A DESPERATE RESOLVE
=WHEN= the air battle shifted south again toward Cantigny Lucy and her
father were left in a state of dreadful uncertainty. Neither on that day
nor the next did they learn the result of the fight, except for the
vague rumors that went constantly from mouth to mouth among the friends
of the Allies. These felt some hope that the Germans had met defeat,
because of the complete silence their conquerors kept on the subject.
German Victories were usually loudly proclaimed before them. But there
was talk of heavy French and American losses, and this depressing news
was all that Elizabeth could learn for Lucy.
Unable longer to bear the continual sight of the German officers and men
in authority at the hospital, Lucy sought out Michelle the afternoon of
the day after the battle.
“Michelle, I can’t stand it any longer,” she told her friend, in the
privacy of the de la Tours’ little house. Her calmness and patience had
all at once fallen from her. Michelle looked at her flushed cheeks and
trouble-haunted eyes, and exclaimed, frightened at the change in her:
“But, Lucy—what can you do? No good comes from fear and anger. I know
that well. We can do nothing but wait and hope.”
“I _can’t_ wait and I _can’t_ hope any longer! I’m not like you,
Michelle—brave all the time. My courage comes in spurts, and when it
goes I am a coward. The one thing I cannot stand is waiting!”
Michelle was silent, but her expressive face said as plainly as words
that Lucy might have to bear longer than a month what she herself had
borne four years.
“Yes, I know what you think, Michelle,” cried Lucy, reading her mind.
“It’s you who should be desperate, not I. But it was watching the fight
yesterday that finished me. Before that I still had a little courage
left.”
“You mean—your brother?” Michelle asked softly.
“Yes, not knowing anything—if he is safe, or who won the battle. Like
Father, I’m getting so I can’t sleep or eat or do anything but wonder
why on earth the Americans haven’t tried to push on.”
“I know—I know,” Michelle agreed with instant sympathy. “But they will,
Lucy. It seems bright to us now, who remember the black days before
America was with us.”
“But, Michelle, Major Greyson and the others who can get near the German
lines think the Allies are going to attack. You know how the firing has
recommenced toward Montdidier, the last two days? Last night a regiment
marched through Château-Plessis on its way south. I’m sure the Germans
expect something.”
“I hope they will wait for it at the wrong place,” said Michelle,
sighing, “but they are very hard to surprise.”
“I know Captain Beattie’s plan of the batteries isn’t everything,” Lucy
went on earnestly, “but he and Bob are so sure that Argenton is the key
to an advance along this line. If the Allies can take Argenton they
think Château-Plessis and the towns north toward Amiens will fall too. I
don’t know about Montdidier.”
“Yes, so thinks Armand as well,” said Michelle, a trifle wearily. “But
we cannot reach the other side to tell them what we know.”
Lucy fell into gloomy silence. Presently, with an effort at
self-control, she raised her hands to smooth her loosened hair, and
tried to recover some of her calmness. “You have enough to stand,
without bearing my tantrums,” she said, looking at Michelle
remorsefully. “I’ll behave now. Shall we go to the hospital? The
convalescents are waiting for their work.”
“Yes,” Michelle nodded, “Clemence goes to the Commissariat now. I can
stay at the hospital with you until she returns.”
Neither of the two felt much like talking as they crossed the town a few
minutes later. Their spirits were heavily clouded, and the occasional
sighs and ejaculations of the patient old Frenchwoman trudging beside
them found an echo in their own hearts. On entering the hospital Lucy
noticed an unusual stir and activity about the wards. That some of the
faces turned toward her were sadder than an hour before did not at first
strike her, because she was sad herself. But the next moment she met
Miss Pearse, and, seeing the young nurse’s troubled face, asked
anxiously:
“Is anything wrong, Miss Pearse? Anything more, I mean?”
“Only that they are sending some of our convalescents to prison camps
to-day. The order came just after you left. Oh, Lucy, I hated so to tell
them!” Her voice shook and tears started to her eyes, but she swallowed
hastily to overcome her weakness. “I must go and help them get off. Come
into the hall and try to cheer them up a bit.”
“Easier said than done!” Lucy thought wretchedly. She wanted to do
nothing so much as to cry, but she had begun to learn the uselessness of
that. Michelle caught her hand with a hard squeeze of angry
understanding as they went on into the convalescents’ hall, where the
men to be sent away were assembled.
