A TRUST FULFILLED
WHEN Stewart opened his eyes again it was to find himself looking up
into a good-humored face, which he did not at first recognize. It was
brown and dirty, there was a three-days’ growth of beard upon cheeks
and chin, and a deep red scratch across the forehead, but the eyes were
bright and the lips smiling, as of a man superior to every fortune--and
then he recognized the little Belgian captain whose troops had defended
the village.
Instantly memory surged back upon him--memory bitter and painful. He
raised his head and looked about him. He was lying under a clump of
trees not far from the bank of a little stream, along which a company
of Belgian soldiers were busy throwing up intrenchments.
“Ah, so you are better!” said the captain, in his clipped French, his
eyes beaming with satisfaction. “That is good! A little more of that
smoke, and it would have been all over with you!” and he gestured
toward the eastern horizon, above which hung a black and threatening
cloud.
Stewart pulled himself to a sitting posture and stared for a moment at
the cloud as it billowed in the wind. Then he passed his hand before
his eyes and stared again. And suddenly all his strength seemed to go
from him and he lay quietly down again.
“So bad as that!” said the officer, sympathetically, struck by the
whiteness of his face. “And I have nothing to give you--not a swallow
of wine--not a sip!”
“It will pass,” said Stewart, hoarsely. “I shall be all right
presently. But I do not understand French very well. Do you speak
English?”
“A lit-tle,” answered the other, and spoke thereafter in a mixture of
French and English, which Stewart found intelligible, but which need
not be indicated here.
“Will you tell me what happened?” Stewart asked, at last.
“Ah, we drove them out!” cried the captain, his face gleaming. “My men
behaved splendidly--they are brave boys, as you yourself saw. We made
it--how you say?--too hot for the Germans; but we could not remain.
They were pushing up in force on every side, and they had set fire to
the place. So we took up our wounded and fell back. At the last moment,
I happen to remember that I had seen you dodging along the street in
face of the German fire, so I look for you in this house and in that.
At last I find you in a room full of smoke, lying across a bench,
and I bring you away. Now we wait for another attack. It will come
soon--our scouts have seen the Germans preparing to advance. Then we
fight as long as we can and kill as many as we can, and then give back
to a new position. That, over and over again, will be our part in this
war--to hold them until France has time to strike. But I pity my poor
country,” and his face grew dark. “There will be little left of her
when those barbarians have finished. They are astounded that we fight,
that we dare oppose them; they are maddened that we hold them back, for
time means everything to them. They revenge themselves by burning our
villages and killing defenseless people. Ah, well, they shall pay! Tell
me, my friend,” he added, in another tone, “why did you risk death in
that reckless fashion? Why did you kneel beside that bench?”
“It was there I left my comrade,” Stewart answered, brokenly, his face
convulsed. “She was wounded--she could not walk--I was too exhausted
to carry her--I went to look for a cart--for an ambulance--I had
scarcely taken a step, when the Germans swept over the barricade and
into the town. When I got back to the house where I had left her, she
was not there.”
“Ah,” said the other, looking down at Stewart, thoughtfully. “It was a
woman, then?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife?”
“She had promised to become my wife,” and Stewart looked at the other,
steadily.
“You are an American, are you not?”
“Yes--I have my passport.”
“And Madame--was she also an American?”
“No--she was a Frenchwoman. She was shot twice in the leg as we ran
toward your barricade--seriously--it was quite impossible for her to
walk. But when I got back to the house, she was not there. What had
happened to her?”
His companion gazed out over the meadows and shook his head.
“You looked in the other rooms?” he asked.
“Everywhere--all through the house--she was not there! Ah, and I
remember now,” he added, struggling to a sitting posture, his face
more livid, if possible, than it had been before. “There was a great
bloodstain on the floor that was not there when I left her. How could
it have got there? I cannot understand!”
Again the officer shook his head, his eyes still on the billowing smoke.
“It is very strange,” he murmured.
“I must go back!” cried Stewart. “I must search for her!” and he tried
to rise.
The other put out a hand to stop him, but drew it back, seeing it
unnecessary.
“Impossible!” he said. “You see, you cannot even stand!”
“I have had nothing to eat since yesterday,” Stewart explained. “Then
only some eggs and apples. If I could get some food----”
He broke off, his chin quivering helplessly, as he realized his
weakness. He was very near to tears.
“Even if you could walk,” the other pointed out, “even if you were
quite strong, it would still be impossible. The Germans have burned the
village; they are now on this side of it. If Madame is still alive, she
is safe. Barbarians as they are, they would not kill a wounded woman!”
“Oh, you don’t know!” groaned Stewart. “You don’t know! They would kill
her without compunction!” and weakness and hunger and despair were too
much for him. He threw himself forward on his face, shaken by great
sobs.
The little officer sat quite still, his face very sad. There was no
glory about war--that was merely a fiction to hold soldiers to their
work; it was all horrible, detestable, inhuman. He had seen brave men
killed, torn, mutilated; he had seen inoffensive people driven from
their homes and left to starve; he had seen women weeping for their
husbands and children for their fathers; he had seen terror stalk
across the quiet countryside--famine, want, despair----
The paroxysm passed, and Stewart gradually regained his self-control.
