Mildred's big, heavily furnished room was as softly lighted as usual. As
usual, she herself, in white, with a rug across her feet, lay on her
couch, withdrawn from the rest. She never liked to have any one near
her, unless it was Hugh; she never entered into general talk. When
others were present she remained silent, as she did on this evening.
Whatever passed through her mind she gave out to individuals when she
was alone with them.
The rest of the party were scattered about, standing or sitting. There
were Jack and Pauline, Jim and Ethel Rossiter, Mrs. Billing, Mrs.
Brokenshire, Cissie Boscobel, who was now staying with the Brokenshires,
and Hugh. The two banker guests had gone back to the smoking-room. As I
entered, Mr. Brokenshire was standing in his customary position of
command, a little like a pasha in his seraglio, his back to the empty
fireplace. With his handsome head and stately form, he would have been a
truly imposing figure had it not been for his increased stoutness and
the occasional working of his face.
I had come up-stairs with some elation. The evening might have been
called mine. Most of the men, on rejoining us in the drawing-room, had
sought a word with me, and those who didn't know me inquired who I was.
I could hardly help the hope that Mr. Brokenshire might see I was worth
my salt, and that on becoming a member of his family I should bring my
contribution.
But on the way up-stairs Hugh gave me a hint that in that I might be
mistaken.
"Well, little Alix, you certainly gave poor old dad a shock this time."
"A shock?" I asked, in not unnatural astonishment.
"Your fireworks."
"Fireworks! What on earth do you mean?"
"It's always a shock when fireworks go off too close to you; and
especially when it's in church."
As we had reached the door of Mildred's room, I searched my conduct
during dinner to see in what I had offended.
It is possible my entry might have passed unnoticed if Mrs. Brokenshire,
with the kindest intentions, had not come forward to the threshold and
taken me by the hand. As if making a presentation, she led me toward the
august figure before the fireplace.
"Our little girl," she said, in the hope of doing me a good turn,
"distinguished herself to-night, didn't she?"
He must have been stung to sudden madness by the sight of the two of us
together. In general he controlled himself in public. He was often
cruel, but with a quiet subtle cruelty to which even the victims often
didn't know how to take exception. But to-night the long-gathering fury
of passion was incapable of further restraint. Behind it there was all
the explosive force of a lifetime of pride, complacence, and self-love.
The exquisite creature--a vision of soft rose, with six strings of
pearls--who was parading her bargain, as you might say, without having
paid for it, excited him to the point of frenzy. I saw later, what I
didn't understand at the time, that he was striking at her through me.
He was willing enough to strike at me, since I was the nobody who had
forced herself into his family; but she was his first aim.
Having looked at me disdainfully, he disdainfully looked away.
"She certainly gave us an exhibition!" he said, with his incisive,
whip-lash quietude.
Mrs. Brokenshire dropped my hand.
"Oh, Howard!"
I think she backed away toward the nearest chair. I was vaguely
conscious of curious eyes in the dimness about me as I stood alone
before my critic.
"I'm sorry if I've done anything wrong, Mr. Brokenshire," I said,
meekly. "I didn't mean to."
He looked over my head, speaking casually, as one who takes no interest
in the subject.
"All the great stupidities have been committed by people who didn't mean
to--but there they are!"
I continued to be meek.
"I didn't know I had been stupid."
"The stupid never do."
"And I don't think I have been," I added, with rising spirit.
Though there was consternation in the room behind me, Mr. Brokenshire
merely said:
"Unfortunately, you must let others judge of that."
"But how?" I insisted. "If I have been, wouldn't it be a kindness on
your part to tell me in what way?"
He pretended not merely indifference, but reluctance.
"Isn't that obvious?"
"Not to me--and I don't think to any one else."
"What do you call it when one--you compel me to speak frankly--what do
you call it when one exposes one's ignorance of--of fundamental things
before a roomful of people who've never set eyes on one before?"
Since no one, not even Hugh, was brave enough to stand up for me, I had
to do it for myself.
"But I didn't know I had."
"Probably not. It's what I warned you of, if you'll take the trouble to
remember. I said--or it amounted to that--that until you'd learned the
ways of the people who are generally recognized as _comme il faut_,
you'd be wise in keeping yourself--unobtrusive."
"And may I ask whether one becomes obtrusive merely in talking of public
affairs?"
"You'll pardon me for giving you a lesson before others; but, since you
invite it--"
"Quite so, Mr. Brokenshire, I do invite it."
"Then I can only say that in what we call good society we become
obtrusive in talking of things we know nothing about."
"But surely one can set an idea going, even if one hasn't sounded all
its depths. And as for the relations between this country and the
British Empire--"
"Well-bred women leave such subjects to statesmen."
"Yes; we've done so. We've left them to statesmen and"--I couldn't
resist the temptation to say it--"and we've left them to financiers; but
we can't look at Europe and be proud of the result. We women, well bred
or otherwise, couldn't make things worse even if we were to take a hand;
and we might make them better."
