She did not meet him again at Lutie's. Purposely, and with a cunning
somewhat foreign to her sex, she took good care that he should not be
there when she made her daily visits. She made it an object to telephone
every day, ostensibly to inquire about Lutie's condition, and she never
failed to ask what the doctor had said. In that way she knew that he had
made his visit and had left the apartment. She would then drive up into
Harlem and sit happily with her sister-in-law and the baby, whom she
adored with a fervour that surprised not only herself but the mother,
whose ideas concerning Anne were undergoing a rapid and enduring
reformation.
She was shocked and not a little disillusioned one day, however, when
Lutie, now able to sit up and chatter to her heart's content, remarked,
with a puzzled frown on her pretty brow:
"Dr. Braden must be terribly rushed with work nowadays, Anne. For the last
week he has been coming here at the most unearthly hour in the morning,
and dashing away like a shot just as soon as he can. Good gracious, we're
hardly awake when he gets here. Never later than eight o'clock."
Anne's temple came down in a heap. He wasn't playing the game at all as
she had expected. He was avoiding _her_. She was dismayed for an instant,
and then laughed outright quite frankly at her own disenchantment.
Lutie looked at her with deep affection in her eyes. "You ought to have a
little baby of your own, Anne," she said.
"It's much nicer having yours," said Anne. "He's such a fat one."
Two weeks later they were all up in the country, and George was saying
twice a day at least that Anne was the surprise and comfort of his old
age. She was as gay as a lark. She sang,—but not grand opera selections.
Her days were devoted to the cheerful occupation of teaching young
Carnahan how to smile and how to count his toes.
But in the dark hours of the night she was not so serene. Then was her
time for reflection, for wonder, for speculation. Was life to be always
like this? Were her days to be merry and confident, and her nights as full
of loneliness and doubt? Was her craving never to be satisfied? Sometimes
when George and Lutie went off to bed and left her sitting alone on the
dark, screened-in veranda, looking down from the hills across the sombre
Hudson, she almost cried aloud in her desolation. Of what profit was love
to her? Was she always to go on being alone with the love that consumed
her?
The hot, dry summer wore away. She steadfastly refused to go to the cool
seashore, she declined the countless invitations that came to her, and she
went but seldom into the city. Her mother was at Newport. They had had one
brief, significant encounter just before the elder woman went off to the
seashore. No doubt her mother considered herself entitled to a fair share
of "the spoils," but she would make no further advances. She had failed
earlier in the game; she would not humble herself again. And so, one hot
day in August, just before going to the country, Anne went up to her old
home, determined to have it out with her mother.
"Why are you staying in town through all of this heat, mother dear?" she
asked. Her mother was looking tired and listless. She was showing her age,
and that was the one thing that Anne could not look upon with complacency.
"I can't afford to go junketing about this year," said her mother, simply.
"This awful war has upset—"
"The war hasn't had time to upset anything over here, mother. It's only
been going on a couple of weeks. You ought to go away, dearest, for a good
long snooze in the country. You'll be as young as a débutante by the time
the season sets in."
Mrs. Tresslyn smiled aridly. "Am I beginning to show my age so much as all
this, Anne?" she lamented. "I'm just a little over fifty. That isn't old
in these days, my dear."
"You look worried, not old," said her daughter, sympathetically. "Is it
money?"
"It's always money," admitted Mrs. Tresslyn. "I may as well make up my
mind to retrench, to live a little more simply. You would think that I
should be really quite well-to-do nowadays, having successfully gotten rid
of my principal items of expense. But I will be quite frank with you,
Anne. I am still trying to pay off obligations incurred before I lost my
excellent son and daughter. You were luxuries, both of you, my dear."
Anne was shocked. "Do you mean to say that you are still paying off—still
paying up for _us_? Good heavens, mamma! Why, we couldn't have got you
into debt to that—"
"Don't jump to conclusions, my dear," her mother interrupted. "The debts
were not all due to you and George. I had a few of my own. What I mean to
say is that, combining all of them, they form quite a handsome amount."