One of the first that Lucy saw was the little Westerner, Tyler, whose
cheerful spirit and jolly little clay images had done so much for the
others in the past few days. She longed overwhelmingly to give all she
had of help and sympathy to her unfortunate countrymen, for the ten or
twelve soldiers, French and American, gathered there were the picture of
despondency. The strength which might have upheld them was wanting, for
they were scarcely recovered or able to be about. Their cheeks were pale
and their bodies thin from suffering and fever. All the courage they
could summon was only enough to give their set faces a look of grim
endurance.
Of them all Tyler seemed to Lucy the most pitiful. His hopeful cockiness
was almost gone, and the strain of getting ready and standing about,
after the days spent in bed or in a chair, had nearly exhausted his wiry
little frame. Major Greyson went here and there among them, giving what
help or advice he could, cast down like them by the knowledge that
another hour would see them beyond his power to aid.
Tyler nodded to Lucy with a last attempt at his persistent cheerfulness.
“Well, Miss,” he remarked, in such a sad ghost of his old chaffing tone
that Lucy could hardly bear to listen, “I guess it’s a case of ‘Where do
we go from here?’ all right, for us. On to Berlin’s the idea, I suppose.
Hope the Kaiser don’t take a fancy to adopt me. Say,” he added, with a
look of utter misery in his eyes, “who’d ’a’ thought, after twenty-five
years I’ve spent in Arizona, that I’d end up in Germany?”
Lucy stammered out words of hope and encouragement which deceived him no
more than they did herself. As she went on down the line, repeating the
same useless efforts, Michelle ran up behind her and caught her sharply
by the arm.
The French girl’s eyes were gleaming and two crimson spots burned in her
pale cheeks. “Come with me, Lucy!” she commanded rather than asked. “The
hard time will come when they leave Château-Plessis! There we must be to
say farewell, for they go almost at once! I heard speak the German guard
this moment.”
Only half understanding, Lucy allowed herself to be led out of the hall
into the big ward. In the bustle and confusion no one noticed their
departure. They went out by the side door into the garden and from here
Michelle led the way across the square and eastward toward the edge of
the town.
As they hurried along, half-running through the almost deserted streets,
Michelle explained again her purpose.
“They must pass on the road that goes across the meadows, on their way
from Château-Plessis,” she said, breathing fast. “It is there when they
say _adieu_ to the town that they will be _triste_! It is the last
French town where they can set foot, for but two miles from here the
train will take them into Germany.”
“Oh, Michelle, it’s too dreadful to bear!” cried Lucy, bitterly
rebelling once more against the inevitable.
“It is not the first time that I have seen it,” said Michelle, her voice
suddenly trembling. “Never before, though, have Americans gone, too.”
As they neared the meadows, making for the road that ran across them,
north of the German observation post, the empty streets became filled
with a steady line of people, hurrying eastward like themselves. Women,
their faces half concealed by shawls, with children running beside them,
shared the road with bent old men who found a cautious way among the
débris of broken stone. Michelle’s was not the only loyal French heart
to foresee the desolation of the prisoners on reaching the outskirts of
Château-Plessis. One and all had learned the news somehow and had come
out at any cost for a last farewell.
At the edge of the field where Lucy and Michelle paused among the little
crowd, stood old Mère Breton with a covered basket on the ground at her
feet. The bright eyes beneath her white cap were sparkling with
defiance, as with hands on her hips she stared across the grass at the
German post, where a sentry walked, looking curiously toward the little
throng. Lucy went up to her with a faint smile of greeting, guessing at
the contents of the basket and thinking how hopeless any kindness was
which could not follow the prisoners beyond the German border.
“I have something here,” nodded the Frenchwoman, pointing to her basket
in answer to Lucy’s glance. “They will get a taste of it on their way,
if I should be beaten for befriending them.”
Before Lucy could reply, Michelle drew her attention by pointing
silently down the street they had left behind. The little column of
prisoners was coming along it, preceded by two German soldiers. The
faded blue and khaki of the French and American uniforms showed beyond
the armed gray figures leading the way. The pace had not been slackened
for these men just from the hospital, in spite of the hot sun and the
difficulty of walking among the broken stone.
