She had been visiting friends, he said, in Dubuque, when Corey came
back, he believed, from the Balkan War, in the spring of 1913. Pretty
quick work they made of it, too. In August that same summer they had the
wedding at her house in Des Moines. But it had surprised nobody. They
knew he’d been wanting to settle down; and she was just the right kind
of girl—nice and wholesome, and fond of her home. At last, he said, he
was going to begin to live.
He had dropped at once into his place, exactly as if he had never been
away at all—as if, after his graduation, he had come home to practise
his profession. There was nothing even about his house to indicate the
traveler; no obtrusive trophies of strange lands; no bizarre
knick-knacks. In a room in the attic were a half-full dunnage-bag, a
traveler’s kit, and an officer’s trunk, small size, the lid pressed down
but warped a little so that it would not lock. And in the corner three
pairs of heavy, discarded boots, gathering dust. That was all.
And he _was_ happy; naturally, sanely, unaffectedly happy. There was no
room for doubt about that. “Honesty,” Mr. Ewing called it. He used that
word over and over again in relation to Corey’s psychology at that time.
“And there wasn’t,” he said, “a hypocritical bone in Jim Corey’s body.”
One could see what he meant, and see, too, that it had, in his mind,
some obscure bearing on what came after.
He waited a little here before he went on, as if he were going over to
himself incidents too trivial to relate, but which would not separate
themselves from his memory of Corey in those days.
“Well,” he began, abruptly, rousing himself from his secret
contemplation, “there was that winter, nineteen-thirteen, and the next
summer, nineteen-fourteen; and then the European war began.”
“And he went!” I supplemented, involuntarily, since from the trend of
the narrative I had, of course, seen that coming.
“No,” said Mr. Ewing in a surprisingly quiet tone of contradiction. “No,
he didn’t. I was like you. _I_ thought he’d go.”
“You thought he _would_!” I exclaimed, for it seemed to me he had just
been trying to make me see how unshakably he had believed Corey to be
fixed in Dubuque.
“Certainly,” he said. “You’d think it would be only natural he’d want to
go. Wouldn’t _you_?” he asked, as if he had detected in my expression
some disposition not to agree.
“_I_ would,” I said, still wondering at the ease with which he had
brushed aside what I had foreseen was to be his climax. For my
imagination had long since outrun his story to the end of the usual
domestic tragedy, wherein Corey had, at the first call of adventure,
forsaken without a word his home and his wife, to find (had not Mr.
Ewing told me in the very beginning of his death, three months before,
some place in Europe?) his abrupt and unexpected dénouement.
There had been, then, something else. “But he did,” I put forth,
“finally go? You said, I think, that he died over there?”
“Oh yes—finally. But that, you see, wasn’t what counted. It wasn’t the
same. It was the way he went.”
“The _way_?” I repeated.
“Yes. He didn’t go the way, I mean, that I thought he’d go. The way
_you_ thought, too.”
I said I didn’t understand; that I couldn’t see what difference it made
_how_ he went, so long as he did go in the end.
“It made _all_ the difference,” said Mr. Ewing. “You see, he didn’t rush
off, at the first news of the fighting, the way you’d think a man would.
Why, we used to read the papers and talk over the war news together, and
every day I’d expect to hear him say something about going. He knew all
the places, and the way everything was over there, but he never seemed
to care to be there himself. He used to come round to my house just
before supper-time in the evenings and we’d sit on the porch and talk,
or maybe I’d go round to his porch. I asked him one day if he didn’t
want to go, and all he said was, ‘Why should I?’ And I said I didn’t
know, it seemed to me that he would. And he said he was comfortable for
the first time in his life; he never had liked bumping around in all
sorts of places; hated it as a matter of fact. I asked him why, if that
was the case, he’d kept it up for so long, all those years; and he
laughed, and said _he_ didn’t know; he never _had_ been able to figure
that out.”
Mr. Ewing fell silent here, tapping his right foot on the carpet a
little impatiently and looking speculatively, yet without seeing, at me.
I had the impression that he felt he had utterly failed, up to now, in
making some subtle point in his story clear, and was considering how
best he might make me see. I was sure of it when, after a longish pause,
he continued, for he seemed to have decided upon the abandonment of
subtleties altogether, and to give me, for my own interpretation, the
facts as they occurred.