"Tell me," said Anne determinedly, "tell me just how much of it should be
charged up to George and me."
"I haven't the remotest idea. You see, I was above keeping books. What are
you trying to get at? A way to square up with me? Well, my dear, you can't
do that, you know. You don't owe me anything. Whatever I spent on you, I
spent cheerfully, gladly, and without an idea of ever receiving a penny in
the shape of recompense. That's the way with a mother, Anne. No matter
what she may do for her children, no matter how much she may sacrifice for
them, she does it without a single thought for herself. That is the best
part of being a mother. A wife may demand returns from her husband, but a
mother never thinks of asking anything of her children. I am sure that
even worse mothers than I will tell you the same. We never ask for
anything in return but a little selfish pleasure in knowing that we have
borne children that are invariably better than the children that any other
mother may have brought into the world. No, you owe me nothing, Anne. Put
it out of your mind."
Anne listened in amazement. "But if you are hard-up, mother dear, and on
account of the money you were obliged to spend on us—because we were both
spoiled and selfish—why, it is only right and just that your children, if
they can afford to do so, should be allowed to turn the tables on you. It
shouldn't be so one-sided, this little selfish pleasure that you mention.
I am rich. I have a great deal more than I need. I have nearly a hundred
thousand a year. You—"
"Has any one warned you not to talk too freely about it in these days of
income tax collectors?" broke in her mother, with a faint smile.
"Pooh! Simmy attends to that for me. I don't understand a thing about it.
Now, see here, mother, I insist that it is my right,—not my duty, but my
right—to help you out of the hole. You would do it for me. You've done it
for George, time and again. How much do you need?"
Mrs. Tresslyn regarded her daughter thoughtfully. "Back of all this, I
suppose, is the thought that it was I who made a rich girl of you. You
feel that it is only right that you should share the spoils with your
partner, not with your mother."
"Once and for all, mother, let me remind you that I do not blame you for
making a rich woman of me. I did not have to do it, you know. I am not the
sort that can be driven or coerced. I made my own calculations and I took
my own chances. You were my support but not my _commander_. The super-
virtuous girls you read about in books are always blaming their mothers
for such marriages as mine, and so do the comic papers. It's all bosh.
Youth abhors old age. It loves itself too well. But we needn't discuss
responsibilities. The point is this: I have more money than I know what to
do with, so I want to help you out. It isn't because I think it is my
duty, or that I owe it to you, but because I love you, mother. If you had
forced me into marrying Mr. Thorpe, I should hate you now. But I don't,—I
love you dearly. I want you to let me love you. You are so hard to get
close to,—so hard to—"
"My dear, my dear," cried her mother, coming up to her and laying her
hands on the tall girl's shoulders, "you have paid me in full now. What
you have just said pays off all the debts. I was afraid that my children
hated me."
"You poor old dear!" cried Anne, her eyes shining. "If you will only let
me show you how much I can love you. We are pretty much alike, mother, you
and I. We—"
"No!" cried out the other fiercely. "I do not want you to say that. I do
not want you to be like me. Never say that to me again. I want you to be
happy, and you will never be happy if you are like me."
"Piffle!" said Anne, and kissed her mother soundly. And she knew then, as
she had always known, that her mother was not and never could be a happy
woman. Even in her affection for her own children she was the spirit of
selfishness. She loved them for what they meant to her and not for
themselves. She was consistent. She knew herself better than any one else
knew her.
"Now, tell me how much you need," went on Anne, eagerly. "I've hated to
broach the subject to you. It didn't seem right that I should. But I don't
care now. I want to do all that I can."
"I will not offend you, or insult you, Anne, by saying that you are a good
girl,—a better one than I thought you would ever be. You can't help me,
however. Don't worry about me. I shall get on, thank you."