“You will, of course, do as you think best,” said his companion, at
last; “but I could perhaps be of help if I knew more. How do you come
to be in these rags? Why was Madame dressed as a man? Why should the
Germans kill her? These are things that I should like to know--but you
will tell me as much or as little as you please.”
Before he was well aware of it, so hungry was he for comfort, Stewart
found himself embarked upon the story. It flowed from his lips so
rapidly, so brokenly, as poignant memory stabbed through him, that more
than once his listener stopped him and asked him to repeat. For the
rest, he sat staring out at the burning village, his eyes bright, his
hands clenched.
And when the story was over, he arose, faced the east, and saluted
stiffly.
“_Madame!_” he said--and so paid her the highest tribute in a soldier’s
power.
Then he sat down again, and there was a moment’s silence.
“What you have told me,” he said, slowly, at last, “moves me beyond
words! Believe me, I would advance this instant, I would risk my whole
command, if I thought there was the slightest chance of rescuing that
intrepid and glorious woman. But there is no chance. That village is
held by at least a regiment.”
“What could have happened?” asked Stewart, again. “Where could she have
gone?”
“I cannot imagine. I can only hope that she is safe. Most probably she
has been taken prisoner. Even in that case, there is little danger that
she will ever be recognized.”
“But why should they take prisoner a wounded civilian?” Stewart
persisted. “I cannot understand it--unless----”
His voice died in his throat.
“Unless what?” asked the officer, turning on him quickly. “What is it
you fear?”
“Unless she _was_ recognized!” cried Stewart, hoarsely.
But the other shook his head.
“If she had been recognized--which is most improbable--she would not
have been taken prisoner at all. She would have been shot where she
lay.”
And then again that dark stain upon the floor flashed before Stewart’s
eyes. Perhaps that had really happened. Perhaps that blood was hers!
“It is the suspense!” he groaned. “The damnable suspense!”
“I know,” said the other, gently. “It is always the missing who cause
the deepest anguish. One can only wait and hope and pray! That is all
that you can do--that and one other thing.”
“What other thing?” Stewart demanded.
“She intrusted you with a mission, did she not?” asked the little
captain, gently. “Living or dead, she would be glad to know that you
fulfilled it, for it was very dear to her. You still have the letters?”
Stewart thrust his hand into his pocket and brought them forth.
“You are right,” he said, and rose unsteadily. “Where will I find
General Joffre?”
The other had risen, too, and was supporting him with a strong hand.
“That I do not know,” he answered; “somewhere along the French
frontier, no doubt, mustering his forces.”
Stewart looked about him uncertainly.
“If I were only stronger,” he began.
“Wait,” the little officer broke in. “I think I have it--I am expecting
instructions from our headquarters at St. Trond--they should arrive
at any moment--and I can send you back in the car which brings them.
At headquarters they will be able to tell you something definite, and
perhaps to help you.” He glanced anxiously toward the east and then
cast an appraising eye over the intrenchments his troops had dug. “We
can hold them back for a time,” he added, “but we need reënforcements
badly. Ah, there comes the car!”
A powerful gray motor spun down the road from the west, kicking up a
great cloud of dust, and in a moment the little captain had received
his instructions. He tore the envelope open and read its contents
eagerly. Then he turned to his men, his face shining.
“The Sixty-third will be here in half an hour!” he shouted. “We will
give those fellows a hot dose this time!”
His men cheered the news with waving shakos, then, with a glance
eastward, fell to work again on their trenches, which would have to
be extended to accommodate the reënforcements. Their captain stepped
close to the side of the purring car, made his report to an officer
who sat beside the driver, and then the two carried on for a moment a
low-toned conversation. More than once they glanced at Stewart, and the
conversation ended with a sharp nod from the officer in the car. The
other came hurrying back.
“It is all right,” he said. “You will be at St. Trond in half an hour,”
and he helped him to mount into the tonneau.
For an instant Stewart stood there, staring back at the cloud of smoke
above the burning village; then he dropped into the seat and turned to
say good-by to the gallant fellow who had proved so true a friend.
The little soldier was standing with heels together, head thrown back,
hand at the visor of his cap.
“_Monsieur!_” he said, simply, as his eyes met Stewart’s, and then the
car started.
Stewart looked back through a mist of tears, and waved his hand to that
martial little figure, so hopeful and indomitable. Should he ever see
that gallant friend again? Chance was all against it. An hour hence,
he might be lying in the road, a bullet through his heart; if not an
hour hence, then to-morrow or next day. And before this war was over,
how many others would be lying so, arms flung wide, eyes staring at the
sky--just as those young Germans had lain back yonder!
He thrust such thoughts away. They were too bitter, too terrible. But
as his vision cleared, he saw on every hand the evidence of war’s
desolation.
The road was thronged with fugitives--old men, women, and
children--fleeing westward away from their ruined homes, away from the
plague which was devastating their land. Their faces were vacant with
despair, or wet with silent tears. For whither could they flee? Where
could they hope for food and shelter? How could their journey end, save
at the goal of death?