He was not moved from his air of slightly bored indifference.
"Then you must wait for women with some knowledge of the subject."
"But, Mr. Brokenshire, I have some knowledge of the subject! Though I'm
neither English nor American, I'm both. I've only to shift from one side
of my mind to the other to be either. Surely, when it comes to the
question of a link between the two countries I love I'm qualified to put
in a plea for it."
I think his nerves were set further on edge because I dared to argue the
point, though he would probably have been furious if I had not. His tone
was still that of a man deigning no more than to fling out an occasional
stinging remark.
"As a future member of my family, you're not qualified to make yourself
ridiculous before my friends. To take you humorously was the kindest
thing they could do."
I saw an opportunity.
"Then wouldn't it be equally kind, sir, if you were to follow their
example?"
Mrs. Billing's hen-like crow came out of the obscurity:
"She's got you there!"
The sound incited him. He became not more irritable, but cruder.
"Unhappily, that's beyond my power. I have to blush for my son Hugh."
Hugh spoke out of the darkness, his voice trembling with the fear of his
own hardihood in once more braving Jove.
"Oh no, dad! You must take that back."
The father wheeled round in the new direction. He was losing command of
the ironic courtesy he secured by his air of indifference, and growing
coarser.
"My poor boy! I can't take it back. You're like myself--in that you can
only be fooled when you put your trust in a woman."
It was Mrs. Brokenshire's turn:
"Howard--please!"
In the cry there was the confession of the woman who has vowed and not
paid, and yet begs to be spared the blame.
Jack Brokenshire sprang to his feet and hurried forward, laying his hand
on his father's arm.
"Say, dad--"
But Mr. Brokenshire shook off the hand, refusing to be placated. He
looked at his wife, who had risen, confusedly, from her chair and was
backing away from him to the other side of the room.
"I said poor Hugh was being fooled by a woman; and he is. He's marrying
some one who doesn't care a hang about him and who's in love with
another man. He may not be the first in the family to do that, but I
merely make the statement that he's doing it."
Hugh leaped forward.
"She's not in love with another man!"
"Ask her."
He clutched me by the wrist.
"You're not, are you?" he pleaded. "Tell father you're not."
I was so sorry for Hugh that I hardly thought of myself. I was benumbed.
The suddenness of the attack had been like a blow from behind that stuns
you without taking away your consciousness. In any case Mr. Brokenshire
gave me no time, for he laughed gratingly.
"She can't do that, my boy, because she is. Everybody knows it. I know
it--and Ethel and Mildred and Cissie. They're all here and they can
contradict me if I'm saying what isn't so."
"But she may not know it herself," Mrs. Billing croaked. "A girl is
often the last to make that discovery."
"Ask her."
Hugh obeyed, still clutching my wrist.
"I'm asking you, little Alix. You're not, are you?"
I could say nothing. Apart from the fact that I didn't knew what to say,
I was dumbfounded by the way in which it had all come upon me. The only
words that occurred to me were:
"I think Mr. Brokenshire is ill."
Oddly enough. I was convinced of that. It was the one assuaging fact. He
might hate me, but he wouldn't have made me the object of this mad-bull
rush if he had been in his right mind. He was not in his right mind; he
was merely a blood-blinded animal as he went on:
"Ask her again, Hugh. You're the only one she's been able to keep in the
dark; but then"--his eyes followed his wife, who was still slowly
retreating--"but then that's nothing new. She'll let you believe
anything--till she gets you. That's always the game with women of the
sort. But once you're fast in her clutches--then, my boy, look out!"
I heard Pauline whisper, "Jack, for Heaven's sake, do something!"
Once more Jack's hand was laid on his parent's arm, with his foolish
"Say, dad--"
Once more the restraining hand was shaken off. The cutting tones were
addressed to Hugh:
"You see what a hurry she's been in to be married, don't you? How many
times has she asked you to do it up quick? She's been afraid that you'd
slip through her fingers." He turned toward me. "Don't be alarmed, my
dear. We shall keep our word. You've worked hard to capture the
position, and I shall not deny that you've been clever in your attacks.
You deserve what you've won, and you shall have it. But all in good
time. Don't rush. The armies in Europe are showing us that you must
intrench yourself where you are if you want, in the end, to push
forward. You push a little too hard."
Poor Hugh had gone white. He was twisting my wrist as if he would wring
it off, though I felt no pain till afterward.
"Tell me!" he whispered. "Tell me! You're--you're not marrying me
for--for my money, are you?"
I could have laughed hysterically.
"Hugh, don't be an idiot!" came, scornfully, from Ethel Rossiter.
I could see her get up, cross the room, and sit down on the edge of
Mildred's couch, where the two engaged in a whispered conversation. Jim
Rossiter, too, got up and tiptoed his sleek, slim person out of the
room. Cissie Boscobel followed him. They talked in low tones at the head
of the stairs outside. I found voice at last:
"No, Hugh; I never thought of marrying you for that reason. I was doing
it only because it seemed to me right."
