we'll let you play some more." The larger issue was temporarily lost
sight of this time, but the one presented seemed to appeal vividly to
Genevieve Maud.
"Let Genevieve Maud play some more," she wheedled.
"And will you do everything we say?"
"Do everything you say," promised Genevieve Maud, recklessly.
"Very well,"--this with a fidelity in its imitation to her mother's
manner which would have convulsed that admirable and long-suffering
woman could she have heard it. "An' first of all we mus' give away your
toys to poor children."
The mouth of Genevieve Maud opened. Helen Adeline held up a warning
hand, and it shut.
"They're _pomps_," repeated the older sister, positively, "an' we'll
bring you simple toys if poor children will exchange with us."
This was at least extenuating. Genevieve Maud hesitated and sniffed. In
the matter of being stripped, toys were more important than clothes.
"If you don't, you know, you can't play," Grace Margaret reminded her.
"Awright," remarked Genevieve Maud, briefly. "Give toys to poor
chil'ren."
They hurriedly left her before her noble purpose could do so, and
Genevieve Maud, left to her own resources, made unctuous mud pies and
fed them to her family. Grace Margaret and Helen Adeline returned in
triumph within the hour and laid at the feet of their small victim
modest offerings consisting of one armless rubber doll, one dirty and
badly torn picture-book, and one top, broken.
"These is simple," declared Helen Adeline, with truth, "an' the poor
Murphy children has your pomps, Maudie. Are you glad?"
Genevieve Maud, surveying doubtfully the nondescript collection before
her, murmured without visible enthusiasm something which was
interpreted as meaning that she was glad. As a matter of fact, the
charm of the simple life was not borne in upon her compellingly. The
top she accepted until she discovered that it would not go. The rubber
doll she declined to touch until Grace Margaret suggested that it had
been in a hospital and had had its arms amputated like Mrs. Clark's son
Charlie. Deeply moved by the pathos of this tragic fate, Genevieve Maud
added the rubber doll to her aristocratic family, whose members seemed
to shrink aside as it fell among them. The picture-book she declined to
touch at all.
"It's dirty," she remarked, with an air of finality which effectually
closed the discussion. By this time she was not herself an especially
effective monument of cleanliness. The rice pudding and the mud pies
had combined to produce a somewhat bizarre effect, and the dirt she had
casually gathered from the paths, the flower-beds, and the hedges
enlivened but did not improve the ensemble.
"She ought to be washed pretty soon," suggested Grace, surveying her
critically; but to this tacit criticism Helen Adeline promptly took
exception.
"They don't have to, so much," she objected, "when it's the simple
life. That's one of the nice things."
With this decision Genevieve Maud was well content. Her tender years
forbade hair-splitting and subtle distinctions; the term "accumulated
dirt" or "old dirt" had no significance for her. She could not have
told why she rejected the Murphy child's thoroughly grimed
picture-book, yet herself rolled happily about in a thin coating of mud
and dust, but she did both instinctively.
Her attention was pleasantly distracted by subdued cries from the
street beyond the garden hedge. Three Italian women, all old, stood
there gesticulating freely and signalling to the children, and a small
ragged boy on crutches hovered nervously near them. Helen Adeline
jumped to her feet with a sudden exclamation.
"It's the poor!" she said, excitedly. "For your money, Genevieve Maud.
I told them to come. Get the bank, Gracie, an' she mus' give it all
away!"
Grace departed promptly on her errand, but there was some delay in
opening the bank when she returned--an interval filled pleasantly by
the visitors with interested scrutiny of the shameless Genevieve Maud,
whose airy unconsciousness of her unconventional appearance uniquely
attested her youth. When the money finally came, rolling out in
pennies, five-cent pieces, and rare dimes, the look of good-natured
wonder in the old black eyes peering wolfishly over the hedge changed
quickly to one of keen cupidity, but the children saw nothing of this.
Helen Adeline divided the money as evenly as she could into four little
heaps.
"It's all she has," she explained, grandly, "so she's got to give it
all to you, 'cos riches is pomps an' ruins souls. Give it, Genevieve
Maud," she continued, magnanimously surrendering the centre of the
stage to the novice in the simple life.