Things had gone on without any change all that winter and the next
summer. In August Corey went to some sort of convention of medical men
in Philadelphia. He was to have been gone something over two weeks. At
the end of that time Mrs. Corey had received a letter saying that some
experiments in which he was specially interested had developed rather
unexpectedly, and Corey, together with several others, had been detailed
to stay on and work them out to their conclusion. He couldn’t say just
how many days it would take; he would let her know.
At the end of another two weeks Corey was still away. The first phase of
the experiments had unhappily come to grief, and they had had to begin
from the first again. It was annoying, but since they had gone into it,
there was nothing else to be done. He would leave for home on the moment
of the work’s completion. Meantime there would be little opportunity for
letter-writing. She was not to worry.
As the days went on Mrs. Corey began to regret not having gone along in
the beginning, as he had wanted her to do. Mr. Ewing stopped in now and
then to inquire. Her reticence made him wonder if she might not be
hearing. It was plain that she _did_ worry, but, as Mr. Ewing said, she
was not the talkative kind.
And then, one morning, just two months from the day he had left, Corey
arrived unexpectedly by the ten-fifty train. Mr. Ewing, passing the
house on his way home that evening, had been surprised to see Corey, in
his shirt-sleeves, trimming shrubs in the garden. And he had stopped to
welcome him back, and they had talked about the war in quite the old
way, so that from that evening on it was exactly the same as it had been
before Corey had gone to his convention in Philadelphia.
It appears that all this time a very natural intimacy was growing up
between these two, gentle old Mr. Ewing and Corey. And I can imagine
that Corey, who became, as it were, the instantaneous friend of every
one, had made in his life very few actual contacts, few, if any, real
and intimate friendships. And perhaps that was why this friendship,
based as it was on such small outward manifestations as talking over the
news in the daily papers together, had prospered. Then, too, there was
the relationship, distant enough to be free of demands.
Corey had returned from the Philadelphia trip the last week in October.
It was on a Sunday afternoon near the middle of December that Mr. Ewing,
sitting reading his weekly illustrated paper, looked up to see through
the window Corey coming quickly along the walk. Mr. Ewing was struck by
something peculiar in his friend’s appearance, something hurried in the
set of his hat and overcoat, yet as if he himself were entirely
unconscious of haste.
He turned in at the gate, and Mr. Ewing got up and opened the door.
Corey came through it, Mr. Ewing said, as if escaping from something
outside, something of which he was physically afraid. He almost pushed
past Mr. Ewing and into the room, and with scarcely a glance to make
sure they were alone, he spoke, and his voice was strained like a note
on a too taut violin string:
“She’s found it! _This_—where I’d had it hid!”
He held extended in his open hand, as if there were no longer any reason
for concealing it from any one, what appeared to Mr. Ewing’s bewildered
eyes to be a bit of ribbon, striped green and red, and a bit of bronze
metal attached.
“What is it?” he asked, stupefied by the completeness of the change that
had come upon the man before him.
“It’s the _Croix_!” Corey’s voice was impatient, “The _Croix de
Guerre_!”
Mr. Ewing stared at the bright-colored thing, trying to comprehend.
Corey still held it outstretched in his hand, and the bronze Maltese
cross with its crossed swords slipped through his fingers and hung down.
Corey’s voice was going on. Mr. Ewing had missed something.
“... So now she knows,” was the end of what he heard—and in that instant
his eye caught the words engraved on the cross, _République Française_,
and the full meaning of its being there in Corey’s hand burst suddenly
upon him.
The new French decoration! The _Croix de Guerre_!
“You’ve _been_ there?” he managed to say. “You’ve been over there?”
“How else would I get it?” said Corey, with a kind of abandon, as if he
were confessing now to some fullness of shame. “You see, she’s right. I
couldn’t resist.”
Mr. Ewing was lost. “Resist what?”
“This!” Corey closed his fingers now on the _Croix_. “A new decoration!”
And then, as if every atom of his great, strong body had suddenly
succumbed to some long-growing exhaustion, Corey dropped down into a
chair and threw out his arm across the table as if he would put away
from him as far as possible that offending decoration.