The car threaded its way slowly among these heart-broken people,
passed through silent and deserted villages, by fields of grain that
would never be harvested, along quiet streams which would soon be red
with blood; and at last it came to St. Trond, and stopped before the
town-hall, from whose beautiful old belfry floated the Belgian flag.
“If you will wait here, sir,” said the officer, and jumped to the
pavement and hurried up the steps.
So Stewart waited, an object of much curiosity to the passing crowd.
Other cars dashed up from time to time, officers jumped out with
reports, jumped in again with orders and dashed away. Plainly, Belgium
was not dismayed even in face of this great invasion. She was fighting
coolly, intelligently, with her whole strength.
And then an officer came down the steps, sprang to the footboard of the
machine, and looked at Stewart.
“I am told you have a message,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I am a member of the French staff. Can you deliver it to me?”
“I was told to deliver it only to General Joffre.”
“Ah! in that case----”
The officer caught his lower lip between the thumb and little finger of
his left hand, as if in perplexity. So naturally was it done that for
an instant Stewart did not recognize the sign; then, hastily, he passed
his left hand across his eyes.
The officer looked at him keenly.
“Have we not met before?” he asked.
“In Berlin; on the twenty-second,” Stewart answered.
The officer’s face cleared, and he stepped over the door into the
tonneau.
“I am at your service, sir,” he said. “First you must rest a little,
and have some clean clothes, and a bath and food. I can see that you
have had a hard time. Then we will set out.”
An hour later, more comfortable in body than it had seemed possible
he could ever be again, Stewart lay back among the deep cushions of a
high-powered car, which whizzed southward along a pleasant road. He
did not know his destination. He had not inquired, and indeed he did
not care. But had he known Belgium, he would have recognized Landen
and Ramillies; he would have known that those high white cliffs ahead
bordered the Meuse; he would have seen that this pinnacled town they
were approaching was Namur.
The car was stopped at the city gate by a sentry, and taken to the
town-hall, where the chauffeur’s papers were examined and verified.
Then they were off again, across the placid river and straight
southward, close beside its western bank. Stewart had never seen a more
beautiful country. The other shore was closed in by towering rugged
cliffs, with a white villa here and there squeezed in between wall
and water or perched on a high ledge. Sometimes the cliffs gave back
to make room for a tiny, red-roofed village; again they were riven by
great fissures or pitted with yawning chasms.
Evening came, and still the car sped southward. There were no evidences
here of war. As the calm stars came out one by one, Stewart could have
fancied that it was all a dream, but for that dull agony of the spirit
which he felt would never leave him--and for that strand of lustrous
hair which now lay warm above his heart--and which, alas! was all he
had of her!
Yes--there were the two letters which rustled under his fingers as
he thrust them into his pocket. He had looked at them more than once
during the afternoon, delighting to handle them because they had been
hers, imagining that he could detect on them the faint aroma of her
presence. He had turned them over and over, had slipped out the sheets
of closely-written paper, and read them through and through, hoping for
some clew to the identity of the woman he had lost. It was an added
anguish that he did not even know her name!
The letters did not help him. They contained nothing but innocent,
careless, light-hearted, impersonal gossip, written apparently by
one young woman to another. “My dear cousin,” they were addressed,
and Stewart could have wept at the irony which denied him even her
first name. They were in English--excellent English--a little stiff,
perhaps--just such English as she had spoken--and the envelopes bore
the superscription, “Mrs. Bradford Stewart, Spa, Belgium.” But so far
as he could see they had nothing to do with her--they were just a part
of the elaborate plot in which he had been entangled.
But what secret could they contain? A code? If so, it was very perfect,
for nothing could be more simple, more direct, more unaffected than
the letters themselves. A swift doubt swept over him. Perhaps, once
in the presence of the general, he would find that he had played the
fool--that there was nothing in these letters.
And yet a woman had risked her life for them. Face to face with death,
she had made him swear to deliver them. Well, he would keep his oath!
He was still very tired, and at last he lay back among the cushions and
closed his eyes and tried to sleep.
“_Halte là!_” cried a sharp voice.
The brakes squeaked and groaned as they were jammed down. Stewart,
shaken from his nap, sat up and looked about him. Ahead gleamed the
lights of a town; he could hear a train rumbling past along the river
bank,
There was a moment’s colloquy between the chauffeur and a man in
uniform; a paper was examined by the light of an electric torch; then
the man stepped to one side and the car started slowly ahead.
The rumbling train came to a stop, and Stewart, rubbing his
eyes, saw a regiment of soldiers leaping from it down to a long,
brilliantly-lighted platform. They wore red trousers and long blue
coats folded back in front--and with a shock, Stewart realized that
they were French--that these were the men who were soon to face
those gray-clad legions back yonder. Then, above the entrance to the
station, its name flashed into view,--“Givet.” They had passed the
frontier--they were in France.
The car rolled on, crossed the river by a long bridge, and finally
came to a stop before a great, barn-like building, every window of
which blazed with light, and where streams of officers were constantly
arriving and departing.
At once a sentry leaped upon the footboard; again the chauffeur
produced his paper, and an officer was summoned, who glanced at it, and
immediately stepped back and threw open the door of the tonneau.