As they neared the field some of the men glanced back into the desolate
streets of Château-Plessis. Lucy knew how dear and greatly to be desired
the little town must seem. Here they had cherished a never-dying hope of
freedom, and here, too, were friendly hands to tend them, and friendly
faces to look upon. Ahead lay Germany, where how many of their comrades
had gone to misery and death; where at best only wretchedness awaited
them.
In a moment they had come out on to the meadow road, and with one accord
every voice in the little crowd was raised in greeting and farewell.
Kind faces, eyes brimming with tears, and hands out-stretched with
trifling presents of fruit and flowers met the prisoners on their way.
The children ran to clasp the soldiers’ hands, and Mère Breton, her
basket on her arm, gave out her little store of provisions as fast as
her quick fingers could move.
All this took so short a time that the guards at the front and rear of
the column had scarcely time to interfere. But now, as the cries on
every side grew louder and the crowd closed in almost on the prisoners’
path, one of the rear guards sprang threateningly forward with upraised
rifle. Astonishment and fury were written on his face, that these
townspeople, so docile and downtrodden, should have dared thus to show
their unquenchable love and loyalty. The prisoners passed, and the
little crowd, gazing after the retreating column with eyes blurred with
tears, hardly noticed the brutal figure advancing upon them. Mère Breton
had emptied her basket and was standing now in the road with one hand
shading her wrinkled forehead. She was hoping that a little present had
found its way to each man’s hands. Her thoughts were all with the
prisoners on their hard way, but the German guard took her preoccupation
for defiance. He had charged down upon the people remaining in the road,
and, as these scattered, the butt of his heavy rifle was raised directly
above Mère Breton’s head.
Whether he really meant to strike the old woman down, or only to terrify
her, Lucy never knew. In common with half a dozen others she sprang to
Mère Breton’s side and dragged her back as the German’s rifle cut
through the air. Lucy’s horror almost robbed her of power to think at
that moment, but she had to think quickly, nevertheless. Michelle had
rushed in front of the old Frenchwoman, in furious defense. She stood
facing the guard with hands clenched at her sides, her blazing eyes
confronting the man’s angry face, as his rifle struck the earth in its
harmless descent. His fingers clutched it as though for another blow
and, still seeing Mère Breton as the intended victim, the enraged girl
was actually going to offer battle to the burly man before her. But Mère
Breton had slipped safely among the crowd, and Lucy, with Madame de la
Tour’s face before her eyes, seized her friend’s arm and dragged her
back with all her young strength. The guard, indulging in more
brandishings of his rifle and a burst of abusive words, turned to rejoin
his prisoners.
The little group of people were now fast dispersing, their courage
shaken and only fear remaining at the thought of possible punishment.
Lucy led Michelle quickly across the meadow toward the town. She did not
try to speak at first, for Michelle was still deadly pale and shaking
with anger. But she struggled to recover her self-control, and in five
minutes more had calmed herself enough to say unsteadily:
“I did not think what I did, Lucy. Only to save that poor old woman I
would fight the Boche. I could not help it.”
“I know, but think of your mother, Michelle—she comes first,” said Lucy,
this time the wiser of the two.
“Yes, you are right,” responded Michelle, sighing. She walked on with
downcast eyes, depressed and miserable after her useless outburst of
indignation.
Lucy could not find words to express the pity she felt for her. Instead,
she changed the subject by saying, “I’m coming to spend the night with
you, Michelle. Had you forgotten?”
“No, not at all. I am too glad that you will come to forget,” said
Michelle sincerely. She looked up at Lucy as she spoke, the blazing
light quenched in her eyes. “What time will you come? Perhaps a little
more early?”
“I’m not sure. I—Elizabeth may not be able to go when she promised,”
said Lucy, floundering a little.
“But she said she could bring you early to-night—soon after the dark,”
Michelle persisted.
“Yes—she said so, but you never know. Don’t expect me very early,” was
Lucy’s rather evasive answer. At any other time Michelle would have
remarked her friend’s lack of candor, but just now she was too unhappy
to be observant.
“I’d better leave you here,” said Lucy, as they approached the middle of
the town. “You are near home, and I shall go straight to the hospital.
I’m breaking my word to Father and Miss Pearse every minute—though I
suppose our being together isn’t quite like running off alone. Anyway, I
was so excited I never thought.”
“Yes, poor Maman would be sadly anxious if she knew,” Michelle agreed
soberly. “Good-bye then, _mon amie_. I will wait for you to-night.”
