THE CONFESSION
"Don't talk if you prefer not; perhaps you may be able to sleep after a
little if I sit here beside you," Mrs. Burton said gently.
"But I would prefer to be alone," the young French girl answered,
speaking English with a pretty foreign accent.
Instantly Mrs. Burton rose, intending to leave the tiny state-room;
however, having gone but a few steps she heard the he same voice plead:
"No, please don't leave me. I have been watching you and your friends
ever since our ship sailed, and as I must talk to some one, I wish it to
be you. If you only knew how sorry I am to have created a scene and to
have given so much trouble, when everybody has been so kind."
Then the girl began to cry again, but softly as if her desire for tears
was nearly spent.
Without replying Mrs. Burton took her former position.
Occasionally she had a moment of thinking that perhaps after her years
of experience as a Camp Fire guardian she was beginning to understand
something of the utterly unlike temperaments of varying types of girls.
Moreover, in spite of Aunt Patricia's judgment, her work had afforded
her unusual opportunities for the study of human nature.
Now, as she sat silently watching the young French girl in her effort to
regain her self-control, Mrs. Burton realized that hers would be no
ordinary story. Her friend had chosen to protect her by stating that she
was suffering from an attack of nerves, yet this instant the girl was
making an intense effort to gain a fresh hold upon herself both mentally
and physically.
"I am sorry," she repeated a moment later, "for I realize now I should
never have made the attempt to return home to France, although I thought
after nearly three years in the United States surely I had the courage!
Still, for the past few days I have been becoming more and more
convinced that I was going to fail, that I had not the strength for the
work ahead of me. What you were told just now, that I had merely
fainted, was not true. I had made up my mind that since I was not going
to be able to be of service to my country I would not add to her burden.
I could not do that; there had to be some way out, and I _had_ to
find the way."
Sitting up, Yvonne now leaned forward, resting her small head with its
heavy weight of fair hair upon her hands, clasped under her chin. She
was not looking at her companion. Her eyes held an expression which
betrays an inner vision.
"I did make an effort to do what you suspect. I wonder if I was wrong?
Certainly I was unsuccessful, since I do not even feel ill in
consequence. I suppose I ought to explain that I had written a note to
apologize for the mistake I had made in urging the Red Cross unit to
bring me with them to France and to say I regretted the distress and
trouble I must give. Then as I was carrying the letter to the room of
the friend whom you found here with me I think I must have fainted. She
was shocked and angry when she learned what I had attempted to do and I
have given my word I will not try again." Yvonne was silent for a moment
and then added with another catch in her voice: "Do you think it wicked
of me, because I am still a little sorry I failed in what I attempted?
But I don't think you will when I have told you my history."
Under ordinary circumstances Yvonne's broken and incoherent story would
have annoyed Mrs. Burton. She had scant sympathy and could make but
slight excuse for the neurotic persons who have no fortitude with which
to meet life's inevitable disasters but expend all their energy in
compassion for themselves. Especially did she resent this characteristic
in a young girl, having grown accustomed to the sanity and the outdoor
spirit engendered by the Camp Fire life. Moreover, one has at present no
time or pity save for real tragedies.
Yet Yvonne's attitude had not so affected her. Instead she realized that
the girl's suffering had been due to a vital cause and that the secret
of her action still remained hidden.
"Had you not better rest and talk to me later?" Mrs. Burton inquired. "I
think you are very tired, more so than you realize. After a time perhaps
you will see things more clearly. You are young, Yvonne, to believe
there is nothing more for you in life that is worth while."
"I know that would be true if these were not war times, Madame," the
girl answered. "Will you please listen to my story now? There may be no
opportunity at another time."
Slipping out of her berth, Yvonne proffered the one small chair the
state-room afforded to her visitor.
"Won't you sit here? You may be more comfortable," she suggested.
Then she found a seat for herself on the lounge which ran along one side
of the room.
By this time the little French girl was looking so completely exhausted
that Mrs. Burton would have liked again to urge her to wait. Yet after
all perhaps it might be a relief to have her confession over!
"I was living in a chateau with my mother and two brothers when the war
began," Yvonne said, going directly to the heart of her story. "After
the news came that war was declared and the Germans had invaded our
country, my older brother, Andre, left at once to join his regiment near
Paris. At that time we did not dream there could be danger near our
home, which seemed so far from the front. I do not know whether you have
noticed my name on our passenger list, Yvonne Fleury, and our home was
called the Chateau Yvonne. It is not in existence any longer. But I am
afraid I am not telling my story clearly. Sometimes I grow confused
trying to remember when things actually happened, as they all came
quickly and unexpectedly. After my brother and our men servants had gone
my mother and I tried to carry on the work at the chateau as well as we
could with only the women to help. We were not rich people; my father
had died some years before, soon after my younger brother was born. But
we had a good deal of land and a beautiful orchard. It seems strange to
think that even the orchard has been destroyed!"
