The slightest inclination of her head indicated that although possibly she might be sorry too, regrets were now useless. Then she turned up the collar of her ulster. The face it framed was disturbingly lovely. And he took a last chance.
And so, he ventured politely, you have really been on board the Elsinore all this time!
She turned her charming head toward him, considered him a moment; then she smiled.
Yes, she said; Ive been on board all the time. I didnt crawl aboard in mid-ocean, you know.
The girl was frankly amused by the streak of boyishness in himthe perfectly transparent desire of this young man to detain her in conversation. And, still amused, she leaned back against the rail. If he wanted to talk to her she would let himeven help him. Why not?
Is that a wound chevron? she inquired, looking at the sleeve of his tunic.
No, he replied gratefully, its a service stripe.
And what does the little cord around your shoulder signify?
That my regiment was cited.
For bravery?
Wellthat was the idea, I believe.
Then youve been in action.
Yes.
Over the top?
Yes.
How many times?
Several. Recently its been more open work, you know.
And you were not hit?
No.
She regarded him smilingly: You are like all soldiers have faced death, she said. You are not communicative.
At that he reddened. Well, everybody else was facing it, too, you know. We all had the same experience.
Not all, she said, watching him. Some died.
Oh, of course.
The girls face flushed and she nodded emphatically: Of course! And that is our Yankee secret;embodied in those two wordsof course. That is exactly why the boche runs away from our men. The boche doesnt know why he runs, but it is because you all say, of course!of course were here to kill and get killed. What of it? Its in the rules of the game, isnt it? Very well; were playing the game!
But the rules of the hun game are different. According to their rules, machine guns are not charged on. That is not according to plan. Oh, no! But it is in your rules of the game. So after the boche has killed a number of you, and you say, of course, and you keep coming on, it first bewilders the boche, then terrifies him. And the next time he sees you coming he takes to his heels.
Shotwell, amused, fascinated, and entirely surprised, began to laugh.
You seem to know the game pretty well yourself, he said. You are quite right. That is the idea.
Its a wonderful game, she mused. I can understand why you are not pleased at being ordered home.
Its rather rotten luck when the outfit had just been cited, he explained.
Oh. I should think you would hate to come back! exclaimed the girl, with frank sympathy.
Well, I was glad at first, but Im sorry now. Im missing a lot, you see.
Why did they send you back?
To instruct rookies! he said with a grimace. Rather inglorious, isnt it? But Im hoping Ill have time to weather this detail and get back again before we reach the Rhine.
I want to get back again, too, she reflected aloud, biting her lip and letting her dark eyes rest on the foggy statue of Liberty, towering up ahead.
What was your branch? he inquired.
Oh, I didnt do anything, she exclaimed, flushing. Ive been in Russia. And now I must find out at once what I can do to be sent to France.
The war caught you over there, I suppose, he hazarded.
Yes Ive been there since I was twenty. Im twenty-four. I had a years travel and study and then I became the American companion of the little Russian Grand Duchess Marie.
They all were murdered, werent they? he asked, much interested.
Yes Im trying to forget
I beg your pardon
Its quite all right. I, myself, mentioned it first; but I cant talk about it yet. Its too personal She turned and looked at the monstrous city.
After a silence: Its been a rotten voyage, hasnt it? he remarked.
Perfectly rotten. I was so ill I could scarcely keep my place during life-drill I didnt see you there, she added with a faint smile, but Im sure you were aboard, even if you seem to doubt that I was.
And then, perhaps considering that she had been sufficiently amiable to him, she gave him his congé with a pleasant little nod.
Could I help youdo anything he began. But she thanked him with friendly finality.
They sauntered in opposite directions; and he did not see her again to speak to her.
Later, jolting toward home in a taxi, it occurred to him that it might have been agreeable to see such an attractively informal girl again. Any man likes informality in women, except among the women of his own household, where he would promptly brand it as indiscretion.
He thought of her for a while, recollecting details of the episode and realising that he didnt even know her name. Which piqued him.
Serves me right, he said aloud with a shrug of finality. I had more enterprise once.