“This way, sir, if you please,” he said to Stewart.
As the latter rose heavily, stiff with long sitting, the officer held
out his arm and helped him to alight.
“You are very tired, is it not so?” he asked, and still supporting him,
led the way up the steps, along a hall, and into a long room where many
persons were sitting on benches against the walls or slowly walking up
and down. “You will wait here,” added his guide. “It will not be long,”
and he hurried away.
Stewart dropped upon a bench and looked about him. There were a few
women in the room--and he wondered at their presence there--but most of
its occupants were men, some in uniform, others in civilian dress of
the most diverse kinds, of all grades of society. Stewart was struck at
once by the fact that they were all silent, exchanging not a word, not
even a glance. Each kept his eyes to himself as if it were a point of
honor so to do.
Suddenly Stewart understood. These were agents of the secret service,
waiting to report to their chief or to be assigned to some difficult
and dangerous task. One by one they were summoned, disappeared through
the door, and did not return.
At last it was to Stewart the messenger came.
“This way, sir,” he said.
Stewart followed him out into the hall, through a door guarded by two
sentries, and into a little room beyond a deep ante-chamber, where a
white-haired man sat before a great table covered with papers. The
messenger stood aside for Stewart to pass, then went swiftly out and
closed the door.
The man at the table examined his visitor with a long and penetrating
glance, his face cold, impassive, expressionless.
“You are not one of ours,” he said, at last, in English.
“No, I am an American.”
“So I perceived. And yet you have a message?”
“Yes.”
“How came you by it?”
“It was intrusted to me by one of your agents who joined me at
Aix-la-Chapelle.”
A sudden flame of excitement blazed into the cold eyes.
“May I ask your name?”
“Bradford Stewart.”
The man snatched up a memorandum from the desk and glanced at it. Then
he sprang to his feet.
“Your pardon, Mr. Stewart,” he said. “I did not catch your name--or, if
I did, my brain did not supply the connection, as it should have done.
My only excuse is that I have so many things to think of. Pray sit
down,” and he drew up a chair. “Where is the person who joined you at
Aix?”
“I fear that she is dead,” answered Stewart, in a low voice.
“Dead!” echoed the other, visibly and deeply moved. “Dead! But no, that
cannot be!” He passed his hand feverishly before his eyes. “I will hear
your story presently--first, the message. It is a written one?”
“Yes, in the form of two letters.”
“May I see them?”
Stewart hesitated.
“I promised to deliver them only to General Joffre,” he explained.
“I understand. But the general is very busy. I must see the letters for
a moment before I ask him for an audience.”
Without a word, Stewart passed them over. He saw the flush of
excitement with which the other looked at them; he saw how his hand
trembled as he drew out the sheets, glanced at them, thrust them
hastily back, and touched a button on his desk.
Instantly the door opened and the messenger appeared.
“Inquire of General Joffre if he can see me for a moment on a matter of
the first importance,” said the man. The messenger bowed and withdrew.
“Yes, of the first importance,” he added, turning to Stewart, with
shining eyes. “Here are the letters--I will not deprive you, sir, of
the pleasure of yourself placing them in our general’s hands. And it is
to him you shall tell your story.”
The door opened and the messenger appeared.
“The general will be pleased to receive Monsieur at once,” he said, and
stood aside for them to pass.
At the end of the hall was a large room crowded with officers. Beyond
this was a smaller room where six men, each with his secretary, sat
around a long table. At its head sat a plump little man, with white
hair and bristling white mustache, which contrasted strongly with a
face darkened and reddened by exposure to wind and rain, and lighted by
a pair of eyes incredibly bright.
He was busy with a memorandum, but looked up as Stewart and his
companion entered.
“Well, Fernande?” he said; but Stewart did not know till afterward
that the man at his side was the famous head of the French Intelligence
Department, the eyes and ears of the French army--captain of an army of
his own, every member of which went daily in peril of a dreadful death.
“General,” said Fernande, in a voice whose trembling earnestness caused
every man present suddenly to raise his head, “I have the pleasure of
introducing to you an American, Mr. Bradford Stewart, who, at great
peril to himself, has brought you a message which I believe to be of
the first importance.”
General Joffre bowed.
“I am pleased to meet Mr. Stewart,” he said. “What is this message?”
“It is in these letters, sir,” said Stewart, and placed the envelopes
in his hand.
The general glanced at them, then slowly drew out the enclosures.
“We shall need a candle,” said Fernande; “also a flat dish of water.”
One of the secretaries hastened away to get them. He was back in
a moment, and Fernande, having lighted the candle, took from his
waistcoat pocket a tiny phial of blue liquid, and dropped three drops
into the dish.
“Now we are ready, gentlemen,” he said. “You are about to witness a
most interesting experiment.”
He picked up one of the sheets, dipped it into the water, then held it
close to the flame of the candle.
Stewart, watching curiously, saw a multitude of red lines leap out upon
the sheet--lines which zig-zagged this way and that, apparently without
meaning.
But to the others in the room they seemed anything but meaningless. As
sheet followed sheet, the whole staff crowded around the head of the
table, snatching them up, holding them to the light, bending close to
decipher minute writing. Their eyes were shining with excitement, their
hands were trembling; they spoke in broken words, in bits of sentences.