As Yvonne talked she had a little habit of frowning, almost as if she
were doubting the truth of her own story. Nevertheless, however unique
and impossible her story might sound to her own ears, stories like hers
had grown only too familiar since the outbreak of the war in Europe.
A moment later and she seemed confused, as if scarcely knowing how to
take up the threads of her own history. Afterwards she tried to speak
more slowly, her voice sounding as if she were worn out both from her
recent suffering and from the effort to recount her own and her
country's tragedy.
"For weeks after the war started we had almost no news of any kind to
tell us what was taking place. My brother could not send us a letter, as
all our trains were devoted to carrying our troops. Now and then, when
an occasional motor car passed through our village, a soldier or an
officer would drop on the roadside an _edition speciale de la
Presse_. Perhaps one of the old peasants, picking up the paper, would
bring it to our chateau. Afterwards a number of them would gather around
while either my mother or I read aloud the news. In those first days the
news was nearly always sad news."
Then for a little while Yvonne made no effort to continue her story and
Mrs. Burton understood her silence.
"As soon as we could, my mother and I organized a little branch of La
Croix Rouge in our village and did what we could. We had many people to
help and so spent most of our time making bandages from old linen. We
were told then that the wounded might be sent back across the Marne to
be cared for by us and that our houses must be made ready to use as
hospitals. But the wounded were not cared for by us, not in those early
weeks of the war. You know what took place, Madame. Our soldiers were
defeated; it is now an old story. One night when the battle line was
drawing closer and closer to our home we were warned to flee. But my
mother could not, would not believe the word when it came and so we
waited too long. We had only a farm wagon and an old horse with which to
make our escape, our other horses and car having been requisitioned for
the army."
This time, when Yvonne hesitated, Mrs. Burton had a cowardly wish that
she would not go on with her story, so easy it was to anticipate what
might follow.
In this moment Yvonne lived over again the night in her life she could
never forget. Instead of the soft lapping of the waves against the sides
of the ship, the young French girl was hearing the booming of guns, the
shrieking of shells and the final patter of bullets like a falling rain.
"I would prefer not to tell you anything more in detail, Mrs. Burton,"
Yvonne afterwards added more calmly than one could have thought
possible.
"The night of our attempted escape we were overtaken by the enemy and my
little brother was killed; a few days later my mother died of the shock
and exposure. I don't know just how things happened. I remember I was
alone one night in a woods with a battle going on all around me. Next
morning I believe the Germans began a retreat. A French soldier found me
and took me with him to the home of some French people. I think I must
have been with them several weeks before I was myself again. Then I
learned that our chateau had been burned and my brother reported killed.
"One day an American friend, who had learned of our family tragedy, came
to see me and decided that it would be wiser to take me home to his own
family in the United States. I was so dazed and miserable he believed I
would be happier there and would sooner learn to forget. Of course after
a time I was happier, but of course one can never forget. So at last I
persuaded my friends I must be allowed to return to my own country, that
I must help my people who were still going through all that I had
endured. My friends were opposed to the idea, but because I insisted, at
last they gave their consent. Then after our boat sailed I felt I could
not go back to France. I was afraid. I remembered the long night in the
woods--the German soldiers----"
Mrs. Burton's arms were about the girl.
"Please don't talk any more of the past, Yvonne. Try to remember, my
dear, that the enemy is no longer in the neighborhood of your old home.
He has been driven further and further back until some day, please God,
the last German soldier shall have disappeared forever from the sacred
soil of France.
"Sleep now, I shall sit here beside you. Later I will talk to you about
joining my group of girls in France. You are not strong enough for the
Red Cross work at present, but a great deal of our work will be among
young French girls and you could be of the greatest aid to us if you
care to help. Yet there will be time enough later to speak of our Camp
Fire plans."
However, when Yvonne had crawled back into her berth, more exhausted
than she had realized, Mrs. Burton continued sitting beside her. Then,
hoping the sound of her voice might be soothing and in order to help
Yvonne to sleep and also because of the power of suggestion, she
repeated a Camp Fire verse:
"As fagots are brought from the forest,
Firmly held by the sinews which bind them,
I will cleave to my Camp Fire sisters
Wherever, whenever I find them.
"I will strive to grow strong like the pine tree,
To be pure in my deepest desire;
To be true to the truth that is in me
And follow the Law of the Fire."