Then he looked out into the sunlit streets of Manhattan, all brilliant with flags and posters and swarming with prosperous looking peoplehis own people. But to his war-enlightened and disillusioned eyes his own people seemed almost like aliens; he vaguely resented their too evident prosperity, their irresponsible immunity, their heedless preoccupation with the petty things of life. The acres of bright flags fluttering above them, the posters that made a gay back-ground for the scene, the sheltered, undisturbed routine of peace seemed to annoy him.
An odd irritation invaded him; he had a sudden impulse to stop his taxi and shout, Fat-heads! Get into the game! Dont you know the worlds on fire? Dont you know what a hun really is? Youd better look out and get busy!
Fifth Avenue irritated himshops, hotels, clubs, motors, the well-dressed throngs began to exasperate him.
On a side street he caught a glimpse of his own place of business; and it almost nauseated him to remember old man Sharrow, and the walls hung with plans of streets and sewers and surveys and photographs; and his own yellow oak desk
Good Lord! he thought. If the war ends, have I got to go back to that!
The family were at breakfast when he walked in on themonly twohis father and mother.
In his mothers arms he suddenly felt very young and subdued, and very glad to be there.
Where the devil did you come from, Jim? repeated his father, with twitching features and a grip on his sons strong hand that he could not bring himself to loosen.
Yes, it was pretty good to get home, after all And he might not have come back at all. He realised it, now, in his mothers arms, feeling very humble and secure.
His mother had realised it, too, in every waking hour since the day her only son had sailed at nightthat had been the hardest!at nightand at an unnamed hour of an unnamed day!her only songone in the darkness
On his way upstairs, he noticed a red service flag bearing a single star hanging in his mothers window.
He went into his own room, looked soberly around, sat down on the lounge, suddenly tired.
He had three days leave before reporting for duty. It seemed a miserly allowance. Instinctively he glanced at his wrist-watch. An hour had fled already.
The dickens! he muttered. But he still sat there. After a while he smiled to himself and rose leisurely to make his toilet.
Such an attractively informal girl, he thought regretfully.
Im sorry I didnt learn her name. Why didnt I?
Philosophy might have answered: But to what purpose? No young man expects to pick up a girl of his own kind. And he has no business with other kinds.
But Shotwell was no philosopher.
The attractively informal girl, on whom young Shotwell was condescending to bestow a passing regret while changing his linen, had, however, quite forgotten him by this time. There is more philosophy in women.
Her train was now nearing Shadow Hill; she already could see the village in its early winter nakednessthe stone bridge, the old-time houses of the well-to-do, Main Street full of automobiles and farmers wagons, a crowded trolley-car starting for Deepdale, the county seat.
After four years the crudity of it all astonished herthe stark vulgarity of Main Street in the sunshine, every mean, flimsy architectural detail revealedthe dingy trolley poles, the telegraph poles loaded with unlovely wires and battered little electric light fixturesthe uncompromising, unrelieved ugliness of street and people, of shop and vehicle, of treeless sidewalks, brick pavement, car rails, hydrants, and rusty gasoline pumps.
Here was a people ignorant of civic pride, knowing no necessity for beauty, having no standards, no aspirations, conscious of nothing but the grosser material needs.
The hopelessness of this American townand there were thousands like itits architectural squalor, its animal unconsciousness, shocked her after four years in lands where colour, symmetry and good taste are indigenous and beauty as necessary as bread.
And the girl had been born here, too; had known no other home except when at boarding school or on shopping trips to New York.
Painfully depressed, she descended at the station, where she climbed into one of the familiar omnibuses and gave her luggage check to the lively young driver.
Several drummers also got in, and finally a farmer whom she recognised but who had evidently forgotten her.
The driver, a talkative young man whom she remembered as an obnoxious boy who delivered newspapers, came from the express office with her trunk, flung it on top of the bus, gossiped with several station idlers, then leisurely mounted his seat and gathered up the reins.
Rattling along the main street she became aware of changesa brand new yellow brick clothing storea dreadful Quick Luncha moving picture theatreother monstrosities. And she saw familiar faces on the street.
