"One of Ours\n\nby Willa Cather\n\n\n\n\nBook One: On Lovely Creek\n\nI.\n\nClaude Wheeler opened his eyes before the sun was up and\nvigorously shook his younger brother, who lay in the other half\nof the same bed.\n\n\"Ralph, Ralph, get awake! Come down and help me wash the car.\"\n\n\"What for?\"\n\n\"Why, aren't we going to the circus today?\"\n\n\"Car's all right. Let me alone.\" The boy turned over and pulled\nthe sheet up to his face, to shut out the light which was\nbeginning to come through the curtainless windows.\n\nClaude rose and dressed,--a simple operation which took very\nlittle time. He crept down two flights of stairs, feeling his way\nin the dusk, his red hair standing up in peaks, like a cock's\ncomb. He went through the kitchen into the adjoining washroom,\nwhich held two porcelain stands with running water. Everybody had\nwashed before going to bed, apparently, and the bowls were ringed\nwith a dark sediment which the hard, alkaline water had not\ndissolved. Shutting the door on this disorder, he turned back to\nthe kitchen, took Mahailey's tin basin, doused his face and head\nin cold water, and began to plaster down his wet hair.\n\nOld Mahailey herself came in from the yard, with her apron full\nof corn-cobs to start a fire in the kitchen stove. She smiled at\nhim in the foolish fond way she often had with him when they were\nalone.\n\n\"What air you gittin' up for a-ready, boy? You goin' to the\ncircus before breakfast? Don't you make no noise, else you'll\nhave 'em all down here before I git my fire a-goin'.\"\n\n\"All right, Mahailey.\" Claude caught up his cap and ran out of\ndoors, down the hillside toward the barn. The sun popped up over\nthe edge of the prairie like a broad, smiling face; the light\npoured across the close-cropped August pastures and the hilly,\ntimbered windings of Lovely Creek, a clear little stream with a\nsand bottom, that curled and twisted playfully about through the\nsouth section of the big Wheeler ranch. It was a fine day to go\nto the circus at Frankfort, a fine day to do anything; the sort\nof day that must, somehow, turn out well.\n\nClaude backed the little Ford car out of its shed, ran it up to\nthe horse-tank, and began to throw water on the mud-crusted\nwheels and windshield. While he was at work the two hired men,\nDan and Jerry, came shambling down the hill to feed the stock.\nJerry was grumbling and swearing about something, but Claude\nwrung out his wet rags and, beyond a nod, paid no attention to\nthem. Somehow his father always managed to have the roughest and\ndirtiest hired men in the country working for him. Claude had a\ngrievance against Jerry just now, because of his treatment of one\nof the horses.\n\nMolly was a faithful old mare, the mother of many colts; Claude\nand his younger brother had learned to ride on her. This man\nJerry, taking her out to work one morning, let her step on a\nboard with a nail sticking up in it. He pulled the nail out of\nher foot, said nothing to anybody, and drove her to the\ncultivator all day. Now she had been standing in her stall for\nweeks, patiently suffering, her body wretchedly thin, and her leg\nswollen until it looked like an elephant's. She would have to\nstand there, the veterinary said, until her hoof came off and she\ngrew a new one, and she would always be stiff. Jerry had not been\ndischarged, and he exhibited the poor animal as if she were a\ncredit to him.\n\nMahailey came out on the hilltop and rang the breakfast bell.\nAfter the hired men went up to the house, Claude slipped into the\nbarn to see that Molly had got her share of oats. She was eating\nquietly, her head hanging, and her scaly, dead-looking foot\nlifted just a little from the ground. When he stroked her neck\nand talked to her she stopped grinding and gazed at him\nmournfully. She knew him, and wrinkled her nose and drew her\nupper lip back from her worn teeth, to show that she liked being\npetted. She let him touch her foot and examine her leg.\n\nWhen Claude reached the kitchen, his mother was sitting at one\nend of the breakfast table, pouring weak coffee, his brother and\nDan and Jerry were in their chairs, and Mahailey was baking\ngriddle cakes at the stove. A moment later Mr. Wheeler came down\nthe enclosed stairway and walked the length of the table to his\nown place. He was a very large man, taller and broader than any\nof his neighbours. He seldom wore a coat in summer, and his\nrumpled shirt bulged out carelessly over the belt of his\ntrousers. His florid face was clean shaven, likely to be a trifle\ntobacco-stained about the mouth, and it was conspicuous both for\ngood-nature and coarse humour, and for an imperturbable physical\ncomposure. Nobody in the county had ever seen Nat Wheeler\nflustered about anything, and nobody had ever heard him speak\nwith complete seriousness. He kept up his easy-going, jocular\naffability even with his own family.\n\nAs soon as he was seated, Mr. Wheeler reached for the two-pint\nsugar bowl and began to pour sugar into his coffee. Ralph asked\nhim if he were going to the circus. Mr. Wheeler winked.\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder if I happened in town sometime before the\nelephants get away.\" He spoke very deliberately, with a\nState-of-Maine drawl, and his voice was smooth and agreeable.\n\"You boys better start in early, though. You can take the wagon\nand the mules, and load in the cowhides. The butcher has agreed\nto take them.\"\n\nClaude put down his knife. \"Can't we have the car? I've washed it\non purpose.\"\n\n\"And what about Dan and Jerry? They want to see the circus just\nas much as you do, and I want the hides should go in; they're\nbringing a good price now. I don't mind about your washing the\ncar; mud preserves the paint, they say, but it'll be all right\nthis time, Claude.\"\n\nThe hired men haw-hawed and Ralph giggled. Claude's freckled face\ngot very red. The pancake grew stiff and heavy in his mouth and\nwas hard to swallow. His father knew he hated to drive the mules\nto town, and knew how he hated to go anywhere with Dan and Jerry.\nAs for the hides, they were the skins of four steers that had\nperished in the blizzard last winter through the wanton\ncarelessness of these same hired men, and the price they would\nbring would not half pay for the time his father had spent in\nstripping and curing them. They had lain in a shed loft all\nsummer, and the wagon had been to town a dozen times. But today,\nwhen he wanted to go to Frankfort clean and care-free, he must\ntake these stinking hides and two coarse-mouthed men, and drive a\npair of mules that always brayed and balked and behaved\nridiculously in a crowd. Probably his father had looked out of\nthe window and seen him washing the car, and had put this up on\nhim while he dressed. It was like his father's idea of a joke.\n\nMrs. Wheeler looked at Claude sympathetically, feeling that he\nwas disappointed. Perhaps she, too, suspected a joke. She had\nlearned that humour might wear almost any guise.\n\nWhen Claude started for the barn after breakfast, she came\nrunning down the path, calling to him faintly,--hurrying always\nmade her short of breath. Overtaking him, she looked up with\nsolicitude, shading her eyes with her delicately formed hand. \"If\nyou want I should do up your linen coat, Claude, I can iron it\nwhile you're hitching,\" she said wistfully.\n\nClaude stood kicking at a bunch of mottled feathers that had once\nbeen a young chicken. His shoulders were drawn high, his mother\nsaw, and his figure suggested energy and determined self-control.\n\n\"You needn't mind, mother.\" He spoke rapidly, muttering his\nwords. \"I'd better wear my old clothes if I have to take the\nhides. They're greasy, and in the sun they'll smell worse than\nfertilizer.\"\n\n\"The men can handle the hides, I should think. Wouldn't you feel\nbetter in town to be dressed?\" She was still blinking up at him.\n\n\"Don't bother about it. Put me out a clean coloured shirt, if you\nwant to. That's all right.\"\n\nHe turned toward the barn, and his mother went slowly back the\npath up to the house. She was so plucky and so stooped, his dear\nmother! He guessed if she could stand having these men about,\ncould cook and wash for them, he could drive them to town!\n\nHalf an hour after the wagon left, Nat Wheeler put on an alpaca\ncoat and went off in the rattling buckboard in which, though he\nkept two automobiles, he still drove about the country. He said\nnothing to his wife; it was her business to guess whether or not\nhe would be home for dinner. She and Mahailey could have a good\ntime scrubbing and sweeping all day, with no men around to bother\nthem.\n\n\n\nThere were few days in the year when Wheeler did not drive off\nsomewhere; to an auction sale, or a political convention, or a\nmeeting of the Farmers' Telephone directors;--to see how his\nneighbours were getting on with their work, if there was nothing\nelse to look after. He preferred his buckboard to a car because\nit was light, went easily over heavy or rough roads, and was so\nrickety that he never felt he must suggest his wife's\naccompanying him. Besides he could see the country better when he\ndidn't have to keep his mind on the road. He had come to this\npart of Nebraska when the Indians and the buffalo were still\nabout, remembered the grasshopper year and the big cyclone, had\nwatched the farms emerge one by one from the great rolling page\nwhere once only the wind wrote its story. He had encouraged new\nsettlers to take up homesteads, urged on courtships, lent young\nfellows the money to marry on, seen families grow and prosper;\nuntil he felt a little as if all this were his own enterprise.\nThe changes, not only those the years made, but those the seasons\nmade, were interesting to him.\n\nPeople recognized Nat Wheeler and his cart a mile away. He sat\nmassive and comfortable, weighing down one end of the slanting\nseat, his driving hand lying on his knee. Even his German\nneighbours, the Yoeders, who hated to stop work for a quarter of\nan hour on any account, were glad to see him coming. The\nmerchants in the little towns about the county missed him if he\ndidn't drop in once a week or so. He was active in politics;\nnever ran for an office himself, but often took up the cause of a\nfriend and conducted his campaign for him.\n\nThe French saying, \"Joy of the street, sorrow of the home,\" was\nexemplified in Mr. Wheeler, though not at all in the French way.\nHis own affairs were of secondary importance to him. In the early\ndays he had homesteaded and bought and leased enough land to make\nhim rich. Now he had only to rent it out to good farmers who\nliked to work--he didn't, and of that he made no secret. When he\nwas at home, he usually sat upstairs in the living room, reading\nnewspapers. He subscribed for a dozen or more--the list included\na weekly devoted to scandal--and he was well informed about what\nwas going on in the world. He had magnificent health, and illness\nin himself or in other people struck him as humorous. To be sure,\nhe never suffered from anything more perplexing than toothache or\nboils, or an occasional bilious attack.\n\nWheeler gave liberally to churches and charities, was always\nready to lend money or machinery to a neighbour who was short of\nanything. He liked to tease and shock diffident people, and had\nan inexhaustible supply of funny stories. Everybody marveled that\nhe got on so well with his oldest son, Bayliss Wheeler. Not that\nBayliss was exactly diffident, but he was a narrow gauge fellow,\nthe sort of prudent young man one wouldn't expect Nat Wheeler to\nlike.\n\nBayliss had a farm implement business in Frankfort, and though he\nwas still under thirty he had made a very considerable financial\nsuccess. Perhaps Wheeler was proud of his son's business acumen.\nAt any rate, he drove to town to see Bayliss several times a\nweek, went to sales and stock exhibits with him, and sat about\nhis store for hours at a stretch, joking with the farmers who\ncame in. Wheeler had been a heavy drinker in his day, and was\nstill a heavy feeder. Bayliss was thin and dyspeptic, and a\nvirulent Prohibitionist; he would have liked to regulate\neverybody's diet by his own feeble constitution. Even Mrs.\nWheeler, who took the men God had apportioned her for granted,\nwondered how Bayliss and his father could go off to conventions\ntogether and have a good time, since their ideas of what made a\ngood time were so different.\n\nOnce every few years, Mr. Wheeler bought a new suit and a dozen\nstiff shirts and went back to Maine to visit his brothers and\nsisters, who were very quiet, conventional people. But he was\nalways glad to get home to his old clothes, his big farm, his\nbuckboard, and Bayliss.\n\nMrs. Wheeler had come out from Vermont to be Principal of the\nHigh School, when Frankfort was a frontier town and Nat Wheeler\nwas a prosperous bachelor. He must have fancied her for the same\nreason he liked his son Bayliss, because she was so different.\nThere was this to be said for Nat Wheeler, that he liked every\nsort of human creature; he liked good people and honest people,\nand he liked rascals and hypocrites almost to the point of loving\nthem. If he heard that a neighbour had played a sharp trick or\ndone something particularly mean, he was sure to drive over to\nsee the man at once, as if he hadn't hitherto appreciated him.\n\nThere was a large, loafing dignity about Claude's father. He\nliked to provoke others to uncouth laughter, but he never laughed\nimmoderately himself. In telling stories about him, people often\ntried to imitate his smooth, senatorial voice, robust but never\nloud. Even when he was hilariously delighted by anything,--as\nwhen poor Mahailey, undressing in the dark on a summer night, sat\ndown on the sticky fly-paper,--he was not boisterous. He was a\njolly, easy-going father, indeed, for a boy who was not\nthin-skinned.\n\n\n\nII\n\nClaude and his mules rattled into Frankfort just as the calliope\nwent screaming down Main street at the head of the circus parade.\nGetting rid of his disagreeable freight and his uncongenial\ncompanions as soon as possible, he elbowed his way along the\ncrowded sidewalk, looking for some of the neighbour boys. Mr.\nWheeler was standing on the Farmer's Bank corner, towering a head\nabove the throng, chaffing with a little hunchback who was\nsetting up a shell-game. To avoid his father, Claude turned and\nwent in to his brother's store. The two big show windows were\nfull of country children, their mothers standing behind them to\nwatch the parade. Bayliss was seated in the little glass cage\nwhere he did his writing and bookkeeping. He nodded at Claude\nfrom his desk.\n\n\"Hello,\" said Claude, bustling in as if he were in a great hurry.\n\"Have you seen Ernest Havel? I thought I might find him in here.\"\n\nBayliss swung round in his swivel chair to return a plough\ncatalogue to the shelf. \"What would he be in here for? Better\nlook for him in the saloon.\" Nobody could put meaner insinuations\ninto a slow, dry remark than Bayliss.\n\nClaude's cheeks flamed with anger. As he turned away, he noticed\nsomething unusual about his brother's face, but he wasn't going\nto give him the satisfaction of asking him how he had got a black\neye. Ernest Havel was a Bohemian, and he usually drank a glass of\nbeer when he came to town; but he was sober and thoughtful beyond\nthe wont of young men. From Bayliss' drawl one might have\nsupposed that the boy was a drunken loafer.\n\nAt that very moment Claude saw his friend on the other side of\nthe street, following the wagon of trained dogs that brought up\nthe rear of the procession. He ran across, through a crowd of\nshouting youngsters, and caught Ernest by the arm.\n\n\"Hello, where are you off to?\"\n\n\"I'm going to eat my lunch before show-time. I left my wagon out\nby the pumping station, on the creek. What about you?\"\n\n\"I've got no program. Can I go along?\"\n\nErnest smiled. \"I expect. I've got enough lunch for two.\"\n\n\"Yes, I know. You always have. I'll join you later.\"\n\nClaude would have liked to take Ernest to the hotel for dinner.\nHe had more than enough money in his pockets; and his father was\na rich farmer. In the Wheeler family a new thrasher or a new\nautomobile was ordered without a question, but it was considered\nextravagant to go to a hotel for dinner. If his father or Bayliss\nheard that he had been there-and Bayliss heard everything they\nwould say he was putting on airs, and would get back at him. He\ntried to excuse his cowardice to himself by saying that he was\ndirty and smelled of the hides; but in his heart he knew that he\ndid not ask Ernest to go to the hotel with him because he had\nbeen so brought up that it would be difficult for him to do this\nsimple thing. He made some purchases at the fruit stand and the\ncigar counter, and then hurried out along the dusty road toward\nthe pumping station. Ernest's wagon was standing under the shade\nof some willow trees, on a little sandy bottom half enclosed by a\nloop of the creek which curved like a horseshoe. Claude threw\nhimself on the sand beside the stream and wiped the dust from his\nhot face. He felt he had now closed the door on his disagreeable\nmorning.\n\nErnest produced his lunch basket.\n\n\"I got a couple bottles of beer cooling in the creek,\" he said.\n\"I knew you wouldn't want to go in a saloon.\"\n\n\"Oh, forget it!\" Claude muttered, ripping the cover off a jar of\npickles. He was nineteen years old, and he was afraid to go into\na saloon, and his friend knew he was afraid.\n\nAfter lunch, Claude took out a handful of good cigars he had\nbought at the drugstore. Ernest, who couldn't afford cigars, was\npleased. He lit one, and as he smoked he kept looking at it with\nan air of pride and turning it around between his fingers.\n\nThe horses stood with their heads over the wagon-box, munching\ntheir oats. The stream trickled by under the willow roots with a\ncool, persuasive sound. Claude and Ernest lay in the shade, their\ncoats under their heads, talking very little. Occasionally a\nmotor dashed along the road toward town, and a cloud of dust and\na smell of gasoline blew in over the creek bottom; but for the\nmost part the silence of the warm, lazy summer noon was\nundisturbed. Claude could usually forget his own vexations and\nchagrins when he was with Ernest. The Bohemian boy was never\nuncertain, was not pulled in two or three ways at once. He was\nsimple and direct. He had a number of impersonal preoccupations;\nwas interested in politics and history and in new inventions.\nClaude felt that his friend lived in an atmosphere of mental\nliberty to which he himself could never hope to attain. After he\nhad talked with Ernest for awhile, the things that did not go\nright on the farm seemed less important. Claude's mother was\nalmost as fond of Ernest as he was himself. When the two boys\nwere going to high school, Ernest often came over in the evening\nto study with Claude, and while they worked at the long kitchen\ntable Mrs. Wheeler brought her darning and sat near them, helping\nthem with their Latin and algebra. Even old Mahailey was\nenlightened by their words of wisdom.\n\nMrs. Wheeler said she would never forget the night Ernest arrived\nfrom the Old Country. His brother, Joe Havel, had gone to\nFrankfort to meet him, and was to stop on the way home and leave\nsome groceries for the Wheelers. The train from the east was\nlate; it was ten o'clock that night when Mrs. Wheeler, waiting in\nthe kitchen, heard Havel's wagon rumble across the little bridge\nover Lovely Creek. She opened the outside door, and presently Joe\ncame in with a bucket of salt fish in one hand and a sack of\nflour on his shoulder. While he took the fish down to the cellar\nfor her, another figure appeared in the doorway; a young boy,\nshort, stooped, with a flat cap on his head and a great oilcloth\nvalise, such as pedlars carry, strapped to his back. He had\nfallen asleep in the wagon, and on waking and finding his brother\ngone, he had supposed they were at home and scrambled for his\npack. He stood in the doorway, blinking his eyes at the light,\nlooking astonished but eager to do whatever was required of him.\nWhat if one of her own boys, Mrs. Wheeler thought.... She\nwent up to him and put her arm around him, laughing a little and\nsaying in her quiet voice, just as if he could understand her,\n\"Why, you're only a little boy after all, aren't you?\"\n\nErnest said afterwards that it was his first welcome to this\ncountry, though he had travelled so far, and had been pushed and\nhauled and shouted at for so many days, he had lost count of\nthem. That night he and Claude only shook hands and looked at\neach other suspiciously, but ever since they had been good\nfriends.\n\nAfter their picnic the two boys went to the circus in a happy\nframe of mind. In the animal tent they met big Leonard Dawson,\nthe oldest son of one of the Wheelers' near neighbours, and the\nthree sat together for the performance. Leonard said he had come\nto town alone in his car; wouldn't Claude ride out with him?\nClaude was glad enough to turn the mules over to Ralph, who\ndidn't mind the hired men as much as he did.\n\nLeonard was a strapping brown fellow of twenty-five, with big\nhands and big feet, white teeth, and flashing eyes full of\nenergy. He and his father and two brothers not only worked their\nown big farm, but rented a quarter section from Nat Wheeler. They\nwere master farmers. If there was a dry summer and a failure,\nLeonard only laughed and stretched his long arms, and put in a\nbigger crop next year. Claude was always a little reserved with\nLeonard; he felt that the young man was rather contemptuous of\nthe hap-hazard way in which things were done on the Wheeler\nplace, and thought his going to college a waste of money. Leonard\nhad not even gone through the Frankfort High School, and he was\nalready a more successful man than Claude was ever likely to be.\nLeonard did think these things, but he was fond of Claude, all\nthe same.\n\nAt sunset the car was speeding over a fine stretch of smooth road\nacross the level country that lay between Frankfort and the\nrougher land along Lovely Creek. Leonard's attention was largely\ngiven up to admiring the faultless behaviour of his engine.\nPresently he chuckled to himself and turned to Claude.\n\n\"I wonder if you'd take it all right if I told you a joke on\nBayliss?\"\n\n\"I expect I would.\" Claude's tone was not at all eager.\n\n\"You saw Bayliss today? Notice anything queer about him, one eye\na little off colour? Did he tell you how he got it?\"\n\n\"No. I didn't ask him.\"\n\n\"Just as well. A lot of people did ask him, though, and he said\nhe was hunting around his place for something in the dark and ran\ninto a reaper. Well, I'm the reaper!\"\n\nClaude looked interested. \"You mean to say Bayliss was in a\nfight?\"\n\nLeonard laughed. \"Lord, no! Don't you know Bayliss? I went in\nthere to pay a bill yesterday, and Susie Gray and another girl\ncame in to sell tickets for the firemen's dinner. An advance man\nfor this circus was hanging around, and he began talking a little\nsmart,--nothing rough, but the way such fellows will. The girls\nhanded it back to him, and sold him three tickets and shut him\nup. I couldn't see how Susie thought so quick what to say. The\nminute the girls went out Bayliss started knocking them; said all\nthe country girls were getting too fresh and knew more than they\nought to about managing sporty men and right there I reached out\nand handed him one. I hit harder than I meant to. I meant to slap\nhim, not to give him a black eye. But you can't always regulate\nthings, and I was hot all over. I waited for him to come back at\nme. I'm bigger than he is, and I wanted to give him satisfaction.\nWell, sir, he never moved a muscle! He stood there getting redder\nand redder, and his eyes watered. I don't say he cried, but his\neyes watered. 'All right, Bayliss,' said I. 'Slow with your\nfists, if that's your principle; but slow with your tongue,\ntoo,--especially when the parties mentioned aren't present.'\"\n\n\"Bayliss will never get over that,\" was Claude's only comment.\n\n\"He don't have to!\" Leonard threw up his head. \"I'm a good\ncustomer; he can like it or lump it, till the price of binding\ntwine goes down!\"\n\nFor the next few minutes the driver was occupied with trying to\nget up a long, rough hill on high gear. Sometimes he could\nmake that hill, and sometimes he couldn't, and he was not able to\naccount for the difference. After he pulled the second lever with\nsome disgust and let the car amble on as she would, he noticed\nthat his companion was disconcerted.\n\n\"I'll tell you what, Leonard,\" Claude spoke in a strained voice,\n\"I think the fair thing for you to do is to get out here by the\nroad and give me a chance.\"\n\nLeonard swung his steering wheel savagely to pass a wagon on the\ndown side of the hill. \"What the devil are you talking about,\nboy?\"\n\n\"You think you've got our measure all right, but you ought to\ngive me a chance first.\"\n\nLeonard looked down in amazement at his own big brown hands,\nlying on the wheel. \"You mortal fool kid, what would I be telling\nyou all this for, if I didn't know you were another breed of\ncats? I never thought you got on too well with Bayliss yourself.\"\n\n\"I don't, but I won't have you thinking you can slap the men in\nmy family whenever you feel like it.\" Claude knew that his\nexplanation sounded foolish, and his voice, in spite of all he\ncould do, was weak and angry.\n\nYoung Leonard Dawson saw he had hurt the boy's feelings. \"Lord,\nClaude, I know you're a fighter. Bayliss never was. I went to\nschool with him.\"\n\nThe ride ended amicably, but Claude wouldn't let Leonard take him\nhome. He jumped out of the car with a curt goodnight, and ran\nacross the dusky fields toward the light that shone from the\nhouse on the hill. At the little bridge over the creek, he\nstopped to get his breath and to be sure that he was outwardly\ncomposed before he went in to see his mother.\n\n\"Ran against a reaper in the dark!\" he muttered aloud, clenching\nhis fist.\n\nListening to the deep singing of the frogs, and to the distant\nbarking of the dogs up at the house, he grew calmer.\nNevertheless, he wondered why it was that one had sometimes to\nfeel responsible for the behaviour of people whose natures were\nwholly antipathetic to one's own.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nThe circus was on Saturday. The next morning Claude was standing\nat his dresser, shaving. His beard was already strong, a shade\ndarker than his hair and not so red as his skin. His eyebrows and\nlong lashes were a pale corn-colour--made his blue eyes seem\nlighter than they were, and, he thought, gave a look of shyness\nand weakness to the upper part of his face. He was exactly the\nsort of looking boy he didn't want to be. He especially hated his\nhead,--so big that he had trouble in buying his hats, and\nuncompromisingly square in shape; a perfect block-head. His name\nwas another source of humiliation. Claude: it was a \"chump\" name,\nlike Elmer and Roy; a hayseed name trying to be fine. In country\nschools there was always a red-headed, warty-handed, runny-nosed\nlittle boy who was called Claude. His good physique he took for\ngranted; smooth, muscular arms and legs, and strong shoulders, a\nfarmer boy might be supposed to have. Unfortunately he had none\nof his father's physical repose, and his strength often asserted\nitself inharmoniously. The storms that went on in his mind\nsometimes made him rise, or sit down, or lift something, more\nviolently than there was any apparent reason for his doing.\n\nThe household slept late on Sunday morning; even Mahailey did not\nget up until seven. The general signal for breakfast was the\nsmell of doughnuts frying. This morning Ralph rolled out of bed\nat the last minute and callously put on his clean underwear\nwithout taking a bath. This cost him not one regret, though he\ntook time to polish his new ox-blood shoes tenderly with a pocket\nhandkerchief. He reached the table when all the others were half\nthrough breakfast, and made his peace by genially asking his\nmother if she didn't want him to drive her to church in the car.\n\n\"I'd like to go if I can get the work done in time,\" she said,\ndoubtfully glancing at the clock.\n\n\"Can't Mahailey tend to things for you this morning?\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler hesitated. \"Everything but the separator, she can.\nBut she can't fit all the parts together. It's a good deal of\nwork, you know.\"\n\n\"Now, Mother,\" said Ralph good-humouredly, as he emptied the\nsyrup pitcher over his cakes, \"you're prejudiced. Nobody ever\nthinks of skimming milk now-a-days. Every up-to-date farmer uses\na separator.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler's pale eyes twinkled. \"Mahailey and I will never be\nquite up-to-date, Ralph. We're old-fashioned, and I don't know but\nyou'd better let us be. I could see the advantage of a separator\nif we milked half-a-dozen cows. It's a very ingenious machine.\nBut it's a great deal more work to scald it and fit it together\nthan it was to take care of the milk in the old way.\"\n\n\"It won't be when you get used to it,\" Ralph assured her. He was\nthe chief mechanic of the Wheeler farm, and when the farm\nimplements and the automobiles did not give him enough to do, he\nwent to town and bought machines for the house. As soon as\nMahailey got used to a washing-machine or a churn, Ralph, to keep\nup with the bristling march of invention, brought home a still\nnewer one. The mechanical dish-washer she had never been able to\nuse, and patent flat-irons and oil-stoves drove her wild.\n\nClaude told his mother to go upstairs and dress; he would scald\nthe separator while Ralph got the car ready. He was still working\nat it when his brother came in from the garage to wash his hands.\n\n\"You really oughtn't to load mother up with things like this,\nRalph,\" he exclaimed fretfully. \"Did you ever try washing this\ndamned thing yourself?\"\n\n\"Of course I have. If Mrs. Dawson can manage it, I should think\nmother could.\"\n\n\"Mrs. Dawson is a younger woman. Anyhow, there's no point in\ntrying to make machinists of Mahailey and mother.\"\n\nRalph lifted his eyebrows to excuse Claude's bluntness. \"See\nhere,\" he said persuasively, \"don't you go encouraging her into\nthinking she can't change her ways. Mother's entitled to all the\nlabour-saving devices we can get her.\"\n\nClaude rattled the thirty-odd graduated metal funnels which he\nwas trying to fit together in their proper sequence. \"Well, if\nthis is labour-saving\"\n\nThe younger boy giggled and ran upstairs for his panama hat. He\nnever quarrelled. Mrs. Wheeler sometimes said it was wonderful,\nhow much Ralph would take from Claude.\n\nAfter Ralph and his mother had gone off in the car, Mr. Wheeler\ndrove to see his German neighbour, Gus Yoeder, who had just\nbought a blooded bull. Dan and Jerry were pitching horseshoes\ndown behind the barn. Claude told Mahailey he was going to the\ncellar to put up the swinging shelf she had been wanting, so that\nthe rats couldn't get at her vegetables.\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Claude. I don't know what does make the rats so\nbad. The cats catches one most every day, too.\"\n\n\"I guess they come up from the barn. I've got a nice wide board\ndown at the garage for your shelf.\" The cellar was cemented, cool\nand dry, with deep closets for canned fruit and flour and\ngroceries, bins for coal and cobs, and a dark-room full of\nphotographer's apparatus. Claude took his place at the\ncarpenter's bench under one of the square windows. Mysterious\nobjects stood about him in the grey twilight; electric batteries,\nold bicycles and typewriters, a machine for making cement\nfence-posts, a vulcanizer, a stereopticon with a broken lens. The\nmechanical toys Ralph could not operate successfully, as well as\nthose he had got tired of, were stored away here. If they were\nleft in the barn, Mr. Wheeler saw them too often, and sometimes,\nwhen they happened to be in his way, he made sarcastic comments.\nClaude had begged his mother to let him pile this lumber into a\nwagon and dump it into some washout hole along the creek; but\nMrs. Wheeler said he must not think of such a thing; it would\nhurt Ralph's feelings. Nearly every time Claude went into the\ncellar, he made a desperate resolve to clear the place out some\nday, reflecting bitterly that the money this wreckage cost would\nhave put a boy through college decently.\n\nWhile Claude was planing off the board he meant to suspend from\nthe joists, Mahailey left her work and came down to watch him.\nShe made some pretence of hunting for pickled onions, then seated\nherself upon a cracker box; close at hand there was a plush\n\"spring-rocker\" with one arm gone, but it wouldn't have been her\nidea of good manners to sit there. Her eyes had a kind of sleepy\ncontentment in them as she followed Claude's motions. She watched\nhim as if he were a baby playing. Her hands lay comfortably in\nher lap.\n\n\"Mr. Ernest ain't been over for a long time. He ain't mad about\nnothin', is he?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! He's awful busy this summer. I saw him in town\nyesterday. We went to the circus together.\"\n\nMahailey smiled and nodded. \"That's nice. I'm glad for you two\nboys to have a good time. Mr. Ernest's a nice boy; I always liked\nhim first rate. He's a little feller, though. He ain't big like\nyou, is he? I guess he ain't as tall as Mr. Ralph, even.\"\n\n\"Not quite,\" said Claude between strokes. \"He's strong, though,\nand gets through a lot of work.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know! I know he is. I know he works hard. All them\nforeigners works hard, don't they, Mr. Claude? I reckon he liked\nthe circus. Maybe they don't have circuses like our'n, over where\nhe come from.\"\n\nClaude began to tell her about the clown elephant and the trained\ndogs, and she sat listening to him with her pleased, foolish\nsmile; there was something wise and far-seeing about her smile,\ntoo.\n\nMahailey had come to them long ago, when Claude was only a few\nmonths old. She had been brought West by a shiftless Virginia\nfamily which went to pieces and scattered under the rigours of\npioneer farm-life. When the mother of the family died, there was\nnowhere for Mahailey to go, and Mrs. Wheeler took her in.\nMahailey had no one to take care of her, and Mrs. Wheeler had no\none to help her with the work; it had turned out very well.\n\nMahailey had had a hard life in her young days, married to a\nsavage mountaineer who often abused her and never provided for\nher. She could remember times when she sat in the cabin, beside\nan empty meal-barrel and a cold iron pot, waiting for \"him\" to\nbring home a squirrel he had shot or a chicken he had stolen. Too\noften he brought nothing but a jug of mountain whiskey and a pair\nof brutal fists. She thought herself well off now, never to have\nto beg for food or go off into the woods to gather firing, to be\nsure of a warm bed and shoes and decent clothes. Mahailey was one\nof eighteen children; most of them grew up lawless or\nhalf-witted, and two of her brothers, like her husband, ended\ntheir lives in jail. She had never been sent to school, and could\nnot read or write. Claude, when he was a little boy, tried to\nteach her to read, but what she learned one night she had\nforgotten by the next. She could count, and tell the time of day\nby the clock, and she was very proud of knowing the alphabet and\nof being able to spell out letters on the flour sacks and coffee\npackages. \"That's a big A.\" she would murmur, \"and that there's a\nlittle a.\"\n\nMahailey was shrewd in her estimate of people, and Claude thought\nher judgment sound in a good many things. He knew she sensed all\nthe shades of personal feeling, the accords and antipathies in\nthe household, as keenly as he did, and he would have hated to\nlose her good opinion. She consulted him in all her little\ndifficulties. If the leg of the kitchen table got wobbly, she\nknew he would put in new screws for her. When she broke a handle\noff her rolling pin, he put on another, and he fitted a haft to\nher favourite butcher-knife after every one else said it must be\nthrown away. These objects, after they had been mended, acquired\na new value in her eyes, and she liked to work with them. When\nClaude helped her lift or carry anything, he never avoided\ntouching her, this she felt deeply. She suspected that Ralph was a\nlittle ashamed of her, and would prefer to have some brisk young\nthing about the kitchen.\n\nOn days like this, when other people were not about, Mahailey\nliked to talk to Claude about the things they did together when\nhe was little; the Sundays when they used to wander along the\ncreek, hunting for wild grapes and watching the red squirrels; or\ntrailed across the high pastures to a wild-plum thicket at the\nnorth end of the Wheeler farm. Claude could remember warm spring\ndays when the plum bushes were all in blossom and Mahailey used\nto lie down under them and sing to herself, as if the honey-heavy\nsweetness made her drowsy; songs without words, for the most\npart, though he recalled one mountain dirge which said over and\nover, \"And they laid Jesse James in his grave.\"\n\n\n\nIV\n\nThe time was approaching for Claude to go back to the struggling\ndenominational college on the outskirts of the state capital,\nwhere he had already spent two dreary and unprofitable winters.\n\n\"Mother,\" he said one morning when he had an opportunity to speak\nto her alone, \"I wish you would let me quit the Temple, and go to\nthe State University.\"\n\nShe looked up from the mass of dough she was kneading.\n\n\"But why, Claude?\"\n\n\"Well, I could learn more, for one thing. The professors at the\nTemple aren't much good. Most of them are just preachers who\ncouldn't make a living at preaching.\"\n\nThe look of pain that always disarmed Claude came instantly into\nhis mother's face. \"Son, don't say such things. I can't believe\nbut teachers are more interested in their students when they are\nconcerned for their spiritual development, as well as the mental.\nBrother Weldon said many of the professors at the State\nUniversity are not Christian men; they even boast of it, in some\ncases.\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess most of them are good men, all right; at any rate\nthey know their subjects. These little pin-headed preachers like\nWeldon do a lot of harm, running about the country talking. He's\nsent around to pull in students for his own school. If he didn't\nget them he'd lose his job. I wish he'd never got me. Most of the\nfellows who flunk out at the State come to us, just as he did.\"\n\n\"But how can there be any serious study where they give so much\ntime to athletics and frivolity? They pay their football coach a\nlarger salary than their President. And those fraternity houses\nare places where boys learn all sorts of evil. I've heard that\ndreadful things go on in them sometimes. Besides, it would take\nmore money, and you couldn't live as cheaply as you do at the\nChapins'.\"\n\nClaude made no reply. He stood before her frowning and pulling at\na calloused spot on the inside of his palm. Mrs. Wheeler looked\nat him wistfully. \"I'm sure you must be able to study better in a\nquiet, serious atmosphere,\" she said.\n\nHe sighed and turned away. If his mother had been the least bit\nunctuous, like Brother Weldon, he could have told her many\nenlightening facts. But she was so trusting and childlike, so\nfaithful by nature and so ignorant of life as he knew it, that it\nwas hopeless to argue with her. He could shock her and make her\nfear the world even more than she did, but he could never make\nher understand.\n\nHis mother was old-fashioned. She thought dancing and\ncard-playing dangerous pastimes--only rough people did such\nthings when she was a girl in Vermont--and \"worldliness\" only\nanother word for wickedness. According to her conception of\neducation, one should learn, not think; and above all, one must\nnot enquire. The history of the human race, as it lay behind one,\nwas already explained; and so was its destiny, which lay before.\nThe mind should remain obediently within the theological concept\nof history.\n\nNat Wheeler didn't care where his son went to school, but he,\ntoo, took it for granted that the religious institution was\ncheaper than the State University; and that because the students\nthere looked shabbier they were less likely to become too\nknowing, and to be offensively intelligent at home. However, he\nreferred the matter to Bayliss one day when he was in town.\n\n\"Claude's got some notion he wants to go to the State University\nthis winter.\"\n\nBayliss at once assumed that wise,\nbetter-be-prepared-for-the-worst expression which had made him\nseem shrewd and seasoned from boyhood. \"I don't see any point in\nchanging unless he's got good reasons.\"\n\n\"Well, he thinks that bunch of parsons at the Temple don't make\nfirst-rate teachers.\"\n\n\"I expect they can teach Claude quite a bit yet. If he gets in\nwith that fast football crowd at the State, there'll be no\nholding him.\" For some reason Bayliss detested football. \"This\nathletic business is a good deal over-done. If Claude wants\nexercise, he might put in the fall wheat.\"\n\nThat night Mr. Wheeler brought the subject up at supper,\nquestioned Claude, and tried to get at the cause of his\ndiscontent. His manner was jocular, as usual, and Claude hated\nany public discussion of his personal affairs. He was afraid of\nhis father's humour when it got too near him.\n\nClaude might have enjoyed the large and somewhat gross cartoons\nwith which Mr. Wheeler enlivened daily life, had they been of any\nother authorship. But he unreasonably wanted his father to be the\nmost dignified, as he was certainly the handsomest and most\nintelligent, man in the community. Moreover, Claude couldn't bear\nridicule very well. He squirmed before he was hit; saw it coming,\ninvited it. Mr. Wheeler had observed this trait in him when he\nwas a little chap, called it false pride, and often purposely\noutraged his feelings to harden him, as he had hardened Claude's\nmother, who was afraid of everything but schoolbooks and\nprayer-meetings when he first married her. She was still more or\nless bewildered, but she had long ago got over any fear of him\nand any dread of living with him. She accepted everything about\nher husband as part of his rugged masculinity, and of that she\nwas proud, in her quiet way.\n\nClaude had never quite forgiven his father for some of his\npractical jokes. One warm spring day, when he was a boisterous\nlittle boy of five, playing in and out of the house, he heard his\nmother entreating Mr. Wheeler to go down to the orchard and pick\nthe cherries from a tree that hung loaded. Claude remembered that\nshe persisted rather complainingly, saying that the cherries were\ntoo high for her to reach, and that even if she had a ladder it\nwould hurt her back. Mr. Wheeler was always annoyed if his wife\nreferred to any physical weakness, especially if she complained\nabout her back. He got up and went out. After a while he\nreturned. \"All right now, Evangeline,\" he called cheerily as he\npassed through the kitchen. \"Cherries won't give you any trouble.\nYou and Claude can run along and pick 'em as easy as can be.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler trustfully put on her sunbonnet, gave Claude a\nlittle pail and took a big one herself, and they went down the\npasture hill to the orchard, fenced in on the low land by the\ncreek. The ground had been ploughed that spring to make it hold\nmoisture, and Claude was running happily along in one of the\nfurrows, when he looked up and beheld a sight he could never\nforget. The beautiful, round-topped cherry tree, full of green\nleaves and red fruit,--his father had sawed it through! It lay on\nthe ground beside its bleeding stump. With one scream Claude\nbecame a little demon. He threw away his tin pail, jumped about\nhowling and kicking the loose earth with his copper-toed shoes,\nuntil his mother was much more concerned for him than for the\ntree.\n\n\"Son, son,\" she cried, \"it's your father's tree. He has a perfect\nright to cut it down if he wants to. He's often said the trees\nwere too thick in here. Maybe it will be better for the others.\"\n\n\"'Tain't so! He's a damn fool, damn fool!\" Claude bellowed, still\nhopping and kicking, almost choking with rage and hate.\n\nHis mother dropped on her knees beside him. \"Claude, stop! I'd\nrather have the whole orchard cut down than hear you say such\nthings.\"\n\nAfter she got him quieted they picked the cherries and went back\nto the house. Claude had promised her that he would say nothing,\nbut his father must have noticed the little boy's angry eyes\nfixed upon him all through dinner, and his expression of scorn.\nEven then his flexible lips were only too well adapted to hold\nthe picture of that feeling. For days afterward Claude went down\nto the orchard and watched the tree grow sicker, wilt and wither\naway. God would surely punish a man who could do that, he\nthought.\n\nA violent temper and physical restlessness were the most\nconspicuous things about Claude when he was a little boy. Ralph\nwas docile, and had a precocious sagacity for keeping out of\ntrouble. Quiet in manner, he was fertile in devising mischief,\nand easily persuaded his older brother, who was always looking\nfor something to do, to execute his plans. It was usually Claude\nwho was caught red-handed. Sitting mild and contemplative on his\nquilt on the floor, Ralph would whisper to Claude that it might\nbe amusing to climb up and take the clock from the shelf, or to\noperate the sewing-machine. When they were older, and played out\nof doors, he had only to insinuate that Claude was afraid, to\nmake him try a frosted axe with his tongue, or jump from the shed\nroof.\n\nThe usual hardships of country boyhood were not enough for\nClaude; he imposed physical tests and penances upon himself.\nWhenever he burned his finger, he followed Mahailey's advice and\nheld his hand close to the stove to \"draw out the fire.\" One year\nhe went to school all winter in his jacket, to make himself\ntough. His mother would button him up in his overcoat and put his\ndinner-pail in his hand and start him off. As soon as he got out\nof sight of the house, he pulled off his coat, rolled it under\nhis arm, and scudded along the edge of the frozen fields,\narriving at the frame schoolhouse panting and shivering, but very\nwell pleased with himself.\n\n\n\nV\n\nClaude waited for his elders to change their mind about where he\nshould go to school; but no one seemed much concerned, not even\nhis mother.\n\nTwo years ago, the young man whom Mrs. Wheeler called \"Brother\nWeldon\" had come out from Lincoln, preaching in little towns and\ncountry churches, and recruiting students for the institution at\nwhich he taught in the winter. He had convinced Mrs. Wheeler that\nhis college was the safest possible place for a boy who was\nleaving home for the first time.\n\nClaude's mother was not discriminating about preachers. She\nbelieved them all chosen and sanctified, and was never happier\nthan when she had one in the house to cook for and wait upon. She\nmade young Mr. Weldon so comfortable that he remained under her\nroof for several weeks, occupying the spare room, where he spent\nthe mornings in study and meditation. He appeared regularly at\nmealtime to ask a blessing upon the food and to sit with devout,\ndowncast eyes while the chicken was being dismembered. His\ntop-shaped head hung a little to one side, the thin hair was\nparted precisely over his high forehead and brushed in little\nripples. He was soft spoken and apologetic in manner and took up\nas little room as possible. His meekness amused Mr. Wheeler, who\nliked to ply him with food and never failed to ask him gravely\n\"what part of the chicken he would prefer,\" in order to hear him\nmurmur, \"A little of the white meat, if you please,\" while he\ndrew his elbows close, as if he were adroitly sliding over a\ndangerous place. In the afternoon Brother Weldon usually put on\na fresh lawn necktie and a hard, glistening straw hat which left a\nred streak across his forehead, tucked his Bible under his arm,\nand went out to make calls. If he went far, Ralph took him in the\nautomobile.\n\nClaude disliked this young man from the moment he first met him,\nand could scarcely answer him civilly. Mrs. Wheeler, always\nabsent-minded, and now absorbed in her cherishing care of the\nvisitor, did not notice Claude's scornful silences until\nMahailey, whom such things never escaped, whispered to her over\nthe stove one day: \"Mr. Claude, he don't like the preacher. He\njust ain't got no use fur him, but don't you let on.\"\n\nAs a result of Brother Weldon's sojourn at the farm, Claude was\nsent to the Temple College. Claude had come to believe that the\nthings and people he most disliked were the ones that were to\nshape his destiny.