“But when?”—Mr. Ewing found himself reiterating—“when—when—you haven’t
been away—”
“Oh, yes,” said Corey. “You remember, in August.”
And here Mr. Ewing confessed that he thought for a moment that Corey
must be hopelessly mad. There was the question of time, and a dozen
other questions besides. It seemed out of the realm of possibility, out
of the realm of reason.
“How did you keep her from knowing?”
Mr. Ewing had not wanted to ask—had hoped the point would explain
itself—and Corey looked for a moment as if he might be planning an
evasion—then braced himself and looked Mr. Ewing straight in the eyes. A
faint expression of scorn came round his mouth, as if he spoke of
another—a scoundrel who hardly deserved his scorn.
“I left letters—dated ahead—with the scrubwoman at the laboratory to
mail.” He said it, took his eyes from Mr. Ewing’s, and then he appeared
to wait.
Mr. Ewing sat there filled with a kind of amazement, touched with fear
for what should come next, and suddenly he became conscious that Corey
was watching him with what seemed a tremendous anxiety, waiting for him
to speak. And a moment later, apparently no longer able to bear that
silence, Corey leaned nervously toward Mr. Ewing, and asked in the tone
of one seeking an answer of utmost importance: “You don’t see it? You
don’t see what she saw?”
“See what?” said Mr. Ewing—“what _who_ saw?” Yet he knew that Corey had
meant his wife. It was she who had found the _Croix_ ... but what did he
mean she had seen?
“Don’t keep it back—just to be decent! She said it was plain, plain
enough for anybody to see. What I want to _know_ is if everybody knew it
but me!”
“Knew what?” cried poor Mr. Ewing, lost more completely now than before.
“Knew why I’ve done all the things I’ve done—run all the risks. Why I
went over there this time, in August, without letting her know—God knows
_I_ didn’t know why!—why I’ve _always_ gone!”
“Why have you?” The question asked itself.
“Because I wanted the decorations! The damned orders and medals and
things! Because I couldn’t resist getting a new one—wherever I saw a
chance. Do you believe a man could be as—as _rotten_ as that, all his
life, and not know it himself?”
Slowly, then, Mr. Ewing began to see. And remotely it began to dawn upon
him—the thing “she” in her anger had done. For there was no doubt that
the thing was done. The man’s faith and belief in himself, in the
cleanness and simplicity of his own motives, were gone—and gone in a
single devastating blow from which he had not, and could never, recover.
And, searching for the right thing to say, Mr. Ewing stumbled, as one
always will, upon the one thing he should never have said:
“But you know better than that. You know it’s not so.”
Corey’s answer was not argumentative; it only stated, wearily, the fact
which from the first had seemed to possess his mind:
“No, I don’t know it’s not so. I’ve never been able to give any reasons
for doing the things myself. _You’ve_ asked me why.... I couldn’t tell.”
“Why, it was youth,” said Mr. Ewing, and one can imagine him saying it,
gently, as an old-fashioned physician might offer his homely remedy to a
patient whose knowledge exceeded his own. “Men do those things when
they’re young.”
And Corey, rejecting the simple, old-fashioned cure, made an attempt at
a smile for the kindness in which it was offered. “All men are young,
some time,” he said; “all men don’t do them.”
“But you happened to be the kind who would.” And at this Corey made no
attempt to smile.
“That’s it!” he said. “I _wasn’t_ the kind. I was the kind to stay at
home.... _I_ know that. I was always happier here in Dubuque. And
now—this last— You’d hardly say that was on account of my youth!”
“No—but it had got into your blood.”
Corey at this gave a start and looked up suddenly at Mr. Ewing. “Into my
blood— It’s the very word she used! When she admitted I might not have
known it myself, she said she supposed it was just ‘in my blood’!”
He made a gesture which began violently and ended in futility, and sat
silent, looking off steadily into space, as if hearing again all those
dreadful revelations of hers. And once or twice Mr. Ewing, who sat
helplessly by, waiting, perhaps praying, for some inspiration, made a
valiant but utterly vain effort to put out his hand, to show by some
mere physical act, if no other, his unshaken belief in his friend.