Genevieve Maud handed it over with a fat and dirty little paw, and the
women and the lame boy took it uncritically, with words of thanks and
even with friendly smiles. Strangely enough, there was no quarrelling
among themselves over the distribution of the spoils. For one golden
moment they were touched and softened by the gift of the baby hand that
gave its all so generously. Then the wisdom of a speedy disappearance
struck them and they faded away, leaving the quiet street again
deserted. Helen Adeline drew a long breath as the bright gleam of their
kerchiefs disappeared around a corner.
"That's nice," she exclaimed, contentedly. "Now what else can we make
her do?"
The two pair of eyes rested meditatively on the unconscious little
sister, again lost to her surroundings in the construction of her
twenty-third mud pie. Not even the surrender of her fortune beguiled
her from this unleavened joy of the simple life. "We've made her do
'mos' everything, I guess," admitted Grace Margaret, with evident
reluctance. It appeared so, indeed. Stripped of her clothing, her money
and her toys, it would seem that little in the way of earthly
possessions was left to Genevieve Maud; but even as they looked again,
Grace Margaret had another inspiration.
"Don't they work when they have simple lives?" she asked, abruptly.
"'Course they work."
"Then let's have Genevieve Maud do our work."
There was silence for a moment--silence filled with the soul-satisfying
enjoyment of a noble conception.
"Grace Margaret Davenport," said Helen, solemnly, "you're a smart
girl!" She exhaled a happy sigh, and added: "'Course we'll let her! She
mus' work. She can water the geraniums for you an' the pansies for me,
an' gather up the croquet things for me an' take them in, an' fill
Rover's water-basin, an' get seed for the birds, an' pick up all the
paper an' leaves on the lawn."
It is to be deplored that the active and even strenuous life thus
outlined did not for the moment appeal to Genevieve Maud when they
brought its attractions to her attention. The afternoon was fading, and
Genevieve Maud was beginning to fade, too; her little feet were tired,
and her fat legs seemed to curve more in her weariness of well-doing;
but the awful threat of being left out of the game still held, and she
struggled bravely with her task, while the two arch-conspirators
reposed languidly and surveyed her efforts from beneath the willow-tree.
"It'll be her bedtime pretty soon," suggested Helen Adeline, the
suspicion of a guilty conscience lurking in the remark. "She can have
her bread and milk like she always does--that's simple 'nuff. But do
you think she ought to sleep in that handsome brass crib?"
Grace Margaret did not think so, but she was sadly puzzled to find a
substitute.
"Mamma won't let her sleep anywhere else, either," she pointed out.
"Mamma won't know."
"Annie or Katie will know--p'r'aps."
The "p'r'aps" was tentative. Annie and Katie had taken full advantage
of the liberty attending the illness of their mistress, and their
policy with the children was one of masterly inactivity. So long as the
little girls were quiet they were presumably good, and hence, to a
surety, undisturbed. Still, it is hardly possible that even their
carelessness would fail to take account of Genevieve Maud's unoccupied
bed, if unoccupied it proved to be.
"An' cert'inly papa will know."
Helen Adeline's last hope died with this sudden reminder. She sighed.
Of course papa would come to kiss his chicks good-night, but that was
hours hence. Much could be done in those hours. Her problem was
suddenly simplified, for even as she bent her brows and pondered, Grace
Margaret called her attention to an alluring picture behind her. Under
the shelter of a blossoming white hydrangea lay Genevieve Maud fast
asleep. It was a dirty and an exhausted Genevieve Maud, worn with the
heat and toil of the day, scratched by bush and brier, but wonderfully
appealing in her helplessness--so appealing, that Helen Adeline's heart
yearned over her. She conquered the momentary weakness.
"_I_ think," she suggested, casually, "she ought to sleep in the barn."
Grace Margaret gasped.
"It ain't a simple life sleepin' in lovely gardens," continued the
authority, with simple but thrilling conviction. "An'--wasn't the
Infant Jesus born in barns?"
Grace Margaret essayed a faint protest.
"Papa won't like it," she began, feebly.
"He won't know. 'Course we won't let her _stay_ there! But just a
little while, to make it finish right--the way it ought to be."