Lucy reëntered the hospital with slow and heavy steps, a quarter of an
hour later. She had grown deeply thankful that her father’s
convalescence was slow and uncertain. Suppose he had been one of those
to whom she had just said good-bye? But he was gaining strength daily.
Could the time be deferred much longer when he would be sent away? As
she pondered these things Major Greyson, who had known her well in the
old days, glanced at her, startled by the change in her face. Her hazel
eyes had become sombre and watchful, her lips were pressed together, and
her cheeks at that moment had lost their healthy color. The surgeon
looked after her frowning and troubled. He was thin and worn himself,
but he did not think of that.
Lucy was crossing the convalescents’ hall, now so sparsely occupied,
toward the nurses’ dining-room, when a voice called eagerly, “Fräulein!
Fräulein!”
Rebelling at the sound of the hateful German tongue, she would have gone
on unheeding, but a German doctor was right in her path, and she dared
not risk his ill-will. She turned toward the voice and saw Paul Schwartz
leaning from his chair with a bright smile on his face. Half Lucy’s
anger left her at sight of him. She could not cherish it against this
simple peasant with the mild eyes and childish flaxen hair.
“What is it, Paul?” she asked, going up to him.
“I am discharged!” he cried, his voice trembling with joy and his blue
eyes shining. “To-morrow I start for home—for the Schwarzwald! I will be
lame,” he added, his smile fading a little, “but I can get about, and it
is much to be at home again.”
Lucy had not the heart to say less than, “Oh, that’s fine, Paul. I’m so
glad. You will see your wife then, and the little girl?”
“Yes, yes, all! And I have my pension, too—quite a sum.”
“I will come and say good-bye before you go,” Lucy promised, stumbling
with the German words, as pity and anger struggled together in her
heart. Paul was going back to his peaceful home, thankful to get out of
the war. But her father and brother and countrymen were but just
entering it. A long, hard fight was ahead of them.
In a minute, however, her natural good sense began to overcome the
brooding dread that was tormenting her. “It may not happen,” she told
herself, trying to be hopeful again. “Anyhow, I won’t be any good, this
way, for what I have to do.” And at thought of one task that lay before
her she felt the need of calmness and courage as never before. She
nodded to Paul, and went on with a quicker step into the nurses’
dining-room.
That evening, a little after eight o’clock, Lucy drew near to Michelle’s
house, and at the garden gate Elizabeth turned to leave her. The German
woman had snatched this time to bring Lucy across the town, but her work
was by no means done and she was returning at once to the hospital. Lucy
bade her good-bye with strange reluctance. She was about to deceive her
faithful friend, and she hated the necessity for doing so. But Elizabeth
could not spare her any more time to-night, and Lucy well knew she could
never win her old nurse’s consent to her project.
When Elizabeth had turned her back Lucy went a few steps into the garden
and waited behind the shelter of a bush. She must deceive Michelle, too,
for on Madame de la Tour’s account she did not want her company, glad as
she would otherwise have been of it. But, frightened or not, her
increasing horror at the German captivity now far outweighed her
timidity at venturing alone to the prison. For it was Captain Beattie
she was determined to see again, and without another night’s delay.
After a moment she went back to the gate and looked cautiously down the
street. Elizabeth had disappeared. It was clear moonlight and the
deserted street was sharply outlined in light and shadow. There was
little chance of moving unobserved in the moon’s path, but by contrast
with its soft radiance the shadows looked black and deep along the
walls. Lucy left the garden and made her way as quickly as constant
watchfulness would permit along the now familiar streets leading toward
the prison. She was in a miserable state of mind, but the fear that
hurried her footsteps was not caused by her own solitary errand. It was
all for her father at thought of the irrevocable fate hanging over him.
Irrevocable unless she could do something to prevent it, for, however
feeble her efforts must be, she saw no other help in sight. Remembering
the chances she had missed of communicating with the Allied lines she
came near to thorough dejection. How differently Bob would have managed
things in her place! She could not know how close to despair her brother
was at that moment, and how his cherished plan for her release had died
with Jourdin’s death. Since the battle of yesterday Lucy hardly dared
think of Bob.