\n\nWhen the second week of September came round, he threw a few\nclothes and books into his trunk and said good-bye to his mother\nand Mahailey. Ralph took him into Frankfort to catch the train\nfor Lincoln. After settling himself in the dirty day-coach,\nClaude fell to meditating upon his prospects. There was a Pullman\ncar on the train, but to take a Pullman for a daylight journey\nwas one of the things a Wheeler did not do.\n\nClaude knew that he was going back to the wrong school, that he\nwas wasting both time and money. He sneered at himself for his\nlack of spirit. If he had to do with strangers, he told himself,\nhe could take up his case and fight for it. He could not assert\nhimself against his father or mother, but he could be bold enough\nwith the rest of the world. Yet, if this were true, why did he\ncontinue to live with the tiresome Chapins? The Chapin household\nconsisted of a brother and sister. Edward Chapin was a man of\ntwenty-six, with an old, wasted face,--and he was still going to\nschool, studying for the ministry. His sister Annabelle kept\nhouse for him; that is to say, she did whatever housework was\ndone. The brother supported himself and his sister by getting odd\njobs from churches and religious societies; he \"supplied\" the\npulpit when a minister was ill, did secretarial work for the\ncollege and the Young Men's Christian Association. Claude's\nweekly payment for room and board, though a small sum, was very\nnecessary to their comfort.\n\nChapin had been going to the Temple College for four years, and\nit would probably take him two years more to complete the course.\nHe conned his book on trolley-cars, or while he waited by the\ntrack on windy corners, and studied far into the night. His\nnatural stupidity must have been something quite out of the\nordinary; after years of reverential study, he could not read the\nGreek Testament without a lexicon and grammar at his elbow. He\ngave a great deal of time to the practice of elocution and\noratory. At certain hours their frail domicile--it had been\nthinly built for the academic poor and sat upon concrete blocks\nin lieu of a foundation--re-echoed with his hoarse, overstrained\nvoice, declaiming his own orations or those of Wendell Phillips.\n\nAnnabelle Chapin was one of Claude's classmates. She was not as\ndull as her brother; she could learn a conjugation and recognize\nthe forms when she met with them again. But she was a gushing,\nsilly girl, who found almost everything in their grubby life too\ngood to be true; and she was, unfortunately, sentimental about\nClaude. Annabelle chanted her lessons over and over to herself\nwhile she cooked and scrubbed. She was one of those people who\ncan make the finest things seem tame and flat merely by alluding\nto them. Last winter she had recited the odes of Horace about the\nhouse--it was exactly her notion of the student-like thing to\ndo--until Claude feared he would always associate that poet with\nthe heaviness of hurriedly prepared luncheons.\n\nMrs. Wheeler liked to feel that Claude was assisting this worthy\npair in their struggle for an education; but he had long ago\ndecided that since neither of the Chapins got anything out of\ntheir efforts but a kind of messy inefficiency, the struggle\nmight better have been relinquished in the beginning. He took\ncare of his own room; kept it bare and habitable, free from\nAnnabelle's attentions and decorations. But the flimsy pretences\nof light-housekeeping were very distasteful to him. He was born\nwith a love of order, just as he was born with red hair. It was a\npersonal attribute.\n\nThe boy felt bitterly about the way in which he had been brought\nup, and about his hair and his freckles and his awkwardness. When\nhe went to the theatre in Lincoln, he took a seat in the gallery,\nbecause he knew that he looked like a green country boy. His\nclothes were never right. He bought collars that were too high\nand neckties that were too bright, and hid them away in his\ntrunk. His one experiment with a tailor was unsuccessful. The\ntailor saw at once that his stammering client didn't know what he\nwanted, so he persuaded him that as the season was spring he\nneeded light checked trousers and a blue serge coat and vest.\nWhen Claude wore his new clothes to St. Paul's church on Sunday\nmorning, the eyes of every one he met followed his smart legs\ndown the street. For the next week he observed the legs of old\nmen and young, and decided there wasn't another pair of checked\npants in Lincoln. He hung his new clothes up in his closet and\nnever put them on again, though Annabelle Chapin watched for them\nwistfully. Nevertheless, Claude thought he could recognize a\nwell-dressed man when he saw one. He even thought he could\nrecognize a well-dressed woman. If an attractive woman got into\nthe street car when he was on his way to or from Temple Place, he\nwas distracted between the desire to look at her and the wish to\nseem indifferent.\n\nClaude is on his way back to Lincoln, with a fairly liberal\nallowance which does not contribute much to his comfort or\npleasure. He has no friends or instructors whom he can regard\nwith admiration, though the need to admire is just now uppermost\nin his nature. He is convinced that the people who might mean\nsomething to him will always misjudge him and pass him by. He is\nnot so much afraid of loneliness as he is of accepting cheap\nsubstitutes; of making excuses to himself for a teacher who\nflatters him, of waking up some morning to find himself admiring\na girl merely because she is accessible. He has a dread of easy\ncompromises, and he is terribly afraid of being fooled.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nThree months later, on a grey December day, Claude was seated in\nthe passenger coach of an accommodation freight train, going home\nfor the holidays. He had a pile of books on the seat beside him\nand was reading, when the train stopped with a jerk that sent the\nvolumes tumbling to the floor. He picked them up and looked at\nhis watch. It was noon. The freight would lie here for an hour or\nmore, until the east-bound passenger went by. Claude left the car\nand walked slowly up the platform toward the station. A bundle of\nlittle spruce trees had been flung off near the freight office,\nand sent a smell of Christmas into the cold air. A few drays\nstood about, the horses blanketed. The steam from the locomotive\nmade a spreading, deep-violet stain as it curled up against the\ngrey sky.\n\nClaude went into a restaurant across the street and ordered an\noyster stew. The proprietress, a plump little German woman with a\nfrizzed bang, always remembered him from trip to trip. While he\nwas eating his oysters she told him that she had just finished\nroasting a chicken with sweet potatoes, and if he liked he could\nhave the first brown cut off the breast before the train-men came\nin for dinner. Asking her to bring it along, he waited, sitting\non a stool, his boots on the lead-pipe foot-rest, his elbows on\nthe shiny brown counter, staring at a pyramid of tough looking\nbun-sandwiches under a glass globe.\n\n\"I been lookin' for you every day,\" said Mrs. Voigt when she\nbrought his plate. \"I put plenty good gravy on dem sweet\npertaters, ja.\"\n\n\"Thank you. You must be popular with your boarders.\"\n\nShe giggled. \"Ja, all de train men is friends mit me. Sometimes\ndey bring me a liddle Schweizerkase from one of dem big saloons\nin Omaha what de Cherman beobles batronize. I ain't got no boys\nmein own self, so I got to fix up liddle tings for dem boys, eh?\"\n\nShe stood nursing her stumpy hands under her apron, watching\nevery mouthful he ate so eagerly that she might have been tasting\nit herself. The train crew trooped in, shouting to her and asking\nwhat there was for dinner, and she ran about like an excited\nlittle hen, chuckling and cackling. Claude wondered whether\nworking-men were as nice as that to old women the world over. He\ndidn't believe so. He liked to think that such geniality was\ncommon only in what he broadly called \"the West.\" He bought a big\ncigar, and strolled up and down the platform, enjoying the fresh\nair until the passenger whistled in.\n\nAfter his freight train got under steam he did not open his books\nagain, but sat looking out at the grey homesteads as they\nunrolled before him, with their stripped, dry cornfields, and the\ngreat ploughed stretches where the winter wheat was asleep. A\nstarry sprinkling of snow lay like hoar-frost along the crumbly\nridges between the furrows.\n\nClaude believed he knew almost every farm between Frankfort and\nLincoln, he had made the journey so often, on fast trains and\nslow. He went home for all the holidays, and had been again and\nagain called back on various pretexts; when his mother was sick,\nwhen Ralph overturned the car and broke his shoulder, when his\nfather was kicked by a vicious stallion. It was not a Wheeler\ncustom to employ a nurse; if any one in the household was ill, it\nwas understood that some member of the family would act in that\ncapacity.\n\nClaude was reflecting upon the fact that he had never gone home\nbefore in such good spirits. Two fortunate things had happened to\nhim since he went over this road three months ago.\n\nAs soon as he reached Lincoln in September, he had matriculated\nat the State University for special work in European History. The\nyear before he had heard the head of the department lecture for\nsome charity, and resolved that even if he were not allowed to\nchange his college, he would manage to study under that man. The\ncourse Claude selected was one upon which a student could put as\nmuch time as he chose. It was based upon the reading of\nhistorical sources, and the Professor was notoriously greedy for\nfull notebooks. Claude's were of the fullest. He worked early and\nlate at the University Library, often got his supper in town and\nwent back to read until closing hour. For the first time he was\nstudying a subject which seemed to him vital, which had to do\nwith events and ideas, instead of with lexicons and grammars. How\noften he had wished for Ernest during the lectures! He could see\nErnest drinking them up, agreeing or dissenting in his\nindependent way. The class was very large, and the Professor\nspoke without notes,--he talked rapidly, as if he were addressing\nhis equals, with none of the coaxing persuasiveness to which\nTemple students were accustomed. His lectures were condensed like\na legal brief, but there was a kind of dry fervour in his voice,\nand when he occasionally interrupted his exposition with purely\npersonal comment, it seemed valuable and important.\n\nClaude usually came out from these lectures with the feeling that\nthe world was full of stimulating things, and that one was\nfortunate to be alive and to be able to find out about them. His\nreading that autumn actually made the future look brighter to\nhim; seemed to promise him something. One of his chief\ndifficulties had always been that he could not make himself\nbelieve in the importance of making money or spending it. If that\nwere all, then life was not worth the trouble.\n\nThe second good thing that had befallen him was that he had got\nto know some people he liked. This came about accidentally, after\na football game between the Temple eleven and the State\nUniversity team--merely a practice game for the latter. Claude\nwas playing half-back with the Temple. Toward the close of the\nfirst quarter, he followed his interference safely around the\nright end, dodged a tackle which threatened to end the play, and\nbroke loose for a ninety yard run down the field for a touchdown.\nHe brought his eleven off with a good showing. The State men\ncongratulated him warmly, and their coach went so far as to hint\nthat if he ever wanted to make a change, there would be a place\nfor him on the University team.\n\nClaude had a proud moment, but even while Coach Ballinger was\ntalking to him, the Temple students rushed howling from the\ngrandstand, and Annabelle Chapin, ridiculous in a sport suit of\nher own construction, bedecked with the Temple colours and\nblowing a child's horn, positively threw herself upon his neck.\nHe disengaged himself, not very gently, and stalked grimly away\nto the dressing shed.... What was the use, if you were always\nwith the wrong crowd?\n\nJulius Erlich, who played quarter on the State team, took him\naside and said affably: \"Come home to supper with me tonight,\nWheeler, and meet my mother. Come along with us and dress in the\nArmory. You have your clothes in your suitcase, haven't you?\"\n\n\"They're hardly clothes to go visiting in,\" Claude replied\ndoubtfully.\n\n\"Oh, that doesn't matter! We're all boys at home. Mother wouldn't\nmind if you came in your track things.\"\n\nClaude consented before he had time to frighten himself by\nimagining difficulties. The Erlich boy often sat next him in the\nhistory class, and they had several times talked together.\nHitherto Claude had felt that he \"couldn't make Erlich out,\" but\nthis afternoon, while they dressed after their shower, they\nbecame good friends, all in a few minutes. Claude was perhaps\nless tied-up in mind and body than usual. He was so astonished at\nfinding himself on easy, confidential terms with Erlich that he\nscarcely gave a thought to his second-day shirt and his collar\nwith a broken edge,--wretched economies he had been trained to\nobserve.\n\nThey had not walked more than two blocks from the Armory when\nJulius turned in at a rambling wooden house with an unfenced,\nterraced lawn. He led Claude around to the wing, and through a\nglass door into a big room that was all windows on three sides,\nabove the wainscoting. The room was full of boys and young men,\nseated on long divans or perched on the arms of easy chairs, and\nthey were all talking at once. On one of the couches a young man\nin a smoking jacket lay reading as composedly as if he were\nalone.\n\n\"Five of these are my brothers,\" said his host, \"and the rest are\nfriends.\"\n\nThe company recognized Claude and included him in their talk\nabout the game. When the visitors had gone, Julius introduced his\nbrothers. They were all nice boys, Claude thought, and had easy,\nagreeable manners. The three older ones were in business, but\nthey too had been to the game that afternoon. Claude had never\nbefore seen brothers who were so outspoken and frank with one\nanother. To him they were very cordial; the one who was lying\ndown came forward to shake hands, keeping the place in his book\nwith his finger.\n\nOn a table in the middle of the room were pipes and boxes of\ntobacco, cigars in a glass jar, and a big Chinese bowl full of\ncigarettes. This provisionment seemed the more remarkable to\nClaude because at home he had to smoke in the cowshed. The number\nof books astonished him almost as much; the wainscoting all\naround the room was built up in open bookcases, stuffed with\nvolumes fat and thin, and they all looked interesting and\nhard-used. One of the brothers had been to a party the night\nbefore, and on coming home had put his dress-tie about the neck\nof a little plaster bust of Byron that stood on the mantel. This\nhead, with the tie at a rakish angle, drew Claude's attention\nmore than anything else in the room, and for some reason\ninstantly made him wish he lived there.\n\nJulius brought in his mother, and when they went to supper Claude\nwas seated beside her at one end of the long table. Mrs. Erlich\nseemed to him very young to be the head of such a family. Her\nhair was still brown, and she wore it drawn over her ears and\ntwisted in two little horns, like the ladies in old\ndaguerreotypes. Her face, too, suggested a daguerreotype; there\nwas something old-fashioned and picturesque about it. Her skin\nhad the soft whiteness of white flowers that have been drenched\nby rain. She talked with quick gestures, and her decided little\nnod was quaint and very personal. Her hazel-coloured eyes peered\nexpectantly over her nose-glasses, always watching to see things\nturn out wonderfully well; always looking for some good German\nfairy in the cupboard or the cake-box, or in the steaming vapor\nof wash-day.\n\nThe boys were discussing an engagement that had just been\nannounced, and Mrs. Erlich began to tell Claude a long story\nabout how this brilliant young man had come to Lincoln and met\nthis beautiful young girl, who was already engaged to a cold and\nacademic youth, and how after many heart-burnings the beautiful\ngirl had broken with the wrong man and become betrothed to the\nright one, and now they were so happy, and every one, she asked\nClaude to believe, was equally happy! In the middle of her\nnarrative Julius reminded her smilingly that since Claude didn't\nknow these people, he would hardly be interested in their\nromance, but she merely looked at him over her nose-glasses and\nsaid, \"And is that so, Herr Julius!\" One could see that she was a\nmatch for them.\n\nThe conversation went racing from one thing to another. The\nbrothers began to argue hotly about a new girl who was visiting\nin town; whether she was pretty, how pretty she was, whether she\nwas naive. To Claude this was like talk in a play. He had never\nheard a living person discussed and analysed thus before. He had\nnever heard a family talk so much, or with anything like so much\nzest. Here there was none of the poisonous reticence he had\nalways associated with family gatherings, nor the awkwardness of\npeople sitting with their hands in their lap, facing each other,\neach one guarding his secret or his suspicion, while he hunted\nfor a safe subject to talk about. Their fertility of phrase, too,\nastonished him; how could people find so much to say about one\ngirl? To be sure, a good deal of it sounded far-fetched to him,\nbut he sadly admitted that in such matters he was no judge. When\nthey went back to the living room Julius began to pick out airs\non his guitar, and the bearded brother sat down to read. Otto,\nthe youngest, seeing a group of students passing the house, ran\nout on to the lawn and called them in,--two boys, and a girl\nwith red cheeks and a fur stole. Claude had made for a corner,\nand was perfectly content to be an on-looker, but Mrs. Erlich\nsoon came and seated herself beside him. When the doors into the\nparlour were opened, she noticed his eyes straying to an\nengraving of Napoleon which hung over the piano, and made him go\nand look at it. She told him it was a rare engraving, and she\nshowed him a portrait of her great-grandfather, who was an\nofficer in Napoleon's army. To explain how this came about was a\nlong story.\n\nAs she talked to Claude, Mrs. Erlich discovered that his eyes\nwere not really pale, but only looked so because of his light\nlashes. They could say a great deal when they looked squarely\ninto hers, and she liked what they said. She soon found out that\nhe was discontented; how he hated the Temple school, and why his\nmother wished him to go there.\n\nWhen the three who had been called in from the sidewalk took\ntheir leave, Claude rose also. They were evidently familiars of\nthe house, and their careless exit, with a gay \"Good-night,\neverybody!\" gave him no practical suggestion as to what he ought\nto say or how he was to get out. Julius made things more\ndifficult by telling him to sit down, as it wasn't time to go\nyet. But Mrs. Erlich said it was time; he would have a long ride\nout to Temple Place.\n\nIt was really very easy. She walked to the door with him and gave\nhim his hat, patting his arm in a final way. \"You will come often\nto see us. We are going to be friends.\" Her forehead, with its\nneat curtains of brown hair, came something below Claude's chin,\nand she peered up at him with that quaintly hopeful expression,\nas if--as if even he might turn out wonderfully well! Certainly,\nnobody had ever looked at him like that before.\n\n\"It's been lovely,\" he murmured to her, quite without\nembarrassment, and in happy unconsciousness he turned the knob\nand passed out through the glass door.\n\nWhile the freight train was puffing slowly across the winter\ncountry, leaving a black trail suspended in the still air, Claude\nwent over that experience minutely in his mind, as if he feared\nto lose something of it on approaching home. He could remember\nexactly how Mrs. Erlich and the boys had looked to him on that\nfirst night, could repeat almost word for word the conversation\nwhich had been so novel to him. Then he had supposed the Erlichs\nwere rich people, but he found out afterwards that they were\npoor. The father was dead, and all the boys had to work, even\nthose who were still in school. They merely knew how to live, he\ndiscovered, and spent their money on themselves, instead of on\nmachines to do the work and machines to entertain people.\nMachines, Claude decided, could not make pleasure, whatever else\nthey could do. They could not make agreeable people, either. In\nso far as he could see, the latter were made by judicious\nindulgence in almost everything he had been taught to shun.\n\nSince that first visit, he had gone to the Erlichs', not as often\nas he wished, certainly, but as often as he dared. Some of the\nUniversity boys seemed to drop in there whenever they felt like\nit, were almost members of the family; but they were better\nlooking than he, and better company. To be sure, long Baumgartner\nwas an intimate of the house, and he was a gawky boy with big red\nhands and patched shoes; but he could at least speak German to\nthe mother, and he played the piano, and seemed to know a great\ndeal about music.\n\nClaude didn't wish to be a bore. Sometimes in the evening, when\nhe left the Library to smoke a cigar, he walked slowly past the\nErlichs' house, looking at the lighted windows of the\nsitting-room and wondering what was going on inside. Before he\nwent there to call, he racked his brain for things to talk about.\nIf there had been a football game, or a good play at the theatre,\nthat helped, of course.\n\nAlmost without realizing what he was doing, he tried to think\nthings out and to justify his opinions to himself, so that he\nwould have something to say when the Erlich boys questioned him.\nHe had grown up with the conviction that it was beneath his\ndignity to explain himself, just as it was to dress carefully, or\nto be caught taking pains about anything. Ernest was the only\nperson he knew who tried to state clearly just why he believed\nthis or that; and people at home thought him very conceited and\nforeign. It wasn't American to explain yourself; you didn't have\nto! On the farm you said you would or you wouldn't; that\nRoosevelt was all right, or that he was crazy. You weren't\nsupposed to say more unless you were a stump speaker,--if you\ntried to say more, it was because you liked to hear yourself\ntalk. Since you never said anything, you didn't form the habit of\nthinking. If you got too much bored, you went to town and bought\nsomething new.\n\nBut all the people he met at the Erlichs' talked. If they asked\nhim about a play or a book and he said it was \"no good,\" they at\nonce demanded why. The Erlichs thought him a clam, but Claude\nsometimes thought himself amazing. Could it really be he, who was\nairing his opinions in this indelicate manner? He caught himself\nusing words that had never crossed his lips before, that in his\nmind were associated only with the printed page. When he suddenly\nrealized that he was using a word for the first time, and\nprobably mispronouncing it, he would become as much confused as\nif he were trying to pass a lead dollar, would blush and stammer\nand let some one finish his sentence for him.\n\nClaude couldn't resist occasionally dropping in at the Erlichs'\nin the afternoon; then the boys were away, and he could have Mrs.\nErlich to himself for half-an-hour. When she talked to him she\ntaught him so much about life. He loved to hear her sing\nsentimental German songs as she worked; \"Spinn, spinn, du Tochter\nmein.\" He didn't know why, but he simply adored it! Every time he\nwent away from her he felt happy and full of kindness, and\nthought about beech woods and walled towns, or about Carl Schurz\nand the Romantic revolution.\n\nHe had been to see Mrs. Erlich just before starting home for the\nholidays, and found her making German Christmas cakes. She took\nhim into the kitchen and explained the almost holy traditions\nthat governed this complicated cookery. Her excitement and\nseriousness as she beat and stirred were very pretty, Claude\nthought. She told off on her fingers the many ingredients, but he\nbelieved there were things she did not name: the fragrance of old\nfriendships, the glow of early memories, belief in wonder-working\nrhymes and songs. Surely these were fine things to put into\nlittle cakes! After Claude left her, he did something a Wheeler\ndidn't do; he went down to O street and sent her a box of the\nreddest roses he could find. In his pocket was the little note\nshe had written to thank him.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nIt was beginning to grow dark when Claude reached the farm. While\nRalph stopped to put away the car, he walked on alone to the\nhouse. He never came back without emotion,--try as he would to\npass lightly over these departures and returns which were all in\nthe day's work. When he came up the hill like this, toward the\ntall house with its lighted windows, something always clutched at\nhis heart. He both loved and hated to come home. He was always\ndisappointed, and yet he always felt the rightness of returning\nto his own place. Even when it broke his spirit and humbled his\npride, he felt it was right that he should be thus humbled. He\ndidn't question that the lowest state of mind was the truest, and\nthat the less a man thought of himself, the more likely he was to\nbe correct in his estimate.\n\nApproaching the door, Claude stopped a moment and peered in at\nthe kitchen window. The table was set for supper, and Mahailey\nwas at the stove, stirring something in a big iron pot; cornmeal\nmush, probably,--she often made it for herself now that her teeth\nhad begun to fail. She stood leaning over, embracing the pot with\none arm, and with the other she beat the stiff contents, nodding\nher head in time to this rotary movement. Confused emotions\nsurged up in Claude. He went in quickly and gave her a bearish\nhug.\n\nHer face wrinkled up in the foolish grin he knew so well. \"Lord,\nhow you scared me, Mr. Claude! A little more'n I'd 'a' had my\nmush all over the floor. You lookin' fine, you nice boy, you!\"\n\nHe knew Mahailey was gladder to see him come home than any one\nexcept his mother. Hearing Mrs. Wheeler's wandering, uncertain\nsteps in the enclosed stairway, he opened the door and ran\nhalfway up to meet her, putting his arm about her with the almost\npainful tenderness he always felt, but seldom was at liberty to\nshow. She reached up both hands and stroked his hair for a\nmoment, laughing as one does to a little boy, and telling him she\nbelieved it was redder every time he came back.\n\n\"Have we got all the corn in, Mother?\"\n\n\"No, Claude, we haven't. You know we're always behindhand. It's\nbeen fine, open weather for husking, too. But at least we've got\nrid of that miserable Jerry; so there's something to be thankful\nfor. He had one of his fits of temper in town one day, when he\nwas hitching up to come home, and Leonard Dawson saw him beat one\nof our horses with the neck-yoke. Leonard told your father, and\nspoke his mind, and your father discharged Jerry. If you or Ralph\nhad told him, he most likely wouldn't have done anything about\nit. But I guess all fathers are the same.\" She chuckled\nconfidingly, leaning on Claude's arm as they descended the\nstairs.\n\n\"I guess so. Did he hurt the horse much? Which one was it?\"\n\n\"The little black, Pompey. I believe he is rather a mean horse.\nThe men said one of the bones over the eye was broken, but he\nwould probably come round all right.\"\n\n\"Pompey isn't mean; he's nervous. All the horses hated Jerry, and\nthey had good reason to.\" Claude jerked his shoulders to shake\noff disgusting recollections of this mongrel man which flashed\nback into his mind. He had seen things happen in the barn that\nhe positively couldn't tell his father. Mr. Wheeler came into the\nkitchen and stopped on his way upstairs long enough to say,\n\"Hello, Claude. You look pretty well.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. I'm all right, thank you.\"\n\n\"Bayliss tells me you've been playing football a good deal.\"\n\n\"Not more than usual. We played half a dozen games; generally got\nlicked. The State has a fine team, though.\"\n\n\"I ex-pect,\" Mr. Wheeler drawled as he strode upstairs.\n\nSupper went as usual. Dan kept grinning and blinking at Claude,\ntrying to discover whether he had already been informed of\nJerry's fate. Ralph told him the neighbourhood gossip: Gus\nYoeder, their German neighbour, was bringing suit against a\nfarmer who had shot his dog. Leonard Dawson was going to marry\nSusie Grey. She was the girl on whose account Leonard had slapped\nBayliss, Claude remembered.\n\nAfter supper Ralph and Mr. Wheeler went off in the car to a\nChristmas entertainment at the country schoolhouse. Claude and\nhis mother sat down for a quiet talk by the hard-coal burner in\nthe living room upstairs. Claude liked this room, especially when\nhis father was not there. The old carpet, the faded chairs, the\nsecretary book-case, the spotty engraving with all the scenes\nfrom Pilgrim's Progress that hung over the sofa,--these things\nmade him feel at home. Ralph was always proposing to re-furnish\nthe room in Mission oak, but so far Claude and his mother had\nsaved it.\n\nClaude drew up his favourite chair and began to tell Mrs. Wheeler\nabout the Erlich boys and their mother. She listened, but he\ncould see that she was much more interested in hearing about the\nChapins, and whether Edward's throat had improved, and where he\nhad preached this fall. That was one of the disappointing things\nabout coming home; he could never interest his mother in new\nthings or people unless they in some way had to do with the\nchurch. He knew, too, she was always hoping to hear that he at\nlast felt the need of coming closer to the church. She did not\nharass him about these things, but she had told him once or twice\nthat nothing could happen in the world which would give her so\nmuch pleasure as to see him reconciled to Christ. He realized, as\nhe talked to her about the Erlichs, that she was wondering\nwhether they weren't very \"worldly\" people, and was apprehensive\nabout their influence on him. The evening was rather a failure,\nand he went to bed early.\n\nClaude had gone through a painful time of doubt and fear when he\nthought a great deal about religion. For several years, from\nfourteen to eighteen, he believed that he would be lost if he did\nnot repent and undergo that mysterious change called conversion.\nBut there was something stubborn in him that would not let him\navail himself of the pardon offered. He felt condemned, but he\ndid not want to renounce a world he as yet knew nothing of. He\nwould like to go into life with all his vigour, with all his\nfaculties free. He didn't want to be like the young men who said\nin prayer-meeting that they leaned on their Saviour. He hated\ntheir way of meekly accepting permitted pleasures.\n\nIn those days Claude had a sharp physical fear of death. A\nfuneral, the sight of a neighbour lying rigid in his black\ncoffin, overwhelmed him with terror. He used to lie awake in the\ndark, plotting against death, trying to devise some plan of\nescaping it, angrily wishing he had never been born. Was there no\nway out of the world but this? When he thought of the millions of\nlonely creatures rotting away under ground, life seemed nothing\nbut a trap that caught people for one horrible end. There had\nnever been a man so strong or so good that he had escaped. And\nyet he sometimes felt sure that he, Claude Wheeler, would escape;\nthat he would actually invent some clever shift to save himself\nfrom dissolution. When he found it, he would tell nobody; he\nwould be crafty and secret. Putrefaction, decay.... He could\nnot give his pleasant, warm body over to that filthiness! What\ndid it mean, that verse in the Bible, \"He shall not suffer His\nholy one to see corruption\"?\n\nIf anything could cure an intelligent boy of morbid religious\nfears, it was a denominational school like that to which Claude\nhad been sent. Now he dismissed all Christian theology as\nsomething too full of evasions and sophistries to be reasoned\nabout. The men who made it, he felt sure, were like the men who\ntaught it. The noblest could be damned, according to their\ntheory, while almost any mean-spirited parasite could be saved by\nfaith. \"Faith,\" as he saw it exemplified in the faculty of the\nTemple school, was a substitute for most of the manly qualities\nhe admired. Young men went into the ministry because they were\ntimid or lazy and wanted society to take care of them; because\nthey wanted to be pampered by kind, trusting women like his\nmother.\n\nThough he wanted little to do with theology and theologians,\nClaude would have said that he was a Christian. He believed in\nGod, and in the spirit of the four Gospels, and in the Sermon on\nthe Mount. He used to halt and stumble at \"Blessed are the meek,\"\nuntil one day he happened to think that this verse was meant\nexactly for people like Mahailey; and surely she was blessed!\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nOn the Sunday after Christmas Claude and Ernest were walking\nalong the banks of Lovely Creek. They had been as far as Mr.\nWheeler's timber claim and back. It was like an autumn afternoon,\nso warm that they left their overcoats on the limb of a crooked\nelm by the pasture fence. The fields and the bare tree-tops\nseemed to be swimming in light. A few brown leaves still clung to\nthe bushy trees along the creek. In the upper pasture, more than\na mile from the house, the boys found a bittersweet vine that\nwound about a little dogwood and covered it with scarlet berries.\nIt was like finding a Christmas tree growing wild out of doors.\nThey had just been talking about some of the books Claude had\nbrought home, and his history course. He was not able to tell\nErnest as much about the lectures as he had meant to, and he felt\nthat this was more Ernest's fault than his own; Ernest was such a\nliteral-minded fellow. When they came upon the bittersweet, they\nforgot their discussion and scrambled down the bank to admire the\nred clusters on the woody, smoke-coloured vine, and its pale gold\nleaves, ready to fall at a touch. The vine and the little tree it\nhonoured, hidden away in the cleft of a ravine, had escaped the\nstripping winds, and the eyes of schoolchildren who sometimes\ntook a short cut home through the pasture. At its roots, the\ncreek trickled thinly along, black between two jagged crusts of\nmelting ice.\n\nWhen they left the spot and climbed back to the level, Claude\nagain felt an itching to prod Ernest out of his mild and\nreasonable mood.\n\n\"What are you going to do after a while, Ernest? Do you mean to\nfarm all your life?\"\n\n\"Naturally. If I were going to learn a trade, I'd be at it before\nnow. What makes you ask that?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know! I suppose people must think about the future\nsometime. And you're so practical.\"\n\n\"The future, eh?\" Ernest shut one eye and smiled. \"That's a big\nword. After I get a place of my own and have a good start, I'm\ngoing home to see my old folks some winter. Maybe I'll marry a\nnice girl and bring her back.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"That's enough, if it turns out right, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. It wouldn't be for me. I don't believe I can ever\nsettle down to anything. Don't you feel that at this rate there\nisn't much in it?\"\n\n\"In what?\"\n\n\"In living at all, going on as we do. What do we get out of it?\nTake a day like this: you waken up in the morning and you're glad\nto be alive; it's a good enough day for anything, and you feel\nsure something will happen. Well, whether it's a workday or a\nholiday, it's all the same in the end. At night you go to\nbed--nothing has happened.\"\n\n\"But what do you expect? What can happen to you, except in your\nown mind? If I get through my work, and get an afternoon off to\nsee my friends like this, it's enough for me.\"\n\n\"Is it? Well, if we've only got once to live, it seems like there\nought to be something--well, something splendid about life,\nsometimes.\"\n\nErnest was sympathetic now. He drew nearer to Claude as they\nwalked along and looked at him sidewise with concern. \"You\nAmericans are always looking for something outside yourselves to\nwarm you up, and it is no way to do. In old countries, where not\nvery much can happen to us, we know that,--and we learn to make\nthe most of little things.\"\n\n\"The martyrs must have found something outside themselves.\nOtherwise they could have made themselves comfortable with little\nthings.\"\n\n\"Why, I should say they were the ones who had nothing but their\nidea! It would be ridiculous to get burned at the stake for the\nsensation. Sometimes I think the martyrs had a good deal of\nvanity to help them along, too.\"\n\nClaude thought Ernest had never been so tiresome. He squinted at\na bright object across the fields and said cuttingly, \"The fact\nis, Ernest, you think a man ought to be satisfied with his board\nand clothes and Sundays off, don't you?\"\n\nErnest laughed rather mournfully. \"It doesn't matter much what I\nthink about it; things are as they are. Nothing is going to reach\ndown from the sky and pick a man up, I guess.\"\n\nClaude muttered something to himself, twisting his chin about\nover his collar as if he had a bridle-bit in his mouth.\n\nThe sun had dropped low, and the two boys, as Mrs. Wheeler\nwatched them from the kitchen window, seemed to be walking beside\na prairie fire. She smiled as she saw their black figures moving\nalong on the crest of the hill against the golden sky; even at\nthat distance the one looked so adaptable, and the other so\nunyielding. They were arguing, probably, and probably Claude was\non the wrong side.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nAfter the vacation Claude again settled down to his reading in\nthe University Library. He worked at a table next the alcove\nwhere the books on painting and sculpture were kept. The art\nstudents, all of whom were girls, read and whispered together in\nthis enclosure, and he could enjoy their company without having\nto talk to them. They were lively and friendly; they often asked\nhim to lift heavy books and portfolios from the shelves, and\ngreeted him gaily when he met them in the street or on the\ncampus, and talked to him with the easy cordiality usual between\nboys and girls in a co-educational school. One of these girls,\nMiss Peachy Millmore, was different from the others,--different\nfrom any girl Claude had ever known. She came from Georgia, and\nwas spending the winter with her aunt on B street.\n\nAlthough she was short and plump, Miss Millmore moved with what\nmight be called a \"carriage,\" and she had altogether more manner\nand more reserve than the Western girls. Her hair was yellow and\ncurly,--the short ringlets about her ears were just the colour of\na new chicken. Her vivid blue eyes were a trifle too prominent,\nand a generous blush of colour mantled her cheeks. It seemed to\npulsate there,-one had a desire to touch her cheeks to see if\nthey were hot. The Erlich brothers and their friends called her\n\"the Georgia peach.\" She was considered very pretty, and the\nUniversity boys had rushed her when she first came to town. Since\nthen her vogue had somewhat declined.\n\nMiss Millmore often lingered about the campus to walk down town\nwith Claude. However he tried to adapt his long stride to her\ntripping gait, she was sure to get out of breath. She was always\ndropping her gloves or her sketchbook or her purse, and he liked\nto pick them up for her, and to pull on her rubbers, which kept\nslipping off at the heel. She was very kind to single him out and\nbe so gracious to him, he thought. She even coaxed him to pose in\nhis track clothes for the life class on Saturday morning, telling\nhim that he had \"a magnificent physique,\" a compliment which\ncovered him with confusion. But he posed, of course.\n\nClaude looked forward to seeing Peachy Millmore, missed her if\nshe were not in the alcove, found it quite natural that she\nshould explain her absences to him,--tell him how often she\nwashed her hair and how long it was when she uncoiled it.\n\nOne Friday in February Julius Erlich overtook Claude on the\ncampus and proposed that they should try the skating tomorrow.\n\n\"Yes, I'm going out,\" Claude replied. \"I've promised to teach\nMiss Millmore to skate. Won't you come along and help me?\"\n\nJulius laughed indulgently. \"Oh, no! Some other time. I don't\nwant to break in on that.\"\n\n\"Nonsense! You could teach her better than I.\"\n\n\"Oh, I haven't the courage!\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"You know what I mean.\"\n\n\"No, I don't. Why do you always laugh about that girl, anyhow?\"\n\nJulius made a little grimace. \"She wrote some awfully slushy\nletters to Phil Bowen, and he read them aloud at the frat house\none night.\"\n\n\"Didn't you slap him?\" Claude demanded, turning red.\n\n\"Well, I would have thought I would,\" said Julius smiling, \"but I\ndidn't. They were too silly to make a fuss about. I've been wary\nof the Georgia peach ever since. If you touched that sort of\npeach ever so lightly, it might remain in your hand.\"\n\n\"I don't think so,\" replied Claude haughtily. \"She's only\nkind-hearted.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you're right. But I'm terribly afraid of girls who are\ntoo kindhearted,\" Julius confessed. He had wanted to drop Claude\na word of warning for some time.\n\nClaude kept his engagement with Miss Millmore. He took her out to\nthe skating pond several times, indeed, though in the beginning\nhe told her he feared her ankles were too weak. Their last\nexcursion was made by moonlight, and after that evening Claude\navoided Miss Millmore when he could do so without being rude. She\nwas attractive to him no more. It was her way to subdue by\nclinging contact. One could scarcely call it design; it was a\ndegree less subtle than that. She had already thus subdued a pale\ncousin in Atlanta, and it was on this account that she had been\nsent North. She had, Claude angrily admitted, no reserve,--though\nwhen one first met her she seemed to have so much. Her eager\nsusceptibility presented not the slightest temptation to him. He\nwas a boy with strong impulses, and he detested the idea of\ntrifling with them. The talk of the disreputable men his father\nkept about the place at home, instead of corrupting him, had\ngiven him a sharp disgust for sensuality. He had an almost\nHippolytean pride in candour.\n\n\n\nX\n\nThe Erlich family loved anniversaries, birthdays, occasions. That\nspring Mrs. Erlich's first cousin, Wilhelmina Schroeder-Schatz,\nwho sang with the Chicago Opera Company, came to Lincoln as\nsoloist for the May Festival. As the date of her engagement\napproached, her relatives began planning to entertain her. The\nMatinee Musical was to give a formal reception for the singer, so\nthe Erlichs decided upon a dinner. Each member of the family\ninvited one guest, and they had great difficulty in deciding\nwhich of their friends would be most appreciative of the honour.\nThere were to be more men than women, because Mrs. Erlich\nremembered that cousin Wilhelmina had never been partial to the\nsociety of her own sex.\n\nOne evening when her sons were revising their list, Mrs. Erlich\nreminded them that she had not as yet named her guest. \"For me,\"\nshe said with decision, \"you may put down Claude Wheeler.\"\n\nThis announcement was met with groans and laughter.\n\n\"You don't mean it, Mother,\" the oldest son protested. \"Poor old\nClaude wouldn't know what it was all about,--and one stick can\nspoil a dinner party.\"\n\nMrs. Erlich shook her finger at him with conviction. \"You will\nsee; your cousin Wilhelmina will be more interested in that boy\nthan in any of the others!\"\n\nJulius thought if she were not too strongly opposed she might\nstill yield her point. \"For one thing, Mother, Claude hasn't any\ndinner clothes,\" he murmured. She nodded to him. \"That has been\nattended to, Herr Julius. He is having some made. When I sounded\nhim, he told me he could easily afford it.\"\n\nThe boys said if things had gone as far as that, they supposed\nthey would have to make the best of it, and the eldest wrote down\n\"Claude Wheeler\" with a flourish.\n\nIf the Erlich boys were apprehensive, their anxiety was nothing\nto Claude's. He was to take Mrs. Erlich to Madame\nSchroeder-Schatz's recital, and on the evening of the concert,\nwhen he appeared at the door, the boys dragged him in to look him\nover. Otto turned on all the lights, and Mrs. Erlich, in her new\nblack lace over white satin, fluttered into the parlour to see\nwhat figure her escort cut.\n\nClaude pulled off his overcoat as he was bid, and presented\nhimself in the sooty blackness of fresh broadcloth. Mrs. Erlich's\neyes swept his long black legs, his smooth shoulders, and lastly\nhis square red head, affectionately inclined toward her. She\nlaughed and clapped her hands.\n\n\"Now all the girls will turn round in their seats to look, and\nwonder where I got him!\"\n\nClaude began to bestow her belongings in his overcoat pockets;\nopera glasses in one, fan in another. She put a lorgnette into\nher little bag, along with her powder-box, handkerchief and\nsmelling salts,--there was even a little silver box of peppermint\ndrops, in case she might begin to cough. She drew on her long\ngloves, arranged a lace scarf over her hair, and at last was\nready to have the evening cloak which Claude held wound about\nher. When she reached up and took his arm, bowing to her sons,\nthey laughed and liked Claude better. His steady, protecting air\nwas a frame for the gay little picture she made.\n\nThe dinner party came off the next evening. The guest of honour,\nMadame Wilhelmina Schroeder-Schatz, was some years younger than\nher cousin, Augusta Erlich. She was short, stalwart, with an\nenormous chest, a fine head, and a commanding presence. Her great\ncontralto voice, which she used without much discretion, was a\nreally superb organ and gave people a pleasure as substantial as\nfood and drink. At dinner she sat on the right of the oldest son.\nClaude, beside Mrs. Erlich at the other end of the table, watched\nattentively the lady attired in green velvet and blazing\nrhinestones.\n\nAfter dinner, as Madame Schroeder-Schatz swept out of the dining\nroom, she dropped her cousin's arm and stopped before Claude, who\nstood at attention behind his chair.\n\n\"If Cousin Augusta can spare you, we must have a little talk\ntogether. We have been very far separated,\" she said.\n\nShe led Claude to one of the window seats in the living-room, at\nonce complained of a draft, and sent him to hunt for her green\nscarf. He brought it and carefully put it about her shoulders;\nbut after a few moments, she threw it off with a slightly annoyed\nair, as if she had never wanted it. Claude with solicitude\nreminded her about the draft.\n\n\"Draft?\" she said lifting her chin, \"there is no draft here.\"\n\nShe asked Claude where he lived, how much land his father owned,\nwhat crops they raised, and about their poultry and dairy. When\nshe was a child she had lived on a farm in Bavaria, and she\nseemed to know a good deal about farming and live-stock. She was\ndisapproving when Claude told her they rented half their land to\nother farmers. \"If I were a young man, I would begin to acquire\nland, and I would not stop until I had a whole county,\" she\ndeclared. She said that when she met new people, she liked to\nfind out the way they made their living; her own way was a hard\none.\n\nLater in the evening Madame Schroeder-Schatz graciously consented\nto sing for her cousins. When she sat down to the piano, she\nbeckoned Claude and asked him to turn for her. He shook his head,\nsmiling ruefully.\n\n\"I'm sorry I'm so stupid, but I don't know one note from\nanother.\"\n\nShe tapped his sleeve. \"Well, never mind. I may want the piano\nmoved yet; you could do that for me, eh?\"\n\nWhen Madame Schroeder-Schatz was in Mrs. Erlich's bedroom,\npowdering her nose before she put on her wraps, she remarked,\n\"What a pity, Augusta, that you have not a daughter now, to marry\nto Claude Melnotte. He would make you a perfect son-in-law.\"\n\n\"Ah, if I only had!\" sighed Mrs. Erlich.\n\n\"Or,\" continued Madame Schroeder-Schatz, energetically pulling on\nher large carriage shoes, \"if you were but a few years younger,\nit might not yet be too late. Oh, don't be a fool, Augusta! Such\nthings have happened, and will happen again. However, better a\nwidow than to be tied to a sick man--like a stone about my neck!\nWhat a husband to go home to! and I a woman in full vigour. Jas\nist ein Kreuz ich trage!\" She smote her bosom, on the left side.\n\nHaving put on first a velvet coat, then a fur mantle, Madame\nSchroeder-Schatz moved like a galleon out into the living room and\nkissed all her cousins, and Claude Wheeler, good-night.