“The enceinte----”
“Oh, a new bastion here at the left----”
“I thought so----”
“Three emplacements----”
“But this wall is simply a mask--it would present no difficulties----”
“This position could be flanked----”
It was the general himself who spoke the final word.
“This is the weak spot,” he pointed out, his finger upon the last sheet
of all. Then he turned to Stewart, his eyes gleaming. “Monsieur,” he
said, “I will not conceal from you that these papers are, as Fernande
guessed, of the very first importance. Will you tell us how they came
into your possession?”
And Stewart, as briefly as might be, told the story--the meeting at
Aix, the arrest at Herbesthal, the flight over the hills, the passage
of the Meuse, the attack on the village--his voice faltering at the end
despite his effort to control it.
At first, the staff had kept on with its examination of the plans, but
first one and then another laid them down and listened.
For a moment after he had finished, they sat silent, regarding him.
Then General Joffre rose slowly to his feet, and the members of his
staff rose with him.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I shall not attempt to tell you how your words
have moved me; but on behalf of France I thank you; on her behalf I
give you the highest honor which it is in her power to bestow.” His
hand went to his buttonhole and detached a tiny red ribbon. In a moment
he had affixed it to Stewart’s coat. “The Legion, monsieur!” he said,
and he stepped back and saluted.
Stewart, a mist of tears before his eyes, his throat suddenly
contracted, looked down at the decoration, gleaming on his lapel like a
spot of blood.
“It is too much,” he protested, brokenly. “I do not deserve----”
“It is the proudest order in the world, monsieur,” broke in the
general, “but it is not too much. You have done for France a greater
thing than you perhaps imagine. Some day you will know. Not soon, I
fear,” and his face hardened. “We have other work to do before we can
make use of these sheets of paper. You saw the German army?”
“Yes, sir; a part of it.”
“It is well equipped?”
“It seemed to me irresistible,” said Stewart. “I had never imagined
such swarms of men, such tremendous cannon----”
“We have heard something of those cannon,” broke in the general. “Are
they really so tremendous?”
“I know nothing about cannon,” answered Stewart; “but----” and he
described as well as he could the three monsters he had seen rolling
along the road toward Liège.
His hearers listened closely, asked a question or two----
“I thank you again,” said the general, at last. “What you tell us is
most interesting. Is there anything else that I can do for you? If
there is, I pray you to command me.”
Stewart felt himself shaken by a sudden convulsive trembling.
“If I could get some news,” he murmured, brokenly, “of--of my little
comrade.”
General Joffre shot him a quick glance. His face softened, grew tender
with comprehension.
“Fernande,” he said.
Fernande bowed.
“Everything possible shall be done, my general,” he said. “I promise
it. We shall not be long without tidings.”
“Thank you,” said Stewart. “That is all, I think.”
“And you?”
“I? Oh, what does it matter!” And then he turned, fired by a sudden
remembrance of a great white tent, of loaded ambulances. “Yes--there is
something I might do. I am a surgeon. Will France accept my services?”
“She is honored to do so,” said the general, quickly. “I will see that
it is done. Until to-morrow--I will expect you,” and he held out his
hand, while the staff came to a stiff salute.
“Until to-morrow,” repeated Stewart, and followed Fernande to the door.
As he passed out, he glanced behind him. The members of the staff
were bending above those red-lined sheets, their faces shining with
eagerness----
The officers in the outer room, catching sight of the red ribbon,
saluted as he passed. The sentry in the hall came stiffly to attention.
But Stewart’s heart was bitter. Honor! Glory! What were they worth to
him alone and desolate----
“Monsieur!” It was Fernande’s voice, low, vibrant with sympathy. “You
will pardon me for what I am about to say--but I think I understand. It
was not alone for France you did this thing--it was for that ‘little
comrade,’ as you have called her, so brave, so loyal, so indomitable
that my heart is at her feet. Is it not so?”
He came a step nearer and laid a tender hand on Stewart’s arm.
“Do not despair, I beg of you, my friend. She is not dead--it is
impossible that she should be dead! Fate could not be so cruel.
With her you shared a few glorious days of peril, of trial, and of
ecstasy--then you were whirled apart. But only for a time. Somewhere,
sometime, you will find her again, awaiting you. I know it! I feel it!”
But it was no longer Fernande that Stewart heard--it was another voice,
subtle, delicate, out of the unknown----
His bosom lifted with a deep, convulsive breath.
“You are right!” he whispered. “I, too, feel it!
Sometime--somewhere----”
And his trembling fingers sought that tress of lustrous hair, warm
above his heart.
* * * * *
Far away to the east, a sentry in the gray uniform of the German army
paced slowly back and forth before a great white house looking across
a terraced garden down upon the Meuse. Three days before, it had been
the beautiful and carefully-ordered home of a wealthy Belgian; now it
reeked with the odor of ether and iodine. In the spacious dining-room
an operating-table had been installed, and a sterilizing apparatus
simmered in one corner. Along its halls and in every room rows of white
cots were ranged--and each cot had its bandaged occupant.
