, so far as Nona knew, had spoken to no one of what she had
learned from the interview.

Nona was also puzzled. For Lieutenant Kelley to be one of the officers
who came to the hospital did not suggest his guilt. Yet, unless he and
Barbara were in some way involved, why should Madame Castaigne be told
a purely military secret?

That night, after Captain Castaigne had fallen asleep, happily for
Nona, Eugenia chose her as her solitary confidant.

Later, the same information was discussed by every human being inside
the American hospital. But by what method the news was disseminated no
one could have told. Certainty neither Nona Davis nor Madame Castaigne
were responsible.

The truth was that Agatha Burton, who had been working as a Red Cross
nurse for nearly two years, was a German spy. She had gone into the Red
Cross training with but this one idea and plan in mind. The months she
had devoted to nursing in Italy, keeping faith and gaining an excellent
record as a nurse were to render her reputation above suspicion when
the hour of the United States’ entrance into the war and the sending of
American soldiers to France arrived.

Moreover, Agatha Burton was an American. There was no reason why the
authorities who had investigated her history, in the effort to discover
whether or not she would be an acceptable Red Cross nurse in the Allied
countries, should have suspected her disloyalty.

Yet the drama and the disloyalty went deeper than Agatha Burton’s
share.

Three years before, at the outbreak of the war, Charles Anderson had
enlisted as a private in the United States army. His people were
German-Americans, but for this and for other causes, he had expressed
his desire to prove his devotion to the United States.

There are many loyal German-Americans in our country and the sympathy
of the American people has, from the beginning of the present war, gone
out to them. So no one dreamed that Charles Anderson wore the uniform
of the United States army merely as a mask for treachery. Yet Germany
has been responsible for strange, distorted ideas of right and justice
in her war. At one time the spy, after his death at least, enjoyed fame
in his own country, the land for which he often suffered both dishonor
and death. But Germany has rendered dishonor more dishonorable.

The German spy is the man or woman who, after eating your bread, living
under your roof, sharing all that your generosity has to give, in the
end betrays you.

Agatha Burton had been engaged to Charles Anderson from the time they
were boy and girl. The far-reaching scheme of treachery and dishonor
had, from the beginning been his, and Agatha only his accomplice.

It was a feminine weakness, yet in spite of their surprise and horror,
Eugenia and Nona confessed quietly to each other that they were glad
Agatha was on her way to the United States. Her case would be dealt
with on her arrival there.

Neither would Charles Anderson’s name nor his fate ever be openly
discussed at the American camp.




CHAPTER XVIII

_The Command_


A week or ten days later, in the early autumn, the order was received
at the American camp for a limited number of picked American troops to
be sent to the fighting line in France.

The order had been for some time eagerly expected, yet the information
was not published either in the American or in the European press.

The American soldiers were to have their first trial by fire in France
without having the fact heralded or discussed. In the trenches they
were now prepared to test the training in modern warfare which they had
been undergoing since their arrival at their own camp in France.

Under secret orders and at night the men were to march out, not even
their own comrades in arms being informed of the direction in which
they were to travel nor behind what particular battle front they were
to be stationed.

Yet the chosen troops were permitted to say farewell to their friends,
provided that nothing except good-byes were said. However, the men
could scarcely have betrayed the secret of their destination, since
only the officers in command had been informed. They were to march in
twenty-four hours after the order.

At the nearby American hospital it was Mollie Drew who was the first of
the Red Cross nurses to be told the stirring news.

Mollie was not engaged to Guy Ellis. She had insisted upon this
both to Barbara and Nona. But she had confessed there was a kind of
understanding between them, and when the war was over, if she and Guy
had both played their parts faithfully, and his parents did not object
to a poor girl, then Mollie was willing to concede there might be an
engagement.

Nevertheless, as soon as he had received permission from his superior
officer, Captain John Martin, Guy came straight to her.

Mollie also reported the news of Lieutenant Martin’s promotion to a
captaincy, which he had been awarded only a few days before.

It was shortly before luncheon when Guy arrived at the hospital
and Nona could not help wondering, after Mollie had imparted the
information of the withdrawal of a number of the American troops,
whether Captain Martin would make an effort to see her before he
left camp. For his desire had been granted and he was to be one of
the officers in charge of the first corps of American troops in the
fighting area in France.

She kept the thought at the back of her mind all during the day, no
matter in what occupation she chanced to be engaged. Nona felt she
would like to see Captain Martin before he left for the front, if for
no other reason than to congratulate him on his promotion.

It was after dinner that evening when Captain Martin, accompanied by
Lieutenant Kelley, came to the hospital.

But to Nona’s secret surprise Captain Martin made no effort to see her
alone. He and Lieutenant Kelley asked for Madame Castaigne, for Miss
Thornton and Mrs. Thornton, as well as for Miss Davis and two or three
other Red Cross nurses who were also their friends.