And so, when the need for speech had become imperative, Mr. Ewing found
himself saying something to the effect that these things pass; that she
had only been angry, and had said the first thing that had come into her
mind. And Corey, realizing the extremity into which he had led his
friend, rose and, either ignoring or not hearing, from the depth of the
chasm into which he had fallen, Mr. Ewing’s last remark, made some
hurried attempt at apology, and awkwardly moved toward the door.
Mr. Ewing had only been able to follow after, and say, lamely, and in
spite of himself, that he mustn’t say or do anything he might be sorry
for, and that they would see each other again. And then he stood in the
open door and watched Corey go down the path to the gate, and along the
walk, until he had turned the corner, and so out of sight.
And then he had gone back into the house and spent the remainder of that
afternoon trying to realize what had passed, trying to decide upon what
he should say the next time they met.
But he had reached no conclusion, and in the end had decided to leave it
to chance. And Chance had solved his problem with her usual original
simplicity. She took away the need for his saying anything at all; for
the following day the station cab drove up to Corey’s front gate and
stopped. The driver got down from his seat and went up the walk and into
the house. A moment later he came out again, bearing on his shoulder the
small-size officer’s trunk, the lid forced down now and locked, and in
one hand, dragging slightly, a full dunnage-bag. And after him followed
Corey. And no one followed him. No one came out on the porch to say
good-by. No one stood at the window. The driver put the trunk on the
seat beside him, and the dunnage-bag into the seat beside Corey. And
then, without a word or a sign, they drove away toward the station.
It was understood in Dubuque after the next few days that Corey had gone
to help in the war; he had received an urgent message from France.
And Mr. Ewing received, the day after Corey’s departure, a little note
of farewell, written in pencil, while he was waiting for his train, and
mailed at the station. It said merely good-by, and that he hoped he
would understand.
The next week Mrs. Corey closed up the house and went to Des Moines, to
stay with her people, she said, until her husband’s return.
And that was all Mr. Ewing had ever known of what passed between those
two, of the details that led to the sudden and final decision to go. And
it was all that he had heard of Corey until that day, three months ago,
when there came to him the unexpected letter from the man in New York,
telling of Corey’s death, and of a message and papers he had to deliver.
Mr. Ewing had replied at once that he would go, and had followed his
letter almost immediately. He had seemed to feel, ever since that Sunday
afternoon, when he had failed to be of use, an increasing sense of
responsibility.
He had met the man at his club; and I had, as he told of the meeting, as
he described the man, a curious impression of actually seeing them
there, in the big Fifth Avenue club, sitting in deeply luxurious chairs
and no table between—the gentle, gray-haired, gray-eyed, gray-garbed Mr.
Ewing, who had never been in New York City before; and the other, tall,
very tall, with black hair, black eyes, and brown burned skin, who
looked, Mr. Ewing said, as if he’d done all the things Corey had done.
It had been quite by chance that this man, whose name was Burke, and
Corey had been attached to the same section and were thrown in that way
a good deal together. And his very first statement had shown, with all
the force of the casual phrase, how tremendously Corey had changed.
“A queer fellow,” he said, “no one could understand.” And he was a man,
one would say, well accustomed to the queerest of men.
Mr. Ewing said yes, he supposed one would call him that, and asked just
in what way Burke had thought Corey queer.
And Burke, it seemed, had had more than enough to base the idea upon. He
cast about in his mind to select one out of the many queer things. And
he had hit upon the most revealing one of them all.
Corey, he said, had gone about covered with medals, two rows,
overlapping, on duty and off, all the time. That in itself was queer,
especially for an American. Most men wore bars, but Corey had worn the
whole thing. And yet, Burke said, he was the least egotistical man he
had ever known. And he had seen him wince when other men, passing, had
smiled at sight of his decorations. He could never make it out.
There was no wonder in that. Mr. Ewing, who knew Corey well, and had,
one might say, something to go on, couldn’t make it out. And no more,
for that matter, could I. There was something in it a little bizarre,
and certainly alien. Surely no normal Anglo-Saxon American had ever
indulged in such extremes of self-flagellation as that!