On the terrace overlooking the river, two surgeons, thoroughly weary
after a hard day, sat smoking and talking in low tones. Within, a
white-clad nurse stole from cot to cot, assuring herself that all was
as well as might be.
In a tiny room on the upper floor, a single cot had been placed. As the
nurse stopped at its open door and held aloft her night-lamp, her eyes
caught the gleam of other eyes, and she stepped quickly forward.
“What is it?” she asked, softly. “Why are you not asleep? You are not
in pain?”
The patient--a mere lad he seemed of not more than seventeen--smiled
and shook his head.
“I do not know German,” he said in French.
The nurse placed her cool hand upon the patient’s brow to assure
herself that there was no access of fever.
“I speak French a little,” she said, painfully, in that language. And
then she hesitated. “Tell me, Fräulein,” she went on, after a moment,
“how you came to be wounded. We have wondered much.”
“My brother and I were trying to get through your lines to Brussels
where our mother is,” the patient answered, readily, still smiling.
“I slipped on a suit of my brother’s clothes, thinking to make better
progress. But we were too late. We were caught between two fires when
your men stormed that village.”
Despite the smile, there was a shimmer of anxiety in the eyes she
turned upon the nurse. It was a poor story; she realized that it would
not bear scrutiny, that it would break down at the first question; but,
fevered and racked with pain, she had been able to devise no better one.
The nurse, at least, accepted it unquestioningly.
“Ach, how terrible!” she commented. “And your brother--what of him?”
“When I was wounded, he carried me into a house, and then hastened away
to took for a cart or wagon in which to place me. Before he could get
back, your men had taken the village.”
“Then he is safe at least!”
“Yes, I am sure of it.”
“But he must think you dead! He will not know that you were saved! Ach,
what anguish must be his!”
“Yes, he will suffer,” agreed the wounded girl, in a low tone.
The eyes of the tender-hearted German woman were misty as she gazed
down at her patient and sought for some word of comfort.
“But think of his joy when he finds that you are not dead!” she urged.
“To-morrow you shall give me his address and I will write. He will come
for you, no doubt, as soon as he can.”
“Yes, I am sure of that also!”
There was a subtle timbre in the voice that caught the nurse’s ear, and
she looked down again into the luminous eyes.
“You do not seem to mind your misfortune,” she said. “You seem even
happy!”
The eyes which gazed up at her were softly, wonderfully brilliant. A
deeper color crept into the pale cheeks.
“I _am_ happy,” said the girl, almost in a whisper. “Very, very happy!”
The nurse paused a moment longer, strangely thrilled. Then her training
asserted itself.
“You must not excite yourself,” she cautioned. “You must go to sleep.
Good-night.”
“Good-night!” came the murmured answer. “I will try to sleep.”
But for long and long she lay staring up into the darkness, glowing
with the precious memory of a man’s strong arms about her, his ardent
lips on hers.
“He is safe,” her soul assured her. “He will seek you up and down the
world until he finds you. You shall lie again upon his breast; you
shall hear his heart beating ... sometime ... somewhere----”
And with a long sigh of contentment, she closed her eyes and slept.
_TWO NOTEWORTHY DETECTIVE STORIES_
By BURTON E. STEVENSON
THE MARATHON MYSTERY
With five scenes in color by ELIOT KEEN
6th printing. $1.50
An absorbing story of New York and Long Island to-day.
_N. Y. Sun_: “Distinctly an interesting story--one of the sort that
the reader will not lay down before he goes to bed.”
_N. Y. Post_: “By comparison with the work of Anna Katherine Green ...
it is exceptionally clever ... told interestingly and well.”
_N. Y. Tribune_: “THE HOLLADAY CASE was a capital story of crime and
mystery. In THE MARATHON MYSTERY the author is in even firmer command
of the trick. He is skilful in keeping his reader in suspense, and
every element in it is cunningly adjusted to preserving the mystery
inviolate until the end.”
_Boston Transcript_: “The excellence of its style, Mr. Stevenson
apparently knowing well the dramatic effect of fluency and brevity,
and the rationality of avoiding false clues and attempts unduly to
mystify his readers.”
_Boston Herald_: “This is something more than an ordinary detective
story. It thrills you and holds your attention to the end. But beside
all this the characters are really well drawn and your interest in
the plot is enhanced by interest in the people who play their parts
therein.”
THE HOLLADAY CASE
With frontispiece by ELIOT KEEN
7th printing. $1.25
A modern mystery of New York and Etretat.
_N. Y. Tribune_: “Professor Dicey recently said, ‘If you like a
detective story take care you read a good detective story.’ This is
a good detective story, and it is the better because the part of the
hero is not filled by a member of the profession.... The reader will
not want to put the book down until he has reached the last page, Most
ingeniously constructed and well written into the bargain.”
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
THE HOME BOOK OF VERSE
_American and English_ (1580-1912)
Compiled by BURTON E. STEVENSON. Collects the best short poetry of
the English language--not only the poetry everybody says is good, but
also the verses that everybody reads. (3742 pages; India paper, 1
vol., 8vo, complete author, title and first line indices, $7.50 net;
carriage 40 cents extra.)