Nona was interested in watching the meeting between Lieutenant Kelley
and Richard Thornton.

Dick was to leave the next day to continue his ambulance work. Whether
Barbara asked him to meet Lieutenant Kelley, or whether he chose to
make the best of the opportunity Nona did not, of course, know.

She only saw that Barbara introduced the two men in as matter-of-fact
a fashion as she could manage and that, after looking at each other
steadily for a barely perceptible moment, they instinctively shook
hands.

Later, without even a word with Nona that the entire group of friends
could not hear, Captain Martin made his adieus. Moreover, during the
few moments of his visit he had appeared much more pleased by Eugenia’s
congratulations than by Nona’s effort to express her pleasure at his
good fortune.

After their final leave-taking Nona confessed to herself that she was a
little disappointed. She knew, of course, that as soon as he recovered
Captain Martin would forget the emotion he had believed he felt for
her during his convalescence. However, she had not really expected him
to forget it so entirety he would not even have a feeling of especial
friendliness for her. And there was ever the thought that a soldier’s
good-bye might be a final one.

Nona was glad Lieutenant Kelley was accompanying his friend. Whatever
small differences the two men had formerly had, had disappeared
entirely. The faith in him under stress, which Captain Martin had
shown, the younger soldier would not forget.

That night not only Nona Davis, but nearly every nurse, doctor, patient
and servant at the American hospital lay awake, or slept only fitfully.
They were waiting and hoping to hear the tramping of the feet of the
American soldiers on their way to this strange paradox of a war, which
is being fought on through the years for the final award of a world
peace.

Toward dawn Nona believed she heard the men marching past the hospital.

Slipping to the window, she saw stretched along the road a long, double
row of khaki-clad figures. They were marching in silence, each soldier
carrying his pack and rifle. There were no flags flying, no beating of
drums. The men were going to their day’s work, to the work the new day
had appointed for them. But when the last figures had passed, in the
east Nona saw the first rose-colored lights of the morning.

She went back to bed then, not having awakened anyone. Eugenia was now
with Captain Castaigne.

Alone, Nona prayed that her countrymen might meet the great test
without faltering and that the rose light in the sky was an omen of
good for the future.




CHAPTER XIX

_A Parting of the Ways_


After Dick Thornton had gone back to his ambulance work, Barbara told
Nona that she had made her husband a promise. This was because she felt
that she owed it to him to do what he wished of her, and also because
Dick’s wishes were a part with her own desire. As soon as there was an
opportunity, and Eugenia had no especial need of her services, Barbara
had agreed to return home. She would find another nurse in New York and
send her to the American hospital, paying her expenses; so that the Red
Cross work would not lose but gain by the exchange.

Barbara wanted her home and her baby and would wait there as serenely
as she could until the war was over and Dick again at home.

And Nona agreed that in this Barbara would be doing the wiser and
finer thing. It is not intended that all of us desert our obvious
duties for more romantic and stirring ones, although there is, of
course, a war duty for each one of us. The personal sacrifice it may be
of one’s love, of one’s money, sometimes only of one’s desire, is what
counts in the end.

Unexpectedly, Nona Davis was also to face a difficult problem. She was
not aware of what was before her nor would she have said the fact, or
rather her acceptance of the fact, involved a problem. But she was to
find out very soon.

She and Philip Dawson had continued seeing each other in their former
friendly fashion whenever it was possible to meet.

Philip had apologized to Nona for having mentioned the suspicion in
camp against Lieutenant Kelley, saying that he himself had met and
deserved the fate of all officious persons. However, he added that he
was so glad Lieutenant Kelley had been entirely cleared that he was
willing to accept his punishment, provided Nona would finally forgive
him.

There was no mention between them of Barbara Thornton’s name. Philip
believed Nona had told her friend of the gossip involving her name, but
realized that she would certainty not wish to discuss Mrs. Thornton
with him. Nor was there anything further from his wish.

There were so many other interesting things in this wide world for them
to talk about, subjects which had nothing to do with gossip, or scandal
or with other people.

Always there was the war and what might take place tomorrow. Always
there was an argument of whether peace was six months away, a year, or
four years. Then there were the books which Nona and Philip had read,
and Nona was obliged to confess that Philip had read a great many more
than she had. But then he was five years older and writing was his
profession. Besides, there was always the inexhaustible subject of
themselves. Nona was really not aware of how much they did talk to each
other of their past histories, of their future desires and dreams. But
Philip Dawson knew and understood far better than Nona what his own
attitude confessed. He had also other reasons for knowing deeper and
more compelling reasons. Yet, because he was older and in many ways
wiser than Nona, he appreciated the little streak of coldness in her
nature, which was really more shyness than coldness, and feared to
awaken her too soon.