\n\n\n\nXI\n\nOne warm afternoon in May Claude sat in his upstairs room at the\nChapins', copying his thesis, which was to take the place of an\nexamination in history. It was a criticism of the testimony of\nJeanne d'Arc in her nine private examinations and the trial in\nordinary. The Professor had assigned him the subject with a flash\nof humour. Although this evidence had been pawed over by so many\nhands since the fifteenth century, by the phlegmatic and the\nfiery, by rhapsodists and cynics, he felt sure that Wheeler would\nnot dismiss the case lightly.\n\nIndeed, Claude put a great deal of time and thought upon the\nmatter, and for the time being it seemed quite the most important\nthing in his life. He worked from an English translation of the\nProces, but he kept the French text at his elbow, and some of her\nreplies haunted him in the language in which they were spoken. It\nseemed to him that they were like the speech of her saints, of\nwhom Jeanne said, \"the voice is beautiful, sweet and low, and it\nspeaks in the French tongue.\" Claude flattered himself that he\nhad kept all personal feeling out of the paper; that it was a\ncold estimate of the girl's motives and character as indicated by\nthe consistency and inconsistency of her replies; and of the\nchange wrought in her by imprisonment and by \"the fear of the\nfire.\"\n\nWhen he had copied the last page of his manuscript and sat\ncontemplating the pile of written sheets, he felt that after all\nhis conscientious study he really knew very little more about\nthe Maid of Orleans than when he first heard of her from his\nmother, one day when he was a little boy. He had been shut up in\nthe house with a cold, he remembered, and he found a picture of\nher in armour, in an old book, and took it down to the kitchen\nwhere his mother was making apple pies. She glanced at the\npicture, and while she went on rolling out the dough and fitting\nit to the pans, she told him the story. He had forgotten what she\nsaid,--it must have been very fragmentary,--but from that time on\nhe knew the essential facts about Joan of Arc, and she was a\nliving figure in his mind. She seemed to him then as clear as\nnow, and now as miraculous as then.\n\nIt was a curious thing, he reflected, that a character could\nperpetuate itself thus; by a picture, a word, a phrase, it could\nrenew itself in every generation and be born over and over again\nin the minds of children. At that time he had never seen a map of\nFrance, and had a very poor opinion of any place farther away\nthan Chicago; yet he was perfectly prepared for the legend of\nJoan of Arc, and often thought about her when he was bringing in\nhis cobs in the evening, or when he was sent to the windmill for\nwater and stood shaking in the cold while the chilled pump\nbrought it slowly up. He pictured her then very much as he did\nnow; about her figure there gathered a luminous cloud, like dust,\nwith soldiers in it... the banner with lilies... a great\nchurch... cities with walls.\n\nOn this balmy spring afternoon, Claude felt softened and\nreconciled to the world. Like Gibbon, he was sorry to have\nfinished his labour,--and he could not see anything else as\ninteresting ahead. He must soon be going home now. There would be\na few examinations to sit through at the Temple, a few more\nevenings with the Erlichs, trips to the Library to carry back the\nbooks he had been using,--and then he would suddenly find himself\nwith nothing to do but take the train for Frankfort.\n\nHe rose with a sigh and began to fasten his history papers\nbetween covers. Glancing out of the window, he decided that he\nwould walk into town and carry his thesis, which was due today;\nthe weather was too fine to sit bumping in a street car. The\ntruth was, he wished to prolong his relations with his manuscript\nas far as possible.\n\nHe struck off by the road,--it could scarcely be called a street,\nsince it ran across raw prairie land where the buffalo-peas were\nin blossom. Claude walked slower than was his custom, his straw\nhat pushed back on his head and the blaze of the sun full in his\nface. His body felt light in the scented wind, and he listened\ndrowsily to the larks, singing on dried weeds and sunflower\nstalks. At this season their song is almost painful to hear, it\nis so sweet. He sometimes thought of this walk long afterward; it\nwas memorable to him, though he could not say why.\n\nOn reaching the University, he went directly to the Department of\nEuropean History, where he was to leave his thesis on a long\ntable, with a pile of others. He rather dreaded this, and was\nglad when, just as he entered, the Professor came out from his\nprivate office and took the bound manuscript into his own hands,\nnodding cordially.\n\n\"Your thesis? Oh yes, Jeanne d'Arc. The Proces. I had forgotten.\nInteresting material, isn't it?\" He opened the cover and ran over\nthe pages. \"I suppose you acquitted her on the evidence?\"\n\nClaude blushed. \"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Well, now you might read what Michelet has to say about her.\nThere's an old translation in the Library. Did you enjoy working\non it?\"\n\n\"I did, very much.\" Claude wished to heaven he could think of\nsomething to say.\n\n\"You've got a good deal out of your course, altogether, haven't\nyou? I'll be interested to see what you do next year. Your work\nhas been very satisfactory to me.\" The Professor went back into\nhis study, and Claude was pleased to see that he carried the\nmanuscript with him and did not leave it on the table with the\nothers.\n\n\n\nXII\n\nBetween haying and harvest that summer Ralph and Mr. Wheeler\ndrove to Denver in the big car, leaving Claude and Dan to\ncultivate the corn. When they returned Mr. Wheeler announced that\nhe had a secret. After several days of reticence, during which he\nshut himself up in the sitting-room writing letters, and passed\nmysterious words and winks with Ralph at table, he disclosed a\nproject which swept away all Claude's plans and purposes.\n\nOn the return trip from Denver Mr. Wheeler had made a detour down\ninto Yucca county, Colorado, to visit an old friend who was in\ndifficulties. Tom Wested was a Maine man, from Wheeler's own\nneighbourhood. Several years ago he had lost his wife. Now his\nhealth had broken down, and the Denver doctors said he must\nretire from business and get into a low altitude. He wanted to go\nback to Maine and live among his own people, but was too much\ndiscouraged and frightened about his condition even to undertake\nthe sale of his ranch and live stock. Mr. Wheeler had been able\nto help his friend, and at the same time did a good stroke of\nbusiness for himself. He owned a farm in Maine, his share of his\nfather's estate, which for years he had rented for little more\nthan the up-keep. By making over this property, and assuming\ncertain mortgages, he got Wested's fine, well-watered ranch in\nexchange. He paid him a good price for his cattle, and promised\nto take the sick man back to Maine and see him comfortably\nsettled there. All this Mr. Wheeler explained to his family when\nhe called them up to the living room one hot, breathless night\nafter supper. Mrs. Wheeler, who seldom concerned herself with her\nhusband's business affairs, asked absently why they bought more\nland, when they already had so much they could not farm half of\nit.\n\n\"Just like a woman, Evangeline, just like a woman!\" Mr. Wheeler\nreplied indulgently. He was sitting in the full glare of the\nacetylene lamp, his neckband open, his collar and tie on the\ntable beside him, fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan. \"You\nmight as well ask me why I want to make more money, when I\nhaven't spent all I've got.\"\n\nHe intended, he said, to put Ralph on the Colorado ranch and\n\"give the boy some responsibility.\" Ralph would have the help of\nWested's foreman, an old hand in the cattle business, who had\nagreed to stay on under the new management. Mr. Wheeler assured\nhis wife that he wasn't taking advantage of poor Wested; the\ntimber on the Maine place was really worth a good deal of money;\nbut because his father had always been so proud of his great pine\nwoods, he had never, he said, just felt like turning a sawmill\nloose in them. Now he was trading a pleasant old farm that didn't\nbring in anything for a grama-grass ranch which ought to turn\nover a profit of ten or twelve thousand dollars in good cattle\nyears, and wouldn't lose much in bad ones. He expected to spend\nabout half his time out there with Ralph. \"When I'm away,\" he\nremarked genially, \"you and Mahailey won't have so much to do.\nYou can devote yourselves to embroidery, so to speak.\"\n\n\"If Ralph is to live in Colorado, and you are to be away from\nhome half of the time, I don't see what is to become of this\nplace,\" murmured Mrs. Wheeler, still in the dark.\n\n\"Not necessary for you to see, Evangeline,\" her husband replied,\nstretching his big frame until the rocking chair creaked under\nhim. \"It will be Claude's business to look after that.\"\n\n\"Claude?\" Mrs. Wheeler brushed a lock of hair back from her damp\nforehead in vague alarm.\n\n\"Of course.\" He looked with twinkling eyes at his son's straight,\nsilent figure in the corner. \"You've had about enough theology, I\npresume? No ambition to be a preacher? This winter I mean to turn\nthe farm over to you and give you a chance to straighten things\nout. You've been dissatisfied with the way the place is run for\nsome time, haven't you? Go ahead and put new blood into it. New\nideas, if you want to; I've no objection. They're expensive, but\nlet it go. You can fire Dan if you want, and get what help you\nneed.\"\n\nClaude felt as if a trap had been sprung on him. He shaded his\neyes with his hand. \"I don't think I'm competent to run the place\nright,\" he said unsteadily.\n\n\"Well, you don't think I am either, Claude, so we're up against\nit. It's always been my notion that the land was made for man,\njust as it's old Dawson's that man was created to work the land.\nI don't mind your siding with the Dawsons in this difference of\nopinion, if you can get their results.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler rose and slipped quickly from the room, feeling her\nway down the dark staircase to the kitchen. It was dusky and\nquiet there. Mahailey sat in a corner, hemming dish-towels by the\nlight of a smoky old brass lamp which was her own cherished\nluminary. Mrs. Wheeler walked up and down the long room in soft,\nsilent agitation, both hands pressed tightly to her breast, where\nthere was a physical ache of sympathy for Claude.\n\nShe remembered kind Tom Wested. He had stayed over night with\nthem several times, and had come to them for consolation after\nhis wife died. It seemed to her that his decline in health and\nloss of courage, Mr. Wheeler's fortuitous trip to Denver, the old\npine-wood farm in Maine; were all things that fitted together and\nmade a net to envelop her unfortunate son. She knew that he had\nbeen waiting impatiently for the autumn, and that for the first\ntime he looked forward eagerly to going back to school. He was\nhomesick for his friends, the Erlichs, and his mind was all the\ntime upon the history course he meant to take.\n\nYet all this would weigh nothing in the family councils probably\nhe would not even speak of it--and he had not one substantial\nobjection to offer to his father's wishes. His disappointment\nwould be bitter. \"Why, it will almost break his heart,\" she\nmurmured aloud. Mahailey was a little deaf and heard nothing. She\nsat holding her work up to the light, driving her needle with a\nbig brass thimble, nodding with sleepiness between stitches.\nThough Mrs. Wheeler was scarcely conscious of it, the old woman's\npresence was a comfort to her, as she walked up and down with her\ndrifting, uncertain step.\n\nShe had left the sitting-room because she was afraid Claude might\nget angry and say something hard to his father, and because she\ncouldn't bear to see him hectored. Claude had always found life\nhard to live; he suffered so much over little things,-and she\nsuffered with him. For herself, she never felt disappointments.\nHer husband's careless decisions did not disconcert her. If he\ndeclared that he would not plant a garden at all this year, she\nmade no protest. It was Mahailey who grumbled. If he felt like\neating roast beef and went out and killed a steer, she did the\nbest she could to take care of the meat, and if some of it\nspoiled she tried not to worry. When she was not lost in\nreligious meditation, she was likely to be thinking about some\none of the old books she read over and over. Her personal life\nwas so far removed from the scene of her daily activities that\nrash and violent men could not break in upon it. But where Claude\nwas concerned, she lived on another plane, dropped into the lower\nair, tainted with human breath and pulsating with poor, blind,\npassionate human feelings.\n\nIt had always been so. And now, as she grew older, and her flesh\nhad almost ceased to be concerned with pain or pleasure, like the\nwasted wax images in old churches, it still vibrated with his\nfeelings and became quick again for him. His chagrins shrivelled\nher. When he was hurt and suffered silently, something ached in\nher. On the other hand, when he was happy, a wave of physical\ncontentment went through her. If she wakened in the night and\nhappened to think that he had been happy lately, she would lie\nsoftly and gratefully in her warm place.\n\n\"Rest, rest, perturbed spirit,\" she sometimes whispered to him in\nher mind, when she wakened thus and thought of him. There was a\nsingular light in his eyes when he smiled at her on one of his\ngood days, as if to tell her that all was well in his inner\nkingdom. She had seen that same look again and again, and she\ncould always remember it in the dark,--a quick blue flash, tender\nand a little wild, as if he had seen a vision or glimpsed bright\nuncertainties.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nThe next few weeks were busy ones on the farm. Before the wheat\nharvest was over, Nat Wheeler packed his leather trunk, put on\nhis \"store clothes,\" and set off to take Tom Welted back to\nMaine. During his absence Ralph began to outfit for life in Yucca\ncounty. Ralph liked being a great man with the Frankfort\nmerchants, and he had never before had such an opportunity as\nthis. He bought a new shot gun, saddles, bridles, boots, long and\nshort storm coats, a set of furniture for his own room, a\nfireless cooker, another music machine, and had them shipped to\nColorado. His mother, who did not like phonograph music, and\ndetested phonograph monologues, begged him to take the machine at\nhome, but he assured her that she would be dull without it on\nwinter evenings. He wanted one of the latest make, put out under\nthe name of a great American inventor.\n\nSome of the ranches near Wested's were owned by New York men who\nbrought their families out there in the summer. Ralph had heard\nabout the dances they gave, and he way counting on being one of\nthe guests. He asked Claude to give him his dress suit, since\nClaude wouldn't be needing it any more.\n\n\"You can have it if you want it,\" said Claude indifferently \"But\nit won't fit you.\"\n\n\"I'll take it in to Fritz and have the pants cut off a little and\nthe shoulders taken in,\" his brother replied lightly.\n\nClaude was impassive. \"Go ahead. But if that old Dutch man takes\na whack at it, it will look like the devil.\"\n\n\"I think I'll let him try. Father won't say anything about what\nI've ordered for the house, but he isn't much for glad rags, you\nknow.\" Without more ado he threw Claude's black clothes into the\nback seat of the Ford and ran into town to enlist the services of\nthe German tailor.\n\nMr. Wheeler, when he returned, thought Ralph had been rather free\nin expenditures, but Ralph told him it wouldn't do to take over\nthe new place too modestly. \"The ranchers out there are all\nhigh-fliers. If we go to squeezing nickels, they won't think we\nmean business.\"\n\nThe country neighbours, who were always amused at the Wheelers'\ndoings, got almost as much pleasure out of Ralph's lavishness as\nhe did himself. One said Ralph had shipped a new piano out to\nYucca county, another heard he had ordered a billiard table.\nAugust Yoeder, their prosperous German neighbour, asked grimly\nwhether he could, maybe, get a place as hired man with Ralph.\nLeonard Dawson, who was to be married in October, hailed Claude\nin town one day and shouted;\n\n\"My God, Claude, there's nothing left in the furniture store for\nme and Susie! Ralph's bought everything but the coffins. He must\nbe going to live like a prince out there.\"\n\n\"I don't know anything about it,\" Claude answered coolly. \"It's\nnot my enterprise.\"\n\n\"No, you've got to stay on the old place and make it pay the\ndebts, I understand.\" Leonard jumped into his car, so that Claude\nwouldn't have a chance to reply.\n\nMrs. Wheeler, too, when she observed the magnitude of these\npreparations, began to feel that the new arrangement was not fair\nto Claude, since he was the older boy and much the steadier.\nClaude had always worked hard when he was at home, and made a\ngood field hand, while Ralph had never done much but tinker with\nmachinery and run errands in his car. She couldn't understand why\nhe was selected to manage an undertaking in which so much money\nwas invested.\n\n\"Why, Claude,\" she said dreamily one day, \"if your father were an\nolder man, I would almost think his judgment had begun to fail.\nWon't we get dreadfully into debt at this rate?\"\n\n\"Don't say anything, Mother. It's Father's money. He shan't think\nI want any of it.\"\n\n\"I wish I could talk to Bayliss. Has he said anything?\"\n\n\"Not to me, he hasn't.\"\n\nRalph and Mr. Wheeler took another flying trip to Colorado, and\nwhen they came back Ralph began coaxing his mother to give him\nbedding and table linen. He said he wasn't going to live like a\nsavage, even in the sand hills. Mahailey was outraged to see the\nlinen she had washed and ironed and taken care of for so many\nyears packed into boxes. She was out of temper most of the time\nnow, and went about muttering to herself.\n\nThe only possessions Mahailey brought with her when she came to\nlive with the Wheelers, were a feather bed and three patchwork\nquilts, interlined with wool off the backs of Virginia sheep,\nwashed and carded by hand. The quilts had been made by her old\nmother, and given to her for a marriage portion. The patchwork on\neach was done in a different design; one was the popular\n\"log-cabin\" pattern, another the \"laurel-leaf,\" the third the\n\"blazing star.\" This quilt Mahailey thought too good for use, and\nshe had told Mrs. Wheeler that she was saving it \"to give Mr.\nClaude when he got married.\"\n\nShe slept on her feather bed in winter, and in summer she put it\naway in the attic. The attic was reached by a ladder which,\nbecause of her weak back, Mrs. Wheeler very seldom climbed. Up\nthere Mahailey had things her own way, and thither she often\nretired to air the bedding stored away there, or to look at the\npictures in the piles of old magazines. Ralph facetiously called\nthe attic \"Mahailey's library.\"\n\nOne day, while things were being packed for the western ranch,\nMrs. Wheeler, going to the foot of the ladder to call Mahailey,\nnarrowly escaped being knocked down by a large feather bed which\ncame plumping through the trap door. A moment later Mahailey\nherself descended backwards, holding to the rungs with one hand,\nand in the other arm carrying her quilts.\n\n\"Why, Mahailey,\" gasped Mrs. Wheeler. \"It's not winter yet;\nwhatever are you getting your bed for?\"\n\n\"I'm just a-goin' to lay on my fedder bed,\" she broke out, \"or\ndirec'ly I won't have none. I ain't a-goin' to have Mr. Ralph\ncarryin' off my quilts my mudder pieced fur me.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler tried to reason with her, but the old woman took up\nher bed in her arms and staggered down the hall with it,\nmuttering and tossing her head like a horse in fly-time.\n\nThat afternoon Ralph brought a barrel and a bundle of straw into\nthe kitchen and told Mahailey to carry up preserves and canned\nfruit, and he would pack them. She went obediently to the cellar,\nand Ralph took off his coat and began to line the barrel with\nstraw. He was some time in doing this, but still Mahailey had not\nreturned. He went to the head of the stairs and whistled.\n\n\"I'm a-comin', Mr. Ralph, I'm a-comin'! Don't hurry me, I don't\nwant to break nothin'.\"\n\nRalph waited a few minutes. \"What are you doing down there,\nMahailey?\" he fumed. \"I could have emptied the whole cellar by\nthis time. I suppose I'll have to do it myself.\"\n\n\"I'm a-comin'. You'd git yourself all dusty down here.\" She came\nbreathlessly up the stairs, carrying a hamper basket full of\njars, her hands and face streaked with black.\n\n\"Well, I should say it is dusty!\" Ralph snorted. \"You might clean\nyour fruit closet once in awhile, you know, Mahailey. You ought\nto see how Mrs. Dawson keeps hers. Now, let's see.\" He sorted the\njars on the table. \"Take back the grape jelly. If there's\nanything I hate, it's grape jelly. I know you have lots of it,\nbut you can't work it off on me. And when you come up, don't\nforget the pickled peaches. I told you particularly, the pickled\npeaches!\"\n\n\"We ain't got no pickled peaches.\" Mahailey stood by the cellar\ndoor, holding a corner of her apron up to her chin, with a queer,\nanimal look of stubbornness in her face.\n\n\"No pickled peaches? What nonsense, Mahailey! I saw you making\nthem here, only a few weeks ago.\"\n\n\"I know you did, Mr. Ralph, but they ain't none now. I didn't\nhave no luck with my peaches this year. I must 'a' let the air\ngit at 'em. They all worked on me, an' I had to throw 'em out.\"\n\nRalph was thoroughly annoyed. \"I never heard of such a thing,\nMahailey! You get more careless every year. Think of wasting all\nthat fruit and sugar! Does mother know?\"\n\nMahailey's low brow clouded. \"I reckon she does. I don't wase\nyour mudder's sugar. I never did wase nothin',\" she muttered. Her\nspeech became queerer than ever when she was angry.\n\nRalph dashed down the cellar stairs, lit a lantern, and searched\nthe fruit closet. Sure enough, there were no pickled peaches.\nWhen he came back and began packing his fruit, Mahailey stood\nwatching him with a furtive expression, very much like the look\nthat is in a chained coyote's eyes when a boy is showing him off\nto visitors and saying he wouldn't run away if he could.\n\n\"Go on with your work,\" Ralph snapped. \"Don't stand there\nwatching me!\"\n\nThat evening Claude was sitting on the windmill platform, down by\nthe barn, after a hard day's work ploughing for winter wheat. He\nwas solacing himself with his pipe. No matter how much she loved\nhim, or how sorry she felt for him, his mother could never bring\nherself to tell him he might smoke in the house. Lights were\nshining from the upstairs rooms on the hill, and through the open\nwindows sounded the singing snarl of a phonograph. A figure came\nstealing down the path. He knew by her low, padding step that it\nwas Mahailey, with her apron thrown over her head. She came up to\nhim and touched him on the shoulder in a way which meant that\nwhat she had to say was confidential.\n\n\"Mr. Claude, Mr. Ralph's done packed up a barr'l of your mudder's\njelly an' pickles to take out there.\"\n\n\"That's all right, Mahailey. Mr. Wested was a widower, and I\nguess there wasn't anything of that sort put up at his place.\"\n\nShe hesitated and bent lower. \"He asked me fur them pickled\npeaches I made fur you, but I didn't give him none. I hid 'em all\nin my old cook-stove we done put down cellar when Mr. Ralph\nbought the new one. I didn't give him your mudder's new\npreserves, nudder. I give him the old last year's stuff we had\nleft over, and now you an' your mudder'll have plenty.\" Claude\nlaughed. \"Oh, I don't care if Ralph takes all the fruit on the\nplace, Mahailey!\"\n\nShe shrank back a little, saying confusedly, \"No, I know you\ndon't, Mr. Claude. I know you don't.\"\n\n\"I surely ought not to take it out on her,\" Claude thought, when\nhe saw her disappointment. He rose and patted her on the back.\n\"That's all right, Mahailey. Thank you for saving the peaches,\nanyhow.\"\n\nShe shook her finger at him. \"Don't you let on!\"\n\nHe promised, and watched her slipping back over the zigzag path\nup the hill.\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nRalph and his father moved to the new ranch the last of August,\nand Mr. Wheeler wrote back that late in the fall he meant to ship\na carload of grass steers to the home farm to be fattened during\nthe winter. This, Claude saw, would mean a need for fodder. There\nwas a fifty-acre corn field west of the creek,--just on the\nsky-line when one looked out from the west windows of the house.\nClaude decided to put this field into winter wheat, and early in\nSeptember he began to cut and bind the corn that stood upon it\nfor fodder. As soon as the corn was gathered, he would plough up\nthe ground, and drill in the wheat when he planted the other\nwheat fields.\n\nThis was Claude's first innovation, and it did not meet with\napproval. When Bayliss came out to spend Sunday with his mother,\nhe asked her what Claude thought he was doing, anyhow. If he\nwanted to change the crop on that field, why didn't he plant oats\nin the spring, and then get into wheat next fall? Cutting fodder\nand preparing the ground now, would only hold him back in his\nwork. When Mr. Wheeler came home for a short visit, he jocosely\nreferred to that quarter as \"Claude's wheat field.\"\n\nClaude went ahead with what he had undertaken to do, but all\nthrough September he was nervous and apprehensive about the\nweather. Heavy rains, if they came, would make him late with his\nwheat-planting, and then there would certainly be criticism. In\nreality, nobody cared much whether the planting was late or not,\nbut Claude thought they did, and sometimes in the morning he\nawoke in a state of panic because he wasn't getting ahead faster.\nHe had Dan and one of August Yoeder's four sons to help him, and\nhe worked early and late. The new field he ploughed and drilled\nhimself. He put a great deal of young energy into it, and buried\na great deal of discontent in its dark furrows. Day after day he\nflung himself upon the land and planted it with what was\nfermenting in him, glad to be so tired at night that he could not\nthink.\n\nRalph came home for Leonard Dawson's wedding, on the first of\nOctober. All the Wheelers went to the wedding, even Mahailey, and\nthere was a great gathering of the country folk and townsmen.\n\nAfter Ralph left, Claude had the place to himself again, and the\nwork went on as usual. The stock did well, and there were no\nvexatious interruptions. The fine weather held, and every morning\nwhen Claude got up, another gold day stretched before him like a\nglittering carpet, leading...? When the question where the\ndays were leading struck him on the edge of his bed, he hurried\nto dress and get down-stairs in time to fetch wood and coal for\nMahailey. They often reached the kitchen at the same moment, and\nshe would shake her finger at him and say, \"You come down to help\nme, you nice boy, you!\" At least he was of some use to Mahailey.\nHis father could hire one of the Yoeder boys to look after the\nplace, but Mahailey wouldn't let any one else save her old back.\n\nMrs. Wheeler, as well as Mahailey, enjoyed that fall. She slept\nlate in the morning, and read and rested in the afternoon. She\nmade herself some new house-dresses out of a grey material Claude\nchose. \"It's almost like being a bride, keeping house for just\nyou, Claude,\" she sometimes said.\n\nSoon Claude had the satisfaction of seeing a blush of green come\nup over his brown wheat fields, visible first in the dimples and\nlittle hollows, then flickering over the knobs and levels like a\nfugitive smile. He watched the green blades coming every day,\nwhen he and Dan went afield with their wagons to gather corn.\nClaude sent Dan to shuck on the north quarter, and he worked on\nthe south. He always brought in one more load a day than Dan\ndid,--that was to be expected. Dan explained this very\nreasonably, Claude thought, one afternoon when they were hooking\nup their teams.\n\n\"It's all right for you to jump at that corn like you was\na-beating carpets, Claude; it's your corn, or anyways it's your\nPaw's. Them fields will always lay betwixt you and trouble. But a\nhired man's got no property but his back, and he has to save it.\nI figure that I've only got about so many jumps left in me, and I\nain't a-going to jump too hard at no man's corn.\"\n\n\"What's the matter? I haven't been hinting that you ought to jump\nany harder, have I?\"\n\n\"No, you ain't, but I just want you to know that there's reason\nin all things.\" With this Dan got into his wagon and drove off.\nHe had probably been meditating upon this declaration for some\ntime.\n\nThat afternoon Claude suddenly stopped flinging white ears into\nthe wagon beside him. It was about five o'clock, the yellowest\nhour of the autumn day. He stood lost in a forest of light, dry,\nrustling corn leaves, quite hidden away from the world. Taking\noff his husking-gloves, he wiped the sweat from his face, climbed\nup to the wagon box, and lay down on the ivory-coloured corn. The\nhorses cautiously advanced a step or two, and munched with great\ncontent at ears they tore from the stalks with their teeth.\n\nClaude lay still, his arms under his head, looking up at the\nhard, polished blue sky, watching the flocks of crows go over\nfrom the fields where they fed on shattered grain, to their nests\nin the trees along Lovely Creek. He was thinking about what Dan\nhad said while they were hitching up. There was a great deal of\ntruth in it, certainly. Yet, as for him, he often felt that he\nwould rather go out into the world and earn his bread among\nstrangers than sweat under this half-responsibility for acres and\ncrops that were not his own. He knew that his father was\nsometimes called a \"land hog\" by the country people, and he\nhimself had begun to feel that it was not right they should have\nso much land,--to farm, or to rent, or to leave idle, as they\nchose. It was strange that in all the centuries the world had\nbeen going, the question of property had not been better\nadjusted. The people who had it were slaves to it, and the people\nwho didn't have it were slaves to them.\n\nHe sprang down into the gold light to finish his load. Warm\nsilence nestled over the cornfield. Sometimes a light breeze rose\nfor a moment and rattled the stiff, dry leaves, and he himself\nmade a great rustling and crackling as he tore the husks from the\nears.\n\nGreedy crows were still cawing about before they flapped\nhomeward. When he drove out to the highway, the sun was going\ndown, and from his seat on the load he could see far and near.\nYonder was Dan's wagon, coming in from the north quarter; over\nthere was the roof of Leonard Dawson's new house, and his\nwindmill, standing up black in the declining day. Before him were\nthe bluffs of the pasture, and the little trees, almost bare,\nhuddled in violet shadow along the creek, and the Wheeler\nfarm-house on the hill, its windows all aflame with the last red\nfire of the sun.\n\n\nXV\n\nClaude dreaded the inactivity of the winter, to which the farmer\nusually looks forward with pleasure. He made the Thanksgiving\nfootball game a pretext for going up to Lincoln,--went intending\nto stay three days and stayed ten. The first night, when he\nknocked at the glass door of the Erlichs' sitting-room and took\nthem by surprise, he thought he could never go back to the farm.\nApproaching the house on that clear, frosty autumn evening,\ncrossing the lawn strewn with crackling dry leaves, he told\nhimself that he must not hope to find things the same. But they\nwere the same. The boys were lounging and smoking about the\nsquare table with the lamp on it, and Mrs. Erlich was at the\npiano, playing one of Mendelssohn's \"Songs Without Words.\" When\nhe knocked, Otto opened the door and called:\n\n\"A surprise for you, Mother! Guess who's here.\"\n\nWhat a welcome she gave him, and how much she had to tell him!\nWhile they were all talking at once, Henry, the oldest son, came\ndownstairs dressed for a Colonial ball, with satin breeches and\nstockings and a sword. His brothers began to point out the\ninaccuracies of his costume, telling him that he couldn't\npossibly call himself a French emigré unless he wore a powdered\nwig. Henry took a book of memoirs from the shelf to prove to them\nthat at the time when the French emigrés were coming to\nPhiladelphia, powder was going out of fashion.\n\nDuring this discussion, Mrs. Erlich drew Claude aside and told\nhim in excited whispers that her cousin Wilhelmina, the singer,\nhad at last been relieved of the invalid husband whom she had\nsupported for so many years, and now was going to marry her\naccompanist, a man much younger than herself.\n\nAfter the French emigré had gone off to his party, two young\ninstructors from the University dropped in, and Mrs. Erlich\nintroduced Claude as her \"landed proprietor\" who managed a big\nranch out in one of the western counties. The instructors took\ntheir leave early, but Claude stayed on. What was it that made\nlife seem so much more interesting and attractive here than\nelsewhere? There was nothing wonderful about this room; a lot of\nbooks, a lamp... comfortable, hard-used furniture, some people\nwhose lives were in no way remarkable--and yet he had the sense\nof being in a warm and gracious atmosphere, charged with generous\nenthusiasms and ennobled by romantic friendships. He was glad to\nsee the same pictures on the wall; to find the Swiss wood-cutter\non the mantel, still bending under his load of faggots; to handle\nagain the heavy brass paper-knife that in its time had cut so\nmany interesting pages. He picked it up from the cover of a red\nbook lying there,-one of Trevelyan's volumes on Garibaldi, which\nJulius told him he must read before he was another week older.\n\nThe next afternoon Claude took Mrs. Erlich to the football game\nand came home with the family for dinner. He lingered on day\nafter day, but after the first few evenings his heart was growing\na little heavier all the time. The Erlich boys had so many new\ninterests he couldn't keep up with them; they had been going on,\nand he had been standing still. He wasn't conceited enough to\nmind that. The thing that hurt was the feeling of being out of\nit, of being lost in another kind of life in which ideas played\nbut little part. He was a stranger who walked in and sat down\nhere; but he belonged out in the big, lonely country, where\npeople worked hard with their backs and got tired like the\nhorses, and were too sleepy at night to think of anything to say.\nIf Mrs. Erlich and her Hungarian woman made lentil soup and\npotato dumplings and Wiener-Schnitzel for him, it only made the\nplain fare on the farm seem the heavier.\n\nWhen the second Friday came round, he went to bid his friends\ngood-bye and explained that he must be going home tomorrow. On\nleaving the house that night, he looked back at the ruddy windows\nand told himself that it was goodbye indeed, and not, as Mrs.\nErlich had fondly said, auf wiedersehen. Coming here only made\nhim more discontented with his lot; his frail claim on this kind\nof life existed no longer. He must settle down into something\nthat was his own, take hold of it with both hands, no matter how\ngrim it was. The next day, during his journey out through the\nbleak winter country, he felt that he was going deeper and deeper\ninto reality.\n\nClaude had not written when he would be home, but on Saturday\nthere were always some of the neighbours in town. He rode out\nwith one of the Yoeder boys, and from their place walked on the\nrest of the way. He told his mother he was glad to be back again.\nHe sometimes felt as if it were disloyal to her for him to be so\nhappy with Mrs. Erlich. His mother had been shut away from the\nworld on a farm for so many years; and even before that, Vermont\nwas no very stimulating place to grow up in, he guessed. She had\nnot had a chance, any more than he had, at those things which\nmake the mind more supple and keep the feeling young.\n\nThe next morning it was snowing outside, and they had a long,\npleasant Sunday breakfast. Mrs. Wheeler said they wouldn't try to\ngo to church, as Claude must be tired. He worked about the place\nuntil noon, making the stock comfortable and looking after things\nthat Dan had neglected in his absence. After dinner he sat down\nat the secretary and wrote a long letter to his friends in\nLincoln. Whenever he lifted his eyes for a moment, he saw the\npasture bluffs and the softly falling snow. There was something\nbeautiful about the submissive way in which the country met\nwinter. It made one contented,--sad, too. He sealed his letter\nand lay down on the couch to read the paper, but was soon asleep.\n\nWhen he awoke the afternoon was already far gone. The clock on\nthe shelf ticked loudly in the still room, the coal stove sent\nout a warm glow. The blooming plants in the south bow-window\nlooked brighter and fresher than usual in the soft white light\nthat came up from the snow. Mrs. Wheeler was reading by the west\nwindow, looking away from her book now and then to gaze off at\nthe grey sky and the muffled fields. The creek made a winding\nviolet chasm down through the pasture, and the trees followed it\nin a black thicket, curiously tufted with snow. Claude lay for\nsome time without speaking, watching his mother's profile against\nthe glass, and thinking how good this soft, clinging snow-fall\nwould be for his wheat fields.\n\n\"What are you reading, Mother?\" he asked presently.\n\nShe turned her head toward him. \"Nothing very new. I was just\nbeginning 'Paradise Lost' again. I haven't read it for a long\nwhile.\"\n\n\"Read aloud, won't you? Just wherever you happen to be. I like\nthe sound of it.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler always read deliberately, giving each syllable its\nfull value. Her voice, naturally soft and rather wistful, trailed\nover the long measures and the threatening Biblical names, all\nfamiliar to her and full of meaning.\n\n  \"A dungeon horrible, on all sides round\n  As one great furnace flamed; yet from the flames\n  No light, but rather darkness visible\n  Served only to discover sights of woe.\"\n\nHer voice groped as if she were trying to realize something. The\nroom was growing greyer as she read on through the turgid\ncatalogue of the heathen gods, so packed with stories and\npictures, so unaccountably glorious. At last the light failed,\nand Mrs. Wheeler closed the book.\n\n\"That's fine,\" Claude commented from the couch. \"But Milton\ncouldn't have got along without the wicked, could he?\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler looked up. \"Is that a joke?\" she asked slyly.\n\n\"Oh no, not at all! It just struck me that this part is so much\nmore interesting than the books about perfect innocence in Eden.\"\n\n\"And yet I suppose it shouldn't be so,\" Mrs. Wheeler said slowly,\nas if in doubt.\n\nHer son laughed and sat up, smoothing his rumpled hair. \"The fact\nremains that it is, dear Mother. And if you took all the great\nsinners out of the Bible, you'd take out all the interesting\ncharacters, wouldn't you?\"\n\n\"Except Christ,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Yes, except Christ. But I suppose the Jews were honest when they\nthought him the most dangerous kind of criminal.\"\n\n\"Are you trying to tangle me up?\" his mother inquired, with both\nreproach and amusement in her voice.\n\nClaude went to the window where she was sitting, and looked out\nat the snowy fields, now becoming blue and desolate as the\nshadows deepened. \"I only mean that even in the Bible the people\nwho were merely free from blame didn't amount to much.\"\n\n\"Ah, I see!\" Mrs. Wheeler chuckled softly. \"You are trying to get\nme back to Faith and Works. There's where you always balked when\nyou were a little fellow. Well, Claude, I don't know as much\nabout it as I did then. As I get older, I leave a good deal more\nto God. I believe He wants to save whatever is noble in this\nworld, and that He knows more ways of doing it than I.\" She rose\nlike a gentle shadow and rubbed her cheek against his flannel\nshirt-sleeve, murmuring, \"I believe He is sometimes where we\nwould least expect to find Him,--even in proud, rebellious\nhearts.\"\n\nFor a moment they clung together in the pale, clear square of the\nwest window, as the two natures in one person sometimes meet and\ncling in a fated hour.\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nRalph and his father came home to spend the holidays, and on\nChristmas day Bayliss drove out from town for dinner. He arrived\nearly, and after greeting his mother in the kitchen, went up to\nthe sitting-room, which shone with a holiday neatness, and, for\nonce, was warm enough for Bayliss,--having a low circulation, he\nfelt the cold acutely. He walked up and down, jingling the keys\nin his pockets and admiring his mother's winter chrysanthemums,\nwhich were still blooming. Several times he paused before the\nold-fashioned secretary, looking through the glass doors at the\nvolumes within. The sight of some of those books awoke\ndisagreeable memories. When he was a boy of fourteen or fifteen,\nit used to make him bitterly jealous to hear his mother coaxing\nClaude to read aloud to her. Bayliss had never been bookish. Even\nbefore he could read, when his mother told him stories, he at\nonce began to prove to her how they could not possibly be true.\nLater he found arithmetic and geography more interesting than\n\"Robinson Crusoe.\" If he sat down with a book, he wanted to feel\nthat he was learning something. His mother and Claude were always\ntalking over his head about the people in books and stories.\n\nThough Bayliss had a sentimental feeling about coming home, he\nconsidered that he had had a lonely boyhood. At the country\nschool he had not been happy; he was the boy who always got the\nanswers to the test problems when the others didn't, and he kept\nhis arithmetic papers buttoned up in the inside pocket of his\nlittle jacket until he modestly handed them to the teacher, never\ngiving a neighbour the benefit of his cleverness. Leonard Dawson\nand other lusty lads of his own age made life as terrifying for\nhim as they could. In winter they used to throw him into a\nsnow-drift, and then run away and leave him. In summer they made\nhim eat live grasshoppers behind the schoolhouse, and put big\nbull-snakes in his dinner pail to surprise him. To this day,\nBayliss liked to see one of those fellows get into difficulties\nthat his big fists couldn't get him out of.\n\nIt was because Bayliss was quick at figures and undersized for a\nfarmer that his father sent him to town to learn the implement\nbusiness. From the day he went to work, he managed to live on his\nsmall salary. He kept in his vest pocket a little day-book\nwherein he noted down all his expenditures,--like the\nmillionaire about whom the Baptist preachers were never tired of\ntalking,-and his offering to the contribution box stood out\nconspicuous in his weekly account.\n\nIn Bayliss' voice, even when he used his insinuating drawl and\nsaid disagreeable things, there was something a little plaintive;\nthe expression of a deep-seated sense of injury. He felt that he\nhad always been misunderstood and underestimated. Later after he\nwent into business for himself, the young men of Frankfort had\nnever urged him to take part in their pleasures. He had not been\nasked to join the tennis club or the whist club. He envied Claude\nhis fine physique and his unreckoning, impulsive vitality, as if\nthey had been given to his brother by unfair means and should\nrightly have been his.\n\nBayliss and his father were talking together before dinner when\nClaude came in and was so inconsiderate as to put up a window,\nthough he knew his brother hated a draft. In a moment Bayliss\naddressed him without looking at him:\n\n\"I see your friends, the Erlichs, have bought out the Jenkinson\ncompany, in Lincoln; at least, they've given their notes.\"\n\nClaude had promised his mother to keep his temper today, \"Yes, I\nsaw it in the paper. I hope they'll succeed.\"\n\n\"I doubt it.\" Bayliss shook his head with his wisest look. \"I\nunderstand they've put a mortgage on their home. That old woman\nwill find herself without a roof one of these days.\"\n\n\"I don't think so. The boys have wanted to go into business\ntogether for a long while. They are all intelligent and\nindustrious; why shouldn't they get on?\" Claude flattered himself\nthat he spoke in an easy, confidential way.\n\nBayliss screwed up his eyes. \"I expect they're too fond of good\nliving. They'll pay their interest, and spend whatever's left\nentertaining their friends. I didn't see the young fellow's name\nin the notice of incorporation, Julius, do they call him?\"\n\n\"Julius is going abroad to study this fall. He intends to be a\nprofessor.\"\n\n\"What's the matter with him? Does he have poor health?\"\n\nAt this moment the dinner bell sounded, Ralph ran down from his\nroom where he had been dressing, and they all descended to the\nkitchen to greet the turkey. The dinner progressed pleasantly.\nBayliss and his father talked politics, and Ralph told stories\nabout his neighbours in Yucca county. Bayliss was pleased that\nhis mother had remembered he liked oyster stuffing, and he\ncomplimented her upon her mince pies. When he saw her pour a\nsecond cup of coffee for herself and for Claude at the end of\ndinner, he said, in a gentle, grieved tone, \"I'm sorry to see you\ntaking two, Mother.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler looked at him over the coffee-pot with a droll,\nguilty smile. \"I don't believe coffee hurts me a particle,\nBayliss.\"\n\n\"Of course it does; it's a stimulant.\" What worse could it be,\nhis tone implied! When you said anything was a \"stimulant,\" you\nhad sufficiently condemned it; there was no more noxious word.\n\nClaude was in the upper hall, putting on his coat to go down to\nthe barn and smoke a cigar, when Bayliss came out from the\nsitting-room and detained him by an indefinite remark.\n\n\"I believe there's to be a musical show in Hastings Saturday\nnight.\"\n\nClaude said he had heard something of the sort.\n\n\"I was thinking,\" Bayliss affected a careless tone, as if he\nthought of such things every day, \"that we might make a party and\ntake Gladys and Enid. The roads are pretty good.\"\n\n\"It's a hard drive home, so late at night,\" Claude objected.\nBayliss meant, of course, that Claude should drive the party up\nand back in Mr. Wheeler's big car. Bayliss never used his\nglistening Cadillac for long, rough drives.\n\n\"I guess Mother would put us up overnight, and we needn't take\nthe girls home till Sunday morning. I'll get the tickets.\"\n\n\"You'd better arrange it with the girls, then. I'll drive you, of\ncourse, if you want to go.\"\n\nClaude escaped and went out, wishing that Bayliss would do his\nown courting and not drag him into it. Bayliss, who didn't know\none tune from another, certainly didn't want to go to this\nconcert, and it was doubtful whether Enid Royce would care much\nabout going. Gladys Farmer was the best musician in Frankfort,\nand she would probably like to hear it.\n\nClaude and Gladys were old friends, from their High School days,\nthough they hadn't seen much of each other while he was going to\ncollege. Several times this fall Bayliss had asked Claude to go\nsomewhere with him on a Sunday, and then stopped to \"pick Gladys\nup,\" as he said. Claude didn't like it. He was disgusted, anyhow,\nwhen he saw that Bayliss had made up his mind to marry Gladys.\nShe and her mother were so poor that he would probably succeed in\nthe end, though so far Gladys didn't seem to give him much\nencouragement. Marrying Bayliss, he thought, would be no joke for\nany woman, but Gladys was the one girl in town whom he\nparticularly ought not to marry. She was as extravagant as she\nwas poor. Though she taught in the Frankfort High School for\ntwelve hundred a year, she had prettier clothes than any of the\nother girls, except Enid Royce, whose father was a rich man. Her\nnew hats and suede shoes were discussed and criticized year in\nand year out. People said if she married Bayliss Wheeler, he\nwould soon bring her down to hard facts. Some hoped she would,\nand some hoped she wouldn't. As for Claude, he had kept away from\nMrs. Farmer's cheerful parlour ever since Bayliss had begun to\ndrop in there. He was disappointed in Gladys. When he was\noffended, he seldom stopped to reason about his state of feeling.\nHe avoided the person and the thought of the person, as if it\nwere a sore spot in his mind.\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nIt had been Mr. Wheeler's intention to stay at home until spring,\nbut Ralph wrote that he was having trouble with his foreman, so\nhis father went out to the ranch in February. A few days after\nhis departure there was a storm which gave people something to\ntalk about for a year to come.