And then, abruptly and unbidden, there came into my mind a story of the
old West, the story of how in the pioneer days a gambler, sitting down
to play solitaire, laid his gun on the table beside him and, if he
caught himself cheating, administered justice first hand by shooting
himself. To be sure, in those days a man was pretty certain of playing a
straight game. Well, so had Corey been, too, sure of the straightness of
_his_ game. And I have heard it vouched for that, even in those robust
times, the thing had been seen to happen, and to come, with just that
appalling simplicity of psychology, from cause to effect, straight, and
without hesitation.
The analogy grew, for Burke averred that the queerest thing of all about
Corey was that he had been the only man he had ever seen lacking
entirely the emotion of fear. He volunteered on every sort of hazardous
enterprise, and came through safe when men beside him were killed, time
after time, protected, they had got to believe, by the inscrutable
quality of his fearlessness. It was, Burke said, as if against some
other secret consideration death to Corey counted nothing at all.
Then there was something a little peculiar in so silent a man having so
many friends. Corey silent! Remembering him, one could hardly credit
that change. Burke qualified that by saying that when he used the word
silent, he didn’t in any sense mean morose. Corey had never been that.
He merely hadn’t, as people somehow seemed to expect him to do, talked.
And what he had meant by “friends” he wished to qualify, too. He hadn’t
meant pals. There had been nothing so active as that. But there were
ways to tell when a man was well liked. For example, no one who knew him
had ever seen anything funny about Corey’s decorations, and they never
talked about it among themselves.
Somebody had once asked Corey how long he had been over the first time.
It was evident that he _had_ been there before, because of the _Croix de
Guerre_ he wore when he came. And Corey had answered, about six weeks,
or a little less.
“And you got the _Croix_ in that time?” An exclamation forced out of the
fellow’s astonishment, and bringing from Corey an answer without a hint
of rebuff, yet certainly nothing that a man could call brag.
“You forget,” he said, with an almost imperceptible glance down at his
two rows of medals—“I knew the ropes.”
The man had afterward said to Burke that he was sorry he’d asked. But he
didn’t see anything to be ashamed of in the _Croix_—and Corey wore it
where a fellow couldn’t help seeing. There was, Burke said, a queer kind
of apology in it. No, there had been nothing like brag in Corey’s
answer. There had been none of that in anything he had done. And he had
been, according to Burke, the best surgeon of them all, the best man at
his work. But of course he had come to disaster in the end. A man can’t
go on ignoring danger like that.
They were stationed at Jubécourt, outside Verdun, and for months the
struggle had raged, attack and counterattack, for the possession of Hill
304. Corey had gone up to the front _poste de secour_ at Esnes, where in
an underground shelter fitted up in what had been the basement of an
ancient château, reduced now to ruins by the German shells, he was
giving first aid to the wounded brought in from the trenches.
Word had come into the _poste_ one night that an officer, lying in a
trench dugout, was too far gone to move. And Corey had volunteered to
go, alone, on foot, along the zigzag communication trench that led to
the dugout, under the incessant shelling, and see what he could do. And
early that morning, about three o’clock, they had been carried in, Corey
and his officer—the only two who had come out of that trench alive.
From the officer they had the story of what Corey had done; not many
words, to be sure, and little embellishment, but such accounts need no
flowers, no figures of speech. The facts are enough, told in gasps, as
this one was, hurriedly, while yet there was strength, as one pays a
debt, all at once, for fear he may never again have gold to pay.
A trench torpedo had found its mark. And Corey, bending above him, had
deliberately braced himself, holding his arms out, and had received in
his stead the exploding pieces of shell. He raised himself on his elbow
to look at Corey, unconscious, on the next stretcher. He wanted it
understood. He sent for an orderly and dictated a message which he
managed to sign, and despatched it post-haste to Staff Headquarters. And
then he resigned himself to the hands of those about him.
The news had come in to Jubécourt by telephone, and just before dawn
Burke had gone up to see what could be done. When he reached the _poste_
Corey had regained consciousness, and was waiting for him. He had sent
word ahead that he was coming. And Corey was wounded, Burke said, in a
way no other man could have withstood. And the “queer” thing now was
that he knew it, and when Burke leaned over him there was a gleam in his
eyes as if he were keeping it there by his own will power.