Fanciful as we may consider the idea, the old Greeks knew the eternal
types of women. In many girls, and particularly in many American girls,
we find a faint echo of Diana, who, although she suffered fewer fears
than other women, was the more frightened before love.

Before speaking of his feeling to Nona, Philip Dawson would like to
have waited longer, to have been able to be more sure of her affection.
At the present time, however, he was as much under the command of his
superior officer as a soldier.

Considering that he owed it both to Nona and to Madame Castaigne’s
consistent friendliness toward him, Philip Dawson went first to her.

After their talk Eugenia recognized once more that she had recently
permitted herself to become too engrossed in her personal affairs. She
had been thinking of asking for leave and taking Captain Castaigne to
his own home in southern France. Now she made up her mind that this
would be the wisest thing for them to do.

Certainly if anything which was unfortunate for Nona in the future had
come about through her carelessness, Sonya Valesky would never forgive
her. Then Eugenia argued that Nona was by no means a child and had the
right to choose her own life, although what her choice would be Eugenia
could not guess.

Yet she did arrange that Nona should see Philip Dawson alone the next
evening, which was infringing upon one of the hospital rules. But
Philip Dawson had explained that he was forced to leave France almost
at once and there was no other time.

Nona only knew, however, that he wished to see her for an important
reason, or that he had made the excuse of an important reason. She
supposed he was too busy for them to spend an afternoon together.

It was beginning to turn cool and the night had the brilliance of the
sky in early autumn. Only the stars were out, but later the harvest
moon would rise over many fields of France and other lands which war
had laid waste.

Tonight Philip Dawson and Nona were both glad that the country
surrounding them had so far remained serene.

Nona had put on a wrap, but wore nothing on her head.

As they were walking up and down the hospital grounds, which were not
large, but had a few shade trees and a small garden, Philip Dawson
stopped suddenly and looked closely at Nona.

“Nona,” he began almost irritably, for they had almost unconsciously
grown into the habit of calling each other by their first names, “I
sometimes wish you did not so often remind me of the old fairy story
of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ when I am with you. It is not that I wish
you less fair, my lady, or that until recently I have ever given much
thought to my own unhappy appearance.”

Nona laughed, having by this time entirely forgotten that she had
ever considered her companion less interesting and less good looking
than she did at present. For, of course, she had come to the frequent
feminine conclusion that she infinitely preferred a man to be clever
and well bred in his appearance than merely conventionally handsome.

“Don’t stop walking, please, Philip,” she returned, not answering his
foolish speech. “We have only a little while together. I promised Gene
we would not be long. Surely you haven’t anything uncomfortable to tell
me tonight.”

Philip did not walk on, however, so that Nona stood still, but turned
her eyes up toward the sky. She had the impression one so often has
that assuredly she was seeing more stars tonight than ever before.

“Would you mind looking at me for a moment, please, Nona?” Philip
Dawson suggested, and Nona realized that his voice was not entirety
steady, in spite of its humorous inflection.

“I hope you may not think that what I mean to tell you is
uncomfortable. You see, to me it is as big and as vastly important as
the sky over our heads. And this is not so absurd as it sounds. I love
you, Nona, and I am going to start to the United States tomorrow. I
have some information which the editor of my paper thinks I had best
not try to write over here, but must bring to him in person.”

“But you will be coming back,” Nona answered, with the feminine impulse
of putting off facing a situation.

“Only if you say you care for me and wish me to come, Nona. As far as
my work goes, I have no idea where I may be sent after my return to the
United States. But I shall try to come back to France.”

“You don’t mean you expect me to say just how I feel toward you
tonight, Philip, when you have never suggested you were in love with me
before,” Nona returned almost indignantly.

It struck her that Philip Dawson would not be like a good many other
men. If she told him she did not love him tonight, he would not offer
his love to her again. The idea made her indignant, and yet if she were
never to see him after this--yet how could she know her own desire?

“I don’t think you are fair, Philip,” Nona answered.

“No, I suppose not,” he returned. “You see, Nona, I had not thought of
being fair. I only thought, when the news came so suddenly that I must
part from you, of how much I cared for you and hoped you felt as I do.”

Crossing his hands behind him, Philip walked up and down with that
little trick of having his head slightly in front of him, which amused
Nona always and with which she had grown so familiar. It rather hurt
her now, as she stood watching him.

Surely in the three years of her war nursing she should have grown
accustomed to the everlasting partings for which, among its other
sorrows, war is responsible. Yet lately had she not allowed herself to
grow dependent upon her friendship with Philip Dawson, believing that
as his work was to report the news of the American camp, he would
remain in the same neighborhood as long as she remained? But certainly
she had not thought of him as her lover. Their friendship had only been
more interesting than any other.

“Won’t you marry me, Nona, when I can come back for you, and not let
us discuss being fair just at present?” Philip Dawson protested with a
kind of whimsical appeal which was also characteristic of him.