\n\nThe snow began to fall about noon on St. Valentine's day, a soft,\nthick, wet snow that came down in billows and stuck to\neverything. Later in the afternoon the wind rose, and wherever\nthere was a shed, a tree, a hedge, or even a clump of tall weeds,\ndrifts began to pile up. Mrs. Wheeler, looking anxiously out from\nthe sitting-room windows, could see nothing but driving waves of\nsoft white, which cut the tall house off from the rest of the\nworld.\n\nClaude and Dan, down in the corral, where they were provisioning\nthe cattle against bad weather, found the air so thick that they\ncould scarcely breathe; their ears and mouths and nostrils were\nfull of snow, their faces plastered with it. It melted constantly\nupon their clothing, and yet they were white from their boots to\ntheir caps as they worked,--there was no shaking it off. The air\nwas not cold, only a little below freezing. When they came in for\nsupper, the drifts had piled against the house until they covered\nthe lower sashes of the kitchen windows, and as they opened the\ndoor, a frail wall of snow fell in behind them. Mahailey came\nrunning with her broom and pail to sweep it up.\n\n\"Ain't it a turrible storm, Mr. Claude? I reckon poor Mr. Ernest\nwon't git over tonight, will he? You never mind, honey; I'll wipe\nup that water. Run along and git dry clothes on you, an' take a\nbath, or you'll ketch cold. Th' ole tank's full of hot water for\nyou.\" Exceptional weather of any kind always delighted Mahailey.\n\nMrs. Wheeler met Claude at the head of the stairs. \"There's no\ndanger of the steers getting snowed under along the creek, is\nthere?\" she asked anxiously.\n\n\"No, I thought of that. We've driven them all into the little\ncorral on the level, and shut the gates. It's over my head down\nin the creek bottom now. I haven't a dry stitch on me. I guess\nI'll follow Mahailey's advice and get in the tub, if you can wait\nsupper for me.\"\n\n\"Put your clothes outside the bathroom door, and I'll see to\ndrying them for you.\"\n\n\"Yes, please. I'll need them tomorrow. I don't want to spoil my\nnew corduroys. And, Mother, see if you can make Dan change. He's\ntoo wet and steamy to sit at the table with. Tell him if anybody\nhas to go out after supper, I'll go.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler hurried down stairs. Dan, she knew, would rather sit\nall evening in wet clothes than take the trouble to put on dry\nones. He tried to sneak past her to his own quarters behind the\nwash-room, and looked aggrieved when he heard her message.\n\n\"I ain't got no other outside clothes, except my Sunday ones,\" he\nobjected.\n\n\"Well, Claude says he'll go out if anybody has to. I guess you'll\nhave to change for once, Dan, or go to bed without your supper.\"\nShe laughed quietly at his dejected expression as he slunk away.\n\n\"Mrs. Wheeler,\" Mahailey whispered, \"can't I run down to the\ncellar an' git some of them nice strawberry preserves? Mr.\nClaude, he loves 'em on his hot biscuit. He don't eat the honey\nno more; he's got tired of it.\"\n\n\"Very well. I'll make the coffee good and strong; that will\nplease him more than anything.\"\n\nClaude came down feeling clean and warm and hungry. As he opened\nthe stair door he sniffed the coffee and frying ham, and when\nMahailey bent over the oven the warm smell of browning biscuit\nrushed out with the heat. These combined odours somewhat\ndispersed Dan's gloom when he came back in squeaky Sunday shoes\nand a bunglesome cut-away coat. The latter was not required of\nhim, but he wore it for revenge.\n\nDuring supper Mrs. Wheeler told them once again how, long ago\nwhen she was first married, there were no roads or fences west of\nFrankfort. One winter night she sat on the roof of their first\ndugout nearly all night, holding up a lantern tied to a pole to\nguide Mr. Wheeler home through a snowstorm like this.\n\nMahailey, moving about the stove, watched over the group at the\ntable. She liked to see the men fill themselves with food-though\nshe did not count Dan a man, by any means, and she looked out to\nsee that Mrs. Wheeler did not forget to eat altogether, as she\nwas apt to do when she fell to remembering things that had\nhappened long ago. Mahailey was in a happy frame of mind because\nher weather predictions had come true; only yesterday she had\ntold Mrs. Wheeler there would be snow, because she had seen\nsnowbirds. She regarded supper as more than usually important\nwhen Claude put on his \"velvet close,\" as she called his brown\ncorduroys.\n\nAfter supper Claude lay on the couch in the sitting room, while\nhis mother read aloud to him from \"Bleak House,\"--one of the few\nnovels she loved. Poor Jo was drawing toward his end when Claude\nsuddenly sat up. \"Mother, I believe I'm too sleepy. I'll have to\nturn in. Do you suppose it's still snowing?\"\n\nHe rose and went to look out, but the west windows were so\nplastered with snow that they were opaque. Even from the one on\nthe south he could see nothing for a moment; then Mahailey must\nhave carried her lamp to the kitchen window beneath, for all at\nonce a broad yellow beam shone out into the choked air, and down\nit millions of snowflakes hurried like armies, an unceasing\nprogression, moving as close as they could without forming a\nsolid mass. Claude struck the frozen window-frame with his fist,\nlifted the lower sash, and thrusting out his head tried to look\nabroad into the engulfed night. There was a solemnity about a\nstorm of such magnitude; it gave one a feeling of infinity. The\nmyriads of white particles that crossed the rays of lamplight\nseemed to have a quiet purpose, to be hurrying toward a definite\nend. A faint purity, like a fragrance almost too fine for human\nsenses, exhaled from them as they clustered about his head and\nshoulders. His mother, looking under his lifted arm, strained her\neyes to see out into that swarming movement, and murmured softly\nin her quavering voice:\n\n\"Ever thicker, thicker, thicker, Froze the ice on lake and river;\nEver deeper, deeper, deeper, Fell the snow o'er all the\nlandscape.\"\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nClaude's bedroom faced the east. The next morning, when he looked\nout of his windows, only the tops of the cedars in the front yard\nwere visible. Hurriedly putting on his clothes he ran to the west\nwindow at the end of the hall; Lovely Creek, and the deep ravine\nin which it flowed, had disappeared as if they had never been.\nThe rough pasture was like a smooth field, except for humps and\nmounds like haycocks, where the snow had drifted over a post or a\nbush.\n\nAt the kitchen stairs Mahailey met him in gleeful excitement.\n\"Lord 'a' mercy, Mr. Claude, I can't git the storm door open.\nWe're snowed in fas'.\" She looked like a tramp woman, in a jacket\npatched with many colours, her head tied up in an old black\n\"fascinator,\" with ravelled yarn hanging down over her face like\nwild locks of hair. She kept this costume for calamitous\noccasions; appeared in it when the water-pipes were frozen and\nburst, or when spring storms flooded the coops and drowned her\nyoung chickens.\n\nThe storm door opened outward. Claude put his shoulder to it and\npushed it a little way. Then, with Mahailey's fireshovel he\ndislodged enough snow to enable him to force back the door. Dan\ncame tramping in his stocking-feet across the kitchen to his\nboots, which were still drying behind the stove. \"She's sure a\nbad one, Claude,\" he remarked, blinking.\n\n\"Yes. I guess we won't try to go out till after breakfast. We'll\nhave to dig our way to the barn, and I never thought to bring the\nshovels up last night.\"\n\n\"Th' ole snow shovels is in the cellar. I'll git 'em.\"\n\n\"Not now, Mahailey. Give us our breakfast before you do anything\nelse.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler came down, pinning on her little shawl, her\nshoulders more bent than usual. \"Claude,\" she said fearfully,\n\"the cedars in the front yard are all but covered. Do you suppose\nour cattle could be buried?\"\n\nHe laughed. \"No, Mother. The cattle have been moving around all\nnight, I expect.\"\n\nWhen the two men started out with the wooden snow shovels, Mrs.\nWheeler and Mahailey stood in the doorway, watching them. For a\nshort distance from the house the path they dug was like a\ntunnel, and the white walls on either side were higher than their\nheads. On the breast of the hill the snow was not so deep, and\nthey made better headway. They had to fight through a second\nheavy drift before they reached the barn, where they went in and\nwarmed themselves among the horses and cows. Dan was for getting\nnext a warm cow and beginning to milk.\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Claude. \"I want to have a look at the hogs before\nwe do anything here.\"\n\nThe hog-house was built down in a draw behind the barn. When\nClaude reached the edge of the gully, blown almost bare, he could\nlook about him. The draw was full of snow, smooth... except in\nthe middle, where there was a rumpled depression, resembling a\ngreat heap of tumbled bed-linen.\n\nDan gasped. \"God a' mighty, Claude, the roof's fell in! Them\nhogs'll be smothered.\"\n\n\"They will if we don't get at them pretty quick. Run to the house\nand tell Mother. Mahailey will have to milk this morning, and get\nback here as fast as you can.\"\n\nThe roof was a flat thatch, and the weight of the snow had been\ntoo much for it. Claude wondered if he should have put on a new\nthatch that fall; but the old one wasn't leaky, and had seemed\nstrong enough.\n\nWhen Dan got back they took turns, one going ahead and throwing\nout as much snow as he could, the other handling the snow that\nfell back. After an hour or so of this work, Dan leaned on his\nshovel.\n\n\"We'll never do it, Claude. Two men couldn't throw all that snow\nout in a week. I'm about all in.\"\n\n\"Well, you can go back to the house and sit by the fire,\" Claude\ncalled fiercely. He had taken off his coat and was working in his\nshirt and sweater. The sweat was rolling from his face, his back\nand arms ached, and his hands, which he couldn't keep dry, were\nblistered. There were thirty-seven hogs in the hog-house.\n\nDan sat down in the hole. \"Maybe if I could git a drink of water,\nI could hold on a-ways,\" he said dejectedly.\n\nIt was past noon when they got into the shed; a cloud of steam\nrose, and they heard grunts. They found the pigs all lying in a\nheap at one end, and pulled the top ones off alive and squealing.\nTwelve hogs, at the bottom of the pile, had been suffocated. They\nlay there wet and black in the snow, their bodies warm and\nsmoking, but they were dead; there was no mistaking that.\n\nMrs. Wheeler, in her husband's rubber boots and an old overcoat,\ncame down with Mahailey to view the scene of disaster.\n\n\"You ought to git right at them hawgs an' butcher 'em today,\"\nMahailey called down to the men. She was standing on the edge of\nthe draw, in her patched jacket and ravelled hood. Claude, down\nin the hole, brushed the sleeve of his sweater across his\nstreaming face. \"Butcher them?\" he cried indignantly. \"I wouldn't\nbutcher them if I never saw meat again.\"\n\n\"You ain't a-goin' to let all that good hawg-meat go to wase, air\nyou, Mr. Claude?\" Mahailey pleaded. \"They didn't have no sickness\nnor nuthin'. Only you'll have to git right at 'em, or the meat\nwon't be healthy.\"\n\n\"It wouldn't be healthy for me, anyhow. I don't know what I will\ndo with them, but I'm mighty sure I won't butcher them.\"\n\n\"Don't bother him, Mahailey,\" Mrs. Wheeler cautioned her. \"He's\ntired, and he has to fix some place for the live hogs.\"\n\n\"I know he is, mam, but I could easy cut up one of them hawgs\nmyself. I butchered my own little pig onct, in Virginia. I could\nsave the hams, anyways, and the spare-ribs. We ain't had no\nspare-ribs for ever so long.\"\n\nWhat with the ache in his back and his chagrin at losing the\npigs, Claude was feeling desperate. \"Mother,\" he shouted, \"if you\ndon't take Mahailey into the house, I'll go crazy!\"\n\nThat evening Mrs. Wheeler asked him how much the twelve hogs\nwould have been worth in money. He looked a little startled.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know exactly; three hundred dollars, anyway.\"\n\n\"Would it really be as much as that? I don't see how we could\nhave prevented it, do you?\" Her face looked troubled.\n\nClaude went to bed immediately after supper, but he had no sooner\nstretched his aching body between the sheets than he began to\nfeel wakeful. He was humiliated at losing the pigs, because they\nhad been left in his charge; but for the loss in money, about\nwhich even his mother was grieved, he didn't seem to care. He\nwondered whether all that winter he hadn't been working himself\nup into a childish contempt for money-values.\n\nWhen Ralph was home at Christmas time, he wore on his little\nfinger a heavy gold ring, with a diamond as big as a pea,\nsurrounded by showy grooves in the metal. He admitted to Claude\nthat he had won it in a poker game. Ralph's hands were never free\nfrom automobile grease--they were the red, stumpy kind that\ncouldn't be kept clean. Claude remembered him milking in the barn\nby lantern light, his jewel throwing off jabbing sparkles of\ncolour, and his fingers looking very much like the teats of the\ncow. That picture rose before him now, as a symbol of what\nsuccessful farming led to.\n\nThe farmer raised and took to market things with an intrinsic\nvalue; wheat and corn as good as could be grown anywhere in the\nworld, hogs and cattle that were the best of their kind. In\nreturn he got manufactured articles of poor quality; showy\nfurniture that went to pieces, carpets and draperies that faded,\nclothes that made a handsome man look like a clown. Most of his\nmoney was paid out for machinery,--and that, too, went to pieces.\nA steam thrasher didn't last long; a horse outlived three\nautomobiles.\n\nClaude felt sure that when he was a little boy and all the\nneighbours were poor, they and their houses and farms had more\nindividuality. The farmers took time then to plant fine\ncottonwood groves on their places, and to set osage orange hedges\nalong the borders of their fields. Now these trees were all being\ncut down and grubbed up. Just why, nobody knew; they impoverished\nthe land... they made the snow drift... nobody had them any\nmore. With prosperity came a kind of callousness; everybody\nwanted to destroy the old things they used to take pride in. The\norchards, which had been nursed and tended so carefully twenty\nyears ago, were now left to die of neglect. It was less trouble\nto run into town in an automobile and buy fruit than it was to\nraise it.\n\nThe people themselves had changed. He could remember when all the\nfarmers in this community were friendly toward each other; now\nthey were continually having lawsuits. Their sons were either\nstingy and grasping, or extravagant and lazy, and they were\nalways stirring up trouble. Evidently, it took more intelligence\nto spend money than to make it.\n\nWhen he pondered upon this conclusion, Claude thought of the\nErlichs. Julius could go abroad and study for his doctor's\ndegree, and live on less than Ralph wasted every year. Ralph\nwould never have a profession or a trade, would never do or make\nanything the world needed.\n\nNor did Claude find his own outlook much better. He was\ntwenty-one years old, and he had no skill, no training,--no\nability that would ever take him among the kind of people he\nadmired. He was a clumsy, awkward farmer boy, and even Mrs.\nErlich seemed to think the farm the best place for him. Probably\nit was; but all the same he didn't find this kind of life worth\nthe trouble of getting up every morning. He could not see the use\nof working for money, when money brought nothing one wanted. Mrs.\nErlich said it brought security. Sometimes he thought this\nsecurity was what was the matter with everybody; that only\nperfect safety was required to kill all the best qualities in\npeople and develop the mean ones.\n\nErnest, too, said \"it's the best life in the world, Claude.\"\n\nBut if you went to bed defeated every night, and dreaded to wake\nin the morning, then clearly it was too good a life for you. To\nbe assured, at his age, of three meals a day and plenty of sleep,\nwas like being assured of a decent burial. Safety, security; if\nyou followed that reasoning out, then the unborn, those who would\nnever be born, were the safest of all; nothing could happen to\nthem.\n\nClaude knew, and everybody else knew, seemingly, that there was\nsomething wrong with him. He had been unable to conceal his\ndiscontent. Mr. Wheeler was afraid he was one of those visionary\nfellows who make unnecessary difficulties for themselves and\nother people. Mrs. Wheeler thought the trouble with her son was\nthat he had not yet found his Saviour. Bayliss was convinced that\nhis brother was a moral rebel, that behind his reticence and his\nguarded manner he concealed the most dangerous opinions. The\nneighbours liked Claude, but they laughed at him, and said it was\na good thing his father was well fixed. Claude was aware that his\nenergy, instead of accomplishing something, was spent in\nresisting unalterable conditions, and in unavailing efforts to\nsubdue his own nature. When he thought he had at last got himself\nin hand, a moment would undo the work of days; in a flash he\nwould be transformed from a wooden post into a living boy. He\nwould spring to his feet, turn over quickly in bed, or stop short\nin his walk, because the old belief flashed up in him with an\nintense kind of hope, an intense kind of pain,--the conviction\nthat there was something splendid about life, if he could but\nfind it.\n\nIX\n\nThe weather, after the big storm, behaved capriciously. There was\na partial thaw which threatened to flood everything,--then a hard\nfreeze. The whole country glittered with an icy crust, and people\nwent about on a platform of frozen snow, quite above the level of\nordinary life. Claude got out Mr. Wheeler's old double sleigh\nfrom the mass of heterogeneous objects that had for years lain on\ntop of it, and brought the rusty sleighbells up to the house for\nMahailey to scour with brick dust. Now that they had automobiles,\nmost of the farmers had let their old sleighs go to pieces. But\nthe Wheelers always kept everything.\n\nClaude told his mother he meant to take Enid Royce for a\nsleigh-ride. Enid was the daughter of Jason Royce, the grain\nmerchant, one of the early settlers, who for many years had run\nthe only grist mill in Frankfort county. She and Claude were old\nplaymates; he made a formal call at the millhouse, as it was\ncalled, every summer during his vacation, and often dropped in to\nsee Mr. Royce at his town office.\n\nImmediately after supper, Claude put the two wiry little blacks,\nPompey and Satan, to the sleigh. The moon had been up since long\nbefore the sun went down, had been hanging pale in the sky most\nof the afternoon, and now it flooded the snow-terraced land with\nsilver. It was one of those sparkling winter nights when a boy\nfeels that though the world is very big, he himself is bigger;\nthat under the whole crystalline blue sky there is no one quite\nso warm and sentient as himself, and that all this magnificence\nis for him. The sleighbells rang out with a kind of musical\nlightheartedness, as if they were glad to sing again, after the\nmany winters they had hung rusty and dustchoked in the barn.\n\nThe mill road, that led off the highway and down to the river,\nhad pleasant associations for Claude. When he was a youngster,\nevery time his father went to mill, he begged to go along. He\nliked the mill and the miller and the miller's little girl. He\nhad never liked the miller's house, however, and he was afraid of\nEnid's mother. Even now, as he tied his horses to the long\nhitch-bar down by the engine room, he resolved that he would not\nbe persuaded to enter that formal parlour, full of new-looking,\nexpensive furniture, where his energy always deserted him and he\ncould never think of anything to talk about. If he moved, his\nshoes squeaked in the silence, and Mrs. Royce sat and blinked her\nsharp little eyes at him, and the longer he stayed, the harder it\nwas to go.\n\nEnid herself came to the door.\n\n\"Why, it's Claude!\" she exclaimed. \"Won't you come in?\"\n\n\"No, I want you to go riding. I've got the old sleigh out. Come\non, it's a fine night!\"\n\n\"I thought I heard bells. Won't you come in and see Mother while\nI get my things on?\"\n\nClaude said he must stay with his horses, and ran back to the\nhitch-bar. Enid didn't keep him waiting long; she wasn't that\nkind. She came swiftly down the path and through the front gate\nin the Maine seal motor-coat she wore when she drove her coupe in\ncold weather.\n\n\"Now, which way?\" Claude asked as the horses sprang forward and\nthe bells began to jingle.\n\n\"Almost any way. What a beautiful night! And I love your bells,\nClaude. I haven't heard sleighbells since you used to bring me\nand Gladys home from school in stormy weather. Why don't we stop\nfor her tonight? She has furs now, you know!\" Here Enid laughed.\n\"All the old ladies are so terribly puzzled about them; they\ncan't find out whether your brother really gave them to her for\nChristmas or not. If they were sure she bought them for herself,\nI believe they'd hold a public meeting.\"\n\nClaude cracked his whip over his eager little blacks. \"Doesn't it\nmake you tired, the way they are always nagging at Gladys?\"\n\n\"It would, if she minded. But she's just as serene! They must\nhave something to fuss about, and of course poor Mrs. Farmer's\nback taxes are piling up. I certainly suspect Bayliss of the\nfurs.\"\n\nClaude did not feel as eager to stop for Gladys as he had been a\nfew moments before. They were approaching the town now, and\nlighted windows shone softly across the blue whiteness of the\nsnow. Even in progressive Frankfort, the street lights were\nturned off on a night so glorious as this. Mrs. Farmer and her\ndaughter had a little white cottage down in the south part of the\ntown, where only people of modest means lived. \"We must stop to\nsee Gladys' mother, if only for a minute,\" Enid said as they drew\nup before the fence. \"She is so fond of company.\" Claude tied his\nteam to a tree, and they went up to the narrow, sloping porch,\nhung with vines that were full of frozen snow.\n\nMrs. Farmer met them; a large, rosy woman of fifty, with a\npleasant Kentucky voice. She took Enid's arm affectionately, and\nClaude followed them into the long, low sitting-room, which had\nan uneven floor and a lamp at either end, and was scantily\nfurnished in rickety mahogany. There, close beside the hard-coal\nburner, sat Bayliss Wheeler. He did not rise when they entered,\nbut said, \"Hello, folks,\" in a rather sheepish voice. On a little\ntable, beside Mrs. Farmer's workbasket, was the box of candy he\nhad lately taken out of his overcoat pocket, still tied up with\nits gold cord. A tall lamp stood beside the piano, where Gladys\nhad evidently been practising. Claude wondered whether Bayliss\nactually pretended to an interest in music! At this moment Gladys\nwas in the kitchen, Mrs. Farmer explained, looking for her\nmother's glasses, mislaid when she was copying a recipe for a\ncheese soufflé.\n\n\"Are you still getting new recipes, Mrs. Farmer?\" Enid asked her.\n\"I thought you could make every dish in the world already.\"\n\n\"Oh, not quite!\" Mrs. Farmer laughed modestly and showed that she\nliked compliments. \"Do sit down, Claude,\" she besought of the\nstiff image by the door. \"Daughter will be here directly.\"\n\nAt that moment Gladys Farmer appeared.\n\n\"Why, I didn't know you had company, Mother,\" she said, coming in\nto greet them.\n\nThis meant, Claude supposed, that Bayliss was not company. He\nscarcely glanced at Gladys as he took the hand she held out to\nhim.\n\nOne of Gladys' grandfathers had come from Antwerp, and she had\nthe settled composure, the full red lips, brown eyes, and dimpled\nwhite hands which occur so often in Flemish portraits of young\nwomen. Some people thought her a trifle heavy, too mature and\npositive to be called pretty, even though they admired her rich,\ntulip-like complexion. Gladys never seemed aware that her looks\nand her poverty and her extravagance were the subject of\nperpetual argument, but went to and from school every day with\nthe air of one whose position is assured. Her musicianship gave\nher a kind of authority in Frankfort.\n\nEnid explained the purpose of their call. \"Claude has got out his\nold sleigh, and we've come to take you for a ride. Perhaps\nBayliss will go, too?\"\n\nBayliss said he guessed he would, though Claude knew there was\nnothing he hated so much as being out in the cold. Gladys ran\nupstairs to put on a warm dress, and Enid accompanied her,\nleaving Mrs. Farmer to make agreeable conversation between her\ntwo incompatible guests.\n\n\"Bayliss was just telling us how you lost your hogs in the storm,\nClaude. What a pity!\" she said sympathetically.\n\nYes, Claude thought, Bayliss wouldn't be at all reticent about\nthat incident!\n\n\"I suppose there was really no way to save them,\" Mrs. Farmer\nwent on in her polite way; her voice was low and round, like her\ndaughter's, different from the high, tight Western voice. \"So I\nhope you don't let yourself worry about it.\"\n\n\"No, I don't worry about anything as dead as those hogs were.\nWhat's the use?\" Claude asked boldly.\n\n\"That's right,\" murmured Mrs. Farmer, rocking a little in her\nchair. \"Such things will happen sometimes, and we ought not to\ntake them too hard. It isn't as if a person had been hurt, is\nit?\"\n\nClaude shook himself and tried to respond to her cordiality, and\nto the shabby comfort of her long parlour, so evidently doing its\nbest to be attractive to her friends. There weren't four steady\nlegs on any of the stuffed chairs or little folding tables she\nhad brought up from the South, and the heavy gold moulding was\nhalf broken away from the oil portrait of her father, the judge.\nBut she carried her poverty lightly, as Southern people did after\nthe Civil War, and she didn't fret half so much about her back\ntaxes as her neighbours did. Claude tried to talk agreeably to\nher, but he was distracted by the sound of stifled laughter\nupstairs. Probably Gladys and Enid were joking about Bayliss'\nbeing there. How shameless girls were, anyhow!\n\nPeople came to their front windows to look out as the sleigh\ndashed jingling up and down the village streets. When they left\ntown, Bayliss suggested that they drive out past the Trevor\nplace. The girls began to talk about the two young New\nEnglanders, Trevor and Brewster, who had lived there when\nFrankfort was still a tough little frontier settlement. Every one\nwas talking about them now, for a few days ago word had come that\none of the partners, Amos Brewster, had dropped dead in his law\noffice in Hartford. It was thirty years since he and his friend,\nBruce Trevor, had tried to be great cattle men in Frankfort\ncounty, and had built the house on the round hill east of the\ntown, where they wasted a great deal of money very joyously.\nClaude's father always declared that the amount they squandered\nin carousing was negligible compared to their losses in\ncommendable industrial endeavour. The country, Mr. Wheeler said,\nhad never been the same since those boys left it. He delighted to\ntell about the time when Trevor and Brewster went into sheep.\nThey imported a breeding ram from Scotland at a great expense,\nand when he arrived were so impatient to get the good of him that\nthey turned him in with the ewes as soon as he was out of his\ncrate. Consequently all the lambs were born at the wrong season;\ncame at the beginning of March, in a blinding blizzard, and the\nmothers died from exposure. The gallant Trevor took horse and\nspurred all over the county, from one little settlement to\nanother, buying up nursing bottles and nipples to feed the orphan\nlambs.\n\nThe rich bottom land about the Trevor place had been rented out\nto a truck gardener for years now; the comfortable house with its\nbilliard-room annex--a wonder for that part of the country in\nits day--remained closed, its windows boarded up. It sat on the\ntop of a round knoll, a fine cottonwood grove behind it. Tonight,\nas Claude drove toward it, the hill with its tall straight trees\nlooked like a big fur cap put down on the snow.\n\n\"Why hasn't some one bought that house long ago and fixed it up?\"\nEnid remarked. \"There is no building site around here to compare\nwith it. It looks like the place where the leading citizen of the\ntown ought to live.\"\n\n\"I'm glad you like it, Enid,\" said Bayliss in a guarded voice.\n\"I've always had a sneaking fancy for the place myself. Those\nfellows back there never wanted to sell it. But now the estate's\ngot to be settled up. I bought it yesterday. The deed is on its\nway to Hartford for signature.\"\n\nEnid turned round in her seat. \"Why Bayliss, are you in earnest?\nThink of just buying the Trevor place off-hand, as if it were any\nordinary piece of real estate! Will you make over the house, and\nlive there some day?\"\n\n\"I don't know about living there. It's too far to walk to my\nbusiness, and the road across this bottom gets pretty muddy for a\ncar in the spring.\"\n\n\"But it's not far, less than a mile. If I once owned that spot,\nI'd surely never let anybody else live there. Even Carrie\nremembers it. She often asks in her letters whether any one has\nbought the Trevor place yet.\"\n\nCarrie Royce, Enid's older sister, was a missionary in China.\n\n\"Well,\" Bayliss admitted, \"I didn't buy it for an investment,\nexactly. I paid all it was worth.\"\n\nEnid turned to Gladys, who was apparently not listening. \"You'd\nbe the one who could plan a mansion for Trevor Hill, Gladys. You\nalways have such original ideas about houses.\"\n\n\"Yes, people who have no houses of their own often seem to have\nideas about building,\" said Gladys quietly. \"But I like the\nTrevor place as it is. I hate to think that one of them is dead.\nPeople say they did have such good times up there.\"\n\nBayliss grunted. \"Call it good times if you like. The kids were\nstill grubbing whiskey bottles out of the cellar when I first\ncame to town. Of course, if I decide to live there, I'll pull\ndown that old trap and put up something modern.\" He often took\nthis gruff tone with Gladys in public.\n\nEnid tried to draw the driver into the conversation. \"There seems\nto be a difference of opinion here, Claude.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Gladys carelessly, \"it's Bayliss' property, or soon\nwill be. He will build what he likes. I've always known somebody\nwould get that place away from me, so I'm prepared.\"\n\n\"Get it away from you?\" muttered Bayliss, amazed.\n\n\"Yes. As long as no one bought it and spoiled it, it was mine as\nmuch as it was anybody's.\"\n\n\"Claude,\" said Enid banteringly, \"now both your brothers have\nhouses. Where are you going to have yours?\"\n\n\"I don't know that I'll ever have one. I think I'll run about the\nworld a little before I draw my plans,\" he replied sarcastically.\n\n\"Take me with you, Claude!\" said Gladys in a tone of sudden\nweariness. From that spiritless murmur Enid suspected that\nBayliss had captured Gladys' hand under the buffalo robe.\n\nGrimness had settled down over the sleighing party. Even Enid,\nwho was not highly sensitive to unuttered feelings, saw that\nthere was an uncomfortable constraint. A sharp wind had come up.\nBayliss twice suggested turning back, but his brother answered,\n\"Pretty soon,\" and drove on. He meant that Bayliss should have\nenough of it. Not until Enid whispered reproachfully, \"I really\nthink you ought to turn; we're all getting cold,\" did he realize\nthat he had made his sleighing party into a punishment! There was\ncertainly nothing to punish Enid for; she had done her best, and\nhad tried to make his own bad manners less conspicuous. He\nmuttered a blundering apology to her when he lifted her from the\nsleigh at the mill house. On his long drive home he had bitter\nthoughts for company.\n\nHe was so angry with Gladys that he hadn't been able to bid her\ngood-night. Everything she said on the ride had nettled him. If\nshe meant to marry Bayliss, then she ought to throw off this\naffectation of freedom and independence. If she did not mean to,\nwhy did she accept favours from him and let him get into the\nhabit of walking into her house and putting his box of candy on\nthe table, as all Frankfort fellows did when they were courting?\nCertainly she couldn't make herself believe that she liked his\nsociety!\n\nWhen they were classmates at the Frankfort High School, Gladys\nwas Claude's aesthetic proxy. It wasn't the proper thing for a\nboy to be too clean, or too careful about his dress and manners.\nBut if he selected a girl who was irreproachable in these\nrespects, got his Latin and did his laboratory work with her,\nthen all her personal attractions redounded to his credit. Gladys\nhad seemed to appreciate the honour Claude did her, and it was\nnot all on her own account that she wore such beautifully ironed\nmuslin dresses when they went on botanical expeditions.\n\nDriving home after that miserable sleigh-ride, Claude told\nhimself that in so far as Gladys was concerned he could make up\nhis mind to the fact that he had been \"stung\" all along. He had\nbelieved in her fine feelings; believed implicitly. Now he knew\nshe had none so fine that she couldn't pocket them when there was\nenough to be gained by it. Even while he said these things over\nand over, his old conception of Gladys, down at the bottom of his\nmind, remained persistently unchanged. But that only made his\nstate of feeling the more painful. He was deeply hurt,--and for\nsome reason, youth, when it is hurt, likes to feel itself\nbetrayed.\n\n\nBook Two: Enid\n\nI\n\nOne afternoon that spring Claude was sitting on the long flight\nof granite steps that leads up to the State House in Denver. He\nhad been looking at the collection of Cliff Dweller remains in\nthe Capitol, and when he came out into the sunlight the faint\nsmell of fresh-cut grass struck his nostrils and persuaded him to\nlinger. The gardeners were giving the grounds their first light\nmowing. All the lawns on the hill were bright with daffodils and\nhyacinths. A sweet, warm wind blew over the grass, drying the\nwaterdrops. There had been showers in the afternoon, and the sky\nwas still a tender, rainy blue, where it showed through the\nmasses of swiftly moving clouds.\n\nClaude had been away from home for nearly a month. His father had\nsent him out to see Ralph and the new ranch, and from there he\nwent on to Colorado Springs and Trinidad. He had enjoyed\ntravelling, but now that he was back in Denver he had that\nfeeling of loneliness which often overtakes country boys in a\ncity; the feeling of being unrelated to anything, of not\nmattering to anybody. He had wandered about Colorado Springs\nwishing he knew some of the people who were going in and out of\nthe houses; wishing that he could talk to some of those pretty\ngirls he saw driving their own cars about the streets, if only to\nsay a few words. One morning when he was walking out in the hills\na girl passed him, then slowed her car to ask if she could give\nhim a lift. Claude would have said that she was just the sort who\nwould never stop to pick him up, yet she did, and she talked to\nhim pleasantly all the way back to town. It was only twenty\nminutes or so, but it was worth everything else that happened on\nhis trip. When she asked him where she should put him down, he\nsaid at the Antlers, and blushed so furiously that she must have\nknown at once he wasn't staying there.\n\nHe wondered this afternoon how many discouraged young men had sat\nhere on the State House steps and watched the sun go down behind\nthe mountains. Every one was always saying it was a fine thing to\nbe young; but it was a painful thing, too. He didn't believe\nolder people were ever so wretched. Over there, in the golden\nlight, the mass of mountains was splitting up into four distinct\nranges, and as the sun dropped lower the peaks emerged in\nperspective, one behind the other. It was a lonely splendour that\nonly made the ache in his breast the stronger. What was the\nmatter with him, he asked himself entreatingly. He must answer\nthat question before he went home again.\n\nThe statue of Kit Carson on horseback, down in the Square,\npointed Westward; but there was no West, in that sense, any more.\nThere was still South America; perhaps he could find something\nbelow the Isthmus. Here the sky was like a lid shut down over the\nworld; his mother could see saints and martyrs behind it.\n\nWell, in time he would get over all this, he supposed. Even his\nfather had been restless as a young man, and had run away into a\nnew country. It was a storm that died down at last,--but what a\npity not to do anything with it! A waste of power--for it was a\nkind of power; he sprang to his feet and stood frowning against\nthe ruddy light, so deep in his struggling thoughts that he did\nnot notice a man, mounting from the lower terraces, who stopped\nto look at him.\n\nThe stranger scrutinized Claude with interest. He saw a young man\nstanding bareheaded on the long flight of steps, his fists\nclenched in an attitude of arrested action,--his sandy hair, his\ntanned face, his tense figure copper-coloured in the oblique\nrays. Claude would have been astonished if he could have known\nhow he seemed to this stranger.\n\n\nII\n\nThe next morning Claude stepped off the train at Frankfort and\nhad his breakfast at the station before the town was awake. His\nfamily were not expecting him, so he thought he would walk home\nand stop at the mill to see Enid Royce. After all, old friends\nwere best.\n\nHe left town by the low road that wound along the creek. The\nwillows were all out in new yellow leaves, and the sticky\ncotton-wood buds were on the point of bursting. Birds were\ncalling everywhere, and now and then, through the studded willow\nwands, flashed the dazzling wing of a cardinal.\n\nAll over the dusty, tan-coloured wheatfields there was a tender\nmist of green,--millions of little fingers reaching up and waving\nlightly in the sun. To the north and south Claude could see the\ncorn-planters, moving in straight lines over the brown acres\nwhere the earth had been harrowed so fine that it blew off in\nclouds of dust to the roadside. When a gust of wind rose, gay\nlittle twisters came across the open fields, corkscrews of\npowdered earth that whirled through the air and suddenly fell\nagain. It seemed as if there were a lark on every fence post,\nsinging for everything that was dumb; for the great ploughed\nlands, and the heavy horses in the rows, and the men guiding the\nhorses.\n\nAlong the roadsides, from under the dead weeds and wisps of dried\nbluestem, the dandelions thrust up their clean, bright faces. If\nClaude happened to step on one, the acrid smell made him think of\nMahailey, who had probably been out this very morning, gouging\nthe sod with her broken butcher knife and stuffing dandelion\ngreens into her apron. She always went for greens with an air of\nsecrecy, very early, and sneaked along the roadsides stooping\nclose to the ground, as if she might be detected and driven away,\nor as if the dandelions were wild things and had to be caught\nsleeping.\n\nClaude was thinking, as he walked, of how he used to like to come\nto mill with his father. The whole process of milling was\nmysterious to him then; and the mill house and the miller's wife\nwere mysterious; even Enid was, a little--until he got her down\nin the bright sun among the cat-tails. They used to play in the\nbins of clean wheat, watch the flour coming out of the hopper and\nget themselves covered with white dust.\n\nBest of all he liked going in where the water-wheel hung dripping\nin its dark cave, and quivering streaks of sunlight came in\nthrough the cracks to play on the green slime and the spotted\njewel-weed growing in the shale. The mill was a place of sharp\ncontrasts; bright sun and deep shade, roaring sound and heavy,\ndripping silence. He remembered how astonished he was one day,\nwhen he found Mr. Royce in gloves and goggles, cleaning the\nmillstones, and discovered what harmless looking things they\nwere. The miller picked away at them with a sharp hammer until\nthe sparks flew, and Claude still had on his hand a blue spot\nwhere a chip of flint went under the skin when he got too near.\n\nJason Royce must have kept his mill going out of sentiment, for\nthere was not much money in it now. But milling had been his\nfirst business, and he had not found many things in life to be\nsentimental about. Sometimes one still came upon him in dusty\nmiller's clothes, giving his man a day off. He had long ago\nceased to depend on the risings and fallings of Lovely Creek for\nhis power, and had put in a gasoline engine. The old dam now lay\n\"like a holler tooth,\" as one of his men said, grown up with\nweeds and willow-brush.\n\nMr. Royce's family affairs had never gone as well as his\nbusiness. He had not been blessed with a son, and out of five\ndaughters he had succeeded in bringing up only two. People\nthought the mill house damp and unwholesome. Until he built a\ntenant's cottage and got a married man to take charge of the\nmill, Mr. Royce was never able to keep his millers long. They\ncomplained of the gloom of the house, and said they could not get\nenough to eat. Mrs. Royce went every summer to a vegetarian\nsanatorium in Michigan, where she learned to live on nuts and\ntoasted cereals. She gave her family nourishment, to be sure, but\nthere was never during the day a meal that a man could look\nforward to with pleasure, or sit down to with satisfaction. Mr.\nRoyce usually dined at the hotel in town. Nevertheless, his wife\nwas distinguished for certain brilliant culinary accomplishments.\nHer bread was faultless. When a church supper was toward, she was\nalways called upon for her wonderful mayonnaise dressing, or her\nangel-food cake,--sure to be the lightest and spongiest in any\nassemblage of cakes.\n\nA deep preoccupation about her health made Mrs. Royce like a\nwoman who has a hidden grief, or is preyed upon by a consuming\nregret. It wrapped her in a kind of insensibility. She lived\ndifferently from other people, and that fact made her distrustful\nand reserved. Only when she was at the sanatorium, under the care\nof her idolized doctors, did she feel that she was understood and\nsurrounded by sympathy.\n\nHer distrust had communicated itself to her daughters and in\ncountless little ways had coloured their feelings about life.\nThey grew up under the shadow of being \"different,\" and formed no\nclose friendships. Gladys Farmer was the only Frankfort girl who\nhad ever gone much to the mill house. Nobody was surprised when\nCaroline Royce, the older daughter, went out to China to be a\nmissionary, or that her mother let her go without a protest. The\nRoyce women were strange, anyhow, people said; with Carrie gone,\nthey hoped Enid would grow up to be more like other folk. She\ndressed well, came to town often in her car, and was always ready\nto work for the church or the public library.\n\nBesides, in Frankfort, Enid was thought very pretty,--in itself a\nhumanizing attribute. She was slender, with a small, well-shaped\nhead, a smooth, pale skin, and large, dark, opaque eyes with\nheavy lashes. The long line from the lobe of her ear to the tip\nof her chin gave her face a certain rigidity, but to the old\nladies, who are the best critics in such matters, this meant\nfirmness and dignity. She moved quickly and gracefully, just\nbrushing things rather than touching them, so that there was a\nsuggestion of flight about her slim figure, of gliding away from\nher surroundings. When the Sunday School gave tableaux vivants,\nEnid was chosen for Nydia, the blind girl of Pompeii, and for the\nmartyr in \"Christ or Diana.\" The pallor of her skin, the\nsubmissive inclination of her forehead, and her dark, unchanging\neyes, made one think of something \"early Christian.\"\n\nOn this May morning when Claude Wheeler came striding up the mill\nroad, Enid was in the yard, standing by a trellis for vines built\nnear the fence, out from under the heavy shade of the trees. She\nwas raking the earth that had been spaded up the day before, and\nmaking furrows in which to drop seeds. From the turn of the road,\nby the knotty old willows, Claude saw her pink starched dress and\nlittle white sun-bonnet. He hurried forward.\n\n\"Hello, are you farming?\" he called as he came up to the fence.\n\nEnid, who was bending over at that moment, rose quickly, but\nwithout a start. \"Why, Claude! I thought you were out West\nsomewhere. This is a surprise!\" She brushed the earth from her\nhands and gave him her limp white fingers. Her arms, bare below\nthe elbow, were thin, and looked cold, as if she had put on a\nsummer dress too early.\n\n\"I just got back this morning. I'm walking out home. What are you\nplanting?\"\n\n\"Sweet peas.\"\n\n\"You always have the finest ones in the country. When I see a\nbunch of yours at church or anywhere, I always know them.\"\n\n\"Yes, I'm quite successful with my sweet peas,\" she admitted.\n\"The ground is rich down here, and they get plenty of sun.\"\n\n\"It isn't only your sweet peas. Nobody else has such lilacs or\nrambler roses, and I expect you have the only wistaria vine in\nFrankfort county.\"\n\n\"Mother planted that a long while ago, when she first moved here.\nShe is very partial to wistaria. I'm afraid we'll lose it, one of\nthese hard winters.\"\n\n\"Oh, that would be a shame! Take good care of it. You must put in\na lot of time looking after these things, anyway.\" He spoke\nadmiringly.\n\nEnid leaned against the fence and pushed back her little bonnet.\n\"Perhaps I take more interest in flowers than I do in people. I\noften envy you, Claude; you have so many interests.\"\n\nHe coloured. \"I? Good gracious, I don't have many! I'm an awfully\ndiscontented sort of fellow. I didn't care about going to school\nuntil I had to stop, and then I was sore because I couldn't go\nback. I guess I've been sulking about it all winter.\"\n\nShe looked at him with quiet astonishment. \"I don't see why you\nshould be discontented; you're so free.\"\n\n\"Well, aren't you free, too?\"\n\n\"Not to do what I want to. The only thing I really want to do is\nto go out to China and help Carrie in her work. Mother thinks I'm\nnot strong enough. But Carrie was never very strong here. She is\nbetter in China, and I think I might be.\"\n\nClaude felt concern. He had not seen Enid since the sleigh-ride,\nwhen she had been gayer than usual. Now she seemed sunk in\nlassitude. \"You must get over such notions, Enid. You don't want\nto go wandering off alone like that. It makes people queer. Isn't\nthere plenty of missionary work to be done right here?\"\n\nShe sighed. \"That's what everybody says. But we all of us have a\nchance, if we'll take it. Out there they haven't. It's terrible\nto think of all those millions that live and die in darkness.\"\n\nClaude glanced up at the sombre mill house, hidden in\ncedars,--then off at the bright, dusty fields. He felt as if he\nwere a little to blame for Enid's melancholy. He hadn't been very\nneighbourly this last year. \"People can live in darkness here,\ntoo, unless they fight it. Look at me. I told you I've been\nmoping all winter. We all feel friendly enough, but we go\nplodding on and never get together. You and I are old friends,\nand yet we hardly ever see each other. Mother says you've been\npromising for two years to run up and have a visit with her. Why\ndon't you come? It would please her.\"\n\n\"Then I will. I've always been fond of your mother.\" She paused a\nmoment, absently twisting the strings of her bonnet, then\ntwitched it from her head with a quick movement and looked at him\nsquarely in the bright light. \"Claude, you haven't really become\na free-thinker, have you?\"\n\nHe laughed outright. \"Why, what made you think I had?\"\n\n\"Everybody knows Ernest Havel is, and people say you and he read\nthat kind of books together.\"\n\n\"Has that got anything to do with our being friends?\"\n\n\"Yes, it has. I couldn't feel the same confidence in you. I've\nworried about it a good deal.\"\n\n\"Well, you just cut it out. For one thing, I'm not worth it,\" he\nsaid quickly.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you are! If worrying would do any good--\" she shook her\nhead at him reproachfully.\n\nClaude took hold of the fence pickets between them with both\nhands. \"It will do good! Didn't I tell you there was missionary\nwork to be done right here? Is that why you've been so\nstand-offish with me the last few years, because you thought I\nwas an atheist?\"\n\n\"I never, you know, liked Ernest Havel,\" she murmured.\n\nWhen Claude left the mill and started homeward he felt that he\nhad found something which would help him through the summer. How\nfortunate he had been to come upon Enid alone and talk to her\nwithout interruption,--without once seeing Mrs. Royce's face,\nalways masked in powder, peering at him from behind a drawn\nblind. Mrs. Royce had always looked old, even long ago when she\nused to come into church with her little girls,--a tiny woman in\ntiny high-heeled shoes and a big hat with nodding plumes, her\nblack dress covered with bugles and jet that glittered and\nrattled and made her seem hard on the outside, like an insect.