Mr. Brokenshire emitted a sound, meant to be a laugh:
"Right! Oh, my God!"
Mrs. Brokenshire was now no more than a pale-rose shadow on the farther
side of the room, but she came to my aid:
"She was, Howard. Please believe her. She was, really!"
"Thanks, darling, for the corroboration! It comes well from you. Where
there's a question of right you're an authority."
Mrs. Billing's hoarse, prolonged "Ha-a!" implied every shade of
comprehension. I saw the pale-rose shadow sink down on a sofa, all in a
little heap, like something shot with smokeless powder.
Hugh was twisting my wrist again and whispering:
"Alix, tell me. Speak! What are you marrying me for? What about the
other fellow? Is it Strangways? Speak!"
"I've given you the only answer I can, Hugh. If you can't believe in my
doing right--"
"What were you in such a hurry for? Was that the reason--what dad
says--that you were afraid you wouldn't--hook me?"
I looked him hard in the eye. Though we were speaking in the lowest
possible tones, there was a sudden stillness in the room, as though
every one was hanging on my answer.
"Have I ever given you cause to suspect me of that?" I asked, after
thinking of what I ought to say.
Three words oozed themselves out like three drops of his own blood. They
were the distillation of two years' uncertainty:
"Well--sometimes--yes."
Either he dropped my wrist or I released myself. I only remember that I
was twisting the sapphire-and-diamond ring on my finger.
"What made you think so?" I asked, dully.
"A hundred things--everything!" He gave a great gasp. "Oh, little Alix!"
Turning away suddenly, he leaned his head against the mantelpiece, while
his shoulders heaved.
It came to me that this was the moment to make an end of it all; but I
saw Mrs. Rossiter get up from her conference with Mildred and come
forward. She did it leisurely, pulling up one shoulder of her decollete
gown as she advanced.
"Hugh, don't be a baby!" she said, in passing. "Father, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself!"
If the heavens had fallen my amazement might have been less. She went on
in a purely colloquial tone, extricating the lace of her corsage from a
spray of diamond flowers as she spoke:
"I'll tell you why she was marrying Hugh. It was for two or three
reasons, every one of them to her credit. Any one who knows her and
doesn't see that must be an idiot. She was marrying him, first, because
he was kind to her. None of the rest of us was, unless it was Mrs.
Brokenshire; and she was afraid to show it for fear you'd jump on her,
father. The rest of us have treated Alix Adare like brutes. I know I
have."
"Oh no!" I protested, though I could scarcely make myself audible.
"But Hugh was nice to her. He was nice to her from the start. And she
couldn't forget it. No nice girl would. When he asked her to marry him
she felt she had to. And then, when he put up his great big bluff of
earning a living--"
"It wasn't a bluff," Hugh contradicted, his face still buried in his
hands.
"Well, perhaps it wasn't," she admitted, imperturbably. "If you, father,
hadn't driven him to it with your heroics--"
"If you call it heroics that I should express my will--"
"Oh your will! You seem to think that no one's got a will but you. Here
we are, all grown up, two of us married, and you still try to keep us as
if we were five years old. We're sick of it, and it's time some of us
spoke. Jack's afraid to, and Mildred's too good; so it's up to me to say
what I think."
Mr. Brokenshire's first shock having passed, he got back something of
his lordly manner, into which he threw an infusion of the misunderstood.
"And you've said it sufficiently. When my children turn against me--"
"Nonsense, father! Your children don't do anything of the sort. We're
perfect sheep. You drive us wherever you like. But, however much we can
stand ourselves, we can't help kicking when you attack some one who
doesn't quite belong to us and who's a great deal better than we are."
Mrs. Billing crowed again:
"Brava, Ethel! Never supposed you had the pluck."
Ethel turned her attention to the other side of her corsage.
"Oh, it isn't a question of pluck; it's one of exasperation. Injustice
after a while gets on one's nerves. I've had a better chance of knowing
Alix Adare than any one; and you can take it from me that, when it comes
to a question of breeding, she's the genuine pearl and we're only
imitations--all except Mildred."
Both of Mr. Brokenshire's handsome hands went up together. He took a
step forward as if to save Mrs. Rossiter from a danger.
"My daughter!"
The pale-rose heap on the other side of the room raised its dainty head.
"It's true, Howard; it's true! Please believe it!"
Ethel went on in her easy way:
"If Alix Adare has made any mistake it's been in ignoring her own
wishes--I may say her own heart--in order to be true to us. The Lord
knows she can't have respected us much, or failed to see that, judged by
her standards, we're as common as grass when you compare it to orchids.
But because she is an orchid she couldn't do anything but want to give
us back better than she ever got from us; and so--"
"Oh no; it wasn't that!" I tried to interpose.