But Nona remained silent.

The moment before she had been surprised now she saw what was at stake
with almost painful clearness. Whether she was to lose her friend and
lover as well, Nona could not answer him tonight. She had been right,
Philip had not been fair.

Men are frequently not fair to girls in this self-same way They will
suddenly ask her for all she has to give, her love and the hazard of
her life as well, expecting her to have understood and made up her mind
before he has spoken. Yet now and then, following this plan, girls have
made a tragic mistake. Nona had come near this mistake once, but in
Philip Dawson’s case she had not repeated it.

“I am sorry to have you go, Philip, and I shall miss you dreadfully, I
don’t care to think how much. But I can’t make you any promise, I can’t
answer your question now. If you don’t care for me enough to wait until
we have been parted and I have time to think----”

Philip Dawson made an impatient movement.

“Nona, dear, of course I’ll wait if I must. You give me no choice.
But I do wish you would remember that I belong to the most impatient
profession in the world and that it is a great mistake to spend
valuable time in life in making decisions. Will you write me to Paris?”

Nona laughed and slipped her arm through her companion’s.

“Yes, I will write you to Paris and you need not inform me how
impatient you are. I don’t how a great deal about you, but I do know
that much.”

Then for the next ten minutes the girl and man walked up and down in
the garden, talking, perhaps, of other things, but thinking only of
their farewell. Nevertheless, Nona was obdurate in her decision and
it was, perhaps, as well for their future that Philip Dawson learned
tonight she could hold out against his wish. There were not many people
in his world who did this for long.

There was a gate before the hospital and she said good-bye to him
standing outside. Just for an instant as she saw his long, slender
figure disappearing, Nona had the impulse to call him back. The United
States seemed so uncomfortably far away. Nona resisted her inclination.

Besides, almost at the same time an unexpected sound attracted her
attention.

Except for Philip who was moving rapidly out of sight, the road before
the hospital had appeared to be empty.

It was about ten o’clock and there were no carts or trucks filled
with provisions on their way to the camp. The movement back and forth
between the neighboring villages took place in the early morning and
during the day.

Yet Nona saw two figures coming from the village toward the hospital
and from the opposite direction to the one Philip Dawson had used.

Possibly someone had been taken suddenly ill and was being brought to
the hospital for care.

A moment later Nona recognized that the newcomers were women, and then
that they were Madame Bonnèt and Berthe.

With an exclamation of surprise she made a little rush forward, trying
to take hold of Madame Bonnèt’s hand.

But in her hand and pressed close against her Nona discovered that she
held something warm and soft, which fluttered and made gentle noises.

“Why, Madame Bonnèt, is there anything the matter? Are either you or
Berthe ill? Won’t you come in and let me find Eugenia?”

Madame Bonnèt shook her head.

“No, my dear, my errand is to you and it is rather a surprising one.”

She held out the carrier pigeon, which she had been holding in her
hand.

“Do you remember one day you asked me to name one of my carrier
pigeons for you and tied a little coin about its throat so we could
know it? Well, I gave that particular pigeon to Captain Martin by his
request, when he went away. And tonight, dear, the pigeon came winging
back home. Berthe and I found her just reaching the dove cote, after
twilight, and bearing this letter addressed to you. We brought it to
you at once. Of course the message may be only a personal one, but then
none of us know where the American soldiers have gone or what may have
happened to them and the word may bring news of importance. I confess I
am frightened.”

And Madame Bonnèt paused, a little out of breath from nervousness and
her rapid walk.

Nona’s own hands shook as she opened the letter brought her by so
strange and gentle a messenger from an unknown place.

She had a flashlight, which she always carried, so that she could read
it quickly.

“No, Madame Bonnèt, the letter is only personal. I am sorry you hurried
to bring it to me,” Nona explained, wondering if Madame Bonnèt and
Berthe were as amazed as she was by Captain Martin’s action, and also
wondering how much she betrayed her own confusion.

But, fortunately, Madame Bonnèt and Berthe insisted on returning home
immediately, so that Nona could go upstairs to her room alone.

If she had been surprised earlier in the evening, she was the more
so now. Captain Martin had written her a letter which one might have
believed a poet could have written, never a soldier. Certainly she had
misunderstood his character. But then do men and women ever understand
each other?

However, Nona’s last thought was that she would ask Philip Dawson to
call upon Sonya Valesky in New York--and then if Sonya liked him--

However, Nona really knew that no one’s opinion would make a great deal
of difference now that she was infinitely surer of her own mind than
she would have believed possible an hour before.

Well, she had kept faith with herself after all, having always insisted
if she ever married she wished an American husband, and now she had
found him in France.

But France was to set her seal upon American lives and hearts in many
ways before this war ended. The American solders’ work in France had
only just begun.


THE END.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.