The most comprehensive and representative collection of American and
English poetry ever published, including 3,120 unabridged poems from
some 1,100 authors.
It brings together in one volume the best short poetry of the English
language from the time of Spencer, with especial attention to American
verse.
The copyright deadline has been passed, and some three hundred recent
authors are included, very few of whom appear in any other general
anthology, such as Lionel Johnson, Noyes, Housman, Mrs. Meynell, Yeats,
Dobson, Lang, Watson, Wilde, Francis Thompson, Gilder, Le Gallienne,
Van Dyke, Woodberry, Riley, etc., etc.
The poems as arranged by subject, and the classification is unusually
close and searching. Some of the most comprehensive sections are:
Children’s rhymes (300 pages); love poems (800 pages); nature poetry
(400 pages); humorous verse (500 pages); patriotic and historical poems
(600 pages); reflective and descriptive poetry (400 pages). No other
collection contains so many popular favorites and fugitive verses.
DELIGHTFUL POCKET ANTHOLOGIES
The following books are uniform, with full gilt flexible covers and
pictured cover linings. 16mo. Each, cloth, $1.50; leather $2.50.
=THE GARLAND OF CHILDHOOD=
A little book for all lovers of children. Compiled by Percy Wither.
=THE VISTA OF ENGLISH VERSE=
Compiled by Henry S. Pancoast. From Spencer to Kipling.
=LETTERS THAT LIVE=
Compiled by Laura E. Lockwood and Amy R. Kelly. Some 150 letters.
=POEMS FOR TRAVELLERS=
(About “The Continent”)
Compiled by Miss Mary R. J. DuBois.
=THE OPEN ROAD=
A little book for wayfarers. Compiled by E. V. Lucas.
=THE FRIENDLY TOWN=
A little book for the urbane, compiled by E. V. Lucas.
=THE POETIC OLD-WORLD=
Compiled by Miss L. H. Humphrey. Covers Europe, including Spain,
Belgium and the British Isles.
=THE POETIC NEW-WORLD=
Compiled by Miss Humphrey.
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
34 WEST 33RD STREET NEW YORK
_By CONINGSBY DAWSON_
=The Garden Without Walls=
The story of the adventures in love of the hero till his thirtieth year
is as fascinating as are the three heroines. His Puritan stock is in
constant conflict with his Pagan imagination. Ninth printing. $1.35 net.
“Never did hero find himself the adored of three more enchanting
heroines. A book which will deserve the popularity it is certain to
achieve.”--_The Independent._
“Mr. Dawson has dared splendidly to write, in a glorious abandon, a
story all interwoven with a glow of romance almost medieval in its
pagan color, yet wholly modern in its import.”--_Samuel Abbott_, in
_The Boston Herald_.
“All vivid with the color of life; a novel to compel not only absorbed
attention, but long remembrance.”--_The Boston Transcript._
“The most enjoyable first novel since De Morgan’s ‘Joseph
Vance.’”--_J. B. Kerfoot_, in _Life_.
=The Raft=
A story of high gallantry, which teaches that even modern life is an
affair of courageous chivalry. The story is crowded with over thirty
significant characters, some whimsical, some tender, some fanciful; all
are poignantly real with their contrasting ideals and purposes.
“The Raft” is a panorama of everyday, available romance. Just ready.
$1.35 net.
=Florence on a Certain Night= (and Other Poems)
12mo. $1.25 net.
“The work of a true lyric poet who ‘utters his own soul.’”--_Literary
Digest._
“The preeminent quality in all Mr. Dawson’s verse is the union of
delicacy and strength. A generation which has all but forgotten the
meaning of the phrase ‘to keep himself unspotted from the world’ has
great need of this sort of poetry.”--_Providence Journal._
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
BOOKS BY BEULAH MARIE DIX
=MOTHER’S SON. A Novel=
The story of the redemption of a spendthrift German “toy soldier,”
exiled to America, The heroine is the author’s “Betty-Bide-at-Home”
grown up and become a successful playwright. There is considerable
humor. The scenes are mostly Boston and vicinity and New York. Just
published. ($1.35 net.)
_Boston Transcript_: “Straightforward and swiftly the story moves
from its happy beginning to its happy ending.... The heroine, that
delightful ‘Betty-Bide-at-Home’ ... that delicious femininity that
makes her to appealing ... a charming romance.... Through the story
of his redemption shines the glory of youth, its courage, its high
optimism, its unconquerable faith in itself ... fine as is the novel
technically, it is even finer in its silent insistence upon an ideal
of love and of marriage.”
=THE FIGHTING BLADE. A Romance=
The hero, a quiet, boyish German soldier serving Cromwell, loves a
little tomboy Royalist heiress. 3rd printing. ($1.30 net.)
_New York Tribune_: “Lovers of this kind of fiction will find here all
they can desire, and it is all of excellent quality.”
_New York Times_: “The freshness of youth and of life and of the joy
of living.”
_Chicago Inter-Ocean_: “The best historical romance the man who writes
these lines has read in half a dozen years.”
