Dierdre O'Farrell and I were sitting side by side, our backs to the
door, so it was only as we turned that Herter could have recognized us.
He had no scruple in showing that I was the last person he wished to
meet. One look was enough for him! His pale face--changed and aged since
London--flushed a dark and violent red. Backing out into the hall he
banged the door.
My ears tingled as if they had been boxed. I suppose I've been rather
spoiled by men. Anyhow, not one ever before ran away at sight of me, as
if I were Medusa. I'd been hoping that Doctor Paul and I might meet and
make friends, so this was a blow: and it hurt a little that Dierdre
O'Farrell should see me thus snubbed. I glanced at her; and her faint
smile told that she understood.
Soeur Julie was bewildered for a second, but recovered herself to
explain that Doctor Herter was eccentric and shy of strangers. He came
often from Lunéville to Gerbéviller to tend the poor, refusing payment,
and was so good at heart that we must forgive his odd ways.
"_Spurlos versnubt!_" I heard Puck chuckling to himself; so he, too, was
in the secret of the situation. I half expected him to pretend
ingenuousness, and spring the tale of Dierdre's adventure with Herter on
the company. But he preserved a discreet reticence, more for his own
sake than mine or his sister's, of course. He's as lazy as he is impish,
except when there's some special object to gain, and probably he wished
to avoid the bother of explanations. As for Brian, his extreme
sensitiveness is better than studied tact. I'm sure he felt magnetically
that Dierdre O'Farrell shrank from a reference to her part in the night
air raid. But his silence puzzled her, and I saw her studying him--more
curiously than gratefully, I thought.
We had heard the end of Soeur Julie's story, and had no further excuse
to keep her tied to the duties of hostess. When the Becketts had left
something for the poor of the hospice, we bade the heroine of
Gerbéviller farewell, and started out to regain our automobiles, Julian
O'Farrell suddenly appearing at my side.
"Don't make an excuse that you must walk with your brother," he said.
"He's all right with Dierdre; perhaps just as happy as with you! One
_does_ want a change from the best of sisters now and then."
"Mrs. Beckett----" I began.
"Mrs. Beckett is discussing with Mr. Beckett what they can do for
Gerbéviller, and they'll ask your advice when they want it. No use
worrying. They've boodle enough for all their charities, and for the
shorn lambs, too."
"Do you call yourself a shorn lamb?" I sniffed.
"Certainly. Don't I look it? Good heavens, girl, you needn't basilisk me
so, to see if I do! You glare as if I were some kind of abnormal beast
eating with its eyes, or winking with its mouth."
"You do wink with your mouth," I said.
"You mean I lie? All romantic natures embroider truth. I have a romantic
nature. It's growing more romantic every minute since I met you. I
started this adventure for what I could get out of it. I'm going on to
the end, bitter or sweet, for _les beaux yeux_ of Mary O'Malley. I don't
grudge you the Becketts' blessing, but I don't know why it shouldn't be
bestowed on us both, with Dierdre and Brian in the background throwing
flowers. You didn't love Jim Beckett, for the very good reason that you
never met him: so, if you owe no more debts than those you owe his
memory, you're luckier than----"
It was not I who cut his words short, though I was on the point of
breaking in. Perhaps I should have flung at him the truth about Jim
Beckett if something had not happened to snatch my thoughts from
O'Farrell and his impudence. We had just passed the quarter of the town
saved by Soeur Julie, when out from the gaping doorway of a ruined
house stepped Paul Herter.
He came straight to me, ignoring my companion.
"I was waiting for you," he said. "Will you walk on a little way with
me? There are things I should like to speak about."
All the hurt anger I had felt was gone like the shadow of a flitting
cloud. "Oh, yes!" I exclaimed. "I shall be very, very glad."
Whether O'Farrell had the grace to drop behind, or whether I pushed
ahead I don't know, but next moment Doctor Herter and I were pacing
along, side by side, keeping well ahead of the others, in spite of his
limp.