She reached the prison square, and slackening her pace, began creeping
along in the shadow of the walls. The prison guard-room was lighted and
the door open. As she paused uncertainly, flattening herself against the
stones of the house opposite, the old guard came noisily out and,
shouldering their guns, marched off across the square. The relief
proceeded to make a round of the prison. Finding all secure, both men
retired into the guard-room again and shut the door.
Lucy breathed a thankful sigh and moved cautiously on to where a shadow
falling on the street gave her a chance to cross unseen. The next moment
she was behind the prison and lifting herself up to Captain Beattie’s
window.
He was there close by it, as though expecting her, and the warmth of his
welcome did something toward cheering her depression.
“You got off safely that night, Lucy?” was his first eager question.
“Those prowling soldiers didn’t see you? How that’s worried me!”
“Oh, they didn’t catch a glimpse of me. I’m sorry you’ve been anxious.
Here’s all I could bring you, Captain Beattie,” she said smiling. “It’s
better than nothing.”
For two days Lucy had saved a part of her bread and potatoes, and these
she held out in her handkerchief, close to the bars. The young
prisoner’s gratitude made her almost happy for a moment. The prison wall
cast a deep shade on the moonlight-flooded courtyard, but in spite of it
a little light penetrated the bars and, for the first time since she had
visited the prison, Lucy could see the young officer’s face. It was thin
and sad, though a brave smile touched his lips now in answer to her
searching glance.
“What should I do without you, Lucy?” he asked, giving her hand a warm,
friendly grasp, as she clung to the bars.
“Goodness, I don’t do much,” said Lucy, sighing. As she spoke she
remembered that time was precious, and her voice grew alert and earnest.
“You can’t possibly get out of here—that’s sure, isn’t it?”
The Englishman laughed rather bitterly. “Quite sure. The surest thing I
know. Some famous prisoners I’ve read of contrived to saw their bars
with a fish-bone or a pair of scissors, but I don’t seem to have the
knack of it.”
“Don’t you ever wonder, though, what you’d do if you could manage to get
out—how you would escape to our lines?”
“Of course I do! There never was a prisoner, I expect, who didn’t dream
of escape. More than that, I have planned it all out—getting across the
German lines, I mean. It’s a beastly waste of time, but Heavens, I have
to think of something. However, I’ll be out soon enough,” he added
grimly. “They’ve kept me here to be questioned by the divisional
commander. He came yesterday, and our talk was so dull I dare say I’ll
be on my way to Germany within the week.”
“Oh, perhaps not—don’t think of it,” stammered Lucy wretchedly. Then she
drew a quick breath. “I wish you’d tell me, anyway, about your plan to
cross the lines, Captain Beattie. You must be so tired of thinking here,
all alone. I want to talk to you a little while. The guard has just been
around, so they won’t come again.”
“You know, I heard what those two fellows said the other night when they
stopped in front here. Poor kid, how scared you must have been.”
“I was! You mean what one said about the château hill being a weak point
in their defenses?”
“Yes—and he was right, too. I’ve been all over that part of the
town—last month when the Germans were pushed back. I’m so sure of the
ground that my plan for breaking through was made for that spot, even
before I heard those soldiers talking.”
“How would you go about it? They must have some defenses there.”
“Oh, yes. There’s a trench line running right through the château
park—an old one. But, poorly garrisoned as they are here, they don’t
hold it in any force. They simply mount guard on the hill, as that
fellow told us. They count on being able to reinforce the trenches long
before an infantry column could advance across that pond and marsh.”
“But the big guns—aren’t there any up there?”
“There were last winter, but, from what he said, there are none now.
They must plan to rush them from the rear, in case of an attack. It
looks like a real shortage of artillery.”
“Well, aren’t you going to tell me your scheme?”
“If you really want to hear it. I’ve spent hours devising it, but I’ll
cut the telling short. First, you’ll have to pretend that I’m outside
the bars—for getting out is beyond me.”
“All right. You are here where I am.”
“And it’s about ten at night; but no moon, or at least a clouded one.
Starlight would be much better. I creep along the streets to the eastern
edge of the town—for I don’t dare cross it straight west—until I reach
the meadows. These I skirt, gradually getting westward and nearer their
lines, until I come out behind the château hill, the south-western point
of the town. This far I’m pretty confident of success. The place is too
deserted for me to be discovered, short of villainous ill-luck.”
“Now you’re behind the château hill,” Lucy prompted.