He seemed relieved then, and began at once—he had saved a surprising
amount of strength—to speak. He knew Burke planned to go to New York,
and he wanted him to deliver some papers. They were in his bag, at
Jubécourt; he told him where he should find the key, and then he asked
Burke to write down Mr. Ewing’s name and address.
It was while Burke was crossing the dim, lamp-lighted room in search of
a pencil or pen that some one had stopped him to say that the General
was coming at eleven to confer upon Corey the _Medaille Militaire_. It
had given Burke a distinct kind of shock. Could it be, he wondered, that
_that_ was what Corey had saved himself for? For Corey knew, as well as
they, that the _Medaille Militaire_ was the one decoration never
conferred upon dead men. He had gone on and borrowed the pen, and on the
way back had asked if he might be allowed to tell Corey. It might, he
said, do him some good. That news had turned the balance for more than
one man.
But when, a few moments later, Burke, receiving permission, had told
Corey his news, he had been for a moment afraid that the balance _had_
turned—and in the wrong way. Corey had seemed hardly to comprehend, and
then a sudden unaccountable change had come over his face.
“The _Medaille_!” he gasped. “What time did you say?”
“Eleven,” Burke told him—“three hours from now.”
He seemed then to be considering something deep within himself, so that
Burke hardly heard when he said, “That’s time enough.” And Burke,
thinking that he had been measuring his strength against the time,
hastened a little awkwardly to reassure him. But Corey, ignoring his
assurance, had seemed to arrive at some secret conclusion.
“Did you put down the name?” he asked.
Burke had forgotten the name, and Corey told him again, patiently,
spelling out the address. He watched while Burke wrote.
“The papers all go to him.” He was silent a moment. Then: “Listen,” he
said. “Will you give him this message for me?”
Burke promised, whatever he wished, word for word.
“Tell him,” he said, “that it breaks a man’s luck to know what he
wants.”
“Yes,” said Burke. “Is there anything else?”
The strength had drained out of Corey’s voice with the last words. Again
he waited while he seemed to decide. And when he spoke, at last, a
strange gentleness had come into his tone, so that Burke was not
surprised to hear that the message was meant now for a woman.
“Tell him,” said Corey, “there’s no use letting _her_ know about the
_Medaille Militaire_.”
And although Burke had divined some obscure meaning in Corey’s words, he
was yet not quite certain that he had heard aright. “You mean that she’s
_not_ to know?”
Corey nodded his head, yes, and Burke saw that he was no longer able to
speak. Turning, he motioned an orderly to his side, and whispered that
he was afraid Corey would never last until eleven.
The orderly sped away, and a moment later the French doctor in charge
stood beside Corey’s stretcher, opening his hypodermic case.
And then, Burke said, he had done what seemed to him the “queerest”
thing of all. He had made a signal for Burke to come nearer, and when he
had leaned down, he said, “Remember to tell him I didn’t take _that_.”
He was looking at the hypodermic the doctor held in his hand.
“But the _Medaille_—” began Burke, and was stopped by the strangeness of
Corey’s expression. He had, he said, smiled a secret mysterious smile,
and closed his eyes with a curious look of contentment.
And even the French doctor had seen, by something in his faint gesture
of refusal, that Corey would never submit to his restorative. He put the
case down on a box, with a nod to the orderly, in case Corey should
change his mind.
And Burke had stayed by until the Division General, just half an hour
too late, had arrived at exactly eleven o’clock. Corey had not changed
his mind....
That, then, was the end of the story.
So much affected was I at the nature of poor Corey’s death that I almost
forgot Mr. Ewing, sitting there across from me in our comfortable
smoking-car, and that he might, in all decency, expect some comment from
me. Indeed, I think I should have forgotten altogether if I had not felt
after a little a relaxation of his long-continued gaze, and I knew he
was going to speak.
“Why,” he said, “do _you_ think he didn’t want her to know?”
So that was the thing which had puzzled him in New York, the thing which
still puzzled him now.
Well, it had puzzled me, too; and I could give him no answer, except to
confess that I didn’t know. But long after the train had passed through
Dubuque, and Mr. Ewing and I had said good-by, an answer, perhaps right,
perhaps wrong, presented itself to my mind.
If one followed Corey at all, one must follow him all the way; perhaps
he had wished to save her the pang of an added disgrace.