\n\nYes, he must see to it that Enid went about and saw more of other\npeople. She was too much with her mother, and with her own\nthoughts. Flowers and foreign missions--her garden and the great\nkingdom of China; there was something unusual and touching about\nher preoccupations. Something quite charming, too. Women ought to\nbe religious; faith was the natural fragrance of their minds. The\nmore incredible the things they believed, the more lovely was the\nact of belief. To him the story of \"Paradise Lost\" was as\nmythical as the \"Odyssey\"; yet when his mother read it aloud to\nhim, it was not only beautiful but true. A woman who didn't have\nholy thoughts about mysterious things far away would be prosaic\nand commonplace, like a man.\n\n\nIII\n\nDuring the next few weeks Claude often ran his car down to the\nmill house on a pleasant evening and coaxed Enid to go into\nFrankfort with him and sit through a moving picture show, or to\ndrive to a neighbouring town. The advantage of this form of\ncompanionship was that it did not put too great a strain upon\none's conversational powers. Enid could be admirably silent, and\nshe was never embarrassed by either silence or speech. She was\ncool and sure of herself under any circumstances, and that was\none reason why she drove a car so well,--much better than Claude,\nindeed.\n\nOne Sunday, when they met after church, she told Claude that she\nwanted to go to Hastings to do some shopping, and they arranged\nthat he should take her on Tuesday in his father's big car. The\ntown was about seventy miles to the northeast and, from\nFrankfort, it was an inconvenient trip by rail.\n\nOn Tuesday morning Claude reached the mill house just as the sun\nwas rising over the damp fields. Enid was on the front porch\nwaiting for him, wearing a blanket coat over her spring suit. She\nran down to the gate and slipped into the seat beside him.\n\n\"Good morning, Claude. Nobody else is up. It's going to be a\nglorious day, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Splendid. A little warm for this time of year. You won't need\nthat coat long.\"\n\nFor the first hour they found the roads empty. All the fields\nwere grey with dew, and the early sunlight burned over everything\nwith the transparent brightness of a fire that has just been\nkindled. As the machine noiselessly wound off the miles, the sky\ngrew deeper and bluer, and the flowers along the roadside opened\nin the wet grass. There were men and horses abroad on every hill\nnow. Soon they began to pass children on the way to school, who\nstopped and waved their bright dinner pails at the two\ntravellers. By ten o'clock they were in Hastings.\n\nWhile Enid was shopping, Claude bought some white shoes and duck\ntrousers. He felt more interest than usual in his summer clothes.\nThey met at the hotel for lunch, both very hungry and both\nsatisfied with their morning's work. Seated in the dining room,\nwith Enid opposite him, Claude thought they did not look at all\nlike a country boy and girl come to town, but like experienced\npeople touring in their car.\n\n\"Will you make a call with me after dinner?\" she asked while they\nwere waiting for their dessert.\n\n\"Is it any one I know?\"\n\n\"Certainly. Brother Weldon is in town. His meetings are over, and\nI was afraid he might be gone, but he is staying on a few days\nwith Mrs. Gleason. I brought some of Carrie's letters along for\nhim to read.\"\n\nClaude made a wry face. \"He won't be delighted to see me. We\nnever got on well at school. He's a regular muff of a teacher, if\nyou want to know,\" he added resolutely.\n\nEnid studied him judicially. \"I'm surprised to hear that; he's\nsuch a good speaker. You'd better come along. It's so foolish to\nhave a coolness with your old teachers.\"\n\nAn hour later the Reverend Arthur Weldon received the two young\npeople in Mrs. Gleason's half-darkened parlour, where he seemed\nquite as much at home as that lady herself. The hostess, after\nchatting cordially with the visitors for a few moments, excused\nherself to go to a P. E. O. meeting. Every one rose at her\ndeparture, and Mr. Weldon approached Enid, took her hand, and\nstood looking at her with his head inclined and his oblique\nsmile. \"This is an unexpected pleasure, to see you again, Miss\nEnid. And you, too, Claude,\" turning a little toward the latter.\n\"You've come up from Frankfort together this beautiful day?\" His\ntone seemed to say, \"How lovely for you!\"\n\nHe directed most of his remarks to Enid and, as always, avoided\nlooking at Claude except when he definitely addressed him.\n\n\"You are farming this year, Claude? I presume that is a great\nsatisfaction to your father. And Mrs. Wheeler is quite well?\"\n\nMr. Weldon certainly bore no malice, but he always pronounced\nClaude's name exactly like the word \"Clod,\" which annoyed him. To\nbe sure, Enid pronounced his name in the same way, but either\nClaude did not notice this, or did not mind it from her. He sank\ninto a deep, dark sofa, and sat with his driving cap on his knee\nwhile Brother Weldon drew a chair up to the one open window of\nthe dusky room and began to read Carrie Royce's letters. Without\nbeing asked to do so, he read them aloud, and stopped to comment\nfrom time to time. Claude observed with disappointment that Enid\ndrank in all his platitudes just as Mrs. Wheeler did. He had\nnever looked at Weldon so long before. The light fell full on the\nyoung man's pear-shaped head and his thin, rippled hair. What in\nthe world could sensible women like his mother and Enid Royce\nfind to admire in this purring, white-necktied fellow? Enid's\ndark eyes rested upon him with an expression of profound respect.\nShe both looked at him and spoke to him with more feeling than\nshe ever showed toward Claude.\n\n\"You see, Brother Weldon,\" she said earnestly, \"I am not\nnaturally much drawn to people. I find it hard to take the proper\ninterest in the church work at home. It seems as if I had always\nbeen holding myself in reserve for the foreign field,--by not\nmaking personal ties, I mean. If Gladys Farmer went to China,\neverybody would miss her. She could never be replaced in the High\nSchool. She has the kind of magnetism that draws people to her.\nBut I have always been keeping myself free to do what Carrie is\ndoing. There I know I could be of use.\"\n\nClaude saw it was not easy for Enid to talk like this. Her face\nlooked troubled, and her dark eyebrows came together in a sharp\nangle as she tried to tell the young preacher exactly what was\ngoing on in her mind. He listened with his habitual, smiling\nattention, smoothing the paper of the folded letter pages and\nmurmuring, \"Yes, I understand. Indeed, Miss Enid?\"\n\nWhen she pressed him for advice, he said it was not always easy\nto know in what field one could be most useful; perhaps this very\nrestraint was giving her some spiritual discipline that she\nparticularly needed. He was careful not to commit himself, not to\nadvise anything unconditionally, except prayer.\n\n\"I believe that all things are made clear to us in prayer, Miss\nEnid.\"\n\nEnid clasped her hands; her perplexity made her features look\nsharper. \"But it is when I pray that I feel this call the\nstrongest. It seems as if a finger were pointing me over there.\nSometimes when I ask for guidance in little things, I get none,\nand only get the feeling that my work lies far away, and that for\nit, strength would be given me. Until I take that road, Christ\nwithholds himself.\"\n\nMr. Weldon answered her in a tone of relief, as if something\nobscure had been made clear. \"If that is the case, Miss Enid, I\nthink we need have no anxiety. If the call recurs to you in\nprayer, and it is your Saviour's will, then we can be sure that\nthe way and the means will be revealed. A passage from one of the\nProphets occurs to me at this moment; 'And behold a way shall be\nopened up before thy feet; walk thou in it.' We might say that\nthis promise was originally meant for Enid Royce! I believe God\nlikes us to appropriate passages of His word personally.\" This\nlast remark was made playfully, as if it were a kind of Christian\nEndeavour jest. He rose and handed Enid back the letters.\nClearly, the interview was over.\n\nAs Enid drew on her gloves she told him that it had been a great\nhelp to talk to him, and that he always seemed to give her what\nshe needed. Claude wondered what it was. He hadn't seen Weldon do\nanything but retreat before her eager questions. He, an\n\"atheist,\" could have given her stronger reinforcement.\n\nClaude's car stood under the maple trees in front of Mrs.\nGleason's house. Before they got into it, he called Enid's\nattention to a mass of thunderheads in the west.\n\n\"That looks to me like a storm. It might be a wise thing to stay\nat the hotel tonight.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I don't want to do that. I haven't come prepared.\"\n\nHe reminded her that it wouldn't be impossible to buy whatever\nshe might need for the night.\n\n\"I don't like to stay in a strange place without my own things,\"\nshe said decidedly.\n\n\"I'm afraid we'll be going straight into it. We may be in for\nsomething pretty rough,--but it's as you say.\" He still\nhesitated, with his hand on the door.\n\n\"I think we'd better try it,\" she said with quiet determination.\nClaude had not yet learned that Enid always opposed the\nunexpected, and could not bear to have her plans changed by\npeople or circumstances.\n\nFor an hour he drove at his best speed, watching the clouds\nanxiously. The table-land, from horizon to horizon, was glowing\nin sunlight, and the sky itself seemed only the more brilliant\nfor the mass of purple vapours rolling in the west, with bright\nedges, like new-cut lead. He had made fifty odd miles when the\nair suddenly grew cold, and in ten minutes the whole shining sky\nwas blotted out. He sprang to the ground and began to jack up his\nwheels. As soon as a wheel left the earth, Enid adjusted the\nchain. Claude told her he had never got the chains on so quickly\nbefore. He covered the packages in the back seat with an oilcloth\nand drove forward to meet the storm.\n\nThe rain swept over them in waves, seemed to rise from the sod as\nwell as to fall from the clouds. They made another five miles,\nploughing through puddles and sliding over liquefied roads.\nSuddenly the heavy car, chains and all, bounded up a two-foot\nbank, shot over the sod a dozen yards before the brake caught it,\nthen swung a half-circle and stood still. Enid sat calm and\nmotionless.\n\nClaude drew a long breath. \"If that had happened on a culvert,\nwe'd be in the ditch with the car on top of us. I simply can't\ncontrol the thing. The whole top soil is loose, and there's\nnothing to hold to. That's Tommy Rice's place over there. We'd\nbetter get him to take us in for the night.\"\n\n\"But that would be worse than the hotel,\" Enid objected. \"They\nare not very clean people, and there are a lot of children.\"\n\n\"Better be crowded than dead,\" he murmured. \"From here on, it\nwould be a matter of luck. We might land anywhere.\"\n\n\"We are only about ten miles from your place. I can stay with\nyour mother tonight.\"\n\n\"It's too dangerous, Enid. I don't like the responsibility. Your\nfather would blame me for taking such a chance.\"\n\n\"I know, it's on my account you're nervous.\" Enid spoke\nreasonably enough. \"Do you mind letting me drive for awhile?\nThere are only three bad hills left, and I think I can slide down\nthem sideways; I've often tried it.\"\n\nClaude got out and let her slip into his seat, but after she took\nthe wheel he put his hand on her arm. \"Don't do anything so\nfoolish,\" he pleaded.\n\nEnid smiled and shook her head. She was amiable, but inflexible.\n\nHe folded his arms. \"Go on.\"\n\nHe was chafed by her stubbornness, but he had to admire her\nresourcefulness in handling the car. At the bottom of one of the\nworst hills was a new cement culvert, overlaid with liquid mud,\nwhere there was nothing for the chains to grip. The car slid to\nthe edge of the culvert and stopped on the very brink. While they\nwere ploughing up the other side of the hill, Enid remarked;\n\"It's a good thing your starter works well; a little jar would\nhave thrown us over.\"\n\nThey pulled up at the Wheeler farm just before dark, and Mrs.\nWheeler came running out to meet them with a rubber coat over her\nhead.\n\n\"You poor drowned children!\" she cried, taking Enid in her arms.\n\"How did you ever get home? I so hoped you had stayed in\nHastings.\"\n\n\"It was Enid who got us home,\" Claude told her. \"She's a\ndreadfully foolhardy girl, and somebody ought to shake her, but\nshe's a fine driver.\"\n\nEnid laughed as she brushed a wet lock back from her forehead.\n\"You were right, of course; the sensible thing would have been to\nturn in at the Rice place; only I didn't want to.\"\n\nLater in the evening Claude was glad they hadn't. It was pleasant\nto be at home and to see Enid at the supper table, sitting on his\nfather's right and wearing one of his mother's new grey\nhouse-dresses. They would have had a dismal time at the Rices',\nwith no beds to sleep in except such as were already occupied by\nRice children. Enid had never slept in his mother's guest room\nbefore, and it pleased him to think how comfortable she would be\nthere.\n\nAt an early hour Mrs. Wheeler took a candle to light her guest to\nbed; Enid passed near Claude's chair as she was leaving the room.\n\"Have you forgiven me?\" she asked teasingly.\n\n\"What made you so pig-headed? Did you want to frighten me? or to\nshow me how well you could drive?\"\n\n\"Neither. I wanted to get home. Good-night.\"\n\nClaude settled back in his chair and shaded his eyes. She did\nfeel that this was home, then. She had not been afraid of his\nfather's jokes, or disconcerted by Mahailey's knowing grin. Her\nease in the household gave him unaccountable pleasure. He picked\nup a book, but did not read. It was lying open on his knee when\nhis mother came back half an hour later.\n\n\"Move quietly when you go upstairs, Claude. She is so tired that\nshe may be asleep already.\"\n\nHe took off his shoes and made his ascent with the utmost\ncaution.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nErnest Havel was cultivating his bright, glistening young\ncornfield one summer morning, whistling to himself an old German\nsong which was somehow connected with a picture that rose in his\nmemory. It was a picture of the earliest ploughing he could\nremember.\n\nHe saw a half-circle of green hills, with snow still lingering in\nthe clefts of the higher ridges; behind the hills rose a wall of\nsharp mountains, covered with dark pine forests. In the meadows\nat the foot of that sweep of hills there was a winding creek,\nwith polled willows in their first yellow-green, and brown\nfields. He himself was a little boy, playing by the creek and\nwatching his father and mother plough with two great oxen, that\nhad rope traces fastened to their heads and their long horns. His\nmother walked barefoot beside the oxen and led them; his father\nwalked behind, guiding the plough. His father always looked down.\nHis mother's face was almost as brown and furrowed as the fields,\nand her eyes were pale blue, like the skies of early spring. The\ntwo would go up and down thus all morning without speaking,\nexcept to the oxen. Ernest was the last of a long family, and as\nhe played by the creek he used to wonder why his parents looked\nso old.\n\nLeonard Dawson drove his car up to the fence and shouted, waking\nErnest from his revery. He told his team to stand, and ran out to\nthe edge of the field.\n\n\"Hello, Ernest,\" Leonard called. \"Have you heard Claude Wheeler\ngot hurt day before yesterday?\"\n\n\"You don't say so! It can't be anything bad, or they'd let me\nknow.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's nothing very bad, I guess, but he got his face\nscratched up in the wire quite a little. It was the queerest\nthing I ever saw. He was out with the team of mules and a heavy\nplough, working the road in that deep cut between their place and\nmine. The gasoline motor-truck came along, making more noise than\nusual, maybe. But those mules know a motor truck, and what they\ndid was pure cussedness. They begun to rear and plunge in that\ndeep cut. I was working my corn over in the field and shouted to\nthe gasoline man to stop, but he didn't hear me. Claude jumped\nfor the critters' heads and got 'em by the bits, but by that time\nhe was all tangled up in the lines. Those damned mules lifted him\noff his feet and started to run. Down the draw and up the bank\nand across the fields they went, with that big plough-blade\njumping three or four feet in the air every clip. I was sure it\nwould cut one of the mules open, or go clean through Claude. It\nwould have got him, too, if he hadn't kept his hold on the bits.\nThey carried him right along, swinging in the air, and finally\nran him into the barb-wire fence and cut his face and neck up.\"\n\n\"My goodness! Did he get cut bad?\"\n\n\"No, not very, but yesterday morning he was out cultivating corn,\nall stuck up with court plaster. I knew that was a fool thing to\ndo; a wire cut's nasty if you get overheated out in the dust. But\nyou can't tell a Wheeler anything. Now they say his face has\nswelled and is hurting him terrible, and he's gone to town to see\nthe doctor. You'd better go over there tonight, and see if you\ncan make him take care of himself.\"\n\nLeonard drove on, and Ernest went back to his team. \"It's queer\nabout that boy,\" he was thinking. \"He's big and strong, and he's\ngot an education and all that fine land, but he don't seem to fit\nin right.\" Sometimes Ernest thought his friend was unlucky. When\nthat idea occurred to him, he sighed and shook it off. For Ernest\nbelieved there was no help for that; it was something rationalism\ndid not explain.\n\nThe next afternoon Enid Royce's coupe drove up to the Wheeler\nfarmyard. Mrs. Wheeler saw Enid get out of her car and came down\nthe hill to meet her, breathless and distressed. \"Oh, Enid!\nYou've heard of Claude's accident? He wouldn't take care of\nhimself, and now he's got erysipelas. He's in such pain, poor\nboy!\"\n\nEnid took her arm, and they started up the hill toward the house.\n\"Can I see Claude, Mrs. Wheeler? I want to give him these\nflowers.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler hesitated. \"I don't know if he will let you come in,\ndear. I had hard work persuading him to see Ernest for a few\nmoments last night. He seems so low-spirited, and he's sensitive\nabout the way he's bandaged up. I'll go to his room and ask him.\"\n\n\"No, just let me go up with you, please. If I walk in with you,\nhe won't have time to fret about it. I won't stay if he doesn't\nwish it, but I want to see him.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler was alarmed at this suggestion, but Enid ignored her\nuncertainty. They went up to the third floor together, and Enid\nherself tapped at the door.\n\n\"It's I, Claude. May I come in for a moment?\"\n\nA muffled, reluctant voice answered. \"No. They say this is\ncatching, Enid. And anyhow, I'd rather you didn't see me like\nthis.\"\n\nWithout waiting she pushed open the door. The dark blinds were\ndown, and the room was full of a strong, bitter odor. Claude lay\nflat in bed, his head and face so smothered in surgical cotton\nthat only his eyes and the tip of his nose were visible. The\nbrown paste with which his features were smeared oozed out at the\nedges of the gauze and made his dressings look untidy. Enid took\nin these details at a glance.\n\n\"Does the light hurt your eyes? Let me put up one of the blinds\nfor a moment, because I want you to see these flowers. I've\nbrought you my first sweet peas.\"\n\nClaude blinked at the bunch of bright colours she held out before\nhim. She put them up to his face and asked him if he could smell\nthem through his medicines. In a moment he ceased to feel\nembarrassed. His mother brought a glass bowl, and Enid arranged\nthe flowers on the little table beside him.\n\n\"Now, do you want me to darken the room again?\"\n\n\"Not yet. Sit down for a minute and talk to me. I can't say much\nbecause my face is stiff.\"\n\n\"I should think it would be! I met Leonard Dawson on the road\nyesterday, and he told me how you worked in the field after you\nwere cut. I would like to scold you hard, Claude.\"\n\n\"Do. It might make me feel better.\" He took her hand and kept her\nbeside him a moment. \"Are those the sweet peas you were planting\nthat day when I came back from the West?\"\n\n\"Yes. Haven't they done well to blossom so early?\"\n\n\"Less than two months. That's strange,\" he sighed.\n\n\"Strange? What?\"\n\n\"Oh, that a handful of seeds can make anything so pretty in a few\nweeks, and it takes a man so long to do anything and then it's\nnot much account.\"\n\n\"That's not the way to look at things,\" she said reprovingly.\n\nEnid sat prim and straight on a chair at the foot of his bed. Her\nflowered organdie dress was very much like the bouquet she had\nbrought, and her floppy straw hat had a big lilac bow. She began\nto tell Claude about her father's several attacks of erysipelas.\nHe listened but absently. He would never have believed that Enid,\nwith her severe notions of decorum, would come into his room and\nsit with him like this. He noticed that his mother was quite as\nmuch astonished as he. She hovered about the visitor for a few\nmoments, and then, seeing that Enid was quite at her ease, went\ndownstairs to her work. Claude wished that Enid would not talk at\nall, but would sit there and let him look at her. The sunshine\nshe had let into the room, and her tranquil, fragrant presence,\nsoothed him. Presently he realized that she was asking him\nsomething.\n\n\"What is it, Enid? The medicine they give me makes me stupid. I\ndon't catch things.\"\n\n\"I was asking whether you play chess.\"\n\n\"Very badly.\"\n\n\"Father says I play passably well. When you are better you must\nlet me bring up my ivory chessmen that Carrie sent me from China.\nThey are beautifully carved. And now it's time for me to go.\"\n\nShe rose and patted his hand, telling him he must not be foolish\nabout seeing people. \"I didn't know you were so vain. Bandages\nare as becoming to you as they are to anybody. Shall I pull the\ndark blind again for you?\"\n\n\"Yes, please. There won't be anything to look at now.\"\n\n\"Why, Claude, you are getting to be quite a ladies' man!\"\n\nSomething in the way Enid said this made him wince a little. He\nfelt his burning face grow a shade warmer. Even after she went\ndownstairs he kept wishing she had not said that.\n\nHis mother came to give him his medicine. She stood beside him\nwhile he swallowed it. \"Enid Royce is a real sensible girl--\" she\nsaid as she took the glass. Her upward inflection expressed not\nconviction but bewilderment.\n\nEnid came every afternoon, and Claude looked forward to her\nvisits restlessly; they were the only pleasant things that\nhappened to him, and made him forget the humiliation of his\npoisoned and disfigured face. He was disgusting to himself; when\nhe touched the welts on his forehead and under his hair, he felt\nunclean and abject. At night, when his fever ran high, and the\npain began to tighten in his head and neck, it wrought him to a\ndistressing pitch of excitement. He fought with it as one bulldog\nfights with another. His mind prowled about among dark legends of\ntorture,--everything he had ever read about the Inquisition, the\nrack and the wheel.\n\nWhen Enid entered his room, cool and fresh in her pretty summer\nclothes, his mind leaped to meet her. He could not talk much, but\nhe lay looking at her and breathing in a sweet contentment. After\nawhile he was well enough to sit up half-dressed in a steamer\nchair and play chess with her.\n\nOne afternoon they were by the west window in the sitting-room\nwith the chess board between them, and Claude had to admit that\nhe was beaten again.\n\n\"It must be dull for you, playing with me,\" he murmured, brushing\nthe beads of sweat from his forehead. His face was clean now, so\nwhite that even his freckles had disappeared, and his hands were\nthe soft, languid hands of a sick man.\n\n\"You will play better when you are stronger and can fix your mind\non it,\" Enid assured him. She was puzzled because Claude, who had\na good head for some things, had none at all for chess, and it\nwas clear that he would never play well.\n\n\"Yes,\" he sighed, dropping back into his chair, \"my wits do\nwander. Look at my wheatfield, over there on the skyline. Isn't\nit lovely? And now I won't be able to harvest it. Sometimes I\nwonder whether I'll ever finish anything I begin.\"\n\nEnid put the chessmen back into their box. \"Now that you are\nbetter, you must stop feeling blue. Father says that with your\ntrouble people are always depressed.\"\n\nClaude shook his head slowly, as it lay against the back of the\nchair. \"No, it's not that. It's having so much time to think that\nmakes me blue. You see, Enid, I've never yet done anything that\ngave me any satisfaction. I must be good for something. When I\nlie still and think, I wonder whether my life has been happening\nto me or to somebody else. It doesn't seem to have much\nconnection with me. I haven't made much of a start.\"\n\n\"But you are not twenty-two yet. You have plenty of time to\nstart. Is that what you are thinking about all the time!\" She\nshook her finger at him.\n\n\"I think about two things all the time. That is one of them.\"\nMrs. Wheeler came in with Claude's four o'clock milk; it was his\nfirst day downstairs.\n\nWhen they were children, playing by the mill-dam, Claude had seen\nthe future as a luminous vagueness in which he and Enid would\nalways do things together. Then there came a time when he wanted\nto do everything with Ernest, when girls were disturbing and a\nbother, and he pushed all that into the distance, knowing that\nsome day he must reckon with it again.\n\nNow he told himself he had always known Enid would come back; and\nshe had come on that afternoon when she entered his drug-smelling\nroom and let in the sunlight. She would have done that for nobody\nbut him. She was not a girl who would depart lightly from\nconventions that she recognized as authoritative. He remembered\nher as she used to march up to the platform for Children's Day\nexercises with the other little girls of the infant class; in her\nstiff white dress, never a curl awry or a wrinkle in her\nstocking, keeping her little comrades in order by the acquiescent\ngravity of her face, which seemed to say, \"How pleasant it is to\ndo thus and to do Right!\"\n\nOld Mr. Smith was the minister in those days,--a good man who had\nbeen much tossed about by a stormy and temperamental wife--and his\neyes used to rest yearningly upon little Enid Royce, seeing in\nher the promise of \"virtuous and comely Christian womanhood,\" to\nuse one of his own phrases. Claude, in the boys' class across the\naisle, used to tease her and try to distract her, but he\nrespected her seriousness.\n\nWhen they played together she was fair-minded, didn't whine if\nshe got hurt, and never claimed a girl's exemption from anything\nunpleasant. She was calm, even on the day when she fell into the\nmill-dam and he fished her out; as soon as she stopped choking\nand coughing up muddy water, she wiped her face with her little\ndrenched petticoats, and sat shivering and saying over and over,\n\"Oh, Claude, Claude!\" Incidents like that one now seemed to him\nsignificant and fateful.\n\nWhen Claude's strength began to return to him, it came\noverwhelmingly. His blood seemed to grow strong while his body\nwas still weak, so that the in-rush of vitality shook him. The\ndesire to live again sang in his veins while his frame was\nunsteady. Waves of youth swept over him and left him exhausted.\nWhen Enid was with him these feelings were never so strong; her\nactual presence restored his equilibrium--almost. This fact did\nnot perplex him; he fondly attributed it to something beautiful\nin the girl's nature,--a quality so lovely and subtle that there\nis no name for it.\n\nDuring the first days of his recovery he did nothing but enjoy\nthe creeping stir of life. Respiration was a soft physical\npleasure. In the nights, so long he could not sleep them through,\nit was delightful to lie upon a cloud that floated lazily down\nthe sky. In the depths of this lassitude the thought of Enid\nwould start up like a sweet, burning pain, and he would drift out\ninto the darkness upon sensations he could neither prevent nor\ncontrol. So long as he could plough, pitch hay, or break his back\nin the wheatfield, he had been master; but now he was overtaken\nby himself. Enid was meant for him and she had come for him; he\nwould never let her go. She should never know how much he longed\nfor her. She would be slow to feel even a little of what he was\nfeeling; he knew that. It would take a long while. But he would\nbe infinitely patient, infinitely tender of her. It should be he\nwho suffered, not she. Even in his dreams he never wakened her,\nbut loved her while she was still and unconscious like a statue.\nHe would shed love upon her until she warmed and changed without\nknowing why.\n\nSometimes when Enid sat unsuspecting beside him, a quick blush\nswept across his face and he felt guilty toward her, meek and\nhumble, as if he must beg her forgiveness for something. Often he\nwas glad when she went away and left him alone to think about\nher. Her presence brought him sanity, and for that he ought to be\ngrateful. When he was with her, he thought how she was to be the\none who would put him right with the world and make him fit into\nthe life about him. He had troubled his mother and disappointed\nhis father, His marriage would be the first natural, dutiful,\nexpected thing he had ever done. It would be the beginning of\nusefulness and content; as his mother's oft-repeated Psalm said,\nit would restore his soul. Enid's willingness to listen to him he\ncould scarcely doubt. Her devotion to him during his illness was\nprobably regarded by her friends as equivalent to an engagement.\n\n\n\nV\n\nClaude's first trip to Frankfort was to get his hair cut. After\nleaving the barber-shop he presented himself, glistening with\nbayrum, at Jason Royce's office. Mr. Royce, in the act of closing\nhis safe, turned and took the young man by the hand.\n\n\"Hello, Claude, glad to see you around again! Sickness can't do\nmuch to a husky young farmer like you. With old fellows, it's\nanother story. I'm just starting off to have a look at my\nalfalfa, south of the river. Get in and go along with me.\"\n\nThey went out to the open car that stood by the sidewalk, and\nwhen they were spinning along between fields of ripening grain\nClaude broke the silence. \"I expect you know what I want to see\nyou about, Mr. Royce?\"\n\nThe older man shook his head. He had been preoccupied and grim\never since they started.\n\n\"Well,\" Claude went on modestly, \"it oughtn't to surprise you to\nhear that I've set my heart on Enid. I haven't said anything to\nher yet, but if you're not against me, I'm going to try to\npersuade her to marry me.\"\n\n\"Marriage is a final sort of thing, Claude,\" said Mr. Royce. He\nsat slumping in his seat, watching the road ahead of him with\nintense abstraction, looking more gloomy and grizzled than usual.\n\"Enid is a vegetarian, you know,\" he remarked unexpectedly.\n\nClaude smiled. \"That could hardly make any difference to me, Mr.\nRoyce.\"\n\nThe other nodded slightly. \"I know. At your age you think it\ndoesn't. Such things do make a difference, however.\" His lips\nclosed over his half-dead cigar, and for some time he did not\nopen them.\n\n\"Enid is a good girl,\" he said at last. \"Strictly speaking, she\nhas more brains than a girl needs. If Mrs. Royce had another\ndaughter at home, I'd take Enid into my office. She has good\njudgment. I don't know but she'd run a business better than a\nhouse.\" Having got this out, Mr. Royce relaxed his frown, took\nhis cigar from his mouth, looked at it, and put it back between\nhis teeth without relighting it.\n\nClaude was watching him with surprise. \"There's no question about\nEnid, Mr. Royce. I didn't come to ask you about her,\" he\nexclaimed. \"I came to ask if you'd be willing to have me for a\nson-in-law. I know, and you know, that Enid could do a great deal\nbetter than to marry me. I surely haven't made much of a showing,\nso far.\"\n\n\"Here we are,\" announced Mr. Royce. \"I'll leave the car under\nthis elm, and we'll go up to the north end of the field and have\na look.\"\n\nThey crawled under the wire fence and started across the rough\nground through a field of purple blossoms. Clouds of yellow\nbutterflies darted up before them. They walked jerkily, breaking\nthrough the sun-baked crust into the soft soil beneath. Mr. Royce\nlit a fresh cigar, and as he threw away the match let his hand\ndrop on the young man's shoulder. \"I always envied your father.\nYou took my fancy when you were a little shaver, and I used to\nlet you in to see the water-wheel. When I gave up water power and\nput in an engine, I said to myself: 'There's just one fellow in\nthe country will be sorry to see the old wheel go, and that's\nClaude Wheeler.'\"\n\n\"I hope you don't think I'm too young to marry,\" Claude said as\nthey tramped on.\n\n\"No, it's right and proper a young man should marry. I don't say\nanything against marriage,\" Mr. Royce protested doggedly. \"You\nmay find some opposition in Enid's missionary motives. I don't\nknow how she feels about that now. I don't enquire. I'd be\npleased to see her get rid of such notions. They don't do a woman\nany good.\"\n\n\"I want to help her get rid of them. If it's all right with you,\nI hope I can persuade Enid to marry me this fall.\"\n\nJason Royce turned his head quickly toward his companion, studied\nhis artless, hopeful countenance for a moment, and then looked\naway with a frown.\n\nThe alfalfa field sloped upward at one corner, lay like a bright\ngreen-and-purple handkerchief thrown down on the hillside. At the\nuppermost angle grew a slender young cottonwood, with leaves as\nlight and agitated as the swarms of little butterflies that\nhovered above the clover. Mr. Royce made for this tree, took off\nhis black coat, rolled it up, and sat down on it in the\nflickering shade. His shirt showed big blotches of moisture, and\nthe sweat was rolling in clear drops along the creases in his\nbrown neck. He sat with his hands clasped over his knees, his\nheels braced in the soft soil, and looked blankly off across the\nfield. He found himself absolutely unable to touch upon the vast\nbody of experience he wished to communicate to Claude. It lay in\nhis chest like a physical misery, and the desire to speak\nstruggled there. But he had no words, no way to make himself\nunderstood. He had no argument to present. What he wanted to do\nwas to hold up life as he had found it, like a picture, to his\nyoung friend; to warn him, without explanation, against certain\nheart-breaking disappointments. It could not be done, he saw. The\ndead might as well try to speak to the living as the old to the\nyoung. The only way that Claude could ever come to share his\nsecret, was to live. His strong yellow teeth closed tighter and\ntighter on the cigar, which had gone out like the first. He did\nnot look at Claude, but while he watched the wind plough soft,\nflowery roads in the field, the boy's face was clearly before\nhim, with its expression of reticent pride melting into the\ndesire to please, and the slight stiffness of his shoulders, set\nin a kind of stubborn loyalty. Claude lay on the sod beside him,\nrather tired after his walk in the sun, a little melancholy,\nthough he did not know why.\n\nAfter a long while Mr. Royce unclasped his broad, thick-fingered\nmiller's hands, and for a moment took out the macerated cigar.\n\"Well, Claude,\" he said with determined cheerfulness, \"we'll\nalways be better friends than is common between father and\nson-in-law. You'll find out that pretty nearly everything you\nbelieve about life--about marriage, especially--is lies. I don't\nknow why people prefer to live in that sort of a world, but they\ndo.\"\n\n\nVI\n\nAfter his interview with Mr. Royce, Claude drove directly to the\nmill house. As he came up the shady road, he saw with\ndisappointment the flash of two white dresses instead of one,\nmoving about in the sunny flower garden. The visitor was Gladys\nFarmer. This was her vacation time. She had walked out to the\nmill in the cool of the morning to spend the day with Enid. Now\nthey were starting off to gather water-cresses, and had stopped\nin the garden to smell the heliotrope. On this scorching\nafternoon the purple sprays gave out a fragrance that hung over\nthe flower-bed and brushed their cheeks like a warm breath. The\ngirls looked up at the same moment and recognized Claude. They\nwaved to him and hurried down to the gate to congratulate him on\nhis recovery. He took their little tin pails and followed them\naround the old dam-head and up a sandy gorge, along a clear\nthread of water that trickled into Lovely Creek just above the\nmill. They came to the gravelly hill where the stream took its\nsource from a spring hollowed out under the exposed roots of two\nelm trees. All about the spring, and in the sandy bed of the\nshallow creek, the cresses grew cool and green.\n\nGladys had strong feelings about places. She looked around her\nwith satisfaction. \"Of all the places where we used to play,\nEnid, this was my favourite,\" she declared.\n\n\"You girls sit up there on the elm roots,\" Claude suggested.\n\"Wherever you put your foot in this soft gravel, water gathers.\nYou'll spoil your white shoes. I'll get the cress for you.\"\n\n\"Stuff my pail as full as you can, then,\" Gladys called as they\nsat down. \"I wonder why the Spanish dagger grows so thick on this\nhill, Enid? These plants were old and tough when we were little.\nI love it here.\"\n\nShe leaned back upon the hot, glistening hill-side. The sun came\ndown in red rays through the elm-tops, and all the pebbles and\nbits of quartz glittered dazzlingly. Down in the stream bed the\nwater, where it caught the light, twinkled like tarnished gold.\nClaude's sandy head and stooping shoulders were mottled with\nsunshine as they moved about over the green patches, and his duck\ntrousers looked much whiter than they were. Gladys was too poor\nto travel, but she had the good fortune to be able to see a great\ndeal within a few miles of Frankfort, and a warm imagination\nhelped her to find life interesting. She did, as she confided to\nEnid, want to go to Colorado; she was ashamed of never having\nseen a mountain.\n\nPresently Claude came up the bank with two shining, dripping\npails. \"Now may I sit down with you for a few minutes?\"\n\nMoving to make room for him beside her, Enid noticed that his\nthin face was heavily beaded with perspiration. His pocket\nhandkerchief was wet and sandy, so she gave him her own, with a\nproprietary air. \"Why, Claude, you look quite tired! Have you\nbeen over-doing? Where were you before you came here?\"\n\n\"I was out in the country with your father, looking at his\nalfalfa.\"\n\n\"And he walked you all over the field in the hot sun, I suppose?\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"He did.\"\n\n\"Well, I'll scold him tonight. You stay here and rest. I am going\nto drive Gladys home.\"\n\nGladys protested, but at last consented that they should both\ndrive her home in Claude's car. They lingered awhile, however,\nlistening to the soft, amiable bubbling of the spring; a wise,\nunobtrusive voice, murmuring night and day, continually telling\nthe truth to people who could not understand it.\n\nWhen they went back to the house Enid stopped long enough to cut\na bunch of heliotrope for Mrs. Farmer,--though with the sinking\nof the sun its rich perfume had already vanished. They left\nGladys and her flowers and cresses at the gate of the white\ncottage, now half hidden by gaudy trumpet vines.\n\nClaude turned his car and went back along the dim, twilight road\nwith Enid. \"I usually like to see Gladys, but when I found her\nwith you this afternoon, I was terribly disappointed for a\nminute. I'd just been talking with your father, and I wanted to\ncome straight to you. Do you think you could marry me, Enid?\"\n\n\"I don't believe it would be for the best, Claude.\" She spoke\nsadly.\n\nHe took her passive hand. \"Why not?\"\n\n\"My mind is full of other plans. Marriage is for most girls, but\nnot for all.\"\n\nEnid had taken off her hat. In the low evening light Claude\nstudied her pale face under her brown hair. There was something\ngraceful and charming about the way she held her head, something\nthat suggested both submissiveness and great firmness. \"I've had\nthose far-away dreams, too, Enid; but now my thoughts don't get\nany further than you. If you could care ever so little for me to\nstart on, I'd be willing to risk the rest.\" She sighed. \"You know\nI care for you. I've never made any secret of it. But we're happy\nas we are, aren't we?\"\n\n\"No, I'm not. I've got to have some life of my own, or I'll go to\npieces. If you won't have me, I'll try South America,--and I\nwon't come back until I am an old man and you are an old woman.\"\n\nEnid looked at him, and they both smiled.\n\nThe mill house was black except for a light in one upstairs\nwindow. Claude sprang out of his car and lifted Enid gently to\nthe ground. She let him kiss her soft cool mouth, and her long\nlashes. In the pale, dusty dusk, lit only by a few white stars,\nand with the chill of the creek already in the air, she seemed to\nClaude like a shivering little ghost come up from the rushes\nwhere the old mill-dam used to be. A terrible melancholy clutched\nat the boy's heart. He hadn't thought it would be like this. He\ndrove home feeling weak and broken. Was there nothing in the\nworld outside to answer to his own feelings, and was every turn\nto be fresh disappointment? Why was life so mysteriously hard?\nThis country itself was sad, he thought, looking about him,-and\nyou could no more change that than you could change the story in\nan unhappy human face. He wished to God he were sick again; the\nworld was too rough a place to get about in.\n\nThere was one person in the world who felt sorry for Claude that\nnight. Gladys Farmer sat at her bedroom window for a long while,\nwatching the stars and thinking about what she had seen plainly\nenough that afternoon. She had liked Enid ever since they were\nlittle girls,--and knew all there was to know about her. Claude\nwould become one of those dead people that moved about the\nstreets of Frankfort; everything that was Claude would perish,\nand the shell of him would come and go and eat and sleep for\nfifty years. Gladys had taught the children of many such dead\nmen. She had worked out a misty philosophy for herself, full of\nstrong convictions and confused figures. She believed that all\nthings which might make the world beautiful--love and kindness,\nleisure and art--were shut up in prison, and that successful men\nlike Bayliss Wheeler held the keys. The generous ones, who would\nlet these things out to make people happy, were somehow weak, and\ncould not break the bars. Even her own little life was squeezed\ninto an unnatural shape by the domination of people like Bayliss.\nShe had not dared, for instance, to go to Omaha that spring for\nthe three performances of the Chicago Opera Company. Such an\nextravagance would have aroused a corrective spirit in all her\nfriends, and in the schoolboard as well; they would probably have\ndecided not to give her the little increase in salary she counted\nupon having next year.\n\nThere were people, even in Frankfort, who had imagination and\ngenerous impulses, but they were all, she had to admit,\ninefficient--failures. There was Miss Livingstone, the fiery,\nemotional old maid who couldn't tell the truth; old Mr. Smith, a\nlawyer without clients, who read Shakespeare and Dryden all day\nlong in his dusty office; Bobbie Jones, the effeminate drug\nclerk, who wrote free verse and \"movie\" scenarios, and tended the\nsodawater fountain.\n\nClaude was her one hope. Ever since they graduated from High\nSchool, all through the four years she had been teaching, she had\nwaited to see him emerge and prove himself. She wanted him to be\nmore successful than Bayliss AND STILL BE CLAUDE. She would have\nmade any sacrifice to help him on. If a strong boy like Claude,\nso well endowed and so fearless, must fail, simply because he had\nthat finer strain in his nature,--then life was not worth the\nchagrin it held for a passionate heart like hers.\n\nAt last Gladys threw herself upon the bed. If he married Enid,\nthat would be the end. He would go about strong and heavy, like\nMr. Royce; a big machine with the springs broken inside.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nClaude was well enough to go into the fields before the harvest\nwas over. The middle of July came, and the farmers were still\ncutting grain. The yield of wheat and oats was so heavy that\nthere were not machines enough to thrash it within the usual\ntime. Men had to await their turn, letting their grain stand in\nshock until a belching black engine lumbered into the field.\nRains would have been disastrous; but this was one of those \"good\nyears\" which farmers tell about, when everything goes well. At\nthe time they needed rain, there was plenty of it; and now the\ndays were miracles of dry, glittering heat.\n\nEvery morning the sun came up a red ball, quickly drank the dew,\nand started a quivering excitement in all living things. In great\nharvest seasons like that one, the heat, the intense light, and\nthe important work in hand draw people together and make them\nfriendly. Neighbours helped each other to cope with the\nburdensome abundance of man-nourishing grain; women and children\nand old men fell to and did what they could to save and house it.\nEven the horses had a more varied and sociable existence than\nusual, going about from one farm to another to help neighbour\nhorses drag wagons and binders and headers. They nosed the colts\nof old friends, ate out of strange mangers, and drank, or refused\nto drink, out of strange water-troughs. Decrepit horses that\nlived on a pension, like the Wheelers' stiff-legged Molly and\nLeonard Dawson's Billy with the heaves--his asthmatic cough could\nbe heard for a quarter of a mile--were pressed into service now.\nIt was wonderful, too, how well these invalided beasts managed to\nkeep up with the strong young mares and geldings; they bent their\nwilling heads and pulled as if the chafing of the collar on their\nnecks was sweet to them.\n\nThe sun was like a great visiting presence that stimulated and\ntook its due from all animal energy. When it flung wide its cloak\nand stepped down over the edge of the fields at evening, it left\nbehind it a spent and exhausted world. Horses and men and women\ngrew thin, seethed all day in their own sweat. After supper they\ndropped over and slept anywhere at all, until the red dawn broke\nclear in the east again, like the fanfare of trumpets, and nerves\nand muscles began to quiver with the solar heat.\n\nFor several weeks Claude did not have time to read the\nnewspapers; they lay about the house in bundles, unopened, for\nNat Wheeler was in the field now, working like a giant. Almost\nevery evening Claude ran down to the mill to see Enid for a few\nminutes; he did not get out of his car, and she sat on the old\nstile, left over from horse-back days, while she chatted with\nhim. She said frankly that she didn't like men who had just come\nout of the harvest field, and Claude did not blame her. He didn't\nlike himself very well after his clothes began to dry on him. But\nthe hour or two between supper and bed was the only time he had\nto see anybody. He slept like the heroes of old; sank upon his\nbed as the thing he desired most on earth, and for a blissful\nmoment felt the sweetness of sleep before it overpowered him. In\nthe morning, he seemed to hear the shriek of his alarm clock for\nhours before he could come up from the deep places into which he\nhad plunged. All sorts of incongruous adventures happened to him\nbetween the first buzz of the alarm and the moment when he was\nenough awake to put out his hand and stop it. He dreamed, for\ninstance, that it was evening, and he had gone to see Enid as\nusual. While she was coming down the path from the house, he\ndiscovered that he had no clothes on at all! Then, with wonderful\nagility, he jumped over the picket fence into a clump of castor\nbeans, and stood in the dusk, trying to cover himself with the\nleaves, like Adam in the garden, talking commonplaces to Enid\nthrough chattering teeth, afraid lest at any moment she might\ndiscover his plight.\n\nMrs. Wheeler and Mahailey always lost weight in thrashing time,\njust as the horses did; this year Nat Wheeler had six hundred\nacres of winter wheat that would run close upon thirty bushels to\nthe acre. Such a harvest was as hard on the women as it was on\nthe men. Leonard Dawson's wife, Susie, came over to help Mrs.