"Just the same, I insist on paying your bills, and setting you straight
once more for another fling. And you are going to Newport this week. Come,
now, mother dear, let's get it over with. Tell me about _everything_. You
may hop into debt again just as soon as you like, but I'll feel a good
deal better if I know that it isn't on my account. It isn't right that you
should still have George and me hanging about your neck like millstones.
Come! I insist. Let's figure it all up."
An hour afterward, she said to her mother: "I'll make out one check to you
covering everything, mother. It will look better if you pay them yourself.
Thirty-seven thousand four hundred and twelve dollars. That's everything,
is it,—you're sure?"
"Everything," said Mrs. Tresslyn, settling back in her chair. "I will not
attempt to thank you, Anne. You see, I didn't thank Lutie when she threw
her money in my face, for somehow I knew that I'd give it all back to her
again. Well, you may have to wait longer than she did, my dear, but this
will all come back to you. I sha'n't live forever, you know."
Anne kissed her. "You are a wonder, mother dear. You wouldn't come off of
your high-horse for anything, would you? By Jove, that's what I like most
in you. You never knuckle."
"My dear, you are picking up a lot of expressions from Lutie."
The early evenings at Anne's place in the country were spent solely in
discussions of the great war. There was no other topic. The whole of the
civilised world was talking of the stupendous conflict that had burst upon
it like a crash out of a clear sky. George came home loaded down with the
latest extras and all of the regular editions of the afternoon papers.
"By gemini," he was in the habit of saying, "it's a lucky thing for those
Germans that Lutie got me to reenlist with her a year ago. I'd be on my
way over there by this time, looking for real work. Gee, Anne, that's one
thing I could do as well as anybody. I'm big enough to stop a lot of
bullets. We'll never see another scrap like this. It's just my luck to be
happily married when it bursts out, too."
"I am sure you would have gone," said Lutie serenely. "I'm glad I captured
you in time. It saves the Germans an awful lot of work."
The smashing of Belgium, the dash of the great German army toward Paris,
the threatened disaster to the gay capital, the sickening conviction that
nothing could check the tide of guns and men,—all these things bore down
upon them with a weight that seemed unbearable. And then came the battle
of the Marne! Von Kluck's name was on the lips of every man, woman and
child in the United States of America. Would they crush him? Was Paris
safe? What was the matter with England? And then, the personal element
came into the situation for Anne and her kind: the names of the officers
who had fallen, snuffed out in Belgium and France. Nearly every day
brought out the name of some one she had known, a few of them quite well.
There were the gallant young Belgians who had come over for the horse-
shows, and the polo-players she had known in England, and the gay young
noblemen,—their names brought the war nearer home and sickened her.
As time went on the horrors of the great conflict were deprived, through
incessant repetition, of the force to shock a world now accustomed to the
daily slaughter of thousands. Humanity had got used to war. War was no
longer a novelty. People read of great battles in which unprecedented
numbers of men were slain, and wondered how much of truth was in the
reports. War no longer horrified the distant on-looker. The sufferings of
the Belgians were of greater interest to the people of America than the
sufferings of the poor devils in the trenches or on the battle lines. A
vast wave of sympathy was sweeping the land and purses were touched as
never before. War was on parade. The world turned out en masse to see the
spectacle. The heart of every good American was touched by what he saw,
and the hand of every man was held out to stricken Belgium, nor was any
hand empty. Belgium presented the grewsome spectacle, and the world paid
well for the view it was having.
It was late in November when Anne and the others came down to the city,
and by that time the full strength of the movement to help the sufferers
had been reached. People were fighting for the Belgians, but with their
hearts instead of their hands. The stupendous wave of sympathy was at its
height. It rolled across the land and then across the sea. People were
swept along by its mighty rush. Anne Thorpe was caught up in the maelstrom
of human energy.