=ALLISON’S LAD, and Other Martial Interludes=
Including “The Hundredth Trick,” “The Weakest Link,” “The Snare and the
Fowler,” “The Captain of the Gate,” “The Dark of the Dawn.” One-act
war plays; all the characters are men, and amateurs have acted them
successfully.
_Boston Transcript_: “Her technical mastery is great, but her
spiritual mastery is greater. For this book lives in memory....
Noble passion holding the balance between life and death is the
motif sharply outlined and vigorously portrayed. In each interlude
the author has seized upon a vital situation and has massed all her
forces.”
_FOR YOUNG FOLKS_
=FRIENDS IN THE END=
A tale of conflict between young folks one summer in New Hampshire.
Illustrated. ($1.25 net.)
_Living Age_: “Far above the average juvenile.... A vivid narrative,
interesting with the intensity of a country land rights feud.... The
people are clearly drawn ... a true atmosphere.”
=BETTY-BIDE-AT-HOME=
Betty gave up college to help her family, but learned several things,
including authorship, at home. 3rd printing ($1.25 net.)
_Churchman_: “Among the season’s books for girls it easily takes first
place.”
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
A FEW RECENT PLAYS BY AMERICANS
=Beulah M. Dix’s ACROSS THE BORDER=
A play against war, showing in four scenes, two “beyond the border” of
life, the adventures of a highly likable young Lieutenant. He goes on
a desperate mission, finds The Place of Quiet and The Dream Girl, as
well as The Place of Winds, where he learns the real nature of War,
and finally in a field hospital tries to deliver his message. With 2
illustrations. 80 cents net.
_New York Tribune_: “One of the few pleas for peace that touch both
the heart and the intelligence.... Its remarkable blending of stark
realism with extravagant fancy strikes home.... It is well nigh
impossible to rid one’s mind of its stirring effect.”
_New York Times_: “Impressive, elaborate and ambitious.... A voice
raised in the theater against the monstrous horror and infamy of
war.... The Junior Lieutenant has in him just a touch of ‘The
Brushwood Boy.’”
Of the author’s “ALLISON’S LAD” and other one-act plays of various wars
($1.35 net), _The Transcript_ said, “The technical mastery of Miss Dix
is great, but her spiritual mastery is greater. For this book lives in
the memory.”
=Percival L. Wilde’s DAWN and Other One-Act Plays=
“Short, sharp and decisive” episodes of contemporary life. Notable for
force, interest and at times humor. $1.20 net.
DAWN, a tense episode in the hut of a brutal miner, with a supernatural
climax. THE NOBLE LORD, a comedy about a lady, who angled with herself
as bait. THE TRAITOR is discovered by a ruse of a British commanding
officer. A HOUSE OF CARDS, about a closed door, and what was on the
other side--tragic. PLAYING WITH FIRE, a comedy about the devotion of
a boy and girl. THE FINGER OF GOD points the way to an ex-criminal by
means of a girl he had never seen before.
=Lily A. Long’s RADISSON: _The Voyageur_=
A highly picturesque play in four acts and in verse. The central
figures are Radisson the redoubtable voyageur who explored the Upper
Mississippi, his brother-in-law Groseilliers, Owera the daughter of an
Indian chief, and various other Indians. The daring resource of the two
white men in the face of imminent peril, the pathetic love of Owera,
and above all, the vivid pictures of Indian life, the women grinding
corn, the council, dances, feasting and famine are notable features,
and over it all is a somewhat unusual feeling for the moods of nature
which closely follow those of the people involved. $1.00 net.
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
“_THE CHEERIEST, HAPPIEST BOOKS_”
By JULIE M. LIPPMANN
=Martha By-the-Day=
Thirteenth printing. $1.00 net.
The story of a big, kindly Irish char-woman, a marvel of physical
strength and shrewd humor, who takes under her wing a well-born but
friendless girl whom she finds alone and helpless in New York.
“No sweeter humor has been written into a book.”--_Hartford Courant._
“Cheeriest, most warm-hearted and humorous character since Mrs.
Wiggs.”--_Living Age._
“Half an hour with ‘Martha’ puts one on better terms with the
world.”--_Washington_ (D. C.) _Star_.
=Making Over Martha=
Fifth printing. $1.20 net.
This story follows “Martha” and her family to the country, where she
again finds a love affair on her hands.
“Fresh, wholesome, entertaining.”--_Churchman._
“‘Martha’ is not of the stuff to die.”--_Bellman._
“‘Martha’ brings hard sense and good humor.”--_New York Sun._
=Martha and Cupid=
Tells how “Martha” came to choose “Sam Slosson” for her husband,
how she spent the fund for her wedding outfit, how she solved the
“mother-in-law” and other “problems” in her family life. Just ready.
$1.00 net.
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
On page 15, Pease has been changed to Please.
On page 19, pocketbook has been changed to pocket-book.
On page 47, ratthaus has been changed to rathaus.
On page 109, post-card has been changed to postcard.
On page 139, traveling-cap has been changed to traveling cap.
On page 173, farm-house has been changed to farmhouse.
On page 212, doorstep has been changed to door-step.
On page 220, river-bank has been changed to river bank.
On page 238, church-tower has been changed to church tower.
All other spelling, hyphenation and non-English dialogue and phrases
have been retained as typeset