\nWheeler, but she was expecting a baby in the fall, and the heat\nproved too much for her. Then one of the Yoeder daughters came;\nbut the methodical German girl was so distracted by Mahailey's\nqueer ways that Mrs. Wheeler said it was easier to do the work\nherself than to keep explaining Mahailey's psychology. Day after\nday ten ravenous men sat down at the long dinner table in the\nkitchen. Mrs. Wheeler baked pies and cakes and bread loaves as\nfast as the oven would hold them, and from morning till night the\nrange was stoked like the fire-box of a locomotive. Mahailey\nwrung the necks of chickens until her wrist swelled up, as she\nsaid, \"like a puff-adder.\"\n\nBy the end of July the excitement quieted down. The extra leaves\nwere taken out of the dining table, the Wheeler horses had their\nbarn to themselves again, and the reign of terror in the henhouse\nwas over.\n\nOne evening Mr. Wheeler came down to supper with a bundle of\nnewspapers under his arm. \"Claude, I see this war scare in Europe\nhas hit the market. Wheat's taken a jump. They're paying\neighty-eight cents in Chicago. We might as well get rid of a few\nhundred bushel before it drops again. We'd better begin hauling\ntomorrow. You and I can make two trips a day over to Vicount, by\nchanging teams,--there's no grade to speak of.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler, arrested in the act of pouring coffee, sat holding\nthe coffee-pot in the air, forgetting she had it. \"If this is\nonly a newspaper scare, as we think, I don't see why it should\naffect the market,\" she murmured mildly. \"Surely those big\nbankers in New York and Boston have some way of knowing rumour\nfrom fact.\"\n\n\"Give me some coffee, please,\" said her husband testily. \"I don't\nhave to explain the market, I've only got to take advantage of\nit.\"\n\n\"But unless there's some reason, why are we dragging our wheat\nover to Vicount? Do you suppose it's some scheme the grain men\nare hiding under a war rumour? Have the financiers and the press\never deceived the public like this before?\"\n\n\"I don't know a thing in the world about it, Evangeline, and I\ndon't suppose. I telephoned the elevator at Vicount an hour ago,\nand they said they'd pay me seventy cents, subject to change in\nthe morning quotations. Claude,\" with a twinkle in his eye,\n\"you'd better not go to mill tonight. Turn in early. If we are on\nthe road by six tomorrow, we'll be in town before the heat of the\nday.\"\n\n\"All right, sir. I want to look at the papers after supper. I\nhaven't read anything but the headlines since before thrashing.\nErnest was stirred up about the murder of that Grand Duke and\nsaid the Austrians would make trouble. But I never thought there\nwas anything in it.\"\n\n\"There's seventy cents a bushel in it, anyway,\" said his father,\nreaching for a hot biscuit.\n\n\"If there's that much, I'm somehow afraid there will be more,\"\nsaid Mrs. Wheeler thoughtfully. She had picked up the paper\nfly-brush and sat waving it irregularly, as if she were trying to\nbrush away a swarm of confusing ideas.\n\n\"You might call up Ernest, and ask him what the Bohemian papers\nsay about it,\" Mr. Wheeler suggested.\n\nClaude went to the telephone, but was unable to get any answer\nfrom the Havels. They had probably gone to a barn dance down in\nthe Bohemian township. He went upstairs and sat down before an\narmchair full of newspapers; he could make nothing reasonable\nout of the smeary telegrams in big type on the front page of the\nOmaha World Herald. The German army was entering Luxembourg; he\ndidn't know where Luxembourg was, whether it was a city or a\ncountry; he seemed to have some vague idea that it was a palace!\nHis mother had gone up to \"Mahailey's library,\" the attic, to\nhunt for a map of Europe,--a thing for which Nebraska farmers had\nnever had much need. But that night, on many prairie homesteads,\nthe women, American and foreign-born, were hunting for a map.\n\nClaude was so sleepy that he did not wait for his mother's\nreturn. He stumbled upstairs and undressed in the dark. The night\nwas sultry, with thunder clouds in the sky and an unceasing play\nof sheet-lightning all along the western horizon. Mosquitoes had\ngot into his room during the day, and after he threw himself upon\nthe bed they began sailing over him with their high, excruciating\nnote. He turned from side to side and tried to muffle his ears\nwith the pillow. The disquieting sound became merged, in his\nsleepy brain, with the big type on the front page of the paper;\nthose black letters seemed to be flying about his head with a\nsoft, high, sing-song whizz.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nLate in the afternoon of the sixth of August, Claude and his\nempty wagon were bumping along the level road over the flat\ncountry between Vicount and the Lovely Creek valley. He had made\ntwo trips to town that day. Though he had kept his heaviest team\nfor the hot afternoon pull, his horses were too tired to be urged\noff a walk. Their necks were marbled with sweat stains, and their\nflanks were plastered with the white dust that rose at every\nstep. Their heads hung down, and their breathing was deep and\nslow. The wood of the green-painted wagon seat was blistering hot\nto the touch. Claude sat at one end of it, his head bared to\ncatch the faint stir of air that sometimes dried his neck and\nchin and saved him the trouble of pulling out a handkerchief. On\nevery side the wheat stubble stretched for miles and miles.\nLonely straw stacks stood up yellow in the sun and cast long\nshadows. Claude peered anxiously along the distant locust hedges\nwhich told where the road ran. Ernest Havel had promised to meet\nhim somewhere on the way home. He had not seen Ernest for a week:\nsince then Time had brought prodigies to birth.\n\nAt last he recognized the Havels' team along way off, and he\nstopped and waited for Ernest beside a thorny hedge, looking\nthoughtfully about him. The sun was already low. It hung above\nthe stubble, all milky and rosy with the heat, like the image of\na sun reflected in grey water. In the east the full moon had just\nrisen, and its thin silver surface was flushed with pink until it\nlooked exactly like the setting sun. Except for the place each\noccupied in the heavens, Claude could not have told which was\nwhich. They rested upon opposite rims of the world, two bright\nshields, and regarded each other, as if they, too, had met by\nappointment.\n\nClaude and Ernest sprang to the ground at the same instant and\nshook hands, feeling that they had not seen each other for a long\nwhile.\n\n\"Well, what do you make of it, Ernest?\"\n\nThe young man shook his head cautiously, but replied no further.\nHe patted his horses and eased the collars on their necks.\n\n\"I waited in town for the Hastings paper,\" Claude went on\nimpatiently. \"England declared war last night.\"\n\n\"The Germans,\" said Ernest, \"are at Liege. I know where that is.\nI sailed from Antwerp when I came over here.\"\n\n\"Yes, I saw that. Can the Belgians do anything?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\" Ernest leaned against the wagon wheel and drawing his\npipe from his pocket slowly filled it. \"Nobody can do anything.\nThe German army will go where it pleases.\"\n\n\"If it's as bad as that, why are the Belgians putting up a fight?\"\n\n\"I don't know. It's fine, but it will come to nothing in the end.\nLet me tell you something about the German army, Claude.\"\n\nPacing up and down beside the locust hedge, Ernest rehearsed the\ngreat argument; preparation, organization, concentration,\ninexhaustible resources, inexhaustible men. While he talked the\nsun disappeared, the moon contracted, solidified, and slowly\nclimbed the pale sky. The fields were still glimmering with the\nbland reflection left over from daylight, and the distance grew\nshadowy,--not dark, but seemingly full of sleep.\n\n\"If I were at home,\" Ernest concluded, \"I would be in the\nAustrian army this minute. I guess all my cousins and nephews are\nfighting the Russians or the Belgians already. How would you like\nit yourself, to be marched into a peaceful country like this, in\nthe middle of harvest, and begin to destroy it?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't do it, of course. I'd desert and be shot.\"\n\n\"Then your family would be persecuted. Your brothers, maybe even\nyour father, would be made orderlies to Austrian officers and be\nkicked in the mouth.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't bother about that. I'd let my male relatives decide\nfor themselves how often they would be kicked.\"\n\nErnest shrugged his shoulders. \"You Americans brag like little\nboys; you would and you wouldn't! I tell you, nobody's will has\nanything to do with this. It is the harvest of all that has been\nplanted. I never thought it would come in my life-time, but I\nknew it would come.\"\n\nThe boys lingered a little while, looking up at the soft radiance\nof the sky. There was not a cloud anywhere, and the low glimmer\nin the fields had imperceptibly changed to full, pure moonlight.\nPresently the two wagons began to creep along the white road, and\non the backless seat of each the driver sat drooping forward,\nlost in thought. When they reached the corner where Ernest turned\nsouth, they said goodnight without raising their voices. Claude's\nhorses went on as if they were walking in their sleep. They did\nnot even sneeze at the low cloud of dust beaten up by their heavy\nfoot-falls,--the only sounds in the vast quiet of the night.\n\nWhy was Ernest so impatient with him, Claude wondered. He could\nnot pretend to feel as Ernest did. He had nothing behind him to\nshape his opinions or colour his feelings about what was going on\nin Europe; he could only sense it day by day. He had always been\ntaught that the German people were pre-eminent in the virtues\nAmericans most admire; a month ago he would have said they had\nall the ideals a decent American boy would fight for. The\ninvasion of Belgium was contradictory to the German character as\nhe knew it in his friends and neighbours. He still cherished the\nhope that there had been some great mistake; that this splendid\npeople would apologize and right itself with the world.\n\nMr. Wheeler came down the hill, bareheaded and coatless, as\nClaude drove into the barnyard. \"I expect you're tired. I'll put\nyour team away. Any news?\"\n\n\"England has declared war.\"\n\nMr. Wheeler stood still a moment and scratched his head. \"I guess\nyou needn't get up early tomorrow. If this is to be a sure enough\nwar, wheat will go higher. I've thought it was a bluff until now.\nYou take the papers up to your mother.\"\n\n\n\nIX\n\nEnid and Mrs. Royce had gone away to the Michigan sanatorium\nwhere they spent part of every summer, and would not be back\nuntil October. Claude and his mother gave all their attention to\nthe war despatches. Day after day, through the first two weeks of\nAugust, the bewildering news trickled from the little towns out\ninto the farming country.\n\nAbout the middle of the month came the story of the fall of the\nforts at Liege, battered at for nine days and finally reduced in a\nfew hours by siege guns brought up from the rear,--guns which\nevidently could destroy any fortifications that ever had been, or\never could be constructed. Even to these quiet wheat-growing\npeople, the siege guns before Liege were a menace; not to their\nsafety or their goods, but to their comfortable, established way\nof thinking. They introduced the greater-than-man force which\nafterward repeatedly brought into this war the effect of\nunforeseeable natural disaster, like tidal waves, earthquakes, or\nthe eruption of volcanoes.\n\nOn the twenty-third came the news of the fall of the forts at\nNamur; again giving warning that an unprecedented power of\ndestruction had broken loose in the world. A few days later the\nstory of the wiping out of the ancient and peaceful seat of\nlearning at Louvain made it clear that this force was being\ndirected toward incredible ends. By this time, too, the papers\nwere full of accounts of the destruction of civilian populations.\nSomething new, and certainly evil, was at work among mankind.\nNobody was ready with a name for it. None of the well-worn words\ndescriptive of human behaviour seemed adequate. The epithets\ngrouped about the name of \"Attila\" were too personal, too\ndramatic, too full of old, familiar human passion.\n\nOne afternoon in the first week of September Mrs. Wheeler was in\nthe kitchen making cucumber pickles, when she heard Claude's car\ncoming back from Frankfort. In a moment he entered, letting the\nscreen door slam behind him, and threw a bundle of mail on the\ntable.\n\n\"What do you, think, Mother? The French have moved the seat of\ngovernment to Bordeaux! Evidently, they don't think they can hold\nParis.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler wiped her pale, perspiring face with the hem of her\napron and sat down in the nearest chair. \"You mean that Paris is\nnot the capital of France any more? Can that be true?\"\n\n\"That's what it looks like. Though the papers say it's only a\nprecautionary measure.\"\n\nShe rose. \"Let's go up to the map. I don't remember exactly where\nBordeaux is. Mahailey, you won't let my vinegar burn, will you?\"\n\nClaude followed her to the sitting-room, where her new map hung\non the wall above the carpet lounge. Leaning against the back of\na willow rocking-chair, she began to move her hand about over the\nbrightly coloured, shiny surface, murmuring, \"Yes, there is\nBordeaux, so far to the south; and there is Paris.\"\n\nClaude, behind her, looked over her shoulder. \"Do you suppose\nthey are going to hand their city over to the Germans, like a\nChristmas present? I should think they'd burn it first, the way\nthe Russians did Moscow. They can do better than that now, they\ncan dynamite it!\"\n\n\"Don't say such things.\" Mrs. Wheeler dropped into the deep\nwillow chair, realizing that she was very tired, now that she had\nleft the stove and the heat of the kitchen. She began weakly to\nwave the palm leaf fan before her face. \"It's said to be such a\nbeautiful city. Perhaps the Germans will spare it, as they did\nBrussels. They must be sick of destruction by now. Get the\nencyclopaedia and see what it says. I've left my glasses\ndownstairs.\"\n\nClaude brought a volume from the bookcase and sat down on the\nlounge. He began: \"Paris, the capital city of France and the\nDepartment of the Seine,--shall I skip the history?\"\n\n\"No. Read it all.\"\n\nHe cleared his throat and began again: \"At its first appearance\nin history, there was nothing to foreshadow the important part\nwhich Paris was to play in Europe and in the world,\" etc.\n\nMrs. Wheeler rocked and fanned, forgetting the kitchen and the\ncucumbers as if they had never been. Her tired body was resting,\nand her mind, which was never tired, was occupied with the\naccount of early religious foundations under the Merovingian\nkings. Her eyes were always agreeably employed when they rested\nupon the sunburned neck and catapult shoulders of her red-headed\nson.\n\nClaude read faster and faster until he stopped with a gasp.\n\n\"Mother, there are pages of kings! We'll read that some other\ntime. I want to find out what it's like now, and whether it's\ngoing to have any more history.\" He ran his finger up and down\nthe columns. \"Here, this looks like business.\n\n\"Defences: Paris, in a recent German account of the greatest\nfortresses of the world, possesses three distinct rings of\ndefences\"--here he broke off. \"Now what do you think of that? A\nGerman account, and this is an English book! The world simply\nmade a mistake about the Germans all along. It's as if we invited\na neighbour over here and showed him our cattle and barns, and\nall the time he was planning how he would come at night and club\nus in our beds.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler passed her hand over her brow. \"Yet we have had so\nmany German neighbours, and never one that wasn't kind and\nhelpful.\"\n\n\"I know it. Everything Mrs. Erlich ever told me about Germany\nmade me want to go there. And the people that sing all those\nbeautiful songs about women and children went into Belgian\nvillages and--\"\n\n\"Don't, Claude!\" his mother put out her hands as if to push his\nwords back. \"Read about the defences of Paris; that's what we\nmust think about now. I can't but believe there is one fort the\nGermans didn't put down in their book, and that it will stand. We\nknow Paris is a wicked city, but there must be many God-fearing\npeople there, and God has preserved it all these years. You saw\nin the paper how the churches are full all day of women praying.\"\nShe leaned forward and smiled at him indulgently. \"And you\nbelieve those prayers will accomplish nothing, son?\"\n\nClaude squirmed, as he always did when his mother touched upon\ncertain subjects. \"Well, you see, I can't forget that the Germans\nare praying, too. And I guess they are just naturally more pious\nthan the French.\" Taking up the book he began once more: \"In the\nlow ground again, at the narrowest part of the great loop of the\nMarne,\" etc.\n\nClaude and his mother had grown familiar with the name of that\nriver, and with the idea of its strategic importance, before it\nbegan to stand out in black headlines a few days later.\n\nThe fall ploughing had begun as usual. Mr. Wheeler had decided to\nput in six hundred acres of wheat again. Whatever happened on the\nother side of the world, they would need bread. He took a third\nteam himself and went into the field every morning to help Dan\nand Claude. The neighbours said that nobody but the Kaiser had\never been able to get Nat Wheeler down to regular work.\n\nSince the men were all afield, Mrs. Wheeler now went every\nmorning to the mailbox at the crossroads, a quarter of a mile\naway, to get yesterday's Omaha and Kansas City papers which the\ncarrier left. In her eagerness she opened and began to read them\nas she turned homeward, and her feet, never too sure, took a\nwandering way among sunflowers and buffaloburrs. One morning,\nindeed, she sat down on a red grass bank beside the road and read\nall the war news through before she stirred, while the\ngrasshoppers played leap-frog over her skirts, and the gophers\ncame out of their holes and blinked at her. That noon, when she\nsaw Claude leading his team to the water tank, she hurried down\nto him without stopping to find her bonnet, and reached the\nwindmill breathless.\n\n\"The French have stopped falling back, Claude. They are standing\nat the Marne. There is a great battle going on. The papers say it\nmay decide the war. It is so near Paris that some of the army\nwent out in taxi-cabs.\" Claude drew himself up. \"Well, it will\ndecide about Paris, anyway, won't it? How many divisions?\"\n\n\"I can't make out. The accounts are so confusing. But only a few\nof the English are there, and the French are terribly\noutnumbered. Your father got in before you, and he has the papers\nupstairs.\"\n\n\"They are twenty-four hours old. I'll go to Vicount tonight after\nI'm done work, and get the Hastings paper.\"\n\nIn the evening, when he came back from town, he found his father\nand mother waiting up for him. He stopped a moment in the\nsitting-room. \"There is not much news, except that the battle is\non, and practically the whole French army is engaged. The Germans\noutnumber them five to three in men, and nobody knows how much in\nartillery. General Joffre says the French will fall back no\nfarther.\" He did not sit down, but went straight upstairs to his\nroom.\n\nMrs. Wheeler put out the lamp, undressed, and lay down, but not\nto sleep. Long afterward, Claude heard her gently closing a\nwindow, and he smiled to himself in the dark. His mother, he\nknew, had always thought of Paris as the wickedest of cities, the\ncapital of a frivolous, wine-drinking, Catholic people, who were\nresponsible for the massacre of St. Bartholomew and for the\ngrinning atheist, Voltaire. For the last two weeks, ever since\nthe French began to fall back in Lorraine, he had noticed with\namusement her growing solicitude for Paris.\n\nIt was curious, he reflected, lying wide awake in the dark: four\ndays ago the seat of government had been moved to Bordeaux,--with\nthe effect that Paris seemed suddenly to have become the capital,\nnot of France, but of the world! He knew he was not the only\nfarmer boy who wished himself tonight beside the Marne. The fact\nthat the river had a pronounceable name, with a hard Western \"r\"\nstanding like a keystone in the middle of it, somehow gave one's\nimagination a firmer hold on the situation. Lying still and\nthinking fast, Claude felt that even he could clear the bar of\nFrench \"politeness\"--so much more terrifying than German\nbullets--and slip unnoticed into that outnumbered army. One's\nmanners wouldn't matter on the Marne tonight, the night of the\neighth of September, 1914. There was nothing on earth he would so\ngladly be as an atom in that wall of flesh and blood that rose\nand melted and rose again before the city which had meant so much\nthrough all the centuries--but had never meant so much before.\nIts name had come to have the purity of an abstract idea. In\ngreat sleepy continents, in land-locked harvest towns, in the\nlittle islands of the sea, for four days men watched that name as\nthey might stand out at night to watch a comet, or to see a star\nfall.\n\n\n\nX\n\nIt was Sunday afternoon and Claude had gone down to the mill\nhouse, as Enid and her mother had returned from Michigan the day\nbefore. Mrs. Wheeler, propped back in a rocking chair, was\nreading, and Mr. Wheeler, in his shirt sleeves, his Sunday collar\nunbuttoned, was sitting at his walnut secretary, amusing himself\nwith columns of figures. Presently he rose and yawned, stretching\nhis arms above his head.\n\n\"Claude thinks he wants to begin building right away, up on the\nquarter next the timber claim. I've been figuring on the lumber.\nBuilding materials are cheap just now, so I suppose I'd better\nlet him go ahead.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler looked up absently from the page. \"Why, I suppose\nso.\"\n\nHer husband sat down astride a chair, and leaning his arms on the\nback of it, looked at her. \"What do you think of this match,\nanyway? I don't know as I've heard you say.\"\n\n\"Enid is a good, Christian girl...\" Mrs. Wheeler began\nresolutely, but her sentence hung in the air like a question.\n\nHe moved impatiently. \"Yes, I know. But what does a husky boy\nlike Claude want to pick out a girl like that for? Why,\nEvangeline, she'll be the old woman over again!\"\n\nApparently these misgivings were not new to Mrs. Wheeler, for she\nput out her hand to stop him and whispered in solemn agitation,\n\"Don't say anything! Don't breathe!\"\n\n\"Oh, I won't interfere! I never do. I'd rather have her for a\ndaughter-in-law than a wife, by a long shot. Claude's more of a\nfool than I thought him.\" He picked up his hat and strolled down\nto the barn, but his wife did not recover her composure so\neasily. She left the chair where she had hopefully settled\nherself for comfort, took up a feather duster and began moving\ndistractedly about the room, brushing the surface of the\nfurniture. When the war news was bad, or when she felt troubled\nabout Claude, she set to cleaning house or overhauling the\nclosets, thankful to be able to put some little thing to rights\nin such a disordered world.\n\nAs soon as the fall planting was done, Claude got the well borers\nout from town to drill his new well, and while they were at work\nhe began digging his cellar. He was building his house on the\nlevel stretch beside his father's timber claim because, when he\nwas a little boy, he had thought that grove of trees the most\nbeautiful spot in the world. It was a square of about thirty\nacres, set out in ash and box-elder and cotton-woods, with a\nthick mulberry hedge on the south side. The trees had been\nneglected of late years, but if he lived up there he could manage\nto trim them and care for them at odd moments.\n\nEvery morning now he ran up in the Ford and worked at his cellar.\nHe had heard that the deeper a cellar was, the better it was; and\nhe meant that this one should be deep enough. One day Leonard\nDawson stopped to see what progress he was making. Standing on\nthe edge of the hole, he shouted to the lad who was sweating\nbelow.\n\n\"My God, Claude, what do you want of a cellar as deep as that?\nWhen your wife takes a notion to go to China, you can open a\ntrap-door and drop her through!\"\n\nClaude flung down his pick and ran up the ladder. \"Enid's not\ngoing to have notions of that sort,\" he said wrathfully.\n\n\"Well, you needn't get mad. I'm glad to hear it. I was sorry when\nthe other girl went. It always looked to me like Enid had her face\nset for China, but I haven't seen her for a good while,--not\nsince before she went off to Michigan with the old lady.\"\n\nAfter Leonard was gone, Claude returned to his work, still out of\nhumour. He was not altogether happy in his mind about Enid. When\nhe went down to the mill it was usually Mr. Royce, not Enid, who\nsought to detain him, followed him down the path to the gate and\nseemed sorry to see him go. He could not blame Enid with any lack\nof interest in what he was doing. She talked and thought of\nnothing but the new house, and most of her suggestions were good.\nHe often wished she would ask for something unreasonable and\nextravagant. But she had no selfish whims, and even insisted that\nthe comfortable upstairs sleeping room he had planned with such\ncare should be reserved for a guest chamber.\n\nAs the house began to take shape, Enid came up often in her car,\nto watch its growth, to show Claude samples of wallpapers and\ndraperies, or a design for a window-seat she had cut from some\nmagazine. There could be no question of her pride in every\ndetail. The disappointing thing was that she seemed more\ninterested in the house than in him. These months when they could\nbe together as much as they pleased, she treated merely as a\nperiod of time in which they were building a house.\n\nEverything would be all right when they were married, Claude told\nhimself. He believed in the transforming power of marriage, as\nhis mother believed in the miraculous effects of conversion.\nMarriage reduced all women to a common denominator; changed a\ncool, self-satisfied girl into a loving and generous one. It\nwas quite right that Enid should be unconscious now of everything\nthat she was to be when she was his wife. He told himself he\nwouldn't want it otherwise.\n\nBut he was lonely, all the same. He lavished upon the little\nhouse the solicitude and cherishing care that Enid seemed not to\nneed. He stood over the carpenters urging the greatest nicety in\nthe finish of closets and cupboards, the convenient placing of\nshelves, the exact joining of sills and casings. Often he stayed\nlate in the evening, after the workmen with their noisy boots had\ngone home to supper. He sat down on a rafter or on the skeleton\nof the upper porch and quite lost himself in brooding, in\nanticipation of things that seemed as far away as ever. The dying\nlight, the quiet stars coming out, were friendly and sympathetic.\nOne night a bird flew in and fluttered wildly about among the\npartitions, shrieking with fright before it darted out into the\ndusk through one of the upper windows and found its way to\nfreedom.\n\nWhen the carpenters were ready to put in the staircase, Claude\ntelephoned Enid and asked her to come and show them just what\nheight she wanted the steps made. His mother had always had to\nclimb stairs that were too steep. Enid stopped her car at the\nFrankfort High School at four o'clock and persuaded Gladys Farmer\nto drive out with her.\n\nWhen they arrived they found Claude working on the lattice\nenclosure of the back porch. \"Claude is like Jonah,\" Enid\nlaughed. \"He wants to plant gourd vines here, so they will run\nover the lattice and make shade. I can think of other vines that\nmight be more ornamental.\"\n\nClaude put down his hammer and said coaxingly: \"Have you ever\nseen a gourd vine when it had something to climb on, Enid? You\nwouldn't believe how pretty they are; big green leaves, and\ngourds and yellow blossoms hanging all over them at the same\ntime. An old German woman who keeps a lunch counter at one of\nthose stations on the road to Lincoln has them running up her\nback porch, and I've wanted to plant some ever since I first saw\nhers.\"\n\nEnid smiled indulgently. \"Well, I suppose you'll let me have\nclematis for the front porch, anyway? The men are getting ready\nto leave, so we'd better see about the steps.\"\n\nAfter the workmen had gone, Claude took the girls upstairs by the\nladder. They emerged from a little entry into a large room which\nextended over both the front and back parlours. The carpenters\ncalled it \"the pool hall\". There were two long windows, like\ndoors, opening upon the porch roof, and in the sloping ceiling\nwere two dormer windows, one looking north to the timber claim\nand the other south toward Lovely Creek. Gladys at once felt a\nsingular pleasantness about this chamber, empty and unplastered\nas it was. \"What a lovely room!\" she exclaimed.\n\nClaude took her up eagerly. \"Don't you think so? You see it's my\nidea to have the second floor for ourselves, instead of cutting\nit up into little boxes as people usually do. We can come up here\nand forget the farm and the kitchen and all our troubles. I've\nmade a big closet for each of us, and got everything just right.\nAnd now Enid wants to keep this room for preachers!\"\n\nEnid laughed. \"Not only for preachers, Claude. For Gladys, when\nshe comes to visit us--you see she likes it--and for your mother\nwhen she comes to spend a week and rest. I don't think we ought\nto take the best room for ourselves.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" Claude argued hotly. \"I'm building the whole house for\nourselves. Come out on the porch roof, Gladys. Isn't this fine\nfor hot nights? I want to put a railing round and make this into\na balcony, where we can have chairs and a hammock.\"\n\nGladys sat down on the low window-sill. \"Enid, you'd be foolish\nto keep this for a guest room. Nobody would ever enjoy it as much\nas you would. You can see the whole country from here.\"\n\nEnid smiled, but showed no sign of relenting. \"Let's wait and\nwatch the sun go down. Be careful, Claude. It makes me nervous to\nsee you lying there.\"\n\nHe was stretched out on the edge of the roof, one leg hanging\nover, and his head pillowed on his arm. The flat fields turned\nred, the distant windmills flashed white, and little rosy clouds\nappeared in the sky above them.\n\n\"If I make this into a balcony,\" Claude murmured, \"the peak of\nthe roof will always throw a shadow over it in the afternoon, and\nat night the stars will be right overhead. It will be a fine\nplace to sleep in harvest time.\"\n\n\"Oh, you could always come up here to sleep on a hot night,\" Enid\nsaid quickly.\n\n\"It wouldn't be the same.\"\n\nThey sat watching the light die out of the sky, and Enid and\nGladys drew close together as the coolness of the autumn evening\ncame on. The three friends were thinking about the same thing;\nand yet, if by some sorcery each had begun to speak his thoughts\naloud, amazement and bitterness would have fallen upon all.\nEnid's reflections were the most blameless. The discussion about\nthe guest room had reminded her of Brother Weldon. In September,\non her way to Michigan with Mrs. Royce, she had stopped for a day\nin Lincoln to take counsel with Arthur Weldon as to whether she\nought to marry one whom she described to him as \"an unsaved man.\"\nYoung Mr. Weldon approached this subject with a cautious tread,\nbut when he learned that the man in question was Claude Wheeler,\nhe became more partisan than was his wont. He seemed to think\nthat her marrying Claude was the one way to reclaim him, and did\nnot hesitate to say that the most important service devout girls\ncould perform for the church was to bring promising young men to\nits support. Enid had been almost certain that Mr. Weldon would\napprove her course before she consulted him, but his concurrence\nalways gratified her pride. She told him that when she had a home\nof her own she would expect him to spend a part of his summer\nvacation there, and he blushingly expressed his willingness to do\nso.\n\nGladys, too, was lost in her own thoughts, sitting with that ease\nwhich made her seem rather indolent, her head resting against the\nempty window frame, facing the setting sun. The rosy light made\nher brown eyes gleam like old copper, and there was a moody look\nin them, as if in her mind she were defying something. When he\nhappened to glance at her, it occurred to Claude that it was a\nhard destiny to be the exceptional person in a community, to be\nmore gifted or more intelligent than the rest. For a girl it must\nbe doubly hard. He sat up suddenly and broke the long silence.\n\n\"I forgot, Enid, I have a secret to tell you. Over in the timber\nclaim the other day I started up a flock of quail. They must be\nthe only ones left in all this neighbourhood, and I doubt if they\never come out of the timber. The bluegrass hasn't been mowed in\nthere for years,--not since I first went away to school, and maybe\nthey live on the grass seeds. In summer, of course, there are\nmulberries.\"\n\nEnid wondered whether the birds could have learned enough about\nthe world to stay hidden in the timber lot. Claude was sure they\nhad.\n\n\"Nobody ever goes near the place except Father; he stops there\nsometimes. Maybe he has seen them and never said a word. It would\nbe just like him.\" He told them he had scattered shelled corn in\nthe grass, so that the birds would not be tempted to fly over\ninto Leonard Dawson's cornfield. \"If Leonard saw them, he'd\nlikely take a shot at them.\"\n\n\"Why don't you ask him not to?\" Enid suggested.\n\nClaude laughed. \"That would be asking a good deal. When a bunch\nof quail rise out of a cornfield they're a mighty tempting sight,\nif a man likes hunting. We'll have a picnic for you when you come\nout next summer, Gladys. There are some pretty places over there\nin the timber.\"\n\nGladys started up. \"Why, it's night already! It's lovely here,\nbut you must get me home, Enid.\"\n\nThey found it dark inside. Claude took Enid down the ladder and\nout to her car, and then went back for Gladys. She was sitting on\nthe floor at the top of the ladder. Giving her his hand he helped\nher to rise.\n\n\"So you like my little house,\" he said gratefully.\n\n\"Yes. Oh, yes!\" Her voice was full of feeling, but she did not\nexert herself to say more. Claude descended in front of her to\nkeep her from slipping. She hung back while he led her through\nconfusing doorways and helped her over the piles of laths that\nlittered the floors. At the edge of the gaping cellar entrance\nshe stopped and leaned wearily on his arm for a moment. She did\nnot speak, but he understood that his new house made her sad;\nthat she, too, had come to the place where she must turn out of\nthe old path. He longed to whisper to her and beg her not to\nmarry his brother. He lingered and hesitated, fumbling in the\ndark. She had his own cursed kind of sensibility; she would\nexpect too much from life and be disappointed. He was reluctant\nto lead her out into the chilly evening without some word of\nentreaty. He would willingly have prolonged their passage,--\nthrough many rooms and corridors. Perhaps, had that been\npossible, the strength in him would have found what it was\nseeking; even in this short interval it had stirred and made\nitself felt, had uttered a confused appeal. Claude was greatly\nsurprised at himself.\n\n\n\nXI\n\nEnid decided that she would be married in the first week of June.\nEarly in May the plasterers and painters began to be busy in the\nnew house. The walls began to shine, and Claude went about all\nday, oiling and polishing the hard-pine floors and wainscoting.\nHe hated to have anybody step on his floors. He planted gourd\nvines about the back porch, set out clematis and lilac bushes,\nand put in a kitchen garden. He and Enid were going to Denver and\nColorado Springs for their wedding trip, but Ralph would be at\nhome then, and he had promised to come over and water the flowers\nand shrubs if the weather was dry.\n\nEnid often brought her work and sat sewing on the front porch\nwhile Claude was rubbing the woodwork inside the house, or\ndigging and planting outside. This was the best part of his\ncourtship. It seemed to him that he had never spent such happy\ndays before. If Enid did not come, he kept looking down the road\nand listening, went from one thing to another and made no\nprogress. He felt full of energy, so long as she sat there on the\nporch, with lace and ribbons and muslin in her lap. When he\npassed by, going in or out, and stopped to be near her for a\nmoment, she seemed glad to have him tarry. She liked him to\nadmire her needlework, and did not hesitate to show him the\nfeatherstitching and embroidery she was putting on her new\nunderclothes. He could see, from the glances they exchanged, that\nthe painters thought this very bold behaviour in one so soon to\nbe a bride. He thought it very charming behaviour himself, though\nhe would never have expected it of Enid. His heart beat hard when\nhe realized how far she confided in him, how little she was\nafraid of him! She would let him linger there, standing over her\nand looking down at her quick fingers, or sitting on the ground\nat her feet, gazing at the muslin pinned to her knee, until his\nown sense of propriety told him to get about his work and spare\nthe feelings of the painters.\n\n\"When are you going over to the timber claim with me?\" he asked,\ndropping on the ground beside her one warm, windy afternoon. Enid\nwas sitting on the porch floor, her back against a pillar, and\nher feet on one of those round mats of pursley that grow over\nhard-beaten earth. \"I've found my flock of quail again. They live\nin the deep grass, over by a ditch that holds water most of the\nyear. I'm going to plant a few rows of peas in there, so they'll\nhave a feeding ground at home. I consider Leonard's cornfield a\ngreat danger. I don't know whether to take him into my confidence\nor not.\"\n\n\"You've told Ernest Havel, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes!\" Claude replied, trying not to be aware of the little\nnote of acrimony in her voice. \"He's perfectly safe. That place\nis a paradise for birds. The trees are full of nests. You can\nstand over there in the morning and hear the young robins\nsquawking for their breakfast. Come up early tomorrow morning and\ngo over with me, won't you? But wear heavy shoes; it's wet in the\nlong grass.\"\n\nWhile they were talking a sudden whirlwind swept round the corner\nof the house, caught up the little mound of folded lace\ncorset-covers and strewed them over the dusty yard. Claude ran\nafter them with Enid's flowered workbag and thrust them into it\nas he came upon one after another, fluttering in the weeds. When\nhe returned, Enid had folded her needle-case and was putting on\nher hat. \"Thank you,\" she said with a smile. \"Did you find\neverything?\"\n\n\"I think so.\" He hurried toward the car to hide his guilty face.\nOne little lace thing he had not put into the bag, but had thrust\ninto his pocket.\n\nThe next morning Enid came up early to hear the birds in the\ntimber.\n\n\n\nXII\n\nOn the night before his wedding Claude went to bed early. He had\nbeen dashing about with Ralph all day in the car, making final\npreparations, and was worn out. He fell asleep almost at once.\nThe women of the household could not so easily forget the great\nevent of tomorrow. After the supper dishes were washed, Mahailey\nclambered up to the attic to get the quilt she had so long been\nsaving for a wedding present for Claude. She took it out\nof the chest, unfolded it, and counted the stars in the\npattern--counting was an accomplishment she was proud of--before\nshe wrapped it up. It was to go down to the mill house with the\nother presents tomorrow. Mrs. Wheeler went to bed many times that\nnight. She kept thinking of things that ought to be looked after;\ngetting up and going to make sure that Claude's heavy underwear\nhad been put into his trunk, against the chance of cold in the\nmountains; or creeping downstairs to see that the six roasted\nchickens which were to help out at the wedding supper were\nsecurely covered from the cats. As she went about these tasks,\nshe prayed constantly. She had not prayed so long and fervently\nsince the battle of the Marne.\n\nEarly the next morning Ralph loaded the big car with the presents\nand baskets of food and ran down to the Royces'. Two motors from\ntown were already standing in the mill yard; they had brought a\ncompany of girls who came with all the June roses in Frankfort to\ntrim the house for the wedding. When Ralph tooted his horn,\nhalf-a-dozen of them ran out to greet him, reproaching him\nbecause he had not brought his brother along. Ralph was\nimmediately pressed into service. He carried the step-ladder\nwherever he was told, drove nails, and wound thorny sprays of\nrambler roses around the pillars between the front and back\nparlours, making the arch under which the ceremony was to take\nplace.\n\nGladys Farmer had not been able to leave her classes at the High\nSchool to help in this friendly work, but at eleven o'clock a\nlivery automobile drove up, laden with white and pink peonies\nfrom her front yard, and bringing a box of hothouse flowers she\nhad ordered for Enid from Hastings. The girls admired them, but\ndeclared that Gladys was extravagant, as usual; the flowers from\nher own yard would really have been enough. The car was driven by\na lank, ragged boy who worked about the town garage, and who was\ncalled \"Silent Irv,\" because nobody could ever get a word out of\nhim. He had almost no voice at all,--a thin little squeak in the\ntop of his throat, like the gasping whisper of a medium in her\ntrance state. When he came to the front door, both arms full of\npeonies, he managed to wheeze out:\n\n\"These are from Miss Farmer. There are some more down there.\"\n\nThe girls went back to his car with him, and he took out a square\nbox, tied up with white ribbons and little silver bells,\ncontaining the bridal bouquet.\n\n\"How did you happen to get these?\" Ralph asked the thin boy. \"I\nwas to go to town for them.\"\n\nThe messenger swallowed. \"Miss Farmer told me if there were any\nother flowers at the station marked for here, I should bring them\nalong.\"\n\n\"That was nice of her.\" Ralph thrust his hand into his trousers\npocket. \"How much? I'll settle with you before I forget.\"\n\nA pink flush swept over the boy's pale face,--a delicate face\nunder ragged hair, contracted by a kind of shrinking unhappiness.\nHis eyes were always half-closed, as if he did not want to see\nthe world around him, or to be seen by it. He went about like\nsomebody in a dream. \"Miss Farmer,\" he whispered, \"has paid me.\"\n\n\"Well, she thinks of everything!\" exclaimed one of the girls.\n\"You used to go to school to Gladys, didn't you, Irv?\"\n\n\"Yes, mam.\" He got into his car without opening the door,\nslipping like an eel round the steering-rod, and drove off.\n\nThe girls followed Ralph up the gravel walk toward the house. One\nwhispered to the others: \"Do you suppose Gladys will come out\ntonight with Bayliss Wheeler? I always thought she had a pretty\nwarm spot in her heart for Claude, myself.\"\n\nSome one changed the subject. \"I can't get over hearing Irv talk\nso much. Gladys must have put a spell on him.\"\n\n\"She was always kind to him in school,\" said the girl who had\nquestioned the silent boy. \"She said he was good in his studies,\nbut he was so frightened he could never recite. She let him write\nout the answers at his desk.\"\n\nRalph stayed for lunch, playing about with the girls until his\nmother telephoned for him. \"Now I'll have to go home and look\nafter my brother, or he'll turn up tonight in a striped shirt.\"\n\n\"Give him our love,\" the girls called after him, \"and tell him\nnot to be late.\"\n\nAs he drove toward the farm, Ralph met Dan, taking Claude's trunk\ninto town. He slowed his car. \"Any message?\" he called.\n\nDan grinned. \"Naw. I left him doin' as well as could be\nexpected.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler met Ralph on the stairs. \"He's up in his room. He\ncomplains his new shoes are too tight. I think it's nervousness.\nPerhaps he'll let you shave him; I'm sure he'll cut himself. And\nI wish the barber hadn't cut his hair so short, Ralph. I hate\nthis new fashion of shearing men behind the ears. The back of his\nneck is the ugliest part of a man.\" She spoke with such\nresentment that Ralph broke into a laugh.\n\n\"Why, Mother, I thought all men looked alike to you! Anyhow,\nClaude's no beauty.\"\n\n\"When will you want your bath? I'll have to manage so that\neverybody won't be calling for hot water at once.\" She turned to\nMr. Wheeler who sat writing a check at the secretary. \"Father,\ncould you take your bath now, and be out of the way?\"\n\n\"Bath?\" Mr. Wheeler shouted, \"I don't want any bath! I'm not\ngoing to be married tonight. I guess we don't have to boil the\nwhole house for Enid.\"\n\nRalph snickered and shot upstairs. He found Claude sitting on the\nbed, with one shoe off and one shoe on. A pile of socks lay\nscattered on the rug. A suitcase stood open on one chair and a\nblack travelling bag on another.\n\n\"Are you sure they're too small?\" Ralph asked.\n\n\"About four sizes.\"\n\n\"Well, why didn't you get them big enough?\"\n\n\"I did. That shark in Hastings worked off another pair on me when\nI wasn't looking. That's all right,\" snatching away the shoe his\nbrother had picked up to examine. \"I don't care, so long as I can\nstand in them. You'd better go telephone the depot and ask if\nthe train's on time.\"\n\n\"They won't know yet. It's seven hours till it's due.\"\n\n\"Then telephone later. But find out, somehow. I don't want to\nstand around that station, waiting for the train.\"\n\nRalph whistled. Clearly, his young man was going to be hard to\nmanage. He proposed a bath as a soothing measure. No, Claude had\nhad his bath. Had he, then, packed his suitcase?\n\n\"How the devil can I pack it when I don't know what I'm going to\nput on?\"\n\n\"You'll put on one shirt and one pair of socks. I'm going to get\nsome of this stuff out of the way for you.\" Ralph caught up a\nhandful of socks and fell to sorting them. Several had bright red\nspots on the toe. He began to laugh.\n\n\"I know why your shoe hurts, you've cut your foot!\"\n\nClaude sprang up as if a hornet had stung him. \"Will you get out\nof here,\" he shouted, \"and let me alone?\"\n\nRalph vanished. He told his mother he would dress at once, as\nthey might have to use force with Claude at the last moment. The\nwedding ceremony was to be at eight, supper was to follow, and\nClaude and Enid were to leave Frankfort at 10:25, on the Denver\nexpress. At six o'clock, when Ralph knocked at his brother's\ndoor, he found him shaved and brushed, and dressed, except for\nhis coat. His tucked shirt was not rumpled, and his tie was\nproperly knotted. Whatever pain they concealed, his patent\nleather shoes were smooth and glistening and resolutely pointed.\n\n\"Are you packed?\" Ralph asked in astonishment.\n\n\"Nearly. I wish you'd go over things and make them look a little\nneater, if you can. I'd hate to have a girl see the inside of\nthat suitcase, the way it is. Where shall I put my cigars?\nThey'll make everything smell, wherever I put them. All my\nclothes seem to smell of cooking, or starch, or something. I\ndon't know what Mahailey does to them,\" he ended bitterly.\n\nRalph looked outraged. \"Well, of all ingratitude! Mahailey's been\nironing your damned old shirts for a week!\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, I know. Don't rattle me. I forgot to put any\nhandkerchiefs in my trunk, so you'll have to get the whole bunch\nin somewhere.\"\n\nMr. Wheeler appeared in the doorway, his Sunday black trousers\ngallowsed up high over a white shirt, wafting a rich odor of\nbayrum from his tumbled hair. He held a thin folded paper\ndelicately between his thick fingers.\n\n\"Where is your bill-book, son?\"\n\nClaude caught up his discarded trousers and extracted a square of\nleather from the pocket. His father took it and placed the bit of\npaper inside with the bank notes. \"You may want to pick up some\ntrifle your wife fancies,\" he said. \"Have you got your railroad\ntickets in here? Here is your trunk check Dan brought back. Don't\nforget, I've put it in with your tickets and marked it C. W., so\nyou'll know which is your check and which is Enid's.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.\"\n\nClaude had already drawn from the bank all the money he would\nneed. This additional bank check was Mr. Wheeler's admission that\nhe was sorry for some sarcastic remarks he had made a few days\nago, when he discovered that Claude had reserved a stateroom on\nthe Denver express. Claude had answered curtly that when Enid and\nher mother went to Michigan they always had a stateroom, and he\nwasn't going to ask her to travel less comfortably with him.