Eugenia sat in an old oak chair in the farmhouse dining room while
Barbara swept and dusted.
It was the morning after her experience in the woods and actually she
had confessed to a headache and had decided not to go to the field
hospital for her daily nursing.
At present the four American girls were on day duty and remained at the
hospital from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, their
places being taken by other nurses at that hour. But each girl had one
day of rest and by chance this happened to be Barbara’s.
Eugenia had been asleep when Nona and Mildred went away to work and
only in the last half hour had crept downstairs. All her life every
now and then she had been subject to wretched headaches which left her
speechless and exhausted. But so far since coming abroad her three
girl companions had not been aware of them.
Now every now and then while Barbara worked she glanced toward Eugenia.
It was difficult to recognize the severe and energetic Miss Peabody in
this white-faced, quiet girl. For Eugenia had never since the beginning
of their acquaintance looked so young. For one thing, she was wearing a
beautiful violet cashmere kimono Mildred had presented her during their
stay in Paris. She had never worn it until now. At least the gift had
not come directly from Mildred or Eugenia would never have accepted it.
But Mrs. Thornton had written from New York asking that Mildred’s new
friends receive some little gifts from her, and Mildred had chosen four
kimonos. They were too pretty for nursing use, so the other girls had
been enjoying theirs in the evenings alone at home.
Eugenia had never consented to relax even to that extent when work was
over and there was no possibility of company. Now, however, her costume
was not of her own choosing, for after Barbara had taken a cup of
coffee to her room and persuaded her into drinking it, she had dressed
her in the new kimono without asking permission. Also she had brushed
and plaited Eugenia’s heavy hair into two long braids.
“Funny for a New England old maid to be able to look like an Italian
Madonna simply because her hair is down and her head aches,” Barbara
thought to herself after one of her quick glances at Eugenia.
She made rather a fetching picture herself, but Barbara was at present
entirely unconscious. Simply because it happened to be the most useful
costume she owned for the purpose, she was clad in a French peasant’s
smock of dark-blue linen, and wore a little white cap at a rakish angle
on top of her brown curls. Her hair was now sufficiently long to twist
into a small knot at the nape of her neck, where delicate tendrils were
apt to creep forth like the new growth on a vine.
Finally Eugenia, opening her eyes and catching sight of Barbara, at
this moment on tip toes in her effort to dust the tall mantel-shelf,
said unexpectedly:
“You are very pretty, Barbara dear, and just the kind of a little woman
that men are apt to care for. I wonder if you ever think of marrying,
or do you mean to go on nursing all your life? Now and then I have
thought that Dick----”
But her sentence was interrupted by Barbara’s dropping the candlestick
which she was dusting and then turning to stare at her companion.
“Why, Eugenia, I thought you were asleep,” she began reproachfully.
Then showing the dimple which she so resented, she added slyly, “But
what on earth made you speak on such a subject? I never dreamed that
you ever had a thought of such a thing in your life.”
Barbara bit her lips. No wonder Eugenia considered her a goose, for
certainly she seemed possessed of the fatal gift of saying the wrong
thing.
Eugenia was no longer pale. Indeed, a wave of hot color had turned her
entire face crimson.
“Am I so unattractive as all that?” she asked slowly, forgetting her
headache for the instant and feeling a return of the mood that had
troubled her the evening before, until the excitement of her adventure
had driven it from her mind.
“Do you know, Barbara, I was trying to decide just last night what was
the matter with me. Now I know you don’t like me, but I think you are
fair. Tell me why you suppose I have never even thought of love and
marriage and the kind of happiness other girls expect. I’m not so very
old, after all! But you are right in one idea. I never, never have
dreamed of it for myself. For one thing, no one has ever been in love
with me even the least little bit in all my life!”
In spite of the tactlessness of Barbara’s speech actually Eugenia was
speaking without the least temper, when ordinarily she was given to
showing anger with her companion under the slightest provocation.
In consequence Barbara felt entirely disgusted with herself, and what
was worse--ridiculously tongue-tied.