The drummers got out with their sample cases at the Bolton HouseCharles H. Bolton, proprietor. The farmer descended at the Par Excellence Market, where, as he informed the driver, he expected to dispose of a bull calf which he had finally decided to veal.
Which way, maam? inquired the driver, looking in at her through the door and chewing gum very fast.
To Miss Dumonts on Shadow Street.
Oh!.. Then, suddenly he knew her. Say, wasnt you her niece? he demanded.
I am Miss Dumonts niece, replied Palla, smiling.
Sure! I didnt reckonise you. Used to leave the Star on your doorstep! Been away, aint you? Home looks kinda good to you, even if its kinda lonesome He checked himself as though recollecting something else. Sure! You been over in Rooshia livin with the Queen! There was a piece in the Star about it. Gee! he added affably. That was pretty soft! Some life, I bet!
And he grinned a genial grin and climbed into his seat, chewing rapidly.
He means to be friendly, thought the heart-sick girl, with a shudder.
When Palla got out she spoke pleasantly to him as she paid him, and inquired about his fathera shiftless old gaffer who used, sometimes, to do garden work for her aunt.
But the driver, obsessed by the fact that she had lived with the Queen of Rooshia, merely grinned and repeated, Pretty soft, and, shouldering her trunk, walked to the front door, chewing furiously.
Martha opened the door, stared through her spectacles.
Land o mercy! she gasped. Its Palla! Which, in Shadow Hill, is the manner and speech of the hired girl, whose folks are neighbours and not inferiors.
How do you do, Martha, said the girl smilingly; and offered her gloved hand.
Well, Im sos to be round She wheeled on the man with the trunk: Here, you! Dont go-a-trackin mud all over my carpet like that! Wipe your feet like as if you was brought up respectful!
Aint I wipin em? retorted the driver, in an injured voice. Now then, Marthy, where does this here trunk go to?
Big room frontwait, young fellow; you just follow me and be careful dont bang the banisters
Half way up she called back over her shoulder: Your rooms all ready, Palla and suddenly remembered something else and stood aside on the landing until the young man with the trunk had passed her; then waited for him to return and get himself out of the house. Then, when he had gone out, banging the door, she came slowly back down the stairs and met Palla ascending.
Where is my aunt? asked Palla.
And, as Martha remained silent, gazing oddly down at her through her glasses:
My aunt isnt ill, is she?
No, she aint ill. Haint you heard?
Heard what?
Didnt you get my letter?
Your letter? Why did you write? What is the matter? Where is my aunt? asked the disturbed girl.
I wrote you last month.
What did you write?
You never got it?
No, I didnt! What has happened to my aunt?
She had a stroke, Palla.
What! Isis she dead!
Six weeks ago come Sunday.
The girls knees weakened and she sat down suddenly on the stairs.
Dead? My Aunt Emeline?
She had a stroke a year ago. It made her a little stiff in one leg. But she wouldnt tell youwouldnt bother you. She was that proud of you living as you did with all those kings and queens. No, sez she to me, no, Martha, I aint a-goin to worry Palla. She and the Queen have got their hands full, what with the wicked way those Rooshian people are behaving. No, sez she, Ill git well by the time she comes home for a visit after the war
Marthas spectacles became dim. She seated herself on the stairs and wiped them on her apron.
It came in the night, she said, peering blindly at Palla I wondered why she was late to breakfast. When I went up she was lying there with her eyes openjust as natural
Pallas head dropped and she covered her face with both hands.
CHAPTER IV
There remained, now, nothing to keep Palla in Shadow Hill.
She had never intended to stay there, anyway; she had meant to go to France.
But already there appeared to be no chance for that in the scheme of things. For the boche had begun to squeal for mercy; the frightened swine was squirting life-blood as he rushed headlong for the home sty across the Rhine; his death-stench sickened the world.
Thicker, ranker, reeked the bloody abomination in the nostrils of civilisation, where Justice strode ahead through hells own devastation, kicking the boche to death, kicking him through Belgium, through France, out of Light back into Darkness, back, back to his stinking sty.