\n\nAt seven o'clock the Wheeler family set out in the two cars that\nstood waiting by the windmill. Mr. Wheeler drove the big\nCadillac, and Ralph took Mahailey and Dan in the Ford. When they\nreached the mill house the outer yard was already black with\nmotors, and the porch and parlours were full of people talking\nand moving about.\n\nClaude went directly upstairs. Ralph began to seat the guests,\narranging the folding chairs in such a way as to leave a passage\nfrom the foot of the stairs to the floral arch he had constructed\nthat morning. The preacher had his Bible in his hand and was\nstanding under the light, hunting for his chapter. Enid would\nhave preferred to have Mr. Weldon come down from Lincoln to marry\nher, but that would have wounded Mr. Snowberry deeply. After all,\nhe was her minister, though he was not eloquent and persuasive\nlike Arthur Weldon. He had fewer English words at his command\nthan most human beings, and even those did not come to him\nreadily. In his pulpit he sought for them and struggled with them\nuntil drops of perspiration rolled from his forehead and fell\nupon his coarse, matted brown beard. But he believed what he\nsaid, and language was so little an accomplishment with him that\nhe was not tempted to say more than he believed. He had been a\ndrummer boy in the Civil War, on the losing side, and he was a\nsimple, courageous man.\n\nRalph was to be both usher and best man. Gladys Farmer could not\nbe one of the bridesmaids because she was to play the wedding\nmarch. At eight o'clock Enid and Claude came downstairs together,\nconducted by Ralph and followed by four girls dressed in white,\nlike the bride. They took their places under the arch before the\npreacher. He began with the chapter from Genesis about the\ncreation of man, and Adam's rib, reading in a laboured manner, as\nif he did not quite know why he had selected that passage and was\nlooking for something he did not find. His nose-glasses kept\nfalling off and dropping upon the open book. Throughout this\nprolonged fumbling Enid stood calm, looking at him respectfully,\nvery pretty in her short veil. Claude was so pale that he looked\nunnatural,--nobody had ever seen him like that before. His face,\nbetween his very black clothes and his smooth, sandy hair, was\nwhite and severe, and he uttered his responses in a hollow voice.\nMahailey, at the back of the room, in a black hat with green\ngooseberries on it, was standing, in order to miss nothing. She\nwatched Mr. Snowberry as if she hoped to catch some visible sign\nof the miracle he was performing. She always wondered just what\nit was the preacher did to make the wrongest thing in the world\nthe rightest thing in the world.\n\nWhen it was over, Enid went upstairs to put on her travelling\ndress, and Ralph and Gladys began seating the guests for supper.\nJust twenty minutes later Enid came down and took her place\nbeside Claude at the head of the long table. The company rose and\ndrank the bride's health in grape-juice punch. Mr. Royce,\nhowever, while the guests were being seated, had taken Mr.\nWheeler down to the fruit cellar, where the two old friends drank\noff a glass of well-seasoned Kentucky whiskey, and shook hands.\nWhen they came back to the table, looking younger than when they\nwithdrew, the preacher smelled the tang of spirits and felt\nslighted. He looked disconsolately into his ruddy goblet and\nthought about the marriage at Cana. He tried to apply his Bible\nliterally to life and, though he didn't dare breathe it aloud in\nthese days, he could never see why he was better than his Lord.\n\nRalph, as master of ceremonies, kept his head and forgot nothing.\nWhen it was time to start, he tapped Claude on the shoulder,\ncutting his father short in one of his best stories. Contrary to\ncustom, the bridal couple were to go to the station\nunaccompanied, and they vanished from the head of the table with\nonly a nod and a smile to the guests. Ralph hurried them into the\nlight car, where he had already stowed Enid's hand luggage. Only\nwizened little Mrs. Royce slipped out from the kitchen to bid\nthem good-bye.\n\nThat evening some bad boys had come out from town and strewn the\nroad near the mill with dozens of broken glass bottles, after\nwhich they hid in the wild plum bushes to wait for the fun.\nRalph's was the first car out, and though his lights glittered on\nthis bed of jagged glass, there was no time to stop; the road was\nditched on either side, so he had to drive straight ahead, and\ngot into Frankfort on flat tires. The express whistled just as he\npulled up at the station. He and Claude caught up the four pieces\nof hand luggage and put them in the stateroom. Leaving Enid there\nwith the bags, the two boys went to the rear platform of the\nobservation car to talk until the last moment. Ralph checked off\non his fingers the list of things he had promised Claude to\nattend to. Claude thanked him feelingly. He felt that without\nRalph he could never have got married at all. They had never been\nsuch good friends as during the last fortnight.\n\nThe wheels began to turn. Ralph gripped Claude's hand, ran to the\nfront of the car and stepped off. As Claude passed him, he stood\nwaving his handkerchief,--a rather funny figure under the station\nlights, in his black clothes and his stiff straw hat, his short\nlegs well apart, wearing his incurably jaunty air.\n\nThe train glided quietly out through the summer darkness, along\nthe timbered river valley. Claude was alone on the back platform,\nsmoking a nervous cigar. As they passed the deep cut where Lovely\nCreek flowed into the river, he saw the lights of the mill house\nflash for a moment in the distance. The night air was still;\nheavy with the smell of sweet clover that grew high along the\ntracks, and of wild grapevines wet with dew. The conductor came\nto ask for the tickets, saying with a wise smile that he had been\nhunting for him, as he didn't like to trouble the lady.\n\nAfter he was gone, Claude looked at his watch, threw away the end\nof his cigar, and went back through the Pullman cars. The\npassengers had gone to bed; the overhead lights were always\nturned low when the train left Frankfort. He made his way through\nthe aisles of swaying green curtains, and tapped at the door of\nhis state room. It opened a little way, and Enid stood there in a\nwhite silk dressing-gown with many ruffles, her hair in two\nsmooth braids over her shoulders.\n\n\"Claude,\" she said in a low voice, \"would you mind getting a\nberth somewhere out in the car tonight? The porter says they are\nnot all taken. I'm not feeling very well. I think the dressing on\nthe chicken salad must have been too rich.\"\n\nHe answered mechanically. \"Yes, certainly. Can't I get you\nsomething?\"\n\n\"No, thank you. Sleep will do me more good than anything else.\nGood-night.\"\n\nShe closed the door, and he heard the lock slip. He stood looking\nat the highly polished wood of the panel for a moment, then\nturned irresolutely and went back along the slightly swaying\naisle of green curtains. In the observation car he stretched\nhimself out upon two wicker chairs and lit another cigar. At\ntwelve o'clock the porter came in.\n\n\"This car is closed for the night, sah. Is you the gen'leman from\nthe stateroom in fourteen? Do you want a lower?\"\n\n\"No, thank you. Is there a smoking car?\"\n\n\"They is the day-coach smokah, but it ain't likely very clean at\nthis time o' night.\"\n\n\"That's all right. It's forward?\" Claude absently handed him a\ncoin, and the porter conducted him to a very dirty car where the\nfloor was littered with newspapers and cigar stumps, and the\nleather cushions were grey with dust. A few desperate looking men\nlay about with their shoes off and their suspenders hanging down\ntheir backs. The sight of them reminded Claude that his left foot\nwas very sore, and that his shoes must have been hurting him for\nsome time. He pulled them off, and thrust his feet, in their silk\nsocks, on the opposite seat.\n\nOn that long, dirty, uncomfortable ride Claude felt many things,\nbut the paramount feeling was homesickness. His hurt was of a\nkind that made him turn with a sort of aching cowardice to the\nold, familiar things that were as sure as the sunrise. If only\nthe sagebrush plain, over which the stars were shining, could\nsuddenly break up and resolve itself into the windings of Lovely\nCreek, with his father's house on the hill, dark and silent in\nthe summer night! When he closed his eyes he could see the light\nin his mother's window; and, lower down, the glow of Mahailey's\nlamp, where she sat nodding and mending his old shirts. Human\nlove was a wonderful thing, he told himself, and it was most\nwonderful where it had least to gain.\n\nBy morning the storm of anger, disappointment, and humiliation\nthat was boiling in him when he first sat down in the observation\ncar, had died out. One thing lingered; the peculiarly casual,\nindifferent, uninterested tone of his wife's voice when she sent\nhim away. It was the flat tone in which people make commonplace\nremarks about common things.\n\nDay broke with silvery brightness on the summer sage. The sky\ngrew pink, the sand grew gold. The dawn-wind brought through the\nwindows the acrid smell of the sagebrush: an odour that is\npeculiarly stimulating in the early morning, when it always seems\nto promise freedom... large spaces, new beginnings, better\ndays.\n\nThe train was due in Denver at eight o'clock. Exactly at seven\nthirty Claude knocked at Enid's door,--this time firmly. She was\ndressed, and greeted him with a fresh, smiling face, holding her\nhat in her hand.\n\n\"Are you feeling better?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, yes! I am perfectly all right this morning. I've put out all\nyour things for you, there on the seat.\"\n\nHe glanced at them. \"Thank you. But I won't have time to change,\nI'm afraid.\"\n\n\"Oh, won't you? I'm so sorry I forgot to give you your bag last\nnight. But you must put on another necktie, at least. You look\ntoo much like a groom.\"\n\n\"Do I?\" he asked, with a scarcely perceptible curl of his lip.\n\nEverything he needed was neatly arranged on the plush seat;\nshirt, collar, tie, brushes, even a handkerchief. Those in his\npockets were black from dusting off the cinders that blew in all\nnight, and he threw them down and took up the clean one. There\nwas a damp spot on it, and as he unfolded it he recognized the\nscent of a cologne Enid often used. For some reason this\nattention unmanned him. He felt the smart of tears in his eyes,\nand to hide them bent over the metal basin and began to scrub his\nface. Enid stood behind him, adjusting her hat in the mirror.\n\n\"How terribly smoky you are, Claude. I hope you don't smoke\nbefore breakfast?\"\n\n\"No. I was in the smoking car awhile. I suppose my clothes got\nfull of it.\"\n\n\"You are covered with dust and cinders, too!\" She took the\nclothes broom from the rack and began to brush him.\n\nClaude caught her hand. \"Don't, please!\" he said sharply. \"The\nporter can do that for me.\"\n\nEnid watched him furtively as he closed and strapped his\nsuitcase. She had often heard that men were cross before\nbreakfast.\n\n\"Sure you've forgotten nothing?\" he asked before he closed her\nbag.\n\n\"Yes. I never lose things on the train,--do you?\"\n\n\"Sometimes,\" he replied guardedly, not looking up as he snapped\nthe catch.\n\n\n\n\nBook Three; Sunrise on the Prairie\n\nI\n\nClaude was to continue farming with his father, and after he\nreturned from his wedding journey, he fell at once to work. The\nharvest was almost as abundant as that of the summer before, and\nhe was busy in the fields six days a week.\n\nOne afternoon in August he came home with his team, watered and\nfed the horses in a leisurely way, and then entered his house by\nthe back door. Enid, he knew, would not be there. She had gone to\nFrankfort to a meeting of the Anti-Saloon League. The Prohibition\nparty was bestirring itself in Nebraska that summer, confident of\nvoting the State dry the following year, which purpose it\ntriumphantly accomplished.\n\nEnid's kitchen, full of the afternoon sun, glittered with new\npaint, spotless linoleum, and blue-and-white cooking vessels. In\nthe dining-room the cloth was laid, and the table was neatly set\nfor one. Claude opened the icebox, where his supper was arranged\nfor him; a dish of canned salmon with a white sauce; hardboiled\neggs, peeled and lying in a nest of lettuce leaves; a bowl of\nripe tomatoes, a bit of cold rice pudding; cream and butter. He\nplaced these things on the table, cut some bread, and after\ncarelessly washing his face and hands, sat down to eat in his\nworking shirt. He propped the newspaper against a red glass water\npitcher and read the war news while he had his supper. He was\nannoyed when he heard heavy footsteps coming around the house.\nLeonard Dawson stuck his head in at the kitchen door, and Claude\nrose quickly and reached for his hat; but Leonard came in,\nuninvited, and sat down. His brown shirt was wet where his\nsuspenders gripped his shoulders, and his face, under a wide\nstraw hat which he did not remove, was unshaven and streaked with\ndust.\n\n\"Go ahead and finish your supper,\" he cried. \"Having a wife with\na car of her own is next thing to having no wife at all. How they\ndo like to roll around! I've been mighty blamed careful to see\nthat Susie never learned to drive a car. See here, Claude, how\nsoon do you figure you'll be able to let me have the thrasher? My\nwheat will begin to sprout in the shock pretty soon. Do you\nreckon your father would be willing to work on Sunday, if I\nhelped you, to let the machine off a day earlier?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid not. Mother wouldn't like it. We never have done\nthat, even when we were crowded.\"\n\n\"Well, I think I'll go over and have a talk with your mother. If\nshe could look inside my wheat shocks, maybe I could convince her\nit's pretty near a case of your neighbour's ox falling into a pit\non the Sabbath day.\"\n\n\"That's a good idea. She's always reasonable.\"\n\nLeonard rose. \"What's the news?\"\n\n\"The Germans have torpedoed an English passenger ship, the Arabic;\ncoming this way, too.\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" Leonard declared. \"Maybe Americans will stay\nat home now, and mind their own business. I don't care how they\nchew each other up over there, not a bit! I'd as soon one got\nwiped off the map as another.\"\n\n\"Your grandparents were English people, weren't they?\"\n\n\"That's a long while ago. Yes, my grandmother wore a cap and\nlittle white curls, and I tell Susie I wouldn't mind if the baby\nturned out to have my grandmother's skin. She had the finest\ncomplexion I ever saw.\"\n\nAs they stepped out of the back door, a troop of white chickens\nwith red combs ran squawking toward them. It was the hour at\nwhich the poultry was usually fed. Leonard stopped to admire\nthem. \"You've got a fine lot of hens. I always did like white\nleghorns. Where are all your roosters?\"\n\n\"We've only got one. He's shut up in the coop. The brood hens are\nsetting. Enid is going to try raising winter frys.\"\n\n\"Only one rooster? And may I ask what these hens do?\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"They lay eggs, just the same,--better. It's the\nfertile eggs that spoil in warm weather.\"\n\nThis information seemed to make Leonard angry. \"I never heard of\nsuch damned nonsense,\" he blustered. \"I raise chickens on a\nnatural basis, or I don't raise 'em at all.\" He jumped into his\ncar for fear he would say more.\n\nWhen he got home his wife was lifting supper, and the baby sat\nnear her in its buggy, playing with a rattle. Dirty and sweaty as\nhe was, Leonard picked up the clean baby and began to kiss it and\nsmell it, rubbing his stubbly chin in the soft creases of its\nneck. The little girl was beside herself with delight.\n\n\"Go and wash up for supper, Len,\" Susie called from the stove. He\nput down the baby and began splashing in the tin basin, talking\nwith his eyes shut.\n\n\"Susie, I'm in an awful temper. I can't stand that damned wife of\nClaude's!\"\n\nShe was spearing roasting ears out of a big iron pot and looked\nup through the steam. \"Why, have you seen her? I was listening on\nthe telephone this morning and heard her tell Bayliss she would\nbe in town until late.\" \"Oh, yes! She went to town all right, and\nhe's over there eating a cold supper by himself. That woman's a\nfanatic. She ain't content with practising prohibition on\nhumankind; she's begun now on the hens.\" While he placed the\nchairs and wheeled the baby up to the table, he explained Enid's\nmethod of raising poultry to his wife. She said she really didn't\nsee any harm in it.\n\n\"Now be honest, Susie; did you ever know hens would keep on\nlaying without a rooster?\"\n\n\"No, I didn't, but I was brought up the old-fashioned way. Enid\nhas poultry books and garden books, and all such things. I don't\ndoubt she gets good ideas from them. But anyhow, you be careful.\nShe's our nearest neighbour, and I don't want to have trouble\nwith her.\"\n\n\"I'll have to keep out of her way, then. If she tries to do any\nmissionary work among my chickens, I'll tell her a few home\ntruths her husband's too bashful to tell her. It's my opinion\nshe's got that boy cowed already.\"\n\n\"Now, Len, you know she won't bother your chickens. You keep\nquiet. But Claude does seem to sort of avoid people,\" Susie\nadmitted, filling her husband's plate again. \"Mrs. Joe Havel says\nErnest don't go to Claude's any more. It seems Enid went over\nthere and wanted Ernest to paste some Prohibition posters about\nfifteen million drunkards on their barn, for an example to the\nBohemians. Ernest wouldn't do it, and told her he was going to\nvote for saloons, and Enid was quite spiteful, Mrs. Havel said.\nIt's too bad, when those boys were such chums. I used to like to\nsee them together.\" Susie spoke so kindly that her husband shot\nher a quick glance of shy affection.\n\n\"Do you suppose Claude relished having that preacher visiting\nthem, when they hadn't been married two months? Sitting on the\nfront porch in a white necktie every day, while Claude was out\ncutting wheat?\"\n\n\"Well, anyhow, I guess Claude had more to eat when Brother Weldon\nwas staying there. Preachers won't be fed on calories, or\nwhatever it is Enid calls 'em,\" said Susie, who was given to\nlooking on the bright side of things. \"Claude's wife keeps a\nwonderful kitchen; but so could I, if I never cooked any more\nthan she does.\"\n\nLeonard gave her a meaning look. \"I don't believe you would live\nwith the sort of man you could feed out of a tin can.\"\n\n\"No, I don't believe I would.\" She pushed the buggy toward him.\n\"Take her up, Daddy. She wants to play with you.\"\n\nLeonard set the baby on his shoulder and carried her off to show\nher the pigs. Susie kept laughing to herself as she cleared the\ntable and washed the dishes; she was much amused by what her\nhusband had told her.\n\nLate that evening, when Leonard was starting for the barn to see\nthat all was well before he went to bed, he observed a discreet\nblack object rolling along the highroad in the moonlight, a red\nspark winking in the rear. He called Susie to the door.\n\n\"See, there she goes; going home to report the success of the\nmeeting to Claude. Wouldn't that be a nice way to have your wife\ncoming in?\"\n\n\"Now, Leonard, if Claude likes it--\"\n\n\"Likes it?\" Big Leonard drew himself up. \"What can he do, poor\nkid? He's stung!\"\n\n\n\nII\n\nAfter Leonard left him, Claude cleared away the remains of his\nsupper and watered the gourd vine before he went to milk. It was\nnot really a gourd vine at all, but a summer-squash, of the\ncrook-necked, warty, orange-coloured variety, and it was now full\nof ripe squashes, hanging by strong stems among the rough green\nleaves and prickly tendrils. Claude had watched its rapid growth\nand the opening of its splotchy yellow blossoms, feeling grateful\nto a thing that did so lustily what it was put there to do. He\nhad the same feeling for his little Jersey cow, which came home\nevery night with full udders and gave down her milk willingly,\nkeeping her tail out of his face, as only a well disposed cow will\ndo.\n\nHis milking done, he sat down on the front porch and lit a cigar.\nWhile he smoked, he did not think about anything but the quiet\nand the slow cooling of the atmosphere, and how good it was to\nsit still. The moon swam up over the bare wheat fields, big and\nmagical, like a great flower. Presently he got some bath towels,\nwent across the yard to the windmill, took off his clothes, and\nstepped into the tin horse tank. The water had been warmed by the\nsun all afternoon, and was not much cooler than his body. He\nstretched himself out in it, and resting his head on the metal\nrim, lay on his back, looking up at the moon. The sky was a\nmidnight-blue, like warm, deep, blue water, and the moon seemed\nto lie on it like a water-lily, floating forward with an\ninvisible current. One expected to see its great petals open.\n\nFor some reason, Claude began to think about the far-off times\nand countries it had shone upon. He never thought of the sun as\ncoming from distant lands, or as having taken part in human life\nin other ages. To him, the sun rotated about the wheatfields. But\nthe moon, somehow, came out of the historic past, and made him\nthink of Egypt and the Pharaohs, Babylon and the hanging gardens.\nShe seemed particularly to have looked down upon the follies and\ndisappointments of men; into the slaves' quarters of old times,\ninto prison windows, and into fortresses where captives\nlanguished.\n\nInside of living people, too, captives languished. Yes, inside of\npeople who walked and worked in the broad sun, there were\ncaptives dwelling in darkness, never seen from birth to death.\nInto those prisons the moon shone, and the prisoners crept to the\nwindows and looked out with mournful eyes at the white globe\nwhich betrayed no secrets and comprehended all. Perhaps even in\npeople like Mrs. Royce and his brother Bayliss there was\nsomething of this sort--but that was a shuddery thought. He\ndismissed it with a quick movement of his hand through the water,\nwhich, disturbed, caught the light and played black and gold,\nlike something alive, over his chest. In his own mother the\nimprisoned spirit was almost more present to people than her\ncorporeal self. He had so often felt it when he sat with her on\nsummer nights like this. Mahailey, too, had one, though the walls\nof her prison were so thick--and Gladys Farmer. Oh, yes, how much\nGladys must have to tell this perfect confidant! The people whose\nhearts were set high needed such intercourse--whose wish was so\nbeautiful that there were no experiences in this world to satisfy\nit. And these children of the moon, with their unappeased\nlongings and futile dreams, were a finer race than the children\nof the sun. This conception flooded the boy's heart like a second\nmoonrise, flowed through him indefinite and strong, while he lay\ndeathly still for fear of losing it.\n\nAt last the black cubical object which had caught Leonard\nDawson's wrathful eye, came rolling along the highroad. Claude\nsnatched up his clothes and towels, and without waiting to make\nuse of either, he ran, a white man across a bare white yard.\nGaining the shelter of the house, he found his bathrobe, and fled\nto the upper porch, where he lay down in the hammock. Presently\nhe heard his name called, pronounced as if it were spelled\n\"Clod.\" His wife came up the stairs and looked out at him. He lay\nmotionless, with his eyes closed. She went away. When all was\nquiet again he looked off at the still country, and the moon in\nthe dark indigo sky. His revelation still possessed him, making\nhis whole body sensitive, like a tightly strung bow. In the\nmorning he had forgotten, or was ashamed of what had seemed so\ntrue and so entirely his own the night before. He agreed, for the\nmost part, that it was better not to think about such things, and\nwhen he could he avoided thinking.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nAfter the heavy work of harvest was over, Mrs. Wheeler often\npersuaded her husband, when he was starting off in his buckboard,\nto take her as far as Claude's new house. She was glad Enid\ndidn't keep her parlour dark, as Mrs. Royce kept hers. The doors\nand windows were always open, the vines and the long petunias in\nthe window-boxes waved in the breeze, and the rooms were full of\nsunlight and in perfect order. Enid wore white dresses about her\nwork, and white shoes and stockings. She managed a house easily\nand systematically. On Monday morning Claude turned the washing\nmachine before he went to work, and by nine o'clock the clothes\nwere on the line. Enid liked to iron, and Claude had never before\nin his life worn so many clean shirts, or worn them with such\nsatisfaction. She told him he need not economize in working\nshirts; it was as easy to iron six as three.\n\nAlthough within a few months Enid's car travelled more than two\nthousand miles for the Prohibition cause, it could not be said\nthat she neglected her house for reform. Whether she neglected\nher husband depended upon one's conception of what was his due.\nWhen Mrs. Wheeler saw how well their little establishment was\nconducted, how cheerful and attractive Enid looked when one\nhappened to drop in there, she wondered that Claude was not\nhappy. And Claude himself wondered. If his marriage disappointed\nhim in some respects, he ought to be a man, he told himself, and\nmake the best of what was good in it. If his wife didn't love\nhim, it was because love meant one thing to him and quite another\nthing to her. She was proud of him, was glad to see him when he\ncame in from the fields, and was solicitous for his comfort.\nEverything about a man's embrace was distasteful to Enid;\nsomething inflicted upon women, like the pain of childbirth,--\nfor Eve's transgression, perhaps.\n\nThis repugnance was more than physical; she disliked ardour of\nany kind, even religious ardour. She had been fonder of Claude\nbefore she married him than she was now; but she hoped for a\nreadjustment. Perhaps sometime she could like him again in\nexactly the same way. Even Brother Weldon had hinted to her that\nfor the sake of their future tranquillity she must be lenient\nwith the boy. And she thought she had been lenient. She could not\nunderstand his moods of desperate silence, the bitter, biting\nremarks he sometimes dropped, his evident annoyance if she went\nover to join him in the timber claim when he lay there idle in\nthe deep grass on a Sunday afternoon.\n\nClaude used to lie there and watch the clouds, saying to himself,\n\"It's the end of everything for me.\" Other men than he must have\nbeen disappointed, and he wondered how they bore it through a\nlifetime. Claude had been a well behaved boy because he was an\nidealist; he had looked forward to being wonderfully happy in\nlove, and to deserving his happiness. He had never dreamed that\nit might be otherwise.\n\nSometimes now, when he went out into the fields on a bright\nsummer morning, it seemed to him that Nature not only smiled, but\nbroadly laughed at him. He suffered in his pride, but even more\nin his ideals, in his vague sense of what was beautiful. Enid\ncould make his life hideous to him without ever knowing it. At\nsuch times he hated himself for accepting at all her grudging\nhospitality. He was wronging something in himself.\n\nIn her person Enid was still attractive to him. He wondered why\nshe had no shades of feeling to correspond to her natural grace\nand lightness of movement, to the gentle, almost wistful\nattitudes of body in which he sometimes surprised her. When he\ncame in from work and found her sitting on the porch, leaning\nagainst a pillar, her hands clasped about her knees, her head\ndrooping a little, he could scarcely believe in the rigidity\nwhich met him at every turn. Was there something repellent in\nhim? Was it, after all, his fault?\n\nEnid was rather more indulgent with his father than with any one\nelse, he noticed. Mr. Wheeler stopped to see her almost every\nday, and even took her driving in his old buckboard. Bayliss came\nout from town to spend the evening occasionally. Enid's\nvegetarian suppers suited him, and as she worked with him in the\nProhibition campaign, they always had business to discuss.\nBayliss had a social as well as a hygienic prejudice against\nalcohol, and he hated it less for the harm it did than for the\npleasure it gave. Claude consistently refused to take any part in\nthe activities of the Anti-Saloon League, or to distribute what\nBayliss and Enid called \"our literature.\"\n\nIn the farming towns the term \"literature\" was applied only to a\nspecial kind of printed matter; there was Prohibition literature,\nSex-Hygiene literature, and, during a scourge of cattle disease,\nthere was Hoof-and-Mouth literature. This special application of\nthe word didn't bother Claude, but his mother, being an\nold-fashioned school-teacher, complained about it.\n\nEnid did not understand her husband's indifference to a burning\nquestion, and could only attribute it to the influence of Ernest\nHavel. She sometimes asked Claude to go with her to one of her\ncommittee meetings. If it was a Sunday, he said he was tired and\nwanted to read the paper. If it was a week-day, he had something\nto do at the barn, or meant to clear out the timber claim. He\ndid, indeed, saw off a few dead limbs, and cut down a tree the\nlightning had blasted. Further than that he wouldn't have let\nanybody clear the timber lot; he would have died defending it.\n\nThe timber claim was his refuge. In the open, grassy spots, shut\nin by the bushy walls of yellowing ash trees, he felt unmarried\nand free; free to smoke as much as he liked, and to read and\ndream. Some of his dreams would have frozen his young wife's\nblood with horror--and some would have melted his mother's heart\nwith pity. To lie in the hot sun and look up at the stainless\nblue of the autumn sky, to hear the dry rustle of the leaves as\nthey fell, and the sound of the bold squirrels leaping from\nbranch to branch; to lie thus and let his imagination play with\nlife--that was the best he could do. His thoughts, he told\nhimself, were his own. He was no longer a boy. He went off into\nthe timber claim to meet a young man more experienced and\ninteresting than himself, who had not tied himself up with\ncompromises.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nFrom her upstairs window Mrs. Wheeler could see Claude moving\nback and forth in the west field, drilling wheat. She felt lonely\nfor him. He didn't come home as often as he might. She had begun\nto wonder whether he was one of those people who are always\ndiscontented; but whatever his disappointments were, he kept them\nlocked in his own breast. One had to learn the lessons of life.\nNevertheless, it made her a little sad to see him so settled and\nindifferent at twenty-three.\n\nAfter watching from the window for a few moments, she turned to\nthe telephone and called up Claude's house, asking Enid whether\nshe would mind if he came there for dinner. \"Mahailey and I get\nlonesome with Mr. Wheeler away so much,\" she added.\n\n\"Why, no, Mother Wheeler, of course not.\" Enid spoke cheerfully,\nas she always did. \"Have you any one there you can send over to\ntell him?\"\n\n\"I thought I would walk over myself, Enid. It's not far, if I\ntake my time.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler left the house a little before noon and stopped at\nthe creek to rest before she climbed the long hill. At the edge\nof the field she sat down against a grassy bank and waited until\nthe horses came tramping up the long rows. Claude saw her and\npulled them in.\n\n\"Anything wrong, Mother?\" he called.\n\n\"Oh, no! I'm going to take you home for dinner with me, that's\nall. I telephoned Enid.\" He unhooked his team, and he and his\nmother started down the hill together, walking behind the horses.\nThough they had not been alone like this for a long while, she\nfelt it best to talk about impersonal things.\n\n\"Don't let me forget to give you an article about the execution\nof that English nurse.\"\n\n\"Edith Cavell? I've read about it,\" he answered listlessly. \"It's\nnothing to be surprised at. If they could sink the Lusitania,\nthey could shoot an English nurse, certainly.\"\n\n\"Someway I feel as if this were different,\" his mother murmured.\n\"It's like the hanging of John Brown. I wonder they could find\nsoldiers to execute the sentence.\"\n\n\"Oh, I guess they have plenty of such soldiers!\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler looked up at him. \"I don't see how we can stay out\nof it much longer, do you? I suppose our army wouldn't be a drop\nin the bucket, even if we could get it over. They tell us we can\nbe more useful in our agriculture and manufactories than we could\nby going into the war. I only hope it isn't campaign talk. I do\ndistrust the Democrats.\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"Why, Mother, I guess there's no party politics\nin this.\"\n\nShe shook her head. \"I've never yet found a public question in\nwhich there wasn't party politics. Well, we can only do our duty\nas it comes to us, and have faith. This field finishes your fall\nwork?\"\n\n\"Yes. I'll have time to do some things about the place, now. I'm\ngoing to make a good ice-house and put up my own ice this\nwinter.\"\n\n\"Were you thinking of going up to Lincoln, for a little?\"\n\n\"I guess not.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler sighed. His tone meant that he had turned his back\non old pleasures and old friends.\n\n\"Have you and Enid taken tickets for the lecture course in\nFrankfort?\"\n\n\"I think so, Mother,\" he answered a little impatiently. \"I told\nher she could attend to it when she was in town some day.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" his mother persevered, \"some of the programs are not\nvery good, but we ought to patronize them and make the best of\nwhat we have.\"\n\nHe knew, and his mother knew, that he was not very good at that.\nHis horses stopped at the water tank. \"Don't wait for me. I'll be\nalong in a minute.\" Seeing her crestfallen face, he smiled.\n\"Never mind, Mother, I can always catch you when you try to give\nme a pill in a raisin. One of us has to be pretty smart to fool\nthe other.\"\n\nShe blinked up at him with that smile in which her eyes almost\ndisappeared. \"I thought I was smart that time!\"\n\nIt was a comfort, she reflected, as she hurried up the hill, to\nget hold of him again, to get his attention, even.\n\nWhile Claude was washing for dinner, Mahailey came to him with a\npage of newspaper cartoons, illustrating German brutality. To her\nthey were all photographs,--she knew no other way of making a\npicture.\n\n\"Mr. Claude,\" she asked, \"how comes it all them Germans is such\nugly lookin' people? The Yoeders and the German folks round here\nain't ugly lookin'.\"\n\nClaude put her off indulgently. \"Maybe it's the ugly ones that\nare doing the fighting, and the ones at home are nice, like our\nneighbours.\"\n\n\"Then why don't they make their soldiers stay home, an' not go\nbreakin' other people's things, an' turnin' 'em out of their\nhouses,\" she muttered indignantly. \"They say little babies was\nborn out in the snow last winter, an' no fires for their mudders\nnor nothin'. 'Deed, Mr. Claude, it wasn't like that in our war;\nthe soldiers didn't do nothin' to the women an' chillun. Many a\ntime our house was full of Northern soldiers, an' they never so\nmuch as broke a piece of my mudder's chiney.\"\n\n\"You'll have to tell me about it again sometime, Mahailey. I must\nhave my dinner and get back to work. If we don't get our wheat\nin, those people over there won't have anything to eat, you\nknow.\"\n\nThe picture papers meant a great deal to Mahailey, because she\ncould faintly remember the Civil War. While she pored over\nphotographs of camps and battlefields and devastated villages,\nthings came back to her; the companies of dusty Union infantry\nthat used to stop to drink at her mother's cold mountain spring.\nShe had seen them take off their boots and wash their bleeding\nfeet in the run. Her mother had given one louse-bitten boy a\nclean shirt, and she had never forgotten the sight of his back,\n\"as raw as beef where he'd scratched it.\" Five of her brothers\nwere in the Confederate army. When one was wounded in the second\nbattle of Bull Run, her mother had borrowed a wagon and horses,\ngone a three days' journey to the field hospital, and brought the\nboy home to the mountain. Mahailey could remember how her older\nsisters took turns pouring cold spring water on his gangrenous\nleg all day and all night. There were no doctors left in the\nneighbourhood, and as nobody could amputate the boy's leg, he\ndied by inches. Mahailey was the only person in the Wheeler\nhousehold who had ever seen war with her own eyes, and she felt\nthat this fact gave her a definite superiority.\n\n\n\nV\n\nClaude had been married a year and a half. One December morning\nhe got a telephone message from his father-in-law, asking him to\ncome in to Frankfort at once. He found Mr. Royce sunk in his\ndesk-chair, smoking as usual, with several foreign-looking\nletters on the table before him. As he took these out of their\nenvelopes and sorted the pages, Claude noticed how unsteady his\nhands had become.\n\nOne letter, from the chief of the medical staff in the mission\nschool where Caroline Royce taught, informed Mr. Royce that his\ndaughter was seriously ill in the mission hospital. She would\nhave to be sent to a more salubrious part of the country for rest\nand treatment, and would not be strong enough to return to her\nduties for a year or more. If some member of her family could\ncome out to take care of her, it would relieve the school\nauthorities of great anxiety. There was also a letter from a\nfellow teacher, and a rather incoherent one from Caroline\nherself. After Claude finished reading them, Mr. Royce pushed a\nbox of cigars toward him and began to talk despondently about\nmissionaries.\n\n\"I could go to her,\" he complained, \"but what good would that do?\nI'm not in sympathy with her ideas, and it would only fret her.\nYou can see she's made her mind up not to come home. I don't\nbelieve in one people trying to force their ways or their\nreligion on another. I'm not that kind of man.\" He sat looking at\nhis cigar. After a long pause he broke out suddenly, \"China has\nbeen drummed into my ears. It seems like a long way to go to\nhunt for trouble, don't it? A man hasn't got much control over\nhis own life, Claude. If it ain't poverty or disease that\ntorments him, it's a name on the map. I could have made out\npretty well, if it hadn't been for China, and some other things....\nIf Carrie'd had to teach for her clothes and help pay off\nmy notes, like old man Harrison's daughters, like enough she'd\nhave stayed at home. There's always something. I don't know what\nto say about showing these letters to Enid.\"\n\n\"Oh, she will have to know about it, Mr. Royce. If she feels that\nshe ought to go to Carrie, it wouldn't be right for me to\ninterfere.\"\n\nMr. Royce shook his head. \"I don't know. It don't seem fair that\nChina should hang over you, too.\"\n\nWhen Claude got home he remarked as he handed Enid the letters,\n\"Your father has been a good deal upset by this. I never saw him\nlook so old as he did today.\"\n\nEnid studied their contents, sitting at her orderly little desk,\nwhile Claude pretended to read the paper.\n\n\"It seems clear that I am the one to go,\" she said when she had\nfinished.\n\n\"You think it's necessary for some one to go? I don't see it.\"\n\n\"It would look very strange if none of us went,\" Enid replied\nwith spirit.\n\n\"How, look strange?\"\n\n\"Why, it would look to her associates as if her family had no\nfeeling.\"\n\n\"Oh, if that's all!\" Claude smiled perversely and took up his\npaper again. \"I wonder how it will look to people here if you go\noff and leave your husband?\"\n\n\"What a mean thing to say, Claude!\" She rose sharply, then\nhesitated, perplexed. \"People here know me better than that. It\nisn't as if you couldn't be perfectly comfortable at your\nmother's.\" As he did not glance up from his paper, she went into\nthe kitchen.\n\nClaude sat still, listening to Enid's quick movements as she\nopened up the range to get supper. The light in the room grew\ngreyer. Outside the fields melted into one another as evening\ncame on. The young trees in the yard bent and whipped about under\na bitter north wind. He had often thought with pride that winter\ndied at his front doorstep; within, no draughty halls, no chilly\ncorners. This was their second year here. When he was driving\nhome, the thought that he might be free of this house for a long\nwhile had stirred a pleasant excitement in him; but now, he\ndidn't want to leave it. Something grew soft in him. He wondered\nwhether they couldn't try again, and make things go better. Enid\nwas singing in the kitchen in a subdued, rather lonely voice. He\nrose and went out for his milking coat and pail. As he passed his\nwife by the window, he stopped and put his arm about her\nquestioningly.\n\nShe looked up. \"That's right. You're feeling better about it,\naren't you? I thought you would. Gracious, what a smelly coat,\nClaude! I must find another for you.\"\n\nClaude knew that tone. Enid never questioned the rightness of her\nown decisions. When she made up her mind, there was no turning\nher. He went down the path to the barn with his hands stuffed in\nhis trousers pockets, his bright pail hanging on his arm. Try\nagain--what was there to try? Platitudes, littleness, falseness....\nHis life was choking him, and he hadn't the courage to\nbreak with it. Let her go! Let her go when she would!... What\na hideous world to be born into! Or was it hideous only for him?\nEverything he touched went wrong under his hand--always had.\n\nWhen they sat down at the supper table in the back parlour an\nhour later, Enid looked worn, as if this time her decision had\ncost her something. \"I should think you might have a restful\nwinter at your mother's,\" she began cheerfully. \"You won't have\nnearly so much to look after as you do here. We needn't disturb\nthings in this house. I will take the silver down to Mother, and\nwe can leave everything else just as it is. Would there be room\nfor my car in your father's garage? You might find it a\nconvenience.\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I won't need it. I'll put it up at the mill house,\" he\nanswered with an effort at carelessness.\n\nAll the familiar objects that stood about them in the lamplight\nseemed stiller and more solemn than usual, as if they were\nholding their breath.\n\n\"I suppose you had better take the chickens over to your\nmother's,\" Enid continued evenly. \"But I shouldn't like them to\nget mixed with her Plymouth Rocks; there's not a dark feather\namong them now. Do ask Mother Wheeler to use all the eggs, and\nnot to let my hens set in the spring.\"\n\n\"In the spring?\" Claude looked up from his plate.\n\n\"Of course, Claude. I could hardly get back before next fall, if\nI'm to be of any help to poor Carrie. I might try to be home for\nharvest, if that would make it more convenient for you.\" She rose\nto bring in the dessert.\n\n\"Oh, don't hurry on my account!\" he muttered, staring after her\ndisappearing figure.\n\nEnid came back with the hot pudding and the after-dinner coffee\nthings. \"This has come on us so suddenly that we must make our\nplans at once,\" she explained. \"I should think your mother would\nbe glad to keep Rose for us; she is such a good cow. And then you\ncan have all the cream you want.\"\n\nHe took the little gold-rimmed cup she held out to him. \"If you\nare going to be gone until next fall, I shall sell Rose,\" he\nannounced gruffly.\n\n\"But why? You might look a long time before you found another\nlike her.\"\n\n\"I shall sell her, anyhow. The horses, of course, are Father's;\nhe paid for them. If you clear out, he may want to rent this\nplace. You may find a tenant in here when you get back from\nChina.\" Claude swallowed his coffee, put down the cup, and went\ninto the front parlour, where he lit a cigar. He walked up and\ndown, keeping his eyes fixed upon his wife, who still sat at the\ntable in the circle of light from the hanging lamp. Her head,\nbent forward a little, showed the neat part of her brown hair.\nWhen she was perplexed, her face always looked sharper, her chin\nlonger.\n\n\"If you've no feeling for the place,\" said Claude from the other\nroom, \"you can hardly expect me to hang around and take care of\nit. All the time you were campaigning, I played housekeeper\nhere.\"\n\nEnid's eyes narrowed, but she did not flush. Claude had never\nseen a wave of colour come over his wife's pale, smooth cheeks.\n\n\"Don't be childish. You know I care for this place; it's our\nhome. But no feeling would be right that kept me from doing my\nduty. You are well, and you have your mother's house to go to.\nCarrie is ill and among strangers.\"\n\nShe began to gather up the dishes. Claude stepped quickly out\ninto the light and confronted her. \"It's not only your going. You\nknow what's the matter with me. It's because you want to go. You\nare glad of a chance to get away among all those preachers, with\ntheir smooth talk and make-believe.\"\n\nEnid took up the tray. \"If I am glad, it's because you are not\nwilling to govern our lives by Christian ideals. There is\nsomething in you that rebels all the time. So many important\nquestions have come up since our marriage, and you have been\nindifferent or sarcastic about every one of them. You want to\nlead a purely selfish life.\"\n\nShe walked resolutely out of the room and shut the door behind\nher. Later, when she came back, Claude was not there. His hat and\ncoat were gone from the hat rack; he must have let himself out\nquietly by the front door. Enid sat up until eleven and then went\nto bed.\n\nIn the morning, on coming out from her bedroom, she found Claude\nasleep on the lounge, dressed, with his overcoat on. She had a\nmoment of terror and bent over him, but she could not detect any\nsmell of spirits. She began preparations for breakfast, moving\nquietly.\n\nHaving once made up her mind to go out to her sister, Enid lost\nno time. She engaged passage and cabled the mission school. She\nleft Frankfort the week before Christmas. Claude and Ralph took\nher as far as Denver and put her on a trans-continental express.\nWhen Claude came home, he moved over to his mother's, and sold\nhis cow and chickens to Leonard Dawson. Except when he went to\nsee Mr. Royce, he seldom left the farm now, and he avoided the\nneighbours. He felt that they were discussing his domestic\naffairs,--as, of course, they were. The Royces and the Wheelers,\nthey said, couldn't behave like anybody else, and it was no use\ntheir trying. If Claude built the best house in the\nneighbourhood, he just naturally wouldn't live in it. And if he\nhad a wife at all, it was like him to have a wife in China!\n\nOne snowy day, when nobody was about, Claude took the big car and\nwent over to his own place to close the house for the winter and\nbring away the canned fruit and vegetables left in the cellar.\nEnid had packed her best linen in her cedar chest and had put the\nkitchen and china closets in scrupulous order before she went\naway. He began covering the upholstered chairs and the mattresses\nwith sheets, rolled up the rugs, and fastened the windows\nsecurely. As he worked, his hands grew more and more numb and\nlistless, and his heart was like a lump of ice. All these things\nthat he had selected with care and in which he had taken such\npride, were no more to him now than the lumber piled in the shop\nof any second-hand dealer.\n\nHow inherently mournful and ugly such objects were, when the\nfeeling that had made them precious no longer existed! The debris\nof human life was more worthless and ugly than the dead and\ndecaying things in nature. Rubbish... junk... his mind\ncould not picture anything that so exposed and condemned all the\ndreary, weary, ever-repeated actions by which life is continued\nfrom day to day. Actions without meaning.... As he looked out\nand saw the grey landscape through the gently falling snow, he\ncould not help thinking how much better it would be if people\ncould go to sleep like the fields; could be blanketed down under\nthe snow, to wake with their hurts healed and their defeats\nforgotten. He wondered how he was to go on through the years\nahead of him, unless he could get rid of this sick feeling in his\nsoul.\n\nAt last he locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went\nover to the timber claim to smoke a cigar and say goodbye to the\nplace. There he soberly walked about for more than an hour, under\nthe crooked trees with empty birds' nests in their forks. Every\ntime he came to a break in the hedge, he could see the little\nhouse, giving itself up so meekly to solitude. He did not believe\nthat he would ever live there again. Well, at any rate, the money\nhis father had put into the place would not be lost; he could\nalways get a better tenant for having a comfortable house there.