Something fine in her nature, however, caused Anne to shrink from public
benefactions. She realised that a world that was charitable to the
Belgians was not so apt to be charitable toward her. While she did not
contribute anonymously to the fund, she let it be distinctly understood
that her name was not to be published in any of the lists of donors,
except in a single instance when she gave a thousand-dollars. That much,
at least, would be expected of her and she took some comfort in the belief
that the world would not charge her with self-exploitation on the money
she had received from Templeton Thorpe. Other gifts and contributions were
never mentioned in the press by the committees in charge. She gave
liberally, not only to the sufferers on the other side of the Atlantic but
to the poor of New York, and she steadfastly declined to serve on any of
the relief committees.
Never until now had she appreciated how thin-skinned she was. It is not to
be inferred that she shut herself up and affected a life of seclusion. As
a matter of fact, she went out a great deal, but invariably among friends
and to small, intimate affairs.
Not once in the months that followed the scene in Lutie's sitting-room did
she encounter Braden Thorpe. She heard of him frequently. He was very
busy. He went nowhere except where duty called. There was not a moment in
her days, however, when her thoughts were not for him. Her eyes were
always searching the throngs on Fifth Avenue in quest of his figure; in
restaurants she looked eagerly over the crowded tables in the hope that
she might see actually the face that was always before her, night and day.
Be it said to her credit, she resolutely abstained from carrying her quest
into quarters where she might be certain of seeing him, of meeting him, of
receiving recognition from him. She avoided the neighbourhood in which his
offices were located, she shunned the streets which he would most
certainly traverse. While she longed for him, craved him with all the
hunger of a starved soul, she was content to wait. He loved her. She
thrived on the joy of knowing this to be true. He might never come to her,
but she knew that it would never be possible for her to go to him unless
he called her to him.
Then, one day in early January, she crumpled up under the shock of seeing
his name in the headlines of her morning newspaper.
He was going to the front!
For a moment she was blind. The page resolved itself into a thick mass of
black. She was in bed when the paper was brought to her with her coffee.
She had been lying there sweetly thinking of him. Up to the instant her
eyes fell upon the desolating headline she had been warm and snug and
tingling with life just aroused. And then she was as cold as ice,
stupefied. It was a long time before she was able to convince herself that
the type was really telling her something that she would have to believe.
He was going to the war!
Thorpe was one of a half-dozen American surgeons who were going over on
the steamer sailing that day to give their services to the French. The
newspaper spoke of him in glowing terms. His name stood out above all the
others, for he was the one most notably in the public eye at the moment.
The others, just as brave and self-sacrificing as he, were briefly
mentioned and that was all. He alone was in the headlines, he alone was
discussed. No one was to be allowed to forget that he was the clever young
surgeon who had saved the great Marraville. The account dwelt upon the
grave personal sacrifice he was making in leaving New York just as the
world was beginning to recognise his great genius and ability. Prosperity
was knocking at his door, fame was holding out its hand to him, and yet he
was casting aside all thought of self-aggrandisement, all personal
ambition in order to go forth and serve humanity in fields where his name
would never be mentioned except in a cry for help from strong men who had
known no fear.
Sailing that day! Anne finally grasped the meaning of the words. She would
not see him again. He would go away without a word to her, without giving
her the chance to say good-bye, despite her silly statement that she would
never utter the words again where he was concerned.
Slowly the warm glow returned to her blood. Her brain cleared, and she was
able to think, to grasp at the probable significance of his action in
deserting New York and his coveted opportunities. Something whispered to
her that he was going away because of his own sufferings and not those of
the poor wretches at the front. Her heart swelled with pity. There was no
triumph in the thought that he was running away because of his love for
her. She needed no such proof as this to convince her that his heart was
more loyal to her than his mind would have it be. She cried a little ...
and then got up and called for a messenger boy.
This brief message went down to the ship:
"God be with you. I still do not say good-bye, just God be with you
always, as I shall be. Anne."