"It's no dishonor to her not to be in love with Hugh," she pursued,
evenly. "She may have thought she was once; but what girl hasn't thought
she was in love a dozen times? A fine day in April will make any one
think it's summer already; but when June comes they know the difference.
It was April when Hugh asked her; and now it's June. I'll confess for
her. She is in love with--"
"Please!" I broke in.
She gave me another surprise.
"Do run and get me my fan. It's over by Mildred. There's a love!"
I had to do her bidding. The picture of the room stamped itself on my
brain, though I didn't think of it at the time. It seemed rather empty.
Jack had retired to one window, where he was smoking a cigarette;
Pauline was at another, looking out at the moonlight on the water. Mrs.
Billing sat enthroned in the middle, taking a subordinate place for
once. Mrs. Brokenshire was on the sofa by the wall. The murmur of
Ethel's voice, but no words, reached me as I stooped beside Mildred's
couch to pick up the fan.
The invalid took my hand. Her voice had the deep, low murmur of the sea.
"You must forgive my father."
"I do," I was able to say. "I--I like him in spite of everything--"
"And as for my brother, you'll remember what we agreed upon once--that
where we can't give all, our first consideration must be the value of
what we withhold."
I thanked her and went back with the fan. As I passed Mrs. Billing she
snapped at me, with the enigmatic words:
"You're a puss!"
When I drew near to the group by the fireplace, Mrs. Rossiter was saying
to Hugh:
"And as for her marrying you for your money--well, you're crazy! I
suppose she likes money as well as anybody else; but she would have
married you to be loyal. She would have married you two months ago if
father had been willing; and if you'd been willing you could now have
been in England or France together, trying to do some good. If a woman
marries one man when she's in love with another the right or the wrong
depends on her motives. Who knows but what I may have done it myself? I
don't say I haven't. And so--"
But I had taken off the ring on my way across the room. Having returned
the fan to Ethel, I went up to Hugh, who looked round at me over his
shoulder.
"Hugh, darling," I said, very softly, "I feel that I ought to give you
back this."
He put out his hand mechanically, not thinking of what I was about to
offer. On seeing it he drew back his hand quickly, and the ring dropped
on the floor. I can hear it still, rolling with a little rattle among
the fire-irons.
In making my curtsy to Mr. Brokenshire I raised my eyes to his face. It
seemed to me curiously stricken. After all her years of submission Mrs.
Rossiter's rebellion must have made him feel like an autocrat dethroned.
I repeated my curtsy to Mrs. Billing, who merely stared at me through
her lorgnette--to Jack and Pauline, who took no notice, who perhaps
didn't see me--to Mrs. Brokenshire, who was again a little rose-colored
heap--and to Mildred, who raised her long, white hand.
In the hall outside Cissie Boscobel rose and came toward me.
"You must look after Hugh," I said to her, breathlessly, as I sped on my
way.
She did. As I hurried down the stairs I heard her saying:
"No, Hugh, no! She wants to go alone."
POSTSCRIPT
I am writing in the dawn of a May morning in 1917.
Before me lies a sickle of white beach some four or five miles in curve.
Beyond that is the Atlantic, a mirror of leaden gray. Woods and fields
bank themselves inland; here a dewy pasture, there a stretch of plowed
earth recently sown and harrowed; elsewhere a grove of fir or maple or a
hazel copse. From a little wooden house on the other side of the
crescent of white sand a pillar of pale smoke is going straight up into
the windless air. In the woods round me the birds, which have only just
arrived from Florida, from the West Indies, from Brazil, are chirruping
sleepily. They will doze again presently, to awake with the sunrise into
the chorus of full song. Halifax lies some ten or twelve miles to the
westward. This house is my uncle's summer residence, which he has lent
to my husband and me for the latter's after-cure.
I am used to being up at this hour, or at any hour, owing to my
experience in nursing. As a matter of fact, I am restless with the
beginning of day, fearing lest my husband may need me. He is in the next
room. If he stirs I can hear him. In this room my baby is sleeping in
his little bassinet. It is not the bassinet of my dreams, nor is this
the white-enameled nursery, nor am I wearing a delicate lace peignoir.
It is all much more beautiful than that, because it is as it is. My
baby's name is John Howard Brokenshire Strangways, though we shorten it
to Broke, which, in the English fashion, we pronounce Brook.
You will see why I wanted to call him by this name; but for that I must
hark back to the night when I returned the ring to dear Hugh Brokenshire
and fled. It is like a dream to me now, that night; but a dream still
vivid enough to recall.
On escaping Hugh and making my way down-stairs I was lucky enough to
find Thomas, my rosebud footman knight. Poor lad! The judgment trumpet
was sounding for him, as for Franz Ferdinand and Sophie Chotek and the
rest of us. He went back to England shortly after that and was killed
the next year at the Dardanelles. But there he was for the moment,
standing with the wraps of the Rossiter party.