"I thought I never wanted to see you again, Mary O'Malley," he said;
"but that glimpse I had, in the hospice, showed me my mistake. I
couldn't stand it to be so near and let you go out of my life without a
word--not after seeing your face."
"It makes me happy to hear that," I answered. "I was disappointed when
you avoided me the other night, and--hurt to-day when you slammed the
door."
"How did you know I avoided you? The girl promised to hold her tongue."
"She kept her promise. She was pleased to keep it, because she dislikes
me. But I heard your name next day and understood. I--I heard other
things, too. If you wouldn't be angry, I should like to tell you how
I----"
"Don't tell me."
"I won't then. But I feel very strongly. And you will let me tell you
how grieved I should have been, if--if that slammed door had been the
end between us."
"The end between us was long ago."
"Not in my thoughts, for I never meant to hurt you. I never stopped
being your friend, in spite of all the unkind, unjust things you said to
me. I'm proud now that I had your friendship once, even if I haven't it
now."
"You had everything there was in me--_except_ friendship. Now, of that
everything, only ashes are left. The fires have burnt out. You've heard
what I suppose they call my story, so you know why. If those fires
weren't dead, I shouldn't have dared trust myself to risk this talk with
you. As it is--I let your eyes call me back. Not that they called
consciously. It was the past that called----"
"They _would_ have called consciously if you'd given them time!" I
ventured to smile at him, with a look that asked for kindness. He did
not smile back, but he did not frown. His deep-set eyes, in their hollow
sockets, gazed at me as if they were memorizing each feature.
"You're lovelier than ever, Mary," he said. "There's something different
about your face. You've suffered."
"My brother is blind."
"Ah! There's more than that."
"Yes."
"You loved the son of these rich people the girl told me about? She says
you didn't love him, but she's wrong--isn't she?"
"She's wrong. She knows about things I've done, but nothing about what I
think or feel. I did love Jim Beckett, Doctor Paul. You don't mind being
called by the old name? I've learned how it hurts to love."
"That will do you no harm, Mary. I can speak with you about such things
now, for the spirit of a dead woman stands between us. I didn't love her
when she was alive. But if I hadn't married her and brought her to
France she'd be living now. She died through me--and for me. I think of
her with immense tenderness and--a kind of loyalty; a fierce loyalty. I
don't know if you understand."
"Indeed I do! I almost envy her that brave death."
"We won't talk of her any more now," Herter said with a sigh. "I've a
feeling she wouldn't like us to discuss her, together. She used to
be--jealous of you, poor girl! There are other things I wanted to say.
The first--but you've guessed it already!--is this: the minute I looked
into your face, there in the hospice, I forgave you the pain you made me
suffer. In the first shock of meeting your eyes, I didn't realize that
I'd forgiven. It wasn't till I'd slammed the door that I knew."
I didn't repeat that I had not purposely done anything which needed
forgiveness. I only looked at him with all the kindness and pity in my
heart, and waited until he should go on.
"The second thing I wanted to say is, that just the one look told me you
weren't happy and gay as you used to be. When I'd shut the door, I could
still see you clearly, as if I had the power to look through the wood. I
said to myself, that girl's eyes have got the sadness of the whole world
in them. They seem as if they were begging for help, and didn't know
where on earth it was coming from. Was that a true impression? I waited
to ask you this, even more than to see you again."
"It is true," I confessed. "There's only this difference between my
feelings and your impression of them. I _know_ there's no help on earth
for me. Such help as there is, I get from another place. Do you remember
how I used to talk about the dear Padre who was our guardian--my
brother's and mine--and how I told him nearly everything good and bad
that I thought or did? Well, he went to the front as a chaplain and he
has been killed. But I go on writing him letters, exactly as if he could
give me advice and comfort, or scold me in the old way."
"What about your brother? The girl--Miss O'Farrell she called herself, I
think--said he was with you on this journey. And to-day I recognized him
at Soeur Julie's, from his likeness to you. I shouldn't have guessed
he was blind. He has a beautiful face. Do you get no comfort from him?"