She did not leave the hotel until long after the ship had sailed. He did
not telephone. There were a dozen calls on the wire that morning, but she
had her maid take the messages. There was always the fear that he might
try to reach her while some one of her idle friends was engaged in making
a protracted visit with her over the wire. About one o'clock Simmy Dodge
called up to ask if he could run in and have luncheon with her.
"I've got a message for you," he said.
Her heart began to beat so violently that she was afraid he would hear it
through the receiver at his ear. She could not trust herself to speak for
a moment. Evidently he thought she was preparing to put him off with some
polite excuse. Simmy was, as ever, considerate. He made haste to spare her
the necessity for fibbing. "I can drop in late this afternoon—"
"No," she cried out, "come now, Simmy. I shall expect you. Where are you?"
He coughed in some embarrassment. "I'm—well, you see, I was going past so
I thought I'd stop in and—What? Yes, I'm downstairs."
She joined him in the palm room a few minutes later, and they went in to
luncheon. Her colour was high. Simmy thought he had never seen her when
she looked more beautiful. But he thought that with each succeeding
glimpse of her.
"'Pon my word, Anne," he said, staring at her across the table, "you
fairly dazzle me. Forgive me for saying so. I couldn't help it. Perfect
ass sometimes, you see."
"I forgive you. I like it. What message did Braden send to me?"
He had not expected her to be so frank, so direct. "I don't know. I wish I
did. The beggar wrote it and sealed it up in this beastly little
envelope." He handed her the square white envelope with the ship's emblem
in the corner.
Before looking at the written address, she put her next question to him. A
good deal depended on his answer. "Do you know when he wrote this note,
Simmy?"
"Just before they pushed me down the gang-plank," he said. A light broke
in upon him. "Did you send him a message?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't know whether it is the right thing to say, but I can tell
you this: he wrote this note before reading your letter or telegram or
whatever it was. He had a score of things like that and he didn't open one
of 'em until she'd cast off."
She smiled. "Thank you, Simmy. You have said the right thing,—as you
always do." One glance at the superscription was enough. It was in his
handwriting. For the first time she saw it in his hand: "Anne Tresslyn
Thorpe." A queer little shiver ran through her, never to be explained.
Simmy watched her curiously as she slipped the missive, unopened, into her
gold mesh bag. "Don't mind me," he said. "Read it."
"Not now, Simmy," she said simply. And all through luncheon she thrilled
with the consciousness that she had something of Braden there with her,
near her, waiting for her. His own hand had touched this bit of paper; it
was a part of him. It was so long since she had seen that well-known,
beloved handwriting,—strong like the man, and sure; she found herself
counting the ages that had passed since his last love missive had come to
her.
Simmy was rattling on, rather dolefully, about Braden's plans. He was
likely to be over there for a long time,—just as long as he was needed or
able to endure the strain of hard, incessant work in the field hospitals.
"I wanted to go," the little man was saying, and that brought her back to
earth. "The worst way, Anne. But what could I do? Drive an automobile,
yes, but what's that? Brady wouldn't hear to it. He said it was nonsense,
me talking of going over there and getting in people's way. Of course, I'd
probably faint the first time I saw a mutilated dead body, and that
_would_ irritate the army. They'd have to stop everything while they gave
me smelling salts. I suppose I'd get used to seeing 'em dead all over the
place, just as everybody does,—even the worst of cowards. I'm not a
coward, Anne. I drive my racing-car at ninety miles, I play polo, I go up
in Scotty's aeroplane whenever I get a chance, I can refuse to take a
drink when I think I've had enough, and if that doesn't prove that I've
got courage I'd like to know what it does prove. But I'm not a fighting
man. Nobody would ever be afraid of me. There isn't a German on earth who
would run if he saw me charging toward him. He'd just wait to see what the
dickens I was up to. Something would tell him that I wouldn't have the
heart to shoot him, no matter how necessary it might be for me to do so.
Still I wanted to go. That's what amazes me. I can't understand it."
"I can understand it, you poor old simpleton," cried Anne. "You wanted to
go because you are _not_ afraid."