“Getting up the hill through the wood is not very dangerous—past the
stream, you know the place? I’m not likely to meet a soul there, for the
guards probably go up by the trenches. Now I’m at the top, with the
château in front of me, also the trench line and the sentries. But we
can take it that the trench isn’t held, or they wouldn’t have sentries.
“To right and left stretches the German line. This part is ticklish.
Some nights I make it easily enough; others I’m challenged at the second
step. I turn left, around the park, avoiding the open lawns, where the
artificial lake and the fountains are, and, keeping well under the
trees, cross the trenches at an unguarded point. But by the time I’m on
the left of the château the cover ends, and, to avoid coming out on to
the grass in full sight of a sentry, I have to climb down the side of
the hill—a regular precipice just here, if I remember right, but it
can’t be helped. It’s dark, mossy rock—no one from the trenches below
could see a moving figure against it—and with care I get down to the
foot safely and find myself at the edge of the swamp. The trenches are
behind me, on the left of the hill, and they are strongly occupied here.
The Allies’ lines are a mile away, beyond the swamp and pond and a
stretch of level ground. My back aches at thought of covering it, though
my khaki is good protection—nearly earth color in the dark.”
“But the swamp—can you get through that?”
“Oh, it’s not a real bog. You don’t go in above your ankles, but every
step is likely to make a squelching sound. This is the place where the
chances are I would be seen or heard. I have to walk bent almost double
among the long grass and reeds. My only hope is that the big night-birds
in the marsh have accustomed the soldiers’ ears to strange noises—for
the trenches are only a hundred yards behind me on this side of the
hill. Once safely through the marsh, I drop down at the edge of the pond
to get my breath and reconnoitre. The pond extends so far that to avoid
it would mean a long détour in the open. It’s not wide, though, scarcely
two hundred feet. The castle hill is a quarter of a mile behind me. I’m
well on my way, if a stray bullet from one side or the other doesn’t
find me about this time. If not, I guarantee to slip into that pond
without a sound and swim across undiscovered, provided the moon doesn’t
shine upon it to show me climbing out on the far bank. Star-shells, too,
would be my finish. I can only trust there won’t any fall my way. Once
I’ve slipped out of the pond and started crawling forward again, barring
bullets—and I have faced a lot and missed them—I’m pretty near success.”
“But when you get to our trenches—won’t they shoot? How will you prove
who you are?” Lucy asked with breathless eagerness.
“I’ll call out, and show that I’m alone. I’d convince them, right
enough. Wish I had the chance! They won’t shoot without a look at me.
Too many of their own men are likely to be out on listening post.”
There was a moment’s silence, then the young officer said quickly, a
keen self-reproach in his low voice, “What am I thinking of, keeping you
here to listen to all this nonsense! Go back now, Lucy, at once. You’ve
been here long enough.”
“All right,” she agreed, after a minute’s preoccupation. She began to
speak again, stopped short, and finally stretched her hand through the
bars and gave her friend’s a warm, lingering clasp. “Good-bye, Captain
Beattie,” she said, and the Englishman fancied her voice shook a little.
“Good-bye, Lucy! Wish better luck for us both. And come soon again, or
you’ll find me gone,” he answered, forcing what cheerfulness he could
into the cheerless words, his pity for Lucy just then stronger than any
for himself.
“Good-bye,” she repeated, as earnestly as before. Then dropping down
from the bars she began her cautious progress back around the prison.
“I will get to the de la Tours’ by ten o’clock,” she thought, wondering
if Michelle had been long expecting her. Then, all Captain Beattie had
said crowding into her mind, she glanced up at the moon with troubled
eyes. As though it felt that appealing and reproachful look, its bright
face vanished from her sight behind a fleecy little cloud.
Early the next morning, when Lucy returned to the hospital, she met
Major Greyson in the ward. The surgeon’s face was so sad and filled with
dismay that Lucy stared dumbly at him. He did not wait for her to speak.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, drawing her aside to a window, his
usually brave and hopeful voice dull and heavy. “I’ve done everything
possible. I pretended to the last moment. But the German doctor himself
examined all the patients to-day. He saw that the Colonel had no fever.”
As Lucy, with swiftly mounting fear, struggled to understand these
incoherent phrases, Major Greyson reached out and took her hand in his.
“It’s no use, Lucy. I’ve got to tell you. Your father is considered well
enough to travel. He will be sent to Germany day after to-morrow.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------