The holding up of such lofty ideals of consistency conquered Grace
Margaret--so thoroughly, in fact, that she helped to carry the sleeping
Genevieve Maud not only to the barn, but even, in a glorious
inspiration, to Rover's kennel--a roomy habitation and beautifully
clean. The pair deposited the still sleeping innocent there and stepped
back to survey the effect. Helen Adeline drew a long breath of
satisfaction. "Well," she said, with the content of an artist surveying
the perfect work, "if that ain't simple lives, I don't know what is!"
They stole out of the place and into the house. The shadows lengthened
on the floor of the big barn, and the voices of the children in the
street beyond grew fainter and finally died away.
Lights began to twinkle in neighboring windows. Rover, returning from
his friendly visit, sought his home, approached its entrance
confidently, and retreated with a low growl. The baby slept on, and the
dog, finally recognizing his playmate, stretched himself before the
entrance of his kennel and loyally mounted guard, with a puzzled look
in his faithful brown eyes. The older children, lost in agreeable
conversation and the attractions of baked apples and milk toast, wholly
forgot Genevieve Maud and the flying hours.
It was almost dark when their father came home and, after a visit to
the bedside of his wife, looked to the welfare of his children. The
expression on the faces of the two older ones as they suddenly grasped
the fact of his presence explained in part the absence of the third.
Mr. Davenport had enjoyed the advantages of eleven years of daily
association with his daughter Helen Adeline.
"Where is she?" he asked, briefly, with a slight prickling of the scalp.
In solemn procession, in their night-gowns, they led him to her side;
and the peace of the perfumed night as they passed through the garden
was broken with explanations and mutual recriminations and expressions
of unavailing regret. Rover rose as they approached and looked up into
his master's eyes, wagging his tail in eager welcome.
"Here she is," he seemed to say. "It's all right. _I_ looked after her."
The father's eyes grew dim as he patted the dog's fine head and lifted
the naked body of his youngest daughter in his arms. Her little body
was cold, and she shivered as she awoke and looked at him. Then she
gazed down into the conscience-stricken faces of her sisters and memory
returned. It drew from her one of her rare spontaneous remarks.
"Don't yike simple yives," announced Genevieve Maud, with considerable
firmness. "Don't yant to play any more."
"You shall not, my babykins," promised her father, huskily. "No more
simple life for Genevieve Maud, you may be sure."
Later, after the hot bath and the supper which both her father and the
trained nurse had supervised, Genevieve Maud was tucked cozily away in
the little brass crib which had earlier drawn out the stern disapproval
of her sisters. Her round face shone with cold cream. A silver mug,
full of milk, stood beside her crib, on her suggestion that she might
become "firsty" during the night. Finding the occasion one of unlimited
indulgence and concession, she had demanded and secured the privilege
of wearing her best night-gown--one resplendent with a large pink bow.
In her hand she clasped a fat cookie.
Helen Adeline and Grace Margaret surveyed this sybaritic scene from the
outer darkness of the hall.
"Look at her poor, perishin' body full of comforts," sighed Helen
Adeline, dismally. Then, with concentrated bitterness, "I s'pose we'll
never dare to even _think_ 'bout her soul again!"
V
HIS BOY
Captain Arthur Hamilton, of the ----th Infantry, moved on his narrow
cot, groaned partly from irritation and partly from pain, muttered a
few inaudible words, and looked with strong disapproval toward the
opening of the hospital tent in which he lay. Through it came the soft
breezes of the Cuban night, a glimpse of brilliantly starred
horizon-line, and the cheerful voice of Private Kelly, raised in song.
The words came distinctly to the helpless officer's reluctant ears.
"'Oh, Liza, de-ar Liza,'" carolled Kelly, in buoyant response to the
beauty of the evening.
Captain Hamilton muttered again as he suppressed a seductive desire to
throw something at the Irishman's head, silhouetted against the sky as
he limped past the entrance. Six weeks had elapsed since the battle of
San Juan, in which Hamilton and Kelly had been among the many
grievously hurt. Kelly, witness this needless service of song, was
already convalescent. He could wander from tent to tent in well-meaning
but futile efforts to cheer less fortunate mates. Baker was around
again, too, Hamilton remembered, and Barnard and Hallenbeck and Lee,
and--oh, hosts of others. He ran over their names as he had done
countless times before in the long days and nights which had passed
since he had been "out of it all," as he put it to himself. He alone,
of his fellow officers in the regiment, still lay chained to his
wretched cot, a very log of helplessness, in which a fiery spirit
flamed and consumed. His was not a nature that took gracefully to
inactivity; and of late it had been borne in upon him with a cold,
sickening sense of fear, new, like his helplessness, that inactivity
must be his portion for a long, long time to come. At first the thought
had touched his consciousness only at wide intervals, but now it was
becoming a constant, lurking horror, always with him, or just within
reach, ready to spring.