"I wish I could think so," said he, really perplexed. "Brady is different.
He'd be a soldier as is a soldier. He's going over to save men's lives,
however, and that's something I wouldn't be capable of doing. If I went
they'd expect me to kill 'em, and that's what I'd hate. Good Lord, Anne, I
couldn't shoot down a poor German boy that hadn't done a thing to me—or to
my country, for that matter. If they'd only let me go as a spy, or even a
messenger boy, I'd jump at the chance. But they'd want me to kill
people,—and I couldn't do it, that's all."
"Is Braden well? Does he look fit, Simmy? You know there will be great
hardships, vile weather, exposure—"
"He's thin and—well, I'll be honest with you, he doesn't look as fit as
might be."
She paled. "Has he been ill?"
"Not in body, but—he's off his feed, Anne. Maybe you know the reason why."
He looked at her narrowly.
"I have not seen him in months," she said evasively.
"I guess that's the answer," he said, pulling at his little moustache.
"I'm sorry, Anne. It's too bad—for both of you. Lordy, I never dreamed I
could be so unselfish. I'm mad in love with you myself and—oh, well!
That's an old tale, so we'll cut it short. I don't know what I'm going to
do without Brady. I've got the blues so bad that—why, I cried like a nasty
little baby down there at the—everybody lookin' at me pityingly and saying
to themselves 'what a terrible thing grief is when it hits a man like
that,' and thinkin' of course that I'd lost a whole family in Belgium or
somewhere—oh, Lordy, what a blithering—"
"Hush!" whispered Anne, her own eyes glistening. "You are an angel, Simmy.
You—"
"Let's talk sense," he broke in abruptly. "Braden left his business in my
hands, and his pleasures in the hands of Dr. Cole. He says it's a pleasure
to heal people, so that's why I put it in that way. I've got his will down
in our safety vault, and his instructions about that silly foundation—"
"You—you think he may not come back?" she said, gripping her hands under
the edge of the table.
"You never can tell. Taking precautions, that's all, as any wise man would
do. Oh, I'm sorry, Anne! I should have known better. Lordy, you're as
white as—Sure, he'll come back! He isn't going to be in the least danger.
Not the least. Nobody bothers the doctors, you know. They can go anywhere.
They wear plug hats and all that sort of thing, and all armies respect a
plug hat. A plug hat is a _silk_ hat, you know,—the safest hat in the
world when you're on the firing line. Everybody tries to hit the hat and
not the occupant. It's a standing army joke. I was reading in the paper
the other day about a fellow going clear from one end of the line to the
other and having six hundred and some odd plug hats shot off his head
without so much as getting a hair singed. Wait! I can tell what you're
going to ask, and I can't, on such short notice, answer the question. I
can only say that I don't know where he got the hats. Ah, good! You're
laughing again, and, by Jove, it becomes you to blush once in a while,
too. Tell me, old lady,"—he leaned forward and spoke very seriously,—"does
it mean a great deal to you?"
She nodded her head slowly. "Yes, Simmy, it means everything."
He drew a long breath. "That's just what I thought. One ordinary dose of
commonsense split up between the two of you wouldn't be a bad thing for
the case."
"You dear old thing!" cried Anne impulsively.
"How are Lutie and my god-son?" he inquired, with a fine air of
solicitude.
Half an hour later, Anne read the brief note that Braden had sent to her.
She read it over and over again, and without the exultation she had
anticipated. Her heart was too full for exultation.
"Dear Anne," it began, "I am going to the war. I am going because I am a
coward. The world will call me brave and self-sacrificing, but it will not
be true. I am a coward. The peril I am running away from is far greater
than that which awaits me over there. I thought you would like to know.
The suffering of others may cause me to forget my own at times." He signed
it "Braden"; and below the signature there was a postscript that puzzled
her for a long time. "If you are not also a coward you will return to my
grandfather's house, where you belong."
And when she had solved the meaning of that singular postscript she sent
for Wade.