"Thomas, call the motor," I said, hurriedly. "Be quick! I'm going home,
alone, and you must come with me. I've things for you to do. Mr. Jack
Brokenshire will bring Mrs. Rossiter."
On the way I explained my program to him through the window. I had been
called suddenly to New York. There was a train from Boston to that city
which would stop at Providence at two. I thought there was one from
Newport to Providence about twelve-thirty, and it was now a quarter past
eleven. If there was such a train I must take it; if there wasn't, the
motor must run me up to Providence, for which there was still time. I
should delay only long enough to pack a suit-case. For the use I was
making of him and the chauffeur, as well as of the vehicle, I should be
responsible to my hosts.
Both the men being my tacitly sworn friends, there was no questioning of
my authority. I fell back, therefore, into the depths of the limousine
with the first sense of relief I had had since the day I accepted my
position with Mrs. Rossiter. Something seemed to roll off me. I realized
all at once that I had never, during the whole of the two years, been
free from that necessity of picking my steps which one must have in
walking on a tight-rope. Now it was delicious. I could have wished that
the drive along Ochre Point Avenue had been thirty times as long.
For Hugh I had no feeling of compunction. It was so blissful to be free.
Cissie Boscobel, I knew, would make up to him for all I had failed to
give, and would give more. Let me say at once that when, a few weeks
later, the man Lady Janet Boscobel was engaged to had also been killed
at the front, and her parents had begged Cissie to go home, Hugh was her
escort on the journey. It was the beginning of an end which I think is
in sight, of a healing which no one wishes so eagerly as I.
For the last two years Cissie has been mothering Belgian children
somewhere in the neighborhood of Poperinghe, and Hugh has been in the
American Ambulance Corps before Verdun. That was Cissie's work, made
easier, perhaps, by some recollection he retained of me. When he has a
few days' leave--so Ethel Rossiter writes me--he spends it at
Goldborough Castle or Strath-na-Cloid. I ran across Cissie when for a
time I was helping in first-aid work not far behind the lines at Neuve
Chapelle.
I had been taking care of her brother Rowan--Lord Ovingdean, he calls
himself now, hesitating to follow his brother as Lord Leatherhead, and
using one of his father's other secondary titles--and she had come to
see him. I hadn't supposed till then that we were such friends. We
talked and talked and talked, and still would have gone on talking. I
can understand what she sees in Hugh, though I could never feel it for
him with her intensity. I hope her devotion will be rewarded soon, and
I think it will.
I had a premonition of this as I drove along Ochre Point Avenue that
night. It helped me to the joy of liberty, to rightness of heart. As I
threw the things into my suit-case I could have sung. Seraphine, who was
up, waiting for her mistress, being also my friend, promised to finish
my packing after I had gone, so that Mrs. Rossiter would have nothing to
do but send my boxes after me. It couldn't have been half an hour after
my arrival at the house before I was ready to drive away again.
I was in the down-stairs hall, going out to the motor, when a great
black form appeared in the doorway. My knees shook under me; my
happiness came down like a shot bird. Mr. Brokenshire advanced and stood
under the many-colored Oriental hall lantern. I clung for support to the
pilaster that finished the balustrade of the stairway.
There was gentleness in his voice, in spite of its whip-lash abruptness.
"Where are you going?"
I could hardly reply, my heart pounded with such fright.
"To--to New York, sir."
"What for?"
"Be-because," I faltered. "I want to--to get away."
"Why do you want to get away?"
"For--for every reason."
"But suppose I don't want you to go?"
"I should still have to be gone."
He said in a hoarse whisper:
"I want you to stay--and--and marry Hugh."
I clasped my hands.
"Oh, but how can I?"
"He's willing to forget what you've said--what my daughter Ethel has
said; and I'm willing to forget it, too."
"Do you mean as to my being in love with some one else? But I am."
"Not more than you were at the beginning of the evening. You were
willing to marry him then."
"But he didn't know then what he's had to learn since. I hoped to have
kept it from him always. I may have been wrong--I suppose I was; but I
had nothing but good motives."
There was a strange drop in his voice as he said, "I know you hadn't."
I couldn't help taking a step nearer him.
"Oh, do you? Then I'm so glad. I thought--"
He turned slightly away from me, toward a huge ugly fish in a glass
case, which Mr. Rossiter believed to be a proof of his sportsmanship and
an ornament to the hall.
"I've had great trials," he said, after a pause--"great trials!"
[Illustration: "I'VE HAD GREAT TRIALS . . . I'VE ALWAYS BEEN MISJUDGED.
. . . THEY'VE PUT ME DOWN AS HARD AND PROUD"]
"I know," I agreed, softly.
He walked toward the fish and seemed to be studying it.
"They've--they've--broken me down."
"Oh, don't say that, sir!"
"It's true." His finger outlined the fish's skeleton from head to tail.