“Oh, I did not mean anything like that,” she stammered. “That is--at
least--why, of course you are as nice as anyone when you let yourself
be, Eugenia. But you do seem cold, as if you considered other people
not exactly worth your attention. And--and----”
Not feeling that she was making out a very good case for herself,
Barbara put her duster down and came and sat on a wooden stool near the
older girl.
“I am an idiot, Eugenia,” she insisted scornfully. “No wonder Dick
Thornton always declares I have never grown up. Besides, I don’t
believe you have never had any one in love with you, not even a young
girl-and-boy affair. No girl ever lives to be as old as you are
without----”
Again Barbara stopped short, biting her lips.
But Eugenia only shook her head and laughed. “I am the exception that
proves the rule. Besides, my dear, you came from the west and not
New England, and you weren’t, as people have so often said of me,
‘born an old maid.’ But never mind, I won’t ask any more embarrassing
questions.”
Eugenia tried to speak lightly, half amused and half hurt by the
expression of chagrin on Barbara Meade’s face.
“By the way,” she added, in an effort to change the subject, “how is
Dick Thornton? I have been meaning to ask you what you have heard from
him.”
This time the younger girl flushed, but so slightly that Eugenia did
not appear to notice it.
“I have heard nothing at all,” she returned honestly. “But I don’t
suppose Dick is better, as Mildred and Nona have both had letters and
say there was nothing important in them.”
Suddenly Barbara took Eugenia’s hand.
“You have more experience than the rest of us,” she began with unusual
humility. “I wonder if you think Dick has a chance of ever using his
arm again?”
The other girl hesitated. Certainly she had no right to believe that
Barbara felt more than the natural interest in Dick that they all
had for Mildred’s brother and their own friend. And, as Barbara had
just suggested, Eugenia was not supposed even to think on romantic
subjects. Nevertheless, her voice was unusually gentle as she replied:
“I don’t really know one thing in the world about it, Barbara, but Dick
is young and has lots of determination and most certainly I have not
given up hope.”
Eugenia had another twinge of pain in her temples at this second and so
closed her eyes. Although hearing a knock at their back door, she did
not open them even when Barbara left the room.
A moment later, hearing a strange sound, she was surprised by a sudden
sense of terror, almost of suffocation. Yet surely she must be in a
kind of nightmare brought on by her illness, since the sound suggested
the footsteps which had pursued her the night before and brought on the
same unreasoning fear.
Clutching the sides of her chair, Eugenia stared ahead of her.
There in the doorway, leading from the kitchen into the principal room
of the farmhouse, stood an immense dog. It was odd the manner in which
he surveyed Eugenia. There was suspicion, distrust and withal an air
of apology in his manner.
The dog was a magnificent creature, a great Dane, silver-gray in
color with a heavy silver collar about its throat, engraved with what
appeared to be a coat of arms.
Ordinarily Eugenia had a strong affection for animals, so it was absurd
of her to be so nervous because of her experience the evening before.
Nevertheless, she felt again that she could neither speak nor move.
Yet at this moment Barbara danced in, pushing aside the big dog as
fearlessly and unceremoniously as if he had been a Persian kitten. She
held a number of letters in her hands and a big bunch of autumn leaves.
Behind her, with the eternal basket on his arm, hobbled old François,
the French servant from the home of the owner of their farmhouse.
He looked like a little old brown gnome with his crooked legs, his
stooping shoulders and brown peaked cap almost the color of his skin.
“François is better than a fairy godmother--he is a fairy godfather!”
Barbara exclaimed delightedly. “He has brought us letters and good news
of all kinds this morning. You are sure to feel better when you hear,
Eugenia. But how did you happen to bring Duke over with you, François?
I thought he was supposed to stay at home and take care of his mistress
when you were compelled to leave her alone.”
Eugenia listened with only mild attention. Evidently this dog belonged
to the countess upon whose estate they were living. He could scarcely
be the creature that had behaved so unceremoniously with her the night
before.
But François’ little black eyes were twinkling. “Monsieur le Duc is
able to be with me because Madame is _not_ alone today,” he explained
proudly.
Eugenia frowned. “What a pompous, ridiculous name to bestow upon a dog,
no matter how splendid he happened to be! But wasn’t there something
familiar in his title? Surely it was the same name that the young
French officer had used to his dog the night before!”