He was "out of it all," not for weeks or even for months, but very
possibly for all time. The doctor's reticence told him this; so did his
own sick heart; so did the dutiful cheerfulness of his men and his
brother officers. They overdid it, he realized, and the efforts they so
conscientiously made showed how deep their sympathy must be, and how
tragic the cause of it. His lips twisted sardonically as he remembered
their optimistic predictions of his immediate recovery and the tributes
they paid to his courage in the field. It was true he had distinguished
himself in action (by chance, he assured himself and them), and he had
figured as a hero in the subsequent reports of the battle. But the
other fellows would hardly have bothered to have a trifle like that
mentioned, he told himself, if the little glowing badge of fame he
carried off the field had not been now his sole possession. He had
given more than his life for it. He had sacrificed his career, his
place in the active ranks, his perfect, athletic body. His life would
have been a simple gift in comparison. Why couldn't it have been taken?
he wondered for the hundredth time. Why could not he, like others, have
died gloriously and been laid away with the flag wrapped round him? But
that, he reflected, bitterly, would have been too much luck. Instead,
he must drag on and on and on, of no use to himself or to any one else.
Again and again he contemplated the dreary outlook, checking off
mentally the details of the past, the depressing experiences to come,
the hopelessness of it all; and as his mind swung wearily round the
small circle he despised himself for the futility of the whole mental
process, and for his inability to fix his thoughts on things other than
his own misfortune. A man paralyzed; a thing dead from the waist
down--that was what he had become. He groaned again as the realization
gnawed at his soul, and at the sound a white-capped nurse rose from a
table where she had been sitting and came to his bedside with a smile
of professional cheerfulness. She had a tired, worn face, and faded
blue eyes, which looked as if they had seen too much of human
suffering. But an indomitable spirit gazed out of them, and spoke, too,
in her alert step and in the fine poise of her head and shoulders.
"Your mail has come," she told him, "and there seem to be some nice
letters--fat ones. One, from Russia, has a gold crown on the envelope.
Perhaps I had better leave you alone while you read it."
Hamilton smiled grimly as he held out a languid hand. He liked Miss
Foster. She was a good sort, and she had stood by the boys nobly
through the awful days after the fight. He liked her humor, too, though
he sometimes had suspicions as to its spontaneity. Then his eye fell on
the top envelope of the little package she had given him, and at the
sight of the handwriting he caught his breath, and the blood rushed
suddenly to his face. He closed his eyes for a moment in an effort to
pull himself together. Did he still care, after ten years, and like
that! But possibly, very probably, it was merely a manifestation of his
wretched weakness, which could not endure even a pleasant surprise
without these absurd physical effects. He remembered, with a more
cheerful grin, that he had hardly thought of her at all during the past
year. Preparations for war and his small part in them had absorbed him
heart and soul. He opened the letter without further self-analysis, and
read with deepening interest the closely written lines on the thin
foreign paper, whose left-hand corner held a duplicate of the gold
crown on the envelope.
"DEAR OLD FRIEND,--You have forgotten me, no doubt, in all these years.
Ten, is it not? But I have not forgotten you, nor my other friends in
America, exile though I am and oblivious though I may have seemed. I do
not know quite why I have not come home for a visit long before this.
Indeed, I have planned to do so from year to year, but a full life and
many varied interests have deferred the journey one way or another. I
have three boys--nine, seven, and five--and it would be difficult to
bring them with me and impossible to leave them behind. So, you see--
"But my heart often longs for my native land, and in one tower of this
old castle I have a great room full of souvenirs of home. It is the
spot I love best in my new country. Here I read my mail and write my
letters and follow American news in the newspapers friends send me.