"The things I said to-night--" He seemed hung up there. He traced the
fish's skeleton back from tail to head. "Have we been unkind to you?" he
demanded, suddenly, wheeling round in my direction.
I thought it best to speak quite truthfully.
"Not unkind, sir--exactly."
"But what did Ethel mean? She said we'd been brutes to you. Is that
true?"
"No, sir; not in my sense. I haven't felt it."
He tapped his foot with the old imperiousness. "Then--what?"
We were so near the fundamentals that again I felt I ought to give him
nothing but the facts.
"I suppose Mrs. Rossiter meant that sometimes I should have been glad of
a little more sympathy, and always of more--courtesy." I added: "From
you, sir, I shouldn't have asked for more than courtesy."
Though only his profile was toward me and the hall was dim, I could see
that his face was twitching. "And--and didn't you get it?"
"Do you think I did?"
"I never thought anything about it."
"Exactly; but any one in my position does. Even if we could do without
courtesy between equals--and I don't think we can--from the higher to
the lower--from you to me, for instance--it's indispensable. I don't
remember that I ever complained of it, however. Mrs. Rossiter must have
seen it for herself."
"I didn't want you to marry Hugh," he began, again, after a long pause;
"but I'd given in about it. I shouldn't have minded it so much if--if my
wife--"
He broke off with a distressful, choking sound in the throat, and a
twisting of the head, as if he couldn't get his breath. That passed and
he began once more.
"I've had great trials. . . . My wife! . . . And then the burden of this
war. . . . They think--they think I don't care anything about it
but--but just to make money. . . . I've always been misjudged. . . .
They've put me down as hard and proud, when--"
"I could have liked you, sir," I interrupted, boldly. "I told you so
once, and it offended you. But I've never been able to help it. I've
always felt that there was something big and fine in you--if you'd only
set it free."
His reply to this was to turn away from his contemplation of the fish
and say:
"Why don't you come back?"
I was sure it was best to be firm.
"Because I can't, sir. The episode is--is over. I'm sorry, and yet I'm
glad. What I'm doing is right. I suppose everything has been right--even
what happened between me and Hugh. I don't think it will do him any
harm--Cissie Boscobel is there--and it's done me good. It's been a
wonderful experience; but it's over. It would be a mistake for me to go
back now--a mistake for all of us. Please let me go, sir; and just
remember of me that I'm--I'm--grateful."
He regarded me quietly and--if I may say so--curiously. There was
something in his look, something broken, something defeated, something,
at long last, kind, that made me want to cry.
I was crying inwardly when he turned about, without another word, and
walked toward the door.
It must have been the impulse to say a silent good-by to him that sent
me slowly down the hall, though I was scarcely aware of moving. He had
gone out into the dark and I was under the Oriental lamp, when he
suddenly reappeared, coming in my direction rapidly. I would have leaped
back if I hadn't refused to show fear. As it was, I stood still. I was
only conscious of an overwhelming pity, terror, and amazement as he
seized me and kissed me hotly on the brow. Then he was gone.
But it was that kiss which made all the difference in my afterthought of
him. It was a confession on his part, too, and a bit of self-revelation.
Behind it lay a nature of vast, splendid qualities--strong, noble,
dominating, meant to be used for good--all ruined by self-love. Of the
Brokenshire family, of whom I am so fond and to whom I owe so much, he
was the one toward whom, by some blind, spontaneous, subconscious
sympathy of my own, I have been most urgently attracted. If his soul was
twisted by passions as his face became twisted by them, too--well, who
is there among us of whom something of the sort may not be said; and yet
God has patience with us all.
Howard Brokenshire and I were foes, and we fought; but we fought as so
many thousands, so many millions, have fought in the short time since
that day; we fought as those who, when the veils are suddenly stripped
away, when they are helpless on the battle-field after the battle, or on
hospital cots lined side by side, recognize one another as men and
brethren. And so, when my baby was born I called him after him. I wanted
the name as a symbol--not only to myself, but to the Brokenshire
family--that there was no bitterness in my heart.
At present let me say that, though pained, I was scarcely surprised to
read in the New York papers on the following afternoon that Mr. J.
Howard Brokenshire, the eminent financier, had, on the previous evening,
been taken with a paralytic seizure while in his motor on the way from
his daughter's house to his own. He was conscious when carried indoors,
but he had lost the power of speech. The doctors indicated overwork in
connection with foreign affairs as the predisposing cause.
From Mrs. Rossiter I heard as each successive shock overtook him. Very
pitifully the giant was laid low. Very tenderly--so Ethel has written
me--Mrs. Brokenshire has watched over him--and yet, I suppose, with a
terrible tragic expectation in her heart, which no one but myself, and
perhaps Stacy Grainger, can have shared with her. Howard Brokenshire
died on that early morning when his country went to war.
I stayed in New York just long enough to receive my boxes from Newport.