"Much comfort from his presence and love," I said. "But I try to keep
him happy. I don't bother him with my troubles. I won't even let him
talk of them. They're taboo."
"I wish _I_ could help you!" Herter exclaimed.
"Your wish is a help."
"Ah, but I'd like to give more than that! I'm going away--that's the
third thing I wanted to tell you. A little while ago I was glad to be
going (so far as it's in me, nowadays, to be glad of anything) because
I--I've been given a sort of--mission. Since we've had this talk, I'd
put off going if I could. But I can't. Is your brother's case past
cure?"
"It's not absolutely hopeless. Doctor Paul, this is a confidence! It's
to try and cure him that I'm with the Becketts. He doesn't know--and I
can't explain more to you. But a specialist in Paris ordered Brian a
life in the open air, and as much pleasure and interest as possible. You
see, it's the optic nerve that was paralyzed in a strange way by shell
shock. Some day Brian's sight may--just _possibly_ may--come back all of
a sudden."
"Ah, that's interesting. I'm not an oculist, but I know one or two of
the best men, who have made great reputations since this war. Who was
your specialist in Paris?"
I told him.
"A good man," he pronounced, "but I have a friend who is better. I'll
write you a letter to him. You can send it if you choose. That's one
service I can do for you, Mary. It may prove a big one. But I wish there
were something else--something for _you_, yourself. Maybe there will be
one day. Who can tell? If that day comes, I shan't be found wanting or
forgetful."
"It's worth a lot to have met you and had this talk," I said. "It's been
like a warm fire to cold hands. I do hope, dear Doctor Paul, that you're
not going on a dangerous mission?"
He laughed--the quaint laugh I remembered, like a crackling of dry
brushwood. "No more danger for me in it than there is for a bit of
toasted cheese in a rat-trap."
"What a queer comparison!" I said. "It sounds as if you were going to be
a bait to deceive a rat."
"Multiply the singular into the plural, and your quick wit has
deciphered my parable."
"I'm afraid my wit doesn't deserve the compliment. I can't imagine what
your mission really is. Unless----"
"Unless--what? No! Don't let us go any further. Because I mustn't tell
you more, even if you should happen to guess. I've told you almost too
much already. But confidence for confidence. You gave me one. Consider
that I've confided something to you in return. There's just a millionth
chance that my mission--whatever it is--may make me of use to you. Give
me an address that will find you always, and then--I must be going. I
have to return to the hospice and see some patients. No need to write
the directions. Better not, in fact. I shall have no difficulty in
remembering anything that concerns you, even the most complicated
address."
"It's not complicated," I laughed; and gave him the name of the Paris
bankers in whose care the Becketts allow Brian and me to have letters
sent--Morgan Harjes.
He repeated the address after me, and then stopped, holding out his
hand. "That's all," he said abruptly. "I shall be glad, whatever
happens, that I waited, and had this talk with you. Good-bye."
"Good-bye--and good luck in the mission," I echoed.
He pressed my hand so hard that it hurt, and with one last look turned
away. He did not go far, however, but stopped on his way back to ask
Dierdre O'Farrell about her arm. She and Brian (Puck had joined the
Becketts) were only a few paces behind me, and pausing involuntarily I
heard what was said. It was easy to see that Dierdre wished me to hear
her part.
"My arm is going on very well," she informed her benefactor. "I thank
you again for your kindness in attending to it. But I don't think it was
kind to order me to keep a secret, and then give it away yourself. You
made me seem an--ungracious pig and a fool. I shouldn't mind that, if it
did you good, in return for the good you've done me. But since it was
for nothing----"
"I apologize," Herter broke in. "I meant what I said then. But a power
outside myself was too strong for me. Maybe it will be the same for you
some day. Meanwhile, don't make the mistake I made: don't do other
people an injustice."
Leaving Dierdre at bay between anger and amazement, he stared with
professional eagerness into Brian's sightless eyes, and stalked off
toward the hospice.