After a sleepless, uncomfortable night, spent sitting bolt upright in a
compartment of the Paris-Brest train, Kendall arrived at the dirty,
unkempt, unattractive seaport which was his destination. His baggage was
taken from him by the branch of the army which looked after such
matters, and he found his way to the provost’s office, where he showed
his orders and was told to report daily to see if his name was posted in
the list of those to sail. No further information was given him as to
the date of his departure nor the vessel upon which he should sail.
He secured a room at the Continental Hôtel, the best the city afforded,
and found it unspeakable—and then for six interminable days he wandered
about the town, waiting, waiting for the convoy which seemed destined
never to arrive. He played innumerable games of bridge, walked a dozen
times a day to a vantage-point on the old fortifications from which he
could gain a panoramic view of the harbor and its jostling craft.... Far
out at the entrance swayed and tossed an observation balloon, keeping
ceaseless watch of the sea for lurking submarines....
No vessels came save one, the torpedoed _Mt. Vernon_, which had sailed
early on the morning of his arrival. It staggered into port with a great
hole in its side, and presently disappeared into dry dock farther into
the bay.... Then the report spread that cholera had broken out in the
town and was magnified to appalling proportions.... There was nothing to
do but play bridge and walk to the harbor to look for an incoming
convoy, and to eat and sleep. It was maddening....
The harbor ceased to be interesting. German prisoners compelled to labor
on the docks became commonplace; scurrying destroyers failed to stir the
imagination.... And then one morning Ken walked to his usual
vantage-point and saw at anchor the gigantic _Leviathan_....
Presently orders were posted and his name appeared upon the list. He was
to report himself with his hand-baggage at a certain point early next
morning.... The morning was overcast and cold, with a chilling, slanting
drizzle of rain, and everybody was out of spirits and uncomfortable as
they waited for the lighter to carry them out to the transport. There
was no shelter, and they stood about the deck of the little boat, backs
to the slashing rain, for no sooner had they left the wharf than the
rain descended in earnest.
Finally they were on board and were assigned to rooms, but this was not
the end of the waiting. Forty-eight hours remained while the vessel was
being coaled, but at last she started, a consort on either side and a
flock of destroyers for convoy.
The voyage was not unpleasant, and it was interesting, at least, to
watch the little destroyers plunging and rolling through the great waves
until one night they disappeared and left the three transports alone....
There were six days and a half of plowing westward through the Atlantic,
days when one wore constantly his life-jacket and rather expected to
hear at any moment the detonation of the defensive guns or the explosion
of a torpedo against the vessel’s sides.... But at last land came into
view—only to be obscured by fog that compelled the _Leviathan_ to crawl
along, feeling her way with the lead.... And then, as suddenly as it had
come, the fog vanished and they were in the harbor, with the Goddess
visible ahead and the sky-line of the metropolis over to the right....
Nobody left the deck. It was an experience and every man wanted to feel
every second of it, witness every manifestation of it.... Vessels
cheered them and they cheered in return.... It was America—home. They
had been to the war and had returned, some of them battered, broken, but
nevertheless returned. It was exhilarating, wonderful.
An early morning ferry-boat, crowded with civilians, ran under their
bows, and some competent individual led the cheering. _Crash, crash,
crash_, sounded the enthusiastic welcome of those who had remained
behind, and every man on the transport knew that those cheers were for
_him_....
The great vessel swung about and docked by the aid of snorting, grunting
tugs, and after more delays and formalities they set foot on shore....
Kendall went directly to the Pennsylvania station to book a lower berth
for Washington.
A week later he was in Detroit on furlough—in his old home, amid
familiar surroundings ... under his own roof with his father and mother.
It was very much the same. The war touched the life of the city but
lightly. It was all as he remembered it, all as he had expected it to be
... and Paris and the distant war seemed to be matters that had occurred
in a dream.... On Sunday he went to church with his mother and father
and received the homage and congratulations of the vestibule....
That afternoon he went to his room to write—to write the promised letter
to Andree. It was not easy ... for the decision had not yet been made.
He wrote and destroyed and wrote again. He promised to return; he
assured her of his love ... but when he read he was not satisfied.... He
was in Detroit, in another world, and Andree did not belong to that
world. He was surprised to find how well this world satisfied him and
how unreal that other world he had known and loved had become.... This
was _his_ world, these were the things _he_ was meant to do and the
thoughts _he_ was meant to think. This was America, and he was an
American!...
He tried to think of Paris, to get back again into the spirit of Paris,
but could not do so.... It had become unreal, distant, not appealing....
But Andree ... she was not unreal, not distant. She was very real,
present in his heart—and yet she was of that other world, a stranger, an
alien.... He loved her—but—There was always that _but_.
He wrote still another letter and read it. Yes, he had decided. He could
not give her up. He would bring her here and let the consequences be
what they might.... The letter was placed in its envelop and he drew out
his note-book to look for her address.... It was there, those written
words which should forever remove Andree from the land of lovely
mystery.... But he did not open the book. It lay in his hand, but he
dared not open it.... He went to the window and looked out upon the
street, that typically American, typically Middle-Western street.... He
stood so for many minutes, then walked toward the fireplace and tossed
the note-book into the blaze.... The thing was done, the decision was
made and was irrevocable ... and Andree would always remain a glowing
mystery....
He went again to his desk and wrote another letter. It was brief:
DEAR MAUDE—There is no woman in my life but you. When you come
home I shall come to you for my answer.
He inclosed it, addressed it, stamped it, and went out to the post-box
on the corner. Even now he hesitated a moment, but it was only a
moment.... The letter dropped inside. It could not be recalled.
But he did not move from the spot. For a long time he stood staring
before him with eyes that did not see the typically American street,
with a consciousness that did not feel his typically Middle-Western
surroundings.... What he felt was that something true and faithful and
beautiful had found a place in his life never to be removed. What he saw
was a vision of Andree, waiting ... waiting....
THE END