On getting out of the train at Halifax Larry Strangways received me in
his arms.
And this time I saw no little dining-room, with myself seating the
guests; I saw no bassinet and no baby. I saw nothing but him. I knew
nothing but him. He was all to me. It was the difference.
And not the least of my surprises, when I came to find out, was the fact
that it was Jim Rossiter who had sent him there--Jim Rossiter, whom I
had rather despised as a selfish, cat-like person, with not much thought
beyond "ridin' and racin'," and pills and medicinal waters. That was
true of him; and yet he took the trouble to get into touch with Stacy
Grainger--as a Brokenshire only by affinity, he could do it--to use his
influence at Washington and Ottawa to get Larry Strangways a week's
leave from Princess Patricia's regiment--to watch over my movements in
New York and know the train I should take--and wire to Larry Strangways
the hour of my arrival. When I think of it I grow maudlin at the thought
of the good there is in every one.
We were married within the week at the old church which was once a
center for Loyalist refugees from New England, beneath which some of
them lie buried, and where I was baptized. When my husband returned to
Valcartier I went--to be near him--to Quebec. After he sailed for
England I, too, sailed, and met him there. I kept near him in England,
taking such nursing training as I could while he trained in other ways.
I was not many miles away from him when, in the spring of the next
year, he was badly cut up at Bois Grenier, near Neuve Chapelle.
He was one of the two or three Canadians to hold a listening post
half-way between the hostile lines, where they could hear the slightest
movement of the enemy and signal back. A Maxim swept the dugout at
intervals, and now and then a shell burst near them. My husband was
wounded in a leg and his right arm was shattered.
When I was permitted to see him at Amiens the arm had been taken off and
the doctors were doing what they could to save the leg. Fortunately,
they have succeeded; and now he walks with no more than a noticeable
limp. He is a captain in Princess Patricia's regiment and a D. S. O.
Later he was taken to the American Women's Hospital, at Paignton, in
Devonshire, and there again I had the joy of being near him. I couldn't
take care of him--I had not the skill, and perhaps my nerve would have
failed me--but I worked in the kitchen and was sometimes allowed to take
him his food and feed him. I think the hope, the expectation, of my
doing this was what brought him out of the profound silence into which
he was plunged when he arrived.
That was the only sign of mental suffering I ever saw in him. For the
physical suffering he never seemed to care. But something deep and far
off, and beyond the beyond of self-consciousness, seemed to have been
reached by what he had seen and heard and done. It was said of Lazarus,
after his recall to life by Christ, that he never spoke of what he had
experienced in those four days; and I can say as much of my husband.
When his mind reverts to the months in France and Flanders he grows
dumb. He grows dumb and his spirit moves away from me. It moves away
from me and from everything that is of this world. It is among scenes
past speech, past understanding, past imagining. He is Lazarus back in
the world, but with secrets in his keeping which no one may learn but
those who have learned them where he did.
When he came to Paignton he was far removed from us; but little by
little he reapproached. I helped to restore him; and then, when the baby
was born, the return to earth was quickened.
To have my baby I went over to Torquay, where I had six quiet contented
weeks in a room overlooking the peacock-blue waters of Tor Bay, with the
kindly roof that sheltered my husband in the distance. When I had
recovered I went to a cottage at Paignton, where, when he left the
hospital, he joined me. As the healing of the leg has been so slow, we
have been in the lovely Devon country ever since, till, a few weeks ago,
the British Government allowed us to cross on the ship that brought the
British Commissioners to Washington.
* * * * *
I have just been in to look at him. He is sound asleep, lying on his
left side, the coverlet sagging slightly at the shoulder where the right
arm is gone. He is getting accustomed to using his left hand, but not
rapidly. Meantime he is my other baby; and, in a way, I love to have it
so. I can be more to him. In proportion as he needs me the bond is
closer.
He is a grave man now. The smile that used to flash like a sword between
us is never there any more. When he smiles it is with a long, slow smile
that comes from far away--perhaps from life as it was before the war. It
is a sweet smile, a brave one, one infinitely touching; and it pierces
me to the heart.
He didn't have to forfeit his American citizenship in becoming one of
the glorious Princess Pats. They were glad to have him on any terms. He
is an American and I am one. I thought I became one without feeling any
difference. It seemed to me I had been born one, just as I had been born
a subject of the dear old queen. But on the night of our landing in
Halifax, a military band came and played the "Star-spangled Banner"
before my uncle's door, and I burst into the first tears I had shed
since my marriage.
Through everything else I had been upheld; but at the strains of that
anthem, and all it implied, I broke down helplessly. When we went to the
door and my husband stood to listen to the cheering of my friends, in
his khaki with the empty sleeve, and the fine, stirring, noble air was
played again, his eyes, as well as mine, were wet.