Here, with my boys tumbling over each other before the fireplace, I
read of the ascent of San Juan Hill, and of you, my friend, and your
splendid courage, and your injury.
"No doubt by the time this letter reaches you you will be well again,
and in no need of my sympathy. But you will let me tell you how proud
of you I am.
"I read the newspaper accounts to my boys, who were greatly interested
and impressed when they learned that mamma knew the hero. I was much
amused by the youngest, Charlie--too small, I thought, to understand it
all. But he stood before me with his hands on my knees and his big
brown eyes on my face; and when I finished reading he asked many
questions about the war and about you. He is the most American of my
children, and loves to hear of his mother's country. After the others
had gone he cuddled down in my lap and demanded the 'story' repeated in
full; and when I described again the magnificent way in which you saved
your men, he said, firmly, 'I am _his_ boy.'
"I thought you might be interested in this unsought, spontaneous
tribute, and my purpose in writing is to pass it on to you--though I
admit it has taken me a long time to get 'round to it!
"You will forgive this rambling letter, and you will believe me, now as
ever,
"Sincerely your friend,
"MARGARET CHALLONER VALDRONOVNA."
Hamilton slowly refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope,
letting the solace of its sweet friendliness sink into his sore heart
the while. She had not wholly forgotten him, then, this beautiful woman
he had loved and who had given him a gracious and charming
_camaraderie_ in return for the devotion of his life. He had not been
senseless enough to misconstrue her feeling, so he had never spoken;
and she, after two brilliant Washington seasons, had married a great
Russian noble and sailed away without suspecting, he felt sure, what
she was to him. He had recovered, as men do, but he had not loved
again, nor had he married. He wondered if she knew. Very probably; for
the newspapers which devoted so much space to his achievements had
added detailed biographical sketches, over which he had winced from
instinctive distaste of such intimate discussion of his personal
affairs. The earlier reports (evidently the ones she had read) had
published misleading accounts of his injuries. They were serious, but
not dangerous, according to these authorities. It was only recently
that rumors of his true condition had begun to creep into print. The
Princess had not read these. Hamilton was glad of that.
He recalled dreamily the different passages of her letter, the
remainder of his mail lying neglected on his bed. That boy--her
boy--_his_ boy. He smiled to himself, at first with amusement, then
with a sudden tenderness that pleasantly softened his stern lips. He
was weak enough, frightened enough, lonely enough, to grasp with an
actual pitiful throb of the heart this tiny hand stretched out to him
across the sea. He liked that boy--_his_ boy. He must be a fine fellow.
He wondered idly how he looked. "Three boys--nine, seven, five"--yes,
Charlie was five and had great brown eyes. Like his mother's, the
stricken man remembered. She had brown eyes--and such brown eyes. Such
kind, friendly, womanly brown eyes--true mirrors of the strong soul
that looked from them. Something hot and wet stung the surface of
Hamilton's cheek. He touched it unsuspectingly, and then swore alone in
deep, frank self-disgust.
"Well, of all the sentimental idiots!" he muttered. "My nerves are in a
nice way, when I bawl like a baby because some one sends me a friendly
letter. Guess I'll answer it."
Miss Foster brought him pen, ink, and paper, and he began, writing with
some difficulty, as he lay flat on his back.
"MY DEAR PRINCESS,--Your letter has just reached me, and you cannot, I
am sure, imagine the cheer and comfort it brought. I am still lingering
unwillingly on the sick-list, but there is some talk now of shipping me
north on the _Relief_ next week, when I hope to give a better account
of myself. In the mean time, and after, I shall think much of you and
the boys, especially of the youngest and his flattering adoption of me.
I am already insufferably proud of that, and rather sentimental as
well, as you will see by the fact that I want his photograph! Will you
send it to me, in care of the Morton Trust Company, New York? I do not
yet know just where I shall be.
"There is a pleasant revelation of well-being and happiness between the
lines of your letter. Believe me, I rejoice in both.
"Faithfully yours,
"ARTHUR HAMILTON."
As he read it over the letter seemed curt and unsatisfactory, but he
was already exhausted and had not the strength to make another effort.
So he wearily sealed and addressed it, and gave it to Miss Foster for
the next mail. Her tired eyes widened a little as she artlessly read
the inscription.