It recalled to me what he said once when I was allowed to relieve the
night nurse and sit beside him at Paignton. He woke in the small hours
and smiled at me--his distant, dreamy smile. His only words--words he
seemed to bring with him out of the lands of sleep, in which perhaps he
lived again what now was past for him--his only words were:
"You know the Stars and Stripes were at Bois Grenier."
"How?" I asked, to humor him, thinking him delirious.
He laughed--the first thing that could be called a laugh since they had
brought him there.
"Sewn or my undershirt--over my heart! It will be there again," he
added, "floating openly!"
And almost immediately he fell asleep once more.
* * * * *
And, after all, it is to be there again--floating openly. The
time-struggle has taken it and will carry it aloft. It has taken other
flags, too--flags of Asia; flags of South America; flags of the islands
of the seas. As my husband predicted long ago, mankind is divided into
just two camps. So be it! God knows I don't want war. I have been too
near it, and too closely touched by it, ever to wish again to hear a
cannon-shot or see a sword. But I suppose it is all a part of the great
War in Heaven.
Michael and his angels are fighting, and the dragon is fighting and his
angels. By that I do not mean that all the good is on one side and all
the evil on the other. God forbid! There is good and evil on both sides.
On both sides doubtless evil is being purged away and the new, true man
is coming to his own.
If I think most of the spiritualization of France, and the consecration
of the British Empire, and the coming of a new manhood to the United
States, it is because these are the countries I know best. I should be
sorry, I should be hopeless, were I not to believe that, above
bloodshed, and cruelty, and hatred, and lust, and suffering, and all
that is abominable, the Holy Ghost is breathing on every nation of
mankind.
When it is all over, and we have begun to live again, there will be a
great Renaissance. It will be what the word implies--a veritable New
Birth. The sword shall be beaten to a plowshare and the spear to a
pruning-hook. "Nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither
shall they learn war any more."
So, in this gray light, growing so silvery that as day advances it
becomes positively golden, I turn to my Bible. It is extraordinary how
comforting the Bible has become in these days when hearts have been
lifted up into long-unexplored regions of terror and courage. Men and
women who had given up reading it, men and women who have never read it
at all, turn its pages with trembling hands and find the wisdom of the
ages. And so I read what for the moment have become to me its most
strengthening words:
In your patience possess ye your souls. . . . There shall be
signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon
the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the
waves roaring; men's hearts failing them for fear, and for
looking after those things which are coming on the earth; for
the powers of heaven shall be shaken. . . . And when these
things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your
heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.
That is what I believe--that through this travail of the New Birth for
all mankind redemption is on the way.
It is coming like the sunrise I now see over the ocean. In it are the
glories that never were on land or sea. It paints the things which have
never entered into the heart of man, but which God has prepared for them
that love him. It is the future; it is Heaven. Not a future that no man
will live to see; not a Heaven beyond death and the blue sky. It is a
future so nigh as to be at the doors; it is the Kingdom of Heaven within
us.
Meantime there is saffron pulsating into emerald, and emerald into rose,
and rose into lilac, and lilac into pearl, and pearl into the great gray
canopy that has hardly as yet been touched with light.
And the great gray ocean is responding a fleck of color here, a hint of
glory there; and now, stealing westward, from wavelet to wavelet,
stealing and ever stealing, nearer and still more near, a wide, golden
pathway, as if some Mighty One were coming straight to me. "Even so,
come, Lord Jesus."
Even so I look up, and lift up my head. Even so I possess my soul in
patience.
Even so, too, I think of Mildred Brokenshire's words:
"Life is not a blind impulse, working blindly. It is a beneficent,
rectifying power."
THE END
=Transcriber's Notes:=
original hyphenation, spelling and grammar have been preserved as in
the original
Page 8, "won't he Miss" changed to "won't be Miss"
Page 32, "was to indignant" changed to "was too indignant"
Page 43, "what is is" changed to "what it is"
Page 72, "shoulder. "No" changed to "shoulder, "No"
Page 84, "Glady's" changed to "Gladys's"
Page 85, "Glady's" changed to "Gladys's"
Page 93, "presisted" changed to "persisted"
Page 129, "waistcoat. a slate-colored" changed to "waistcoat, a
slate-colored"
Page 150, "come an and" changed to "come and"
Page 178, "stammer the words" changed to "stammer the words--"
Page 211, "well received His" changed to "well received. His"
Page 230, "your hand but" changed to "your hand, but"
Page 235, "put in it my" changed to "put it in my"
Page 235, "'I could be" changed to '"I could be'
Page 268, "at last "but" changed to "at last, "but"
Page 293, "'So much that" changed to '"So much that'
Page 297, "The darlings!'" changed to 'The darlings!"'
Page 312, "ligthning" changed to "lightning"
Page 333, "must be true" changed to "must be true."
Page 334, "broke in, quietly" changed to "broke in, quietly."
Page 398, "dumfounded" changed to "dumbfounded"
Page 409, "want you so stay" changed to "want you to stay"