\nSeveral of the boys in the neighbourhood were planning to be\nmarried within the year. The future of the house was safe. And\nhe? He stopped short in his walk; his feet had made an uncertain,\npurposeless trail all over the white ground. It vexed him to see\nhis own footsteps. What was it--what WAS the matter with him?\nWhy, at least, could he not stop feeling things, and hoping? What\nwas there to hope for now?\n\nHe heard a sound of distress, and looking back, saw the barn cat,\nthat had been left behind to pick up her living. She was standing\ninside the hedge, her jet black fur ruffled against the wet\nflakes, one paw lifted, mewing miserably. Claude went over and\npicked her up.\n\n\"What's the matter, Blackie? Mice getting scarce in the barn?\nMahailey will say you are bad luck. Maybe you are, but you can't\nhelp it, can you?\" He slipped her into his overcoat pocket.\nLater, when he was getting into his car, he tried to dislodge her\nand put her in a basket, but she clung to her nest in his pocket\nand dug her claws into the lining. He laughed. \"Well, if you are\nbad luck, I guess you are going to stay right with me!\"\n\nShe looked up at him with startled yellow eyes and did not even\nmew.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nMrs. Wheeler was afraid that Claude might not find the old place\ncomfortable, after having had a house of his own. She put her\nbest rocking chair and a reading lamp in his bedroom. He often\nsat there all evening, shading his eyes with his hand, pretending\nto read. When he stayed downstairs after supper, his mother and\nMahailey were grateful. Besides collecting war pictures,\nMahailey now hunted through the old magazines in the attic for\npictures of China. She had marked on her big kitchen calendar the\nday when Enid would arrive in Hong-Kong.\n\n\"Mr. Claude,\" she would say as she stood at the sink washing the\nsupper dishes, \"it's broad daylight over where Miss Enid is,\nain't it? Cause the world's round, an' the old sun, he's\na-shinin' over there for the yaller people.\"\n\nFrom time to time, when they were working together, Mrs. Wheeler\ntold Mahailey what she knew about the customs of the Chinese. The\nold woman had never had two impersonal interests at the same time\nbefore, and she scarcely knew what to do with them. She would\nmurmur on, half to Claude and half to herself: \"They ain't\nfightin' over there where Miss Enid is, is they? An' she won't\nhave to wear their kind of clothes, cause she's a white woman.\nShe won't let 'em kill their girl babies nor do such awful things\nlike they always have, an' she won't let 'em pray to them stone\niboles, cause they can't help 'em none. I 'spect Miss Enid'll do\na heap of good, all the time.\"\n\nBehind her diplomatic monologues, however, Mahailey had her own\nideas, and she was greatly scandalized at Enid's departure. She\nwas afraid people would say that Claude's wife had \"run off an'\nlef' him,\" and in the Virginia mountains, where her social\nstandards had been formed, a husband or wife thus deserted was\nthe object of boisterous ridicule. She once stopped Mrs. Wheeler\nin a dark corner of the cellar to whisper, \"Mr. Claude's wife\nain't goin' to stay off there, like her sister, is she?\"\n\nIf one of the Yoeder boys or Susie Dawson happened to be at the\nWheelers' for dinner, Mahailey never failed to refer to Enid in a\nloud voice. \"Mr. Claude's wife, she cuts her potatoes up raw in\nthe pan an' fries 'em. She don't boil 'em first like I do. I know\nshe's an awful good cook, I know she is.\" She felt that easy\nreferences to the absent wife made things look better.\n\nErnest Havel came to see Claude now, but not often. They both\nfelt it would be indelicate to renew their former intimacy.\nErnest still felt aggrieved about his beer, as if Enid had\nsnatched the tankard from his lips with her own corrective hand.\nLike Leonard, he believed that Claude had made a bad bargain in\nmatrimony; but instead of feeling sorry for him, Ernest wanted to\nsee him convinced and punished. When he married Enid, Claude had\nbeen false to liberal principles, and it was only right that he\nshould pay for his apostasy. The very first time he came to spend\nan evening at the Wheelers' after Claude came home to live,\nErnest undertook to explain his objections to Prohibition. Claude\nshrugged his shoulders.\n\n\"Why not drop it? It's a matter that doesn't interest me, one way\nor the other.\"\n\nErnest was offended and did not come back for nearly a\nmonth--not, indeed, until the announcement that Germany would\nresume unrestricted submarine warfare made every one look\nquestioningly at his neighbour.\n\nHe walked into the Wheelers' kitchen the night after this news\nreached the farming country, and found Claude and his mother\nsitting at the table, reading the papers aloud to each other in\nsnatches. Ernest had scarcely taken a seat when the telephone\nbell rang. Claude answered the call.\n\n\"It's the telegraph operator at Frankfort,\" he said, as he hung\nup the receiver. \"He repeated a message from Father, sent from\nWray: 'Will be home day after tomorrow. Read the papers.' What\ndoes he mean? What does he suppose we are doing?\"\n\n\"It means he considers our situation very serious. It's not like\nhim to telegraph except in case of illness.\" Mrs. Wheeler rose\nand walked distractedly to the telephone box, as if it might\nfurther disclose her husband's state of mind.\n\n\"But what a queer message! It was addressed to you, too, Mother,\nnot to me.\"\n\n\"He would know how I feel about it. Some of your father's people\nwere seagoing men, out of Portsmouth. He knows what it means when\nour shipping is told where it can go on the ocean, and where it\ncannot. It isn't possible that Washington can take such an\naffront for us. To think that at this time, of all times, we\nshould have a Democratic administration!\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"Sit down, Mother. Wait a day or two. Give them\ntime.\"\n\n\"The war will be over before Washington can do anything, Mrs.\nWheeler,\" Ernest declared gloomily, \"England will be starved out,\nand France will be beaten to a standstill. The whole German army\nwill be on the Western front now. What could this country do? How\nlong do you suppose it takes to make an army?\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler stopped short in her restless pacing and met his\nmoody glance. \"I don't know anything, Ernest, but I believe the\nBible. I believe that in the twinkling of an eye we shall be\nchanged!\"\n\nErnest looked at the floor. He respected faith. As he said, you\nmust respect it or despise it, for there was nothing else to do.\n\nClaude sat leaning his elbows on the table. \"It always comes back\nto the same thing, Mother. Even if a raw army could do anything,\nhow would we get it over there? Here's one naval authority who\nsays the Germans are turning out submarines at the rate of three\na day. They probably didn't spring this on us until they had\nenough built to keep the ocean clear.\"\n\n\"I don't pretend to say what we could accomplish, son. But we\nmust stand somewhere, morally. They have told us all along that\nwe could be more helpful to the Allies out of the war than in it,\nbecause we could send munitions and supplies. If we agree to\nwithdraw that aid, where are we? Helping Germany, all the time we\nare pretending to mind our own business! If our only alternative\nis to be at the bottom of the sea, we had better be there!\"\n\n\"Mother, do sit down! We can't settle it tonight. I never saw you\nso worked up.\"\n\n\"Your father is worked up, too, or he would never have sent that\ntelegram.\" Mrs. Wheeler reluctantly took up her workbasket, and\nthe boys talked with their old, easy friendliness.\n\nWhen Ernest left, Claude walked as far as the Yoeders' place with\nhim, and came back across the snow-drifted fields, under the\nfrosty brilliance of the winter stars. As he looked up at them,\nhe felt more than ever that they must have something to do with\nthe fate of nations, and with the incomprehensible things that\nwere happening in the world. In the ordered universe there must\nbe some mind that read the riddle of this one unhappy planet,\nthat knew what was forming in the dark eclipse of this hour. A\nquestion hung in the air; over all this quiet land about him,\nover him, over his mother, even. He was afraid for his country,\nas he had been that night on the State House steps in Denver,\nwhen this war was undreamed of, hidden in the womb of time.\n\nClaude and his mother had not long to wait. Three days later they\nknew that the German ambassador had been dismissed, and the\nAmerican ambassador recalled from Berlin. To older men these\nevents were subjects to think and converse about; but to boys\nlike Claude they were life and death, predestination.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nOne stormy morning Claude was driving the big wagon to town to\nget a load of lumber. The roads were beginning to thaw out, and\nthe country was black and dirty looking. Here and there on the\ndark mud, grey snow crusts lingered, perforated like honeycomb,\nwith wet weedstalks sticking up through them. As the wagon\ncreaked over the high ground just above Frankfort, Claude noticed\na brilliant new flag flying from the schoolhouse cupola. He had\nnever seen the flag before when it meant anything but the Fourth\nof July, or a political rally. Today it was as if he saw it for\nthe first time; no bands, no noise, no orators; a spot of\nrestless colour against the sodden March sky.\n\nHe turned out of his way in order to pass the High School, drew\nup his team, and waited a few minutes until the noon bell rang.\nThe older boys and girls came out first, with a flurry of\nraincoats and umbrellas. Presently he saw Gladys Farmer, in a\nyellow \"slicker\" and an oilskin hat, and waved to her. She came\nup to the wagon.\n\n\"I like your decoration,\" he said, glancing toward the cupola.\n\n\"It's a silk one the Senior boys bought with their athletic\nmoney. I advised them not to run it up in this rain, but the\nclass president told me they bought that flag for storms.\"\n\n\"Get in, and I'll take you home.\"\n\nShe took his extended hand, put her foot on the hub of the wheel,\nand climbed to the seat beside him. He clucked to his team.\n\n\"So your High School boys are feeling war-like these days?\"\n\n\"Very. What do you think?\"\n\n\"I think they'll have a chance to express their feelings.\"\n\n\"Do you, Claude? It seems awfully unreal.\"\n\n\"Nothing else seems very real, either. I'm going to haul out a\nload of lumber, but I never expect to drive a nail in it. These\nthings don't matter now. There is only one thing we ought to do,\nand only one thing that matters; we all know it.\"\n\n\"You feel it's coming nearer every day?\"\n\n\"Every day.\"\n\nGladys made no reply. She only looked at him gravely with her\ncalm, generous brown eyes. They stopped before the low house\nwhere the windows were full of flowers. She took his hand and\nswung herself to the ground, holding it for a moment while she\nsaid good-bye. Claude drove back to the lumber yard. In a place\nlike Frankfort, a boy whose wife was in China could hardly go to\nsee Gladys without causing gossip.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nDuring the bleak month of March Mr. Wheeler went to town in his\nbuckboard almost every day. For the first time in his life he had\na secret anxiety. The one member of his family who had never\ngiven him the slightest trouble, his son Bayliss, was just now\nunder a cloud.\n\nBayliss was a Pacifist, and kept telling people that if only the\nUnited States would stay out of this war, and gather up what\nEurope was wasting, she would soon be in actual possession of the\ncapital of the world. There was a kind of logic in Bayliss'\nutterances that shook Nat Wheeler's imperturbable assumption that\none point of view was as good as another. When Bayliss fought the\ndram and the cigarette, Wheeler only laughed. That a son of his\nshould turn out a Prohibitionist, was a joke he could appreciate.\nBut Bayliss' attitude in the present crisis disturbed him. Day\nafter day he sat about his son's place of business, interrupting\nhis arguments with funny stories. Bayliss did not go home at all\nthat month. He said to his father, \"No, Mother's too violent. I'd\nbetter not.\"\n\nClaude and his mother read the papers in the evening, but they\ntalked so little about what they read that Mahailey inquired\nanxiously whether they weren't still fighting over yonder. When\nshe could get Claude alone for a moment, she pulled out Sunday\nsupplement pictures of the devastated countries and asked him to\ntell her what was to become of this family, photographed among\nthe ruins of their home; of this old woman, who sat by the\nroadside with her bundles. \"Where's she goin' to, anyways? See,\nMr. Claude, she's got her iron cook-pot, pore old thing, carryin'\nit all the way!\"\n\nPictures of soldiers in gas-masks puzzled her; gas was something\nshe hadn't learned about in the Civil War, so she worked it out\nfor herself that these masks were worn by the army cooks, to\nprotect their eyes when they were cutting up onions! \"All them\nonions they have to cut up, it would put their eyes out if they\ndidn't wear somethin',\" she argued.\n\nOn the morning of the eighth of April Claude came downstairs\nearly and began to clean his boots, which were caked with dry\nmud. Mahailey was squatting down beside her stove, blowing and\npuffing into it. The fire was always slow to start in heavy\nweather. Claude got an old knife and a brush, and putting his\nfoot on a chair over by the west window, began to scrape his\nshoe. He had said good-morning to Mahailey, nothing more. He\nhadn't slept well, and was pale.\n\n\"Mr. Claude,\" Mahailey grumbled, \"this stove ain't never drawed\ngood like my old one Mr. Ralph took away from me. I can't do\nnothin' with it. Maybe you'll clean it out for me next Sunday.\"\n\n\"I'll clean it today, if you say so. I won't be here next Sunday.\nI'm going away.\"\n\nSomething in his tone made Mahailey get up, her eyes still\nblinking with the smoke, and look at him sharply. \"You ain't\ngoin' off there where Miss Enid is?\" she asked anxiously.\n\n\"No, Mahailey.\" He had dropped the shoebrush and stood with one\nfoot on the chair, his elbow on his knee, looking out of the\nwindow as if he had forgotten himself. \"No, I'm not going to\nChina. I'm going over to help fight the Germans.\"\n\nHe was still staring out at the wet fields. Before he could stop\nher, before he knew what she was doing, she had caught and kissed\nhis unworthy hand.\n\n\"I knowed you would,\" she sobbed. \"I always knowed you would, you\nnice boy, you! Old Mahail' knowed!\"\n\nHer upturned face was working all over; her mouth, her eyebrows,\neven the wrinkles on her low forehead were working and twitching.\nClaude felt a tightening in his throat as he tenderly regarded\nthat face; behind the pale eyes, under the low brow where there\nwas not room for many thoughts, an idea was struggling and\ntormenting her. The same idea that had been tormenting him.\n\n\"You're all right, Mahailey,\" he muttered, patting her back and\nturning away. \"Now hurry breakfast.\"\n\n\"You ain't told your mudder yit?\" she whispered.\n\n\"No, not yet. But she'll be all right, too.\" He caught up his cap\nand went down to the barn to look after the horses.\n\nWhen Claude returned, the family were already at the breakfast\ntable. He slipped into his seat and watched his mother while she\ndrank her first cup of coffee. Then he addressed his father.\n\n\"Father, I don't see any use of waiting for the draft. If you can\nspare me, I'd like to get into a training camp somewhere. I\nbelieve I'd stand a chance of getting a commission.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wonder.\" Mr. Wheeler poured maple syrup on his\npancakes with a liberal hand. \"How do you feel about it,\nEvangeline?\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler had quietly put down her knife and fork. She looked\nat her husband in vague alarm, while her fingers moved restlessly\nabout over the tablecloth.\n\n\"I thought,\" Claude went on hastily, \"that maybe I would go up to\nOmaha tomorrow and find out where the training camps are to be\nlocated, and have a talk with the men in charge of the enlistment\nstation. Of course,\" he added lightly, \"they may not want me. I\nhaven't an idea what the requirements are.\"\n\n\"No, I don't understand much about it either.\" Mr. Wheeler rolled\nhis top pancake and conveyed it to his mouth. After a moment of\nmastication he said, \"You figure on going tomorrow?\"\n\n\"I'd like to. I won't bother with baggage--some shirts and\nunderclothes in my suitcase. If the Government wants me, it will\nclothe me.\"\n\nMr. Wheeler pushed back his plate. \"Well, now I guess you'd\nbetter come out with me and look at the wheat. I don't know but\nI'd best plough up that south quarter and put it in corn. I don't\nbelieve it will make anything much.\"\n\nWhen Claude and his father went out of the door, Dan sprang up\nwith more alacrity than usual and plunged after them. He did not\nwant to be left alone with Mrs. Wheeler. She remained sitting at\nthe foot of the deserted breakfast table. She was not crying. Her\neyes were utterly sightless. Her back was so stooped that she\nseemed to be bending under a burden. Mahailey cleared the dishes\naway quietly.\n\nOut in the muddy fields Claude finished his talk with his father.\nHe explained that he wanted to slip away without saying good-bye\nto any one. \"I have a way, you know,\" he said, flushing, \"of\nbeginning things and not getting very far with them. I don't want\nanything said about this until I'm sure. I may be rejected for\none reason or another.\"\n\nMr. Wheeler smiled. \"I guess not. However, I'll tell Dan to keep\nhis mouth shut. Will you just go over to Leonard Dawson's and get\nthat wrench he borrowed? It's about noon, and he'll likely be at\nhome.\" Claude found big Leonard watering his team at the\nwindmill. When Leonard asked him what he thought of the\nPresident's message, he blurted out at once that he was going to\nOmaha to enlist. Leonard reached up and pulled the lever that\ncontrolled the almost motionless wheel.\n\n\"Better wait a few weeks and I'll go with you. I'm going to try\nfor the Marines. They take my eye.\"\n\nClaude, standing on the edge of the tank, almost fell backward.\n\"Why, what--what for?\"\n\nLeonard looked him over. \"Good Lord, Claude, you ain't the only\nfellow around here that wears pants! What for? Well, I'll tell\nyou what for,\" he held up three large red fingers threateningly;\n\"Belgium, the Lusitania, Edith Cavell. That dirt's got under my\nskin. I'll get my corn planted, and then Father'll look after\nSusie till I come back.\"\n\nClaude took a long breath. \"Well, Leonard, you fooled me. I\nbelieved all this chaff you've been giving me about not caring\nwho chewed up who.\"\n\n\"And no more do I care,\" Leonard protested, \"not a damn! But\nthere's a limit. I've been ready to go since the Lusitania. I\ndon't get any satisfaction out of my place any more. Susie feels\nthe same way.\"\n\nClaude looked at his big neighbour. \"Well, I'm off tomorrow,\nLeonard. Don't mention it to my folks, but if I can't get into\nthe army, I'm going to enlist in the navy. They'll always take an\nable-bodied man. I'm not coming back here.\" He held out his hand\nand Leonard took it with a smack.\n\n\"Good luck, Claude. Maybe we'll meet in foreign parts. Wouldn't\nthat be a joke! Give my love to Enid when you write. I always did\nthink she was a fine girl, though I disagreed with her on\nProhibition.\" Claude crossed the fields mechanically, without\nlooking where he went. His power of vision was turned inward upon\nscenes and events wholly imaginary as yet.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nOne bright June day Mr. Wheeler parked his car in a line of\nmotors before the new pressed-brick Court house in Frankfort. The\nCourt house stood in an open square, surrounded by a grove of\ncotton-woods. The lawn was freshly cut, and the flower beds were\nblooming. When Mr. Wheeler entered the courtroom upstairs, it was\nalready half-full of farmers and townspeople, talking in low\ntones while the summer flies buzzed in and out of the open\nwindows. The judge, a one-armed man, with white hair and\nside-whiskers, sat at his desk, writing with his left hand. He\nwas an old settler in Frankfort county, but from his frockcoat\nand courtly manners you might have thought he had come from\nKentucky yesterday instead of thirty years ago. He was to hear\nthis morning a charge of disloyalty brought against two German\nfarmers. One of the accused was August Yoeder, the Wheelers'\nnearest neighbour, and the other was Troilus Oberlies, a rich\nGerman from the northern part of the county.\n\nOberlies owned a beautiful farm and lived in a big white house\nset on a hill, with a fine orchard, rows of beehives, barns,\ngranaries, and poultry yards. He raised turkeys and\ntumbler-pigeons, and many geese and ducks swam about on his\ncattleponds. He used to boast that he had six sons, \"like our\nGerman Emperor.\" His neighbours were proud of his place, and\npointed it out to strangers. They told how Oberlies had come to\nFrankfort county a poor man, and had made his fortune by his\nindustry and intelligence. He had twice crossed the ocean to\nre-visit his fatherland, and when he returned to his home on the\nprairies he brought presents for every one; his lawyer, his\nbanker, and the merchants with whom he dealt in Frankfort and\nVicount. Each of his neighbours had in his parlour some piece of\nwoodcarving or weaving, or some ingenious mechanical toy that\nOberlies had picked up in Germany. He was an older man than\nYoeder, wore a short beard that was white and curly, like his\nhair, and though he was low in stature, his puffy red face and\nfull blue eyes, and a certain swagger about his carriage, gave\nhim a look of importance. He was boastful and quick-tempered, but\nuntil the war broke out in Europe nobody had ever had any trouble\nwith him. Since then he had constantly found fault and\ncomplained,--everything was better in the Old Country.\n\nMr. Wheeler had come to town prepared to lend Yoeder a hand if he\nneeded one. They had worked adjoining fields for thirty years\nnow. He was surprised that his neighbour had got into trouble. He\nwas not a blusterer, like Oberlies, but a big, quiet man, with a\nserious, large-featured face, and a stern mouth that seldom\nopened. His countenance might have been cut out of red sandstone,\nit was so heavy and fixed. He and Oberlies sat on two wooden\nchairs outside the railing of the judge's desk.\n\nPresently the judge stopped writing and said he would hear the\ncharges against Troilus Oberlies. Several neighbours took the\nstand in succession; their complaints were confused and almost\nhumorous. Oberlies had said the United States would be licked,\nand that would be a good thing; America was a great country, but\nit was run by fools, and to be governed by Germany was the best\nthing that could happen to it. The witness went on to say that\nsince Oberlies had made his money in this country--\n\nHere the judge interrupted him. \"Please confine yourself to\nstatements which you consider disloyal, made in your presence by\nthe defendant.\" While the witness proceeded, the judge took off\nhis glasses and laid them on the desk and began to polish the\nlenses with a silk handkerchief, trying them, and rubbing them\nagain, as if he desired to see clearly.\n\nA second witness had heard Oberlies say he hoped the German\nsubmarines would sink a few troopships; that would frighten the\nAmericans and teach them to stay at home and mind their own\nbusiness. A third complained that on Sunday afternoons the old\nman sat on his front porch and played Die Wacht am Rhein on a\nslide-trombone, to the great annoyance of his neighbours. Here\nNat Wheeler slapped his knee with a loud guffaw, and a titter ran\nthrough the courtroom. The defendant's puffy red cheeks seemed\nfashioned by his Maker to give voice to that piercing instrument.\n\nWhen asked if he had anything to say to these charges, the old\nman rose, threw back his shoulders, and cast a defiant glance at\nthe courtroom. \"You may take my property and imprison me, but I\nexplain nothing, and I take back nothing,\" he declared in a loud\nvoice.\n\nThe judge regarded his inkwell with a smile. \"You mistake the\nnature of this occasion, Mr. Oberlies. You are not asked to\nrecant. You are merely asked to desist from further disloyal\nutterances, as much for your own protection and comfort as from\nconsideration for the feelings of your neighbours. I will now\nhear the charges against Mr. Yoeder.\"\n\nMr. Yoeder, a witness declared, had said he hoped the United\nStates would go to Hell, now that it had been bought over by\nEngland. When the witness had remarked to him that if the Kaiser\nwere shot it would end the war, Yoeder replied that charity\nbegins at home, and he wished somebody would put a bullet in the\nPresident.\n\nWhen he was called upon, Yoeder rose and stood like a rock before\nthe judge. \"I have nothing to say. The charges are true. I\nthought this was a country where a man could speak his mind.\"\n\n\"Yes, a man can speak his mind, but even here he must take the\nconsequences. Sit down, please.\" The judge leaned back in his\nchair, and looking at the two men in front of him, began with\ndeliberation: \"Mr. Oberlies, and Mr. Yoeder, you both know, and\nyour friends and neighbours know, why you are here. You have not\nrecognized the element of appropriateness, which must be regarded\nin nearly all the transactions of life; many of our civil laws\nare founded upon it. You have allowed a sentiment, noble in\nitself, to carry you away and lead you to make extravagant\nstatements which I am confident neither of you mean. No man can\ndemand that you cease from loving the country of your birth; but\nwhile you enjoy the benefits of this country, you should not\ndefame its government to extol another. You both admit to\nutterances which I can only adjudge disloyal. I shall fine you\neach three hundred dollars; a very light fine under the\ncircumstances. If I should have occasion to fix a penalty a\nsecond time, it will be much more severe.\"\n\nAfter the case was concluded, Mr. Wheeler joined his neighbour at\nthe door and they went downstairs together.\n\n\"Well, what do you hear from Claude?\" Mr. Yoeder asked.\n\n\"He's still at Fort R--. He expects to get home on leave before\nhe sails. Gus, you'll have to lend me one of your boys to\ncultivate my corn. The weeds are getting away from me.\"\n\n\"Yes, you can have any of my boys,--till the draft gets 'em,\"\nsaid Yoeder sourly.\n\n\"I wouldn't worry about it. A little military training is good\nfor a boy. You fellows know that.\" Mr. Wheeler winked, and\nYoeder's grim mouth twitched at one corner.\n\nThat evening at supper Mr. Wheeler gave his wife a full account\nof the court hearing, so that she could write it to Claude. Mrs.\nWheeler, always more a school-teacher than a housekeeper, wrote a\nrapid, easy hand, and her long letters to Claude reported all the\nneighbourhood doings. Mr. Wheeler furnished much of the material\nfor them. Like many long-married men he had fallen into the way\nof withholding neighbourhood news from his wife. But since Claude\nwent away he reported to her everything in which he thought the\nboy would be interested. As she laconically said in one of her\nletters:\n\n\"Your father talks a great deal more at home than formerly, and\nsometimes I think he is trying to take your place.\"\n\n\n\nX\n\nOn the first day of July Claude Wheeler found himself in the fast\ntrain from Omaha, going home for a week's leave. The uniform was\nstill an unfamiliar sight in July, 1917. The first draft was not\nyet called, and the boys who had rushed off and enlisted were in\ntraining camps far away. Therefore a redheaded young man with\nlong straight legs in puttees, and broad, energetic,\nresponsible-looking shoulders in close-fitting khaki, made a\nconspicuous figure among the passengers. Little boys and young\ngirls peered at him over the tops of seats, men stopped in the\naisle to talk to him, old ladies put on their glasses and studied\nhis clothes, his bulky canvas hold-all, and even the book he kept\nopening and forgetting to read.\n\nThe country that rushed by him on each side of the track was more\ninteresting to his trained eye than the pages of any book. He was\nglad to be going through it at harvest,--the season when it is\nmost itself. He noted that there was more corn than usual,--much\nof the winter wheat had been weather killed, and the fields were\nploughed up in the spring and replanted in maize. The pastures\nwere already burned brown, the alfalfa was coming green again\nafter its first cutting. Binders and harvesters were abroad in\nthe wheat and oats, gathering the soft-breathing billows of grain\ninto wide, subduing arms. When the train slowed down for a\ntrestle in a wheat field, harvesters in blue shirts and overalls\nand wide straw hats stopped working to wave at the passengers.\nClaude turned to the old man in the opposite seat. \"When I see\nthose fellows, I feel as if I'd wakened up in the wrong clothes.\"\n\nHis neighbour looked pleased and smiled. \"That the kind of\nuniform you're accustomed to?\"\n\n\"I surely never wore anything else in the month of July,\" Claude\nadmitted. \"When I find myself riding along in a train, in the\nmiddle of harvest, trying to learn French verbs, then I know the\nworld is turned upside down, for a fact!\"\n\nThe old man pressed a cigar upon him and began to question him.\nLike the hero of the Odyssey upon his homeward journey, Claude\nhad often to tell what his country was, and who were the parents\nthat begot him. He was constantly interrupted in his perusal of a\nFrench phrase-book (made up of sentences chosen for their\nusefulness to soldiers,--such as; \"Non, jamais je ne regarde les\nfemmes\") by the questions of curious strangers. Presently he\ngathered up his luggage, shook hands with his neighbour, and put\non his hat--the same old Stetson, with a gold cord and two hard\ntassels added to its conical severity. \"I get off at this station\nand wait for the freight that goes down to Frankfort; the\ncotton-tail, we call it.\"\n\nThe old man wished him a pleasant visit home, and the best of\nluck in days to come. Every one in the car smiled at him as he\nstepped down to the platform with his suitcase in one hand and\nhis canvas bag in the other. His old friend, Mrs. Voigt, the\nGerman woman, stood out in front of her restaurant, ringing her\nbell to announce that dinner was ready for travellers. A crowd of\nyoung boys stood about her on the sidewalk, laughing and shouting\nin disagreeable, jeering tones. As Claude approached, one of them\nsnatched the bell from her hand, ran off across the tracks with\nit, and plunged into a cornfield. The other boys followed, and\none of them shouted, \"Don't go in there to eat, soldier. She's a\nGerman spy, and she'll put ground glass in your dinner!\"\n\nClaude swept into the lunch room and threw his bags on the floor.\n\"What's the matter, Mrs. Voigt? Can I do anything for you?\"\n\nShe was sitting on one of her own stools, crying piteously, her\nfalse frizzes awry. Looking up, she gave a little screech of\nrecognition. \"Oh, I tank Gott it was you, and no more trouble\ncoming! You know I ain't no spy nor nodding, like what dem boys\nsay. Dem young fellers is dreadful rough mit me. I sell dem candy\nsince dey was babies, an' now dey turn on me like dis.\nHindenburg, dey calls me, and Kaiser Bill!\" She began to cry\nagain, twisting her stumpy little fingers as if she would tear\nthem off.\n\n\"Give me some dinner, ma'am, and then I'll go and settle with\nthat gang. I've been away for a long time, and it seemed like\ngetting home when I got off the train and saw your squaw vines\nrunning over the porch like they used to.\"\n\n\"Ya? You remember dat?\" she wiped her eyes. \"I got a pot-pie\ntoday, and green peas, chust a few, out of my own garden.\"\n\n\"Bring them along, please. We don't get anything but canned stuff\nin camp.\"\n\nSome railroad men came in for lunch. Mrs. Voigt beckoned Claude\noff to the end of the counter, where, after she had served her\ncustomers, she sat down and talked to him, in whispers.\n\n\"My, you look good in dem clothes,\" she said patting his sleeve.\n\"I can remember some wars, too; when we got back dem provinces\nwhat Napoleon took away from us, Alsace and Lorraine. Dem boys is\npassed de word to come and put tar on me some night, and I am\nskeered to go in my bet. I chust wrap in a quilt and sit in my\nold chair.\"\n\n\"Don't pay any attention to them. You don't have trouble with the\nbusiness people here, do you?\"\n\n\"No-o, not troubles, exactly.\" She hesitated, then leaned\nimpulsively across the counter and spoke in his ear. \"But it\nain't all so bad in de Old Country like what dey say. De poor\npeople ain't slaves, and dey ain't ground down like what dey say\nhere. Always de forester let de poor folks come into de wood and\ncarry off de limbs dat fall, and de dead trees. Und if de rich\nfarmer have maybe a liddle more manure dan he need, he let de\npoor man come and take some for his land. De poor folks don't git\nsuch wages like here, but dey lives chust as comfortable. Und dem\nwooden shoes, what dey makes such fun of, is cleaner dan what\nleather is, to go round in de mud and manure. Dey don't git so\nwet and dey don't stink so.\"\n\nClaude could see that her heart was bursting with homesickness,\nfull of tender memories of the far-away time and land of her\nyouth. She had never talked to him of these things before, but\nnow she poured out a flood of confidences about the big dairy\nfarm on which she had worked as a girl; how she took care of nine\ncows, and how the cows, though small, were very strong,--drew a\nplough all day and yet gave as much milk at night as if they had\nbeen browsing in a pasture! The country people never had to spend\nmoney for doctors, but cured all diseases with roots and herbs,\nand when the old folks had the rheumatism they took \"one of dem\nliddle jenny-pigs\" to bed with them, and the guinea-pig drew out\nall the pain.\n\nClaude would have liked to listen longer, but he wanted to find\nthe old woman's tormentors before his train came in. Leaving his\nbags with her, he crossed the railroad tracks, guided by an\noccasional teasing tinkle of the bell in the cornfield. Presently\nhe came upon the gang, a dozen or more, lying in a shallow draw\nthat ran from the edge of the field out into an open pasture. He\nstood on the edge of the bank and looked down at them, while he\nslowly cut off the end of a cigar and lit it. The boys grinned at\nhim, trying to appear indifferent and at ease.\n\n\"Looking for any one, soldier?\" asked the one with the bell.\n\n\"Yes, I am. I'm looking for that bell. You'll have to take it\nback where it belongs. You every one of you know there's no harm\nin that old woman.\"\n\n\"She's a German, and we're fighting the Germans, ain't we?\"\n\n\"I don't think you'll ever fight any. You'd last about ten\nminutes in the American army. You're not our kind. There's only\none army in the world that wants men who'll bully old women. You\nmight get a job with them.\"\n\nThe boys giggled. Claude beckoned impatiently. \"Come along with\nthat bell, kid.\"\n\nThe boy rose slowly and climbed the bank out of the gully. As\nthey tramped back through the cornfield, Claude turned to him\nabruptly. \"See here, aren't you ashamed of yourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know about that!\" the boy replied airily, tossing\nthe bell up like a ball and catching it.\n\n\"Well, you ought to be. I didn't expect to see anything of this\nkind until I got to the front. I'll be back here in a week, and\nI'll make it hot for anybody that's been bothering her.\" Claude's\ntrain was pulling in, and he ran for his baggage. Once seated in\nthe \"cotton-tail,\" he began going down into his own country,\nwhere he knew every farm he passed,--knew the land even when he\ndid not know the owner, what sort of crops it yielded, and about\nhow much it was worth. He did not recognize these farms with the\npleasure he had anticipated, because he was so angry about the\nindignities Mrs. Voigt had suffered. He was still burning with\nthe first ardour of the enlisted man. He believed that he was\ngoing abroad with an expeditionary force that would make war\nwithout rage, with uncompromising generosity and chivalry.\n\nMost of his friends at camp shared his Quixotic ideas. They had\ncome together from farms and shops and mills and mines, boys from\ncollege and boys from tough joints in big cities; sheepherders,\nstreet car drivers, plumbers' assistants, billiard markers.\nClaude had seen hundreds of them when they first came in; \"show\nmen\" in cheap, loud sport suits, ranch boys in knitted\nwaistcoats, machinists with the grease still on their fingers,\nfarm-hands like Dan, in their one Sunday coat. Some of them\ncarried paper suitcases tied up with rope, some brought all they\nhad in a blue handkerchief. But they all came to give and not to\nask, and what they offered was just themselves; their big red\nhands, their strong backs, the steady, honest, modest look in\ntheir eyes. Sometimes, when he had helped the medical examiner,\nClaude had noticed the anxious expression in the faces of the\nlong lines of waiting men. They seemed to say, \"If I'm good\nenough, take me. I'll stay by.\" He found them like that to work\nwith; serviceable, good-natured, and eager to learn. If they\ntalked about the war, or the enemy they were getting ready to\nfight, it was usually in a facetious tone; they were going to\n\"can the Kaiser,\" or to make the Crown Prince work for a living.\nClaude, loved the men he trained with,--wouldn't choose to live\nin any better company.\n\nThe freight train swung into the river valley that meant\nhome,--the place the mind always came back to, after its farthest\nquest. Rapidly the farms passed; the haystacks, the cornfields,\nthe familiar red barns--then the long coal sheds and the water\ntank, and the train stopped.\n\nOn the platform he saw Ralph and Mr. Royce, waiting to welcome\nhim. Over there, in the automobile, were his father and mother,\nMr. Wheeler in the driver's seat. A line of motors stood along\nthe siding. He was the first soldier who had come home, and some\nof the townspeople had driven down to see him arrive in his\nuniform. From one car Susie Dawson waved to him, and from another\nGladys Farmer. While he stopped and spoke to them, Ralph took his\nbags.\n\n\"Come along, boys,\" Mr. Wheeler called, tooting his horn, and he\nhurried the soldier away, leaving only a cloud of dust behind.\n\nMr. Royce went over to old man Dawson's car and said rather\nchildishly, \"It can't be that Claude's grown taller? I suppose\nit's the way they learn to carry themselves. He always was a\nmanly looking boy.\"\n\n\"I expect his mother's a proud woman,\" said Susie, very much\nexcited. \"It's too bad Enid can't be here to see him. She would\nnever have gone away if she'd known all that was to happen.\"\n\nSusie did not mean this as a thrust, but it took effect. Mr.\nRoyce turned away and lit a cigar with some difficulty. His hands\nhad grown very unsteady this last year, though he insisted that\nhis general health was as good as ever. As he grew older, he was\nmore depressed by the conviction that his women-folk had added\nlittle to the warmth and comfort of the world. Women ought to do\nthat, whatever else they did. He felt apologetic toward the\nWheelers and toward his old friends. It seemed as if his\ndaughters had no heart.\n\n\n\nXI\nCamp habits persisted. On his first morning at home Claude came\ndownstairs before even Mahailey was stirring, and went out to\nhave a look at the stock. The red sun came up just as he was\ngoing down the hill toward the cattle corral, and he had the\npleasant feeling of being at home, on his father's land. Why was\nit so gratifying to be able to say \"our hill,\" and \"our creek\ndown yonder\"? to feel the crunch of this particular dried mud\nunder his boots?\n\nWhen he went into the barn to see the horses, the first creatures\nto meet his eye were the two big mules that had run away with\nhim, standing in the stalls next the door. It flashed upon Claude\nthat these muscular quadrupeds were the actual authors of his\nfate. If they had not bolted with him and thrown him into the\nwire fence that morning, Enid would not have felt sorry for him\nand come to see him every day, and his life might have turned out\ndifferently. Perhaps if older people were a little more honest,\nand a boy were not taught to idealize in women the very qualities\nwhich can make him utterly unhappy--But there, he had got away\nfrom those regrets. But wasn't it just like him to be dragged\ninto matrimony by a pair of mules!\n\nHe laughed as he looked at them. \"You old devils, you're strong\nenough to play such tricks on green fellows for years to come.\nYou're chock full of meanness!\"\n\nOne of the animals wagged an ear and cleared his throat\nthreateningly. Mules are capable of strong affections, but they\nhate snobs, are the enemies of caste, and this pair had always\nseemed to detect in Claude what his father used to call his\n\"false pride.\" When he was a young lad they had been a source of\nhumiliation to him, braying and balking in public places, trying\nto show off at the lumber yard or in front of the post office.\n\nAt the end manger Claude found old Molly, the grey mare with the\nstiff leg, who had grown a second hoof on her off forefoot, an\nachievement not many horses could boast of. He was sure she\nrecognized him; she nosed his hand and arm and turned back her\nupper lip, showing her worn, yellow teeth.\n\n\"Mustn't do that, Molly,\" he said as he stroked her. \"A dog can\nlaugh, but it makes a horse look foolish. Seems to me Dan might\ncurry you about once a week!\" He took a comb from its niche\nbehind a joist and gave her old coat a rubbing. Her white hair\nwas flecked all over with little rust-coloured dashes, like India\nink put on with a fine brush, and her mane and tail had turned a\ngreenish yellow. She must be eighteen years old, Claude reckoned,\nas he polished off her round, heavy haunches. He and Ralph used\nto ride her over to the Yoeders' when they were barefoot\nyoungsters, guiding her with a rope halter, and kicking at the\nleggy colt that was always running alongside.\n\nWhen he entered the kitchen and asked Mahailey for warm water to\nwash his hands, she sniffed him disapprovingly.\n\n\"Why, Mr. Claude, you've been curryin' that old mare, and you've\ngot white hairs all over your soldier-clothes. You're jist\ncovered!\"\n\nIf his uniform stirred feeling in people of sober judgment, over\nMahailey it cast a spell. She was so dazzled by it that all the\ntime Claude was at home she never once managed to examine it in\ndetail. Before she got past his puttees, her powers of\nobservation were befogged by excitement, and her wits began to\njump about like monkeys in a cage. She had expected his uniform\nto be blue, like those she remembered, and when he walked into\nthe kitchen last night she scarcely knew what to make of him.\nAfter Mrs. Wheeler explained to her that American soldiers didn't\nwear blue now, Mahailey repeated to herself that these brown\nclothes didn't show the dust, and that Claude would never look\nlike the bedraggled men who used to stop to drink at her mother's\nspring.\n\n\"Them leather leggins is to keep the briars from scratchin' you,\nain't they? I 'spect there's an awful lot of briars over there,\nlike them long blackberry vines in the fields in Virginia. Your\nmadder says the soldiers git lice now, like they done in our war.\nYou jist carry a little bottle of coal-oil in your pocket an' rub\nit on your head at night. It keeps the nits from hatchin'.\"\n\nOver the flour barrel in the corner Mahailey had tacked a Red\nCross poster; a charcoal drawing of an old woman poking with a\nstick in a pile of plaster and twisted timbers that had once been\nher home. Claude went over to look at it while he dried his\nhands.\n\n\"Where did you get your picture?\"\n\n\"She's over there where you're goin', Mr. Claude. There she is,\nhuntin' for somethin' to cook with; no stove nor no dishes nor\nnothin'--everything all broke up. I reckon she'll be mighty glad\nto see you comin'.\"\n\nHeavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Mahailey whispered\nhastily, \"Don't forgit about the coal-oil, and don't you be lousy\nif you can help it, honey.\" She considered lice in the same class\nwith smutty jokes,--things to be whispered about.\n\nAfter breakfast Mr. Wheeler took Claude out to the fields, where\nRalph was directing the harvesters. They watched the binder for a\nwhile, then went over to look at the haystacks and alfalfa, and\nwalked along the edge of the cornfield, where they examined the\nyoung ears. Mr. Wheeler explained and exhibited the farm to\nClaude as if he were a stranger; the boy had a curious feeling of\nbeing now formally introduced to these acres on which he had\nworked every summer since he was big enough to carry water to the\nharvesters. His father told him how much land they owned, and how\nmuch it was worth, and that it was unencumbered except for a\ntrifling mortgage he had given on one quarter when he took over\nthe Colorado ranch.\n\n\"When you come back,\" he said, \"you and Ralph won't have to hunt\naround to get into business. You'll both be well fixed. Now you'd\nbetter go home by old man Dawson's and drop in to see Susie.\nEverybody about here was astonished when Leonard went.\" He walked\nwith Claude to the corner where the Dawson land met his own. \"By\nthe way,\" he said as he turned back, \"don't forget to go in to\nsee the Yoeders sometime. Gus is pretty sore since they had him\nup in court. Ask for the old grandmother. You remember she never\nlearned any English. And now they've told her it's dangerous to\ntalk German, she don't talk at all and hides away from everybody.\nIf I go by early in the morning, when she's out weeding the\ngarden, she runs and squats down in the gooseberry bushes till\nI'm out of sight.\"\n\nClaude decided he would go to the Yoeders' today, and to the\nDawsons' tomorrow. He didn't like to think there might be hard\nfeeling toward him in a house where he had had so many good\ntimes, and where he had often found a refuge when things were\ndull at home. The Yoeder boys had a music-box long before the\ndays of Victrolas, and a magic lantern, and the old grandmother\nmade wonderful shadow-pictures on a sheet, and told stories about\nthem. She used to turn the map of Europe upside down on the\nkitchen table and showed the children how, in this position, it\nlooked like a jungfrau; and recited a long German rhyme which\ntold how Spain was the maiden's head, the Pyrenees her lace ruff,\nGermany her heart and bosom, England and Italy were two arms, and\nRussia, though it looked so big, was only a hoopskirt. This rhyme\nwould probably be condemned as dangerous propaganda now!\n\nAs he walked on alone, Claude was thinking how this country that\nhad once seemed little and dull to him, now seemed large and rich\nin variety. During the months in camp he had been wholly absorbed\nin new work and new friendships, and now his own neighbourhood\ncame to him with the freshness of things that have been forgotten\nfor a long while,--came together before his eyes as a harmonious\nwhole. He was going away, and he would carry the whole\ncountryside in his mind, meaning more to him than it ever had\nbefore. There was Lovely Creek, gurgling on down there, where he\nand Ernest used to sit and lament that the book of History was\nfinished; that the world had come to avaricious old age and noble\nenterprise was dead for ever. But he was going away....\n\nThat afternoon Claude spent with his mother. It was the first\ntime she had had him to herself. Ralph wanted terribly to stay\nand hear his brother talk, but understanding how his mother felt,\nhe went back to the wheat field. There was no detail of Claude's\nlife in camp so trivial that Mrs. Wheeler did not want to hear\nabout it. She asked about the mess, the cooks, the laundry, as\nwell as about his own duties. She made him describe the bayonet\ndrill and explain the operation of machine guns and automatic\nrifles.\n\n\"I hardly see how we can bear the anxiety when our transports\nbegin to sail,\" she said thoughtfully. \"If they can once get you\nall over there, I am not afraid; I believe our boys are as good\nas any in the world. But with submarines reported off our own\ncoast, I wonder how the Government can get our men across safely.\nThe thought of transports going down with thousands of young men\non board is something so terrible--\" she put her hands quickly\nover her eyes.\n\nClaude, sitting opposite his mother, wondered what it was about\nher hands that made them so different from any others he had ever\nseen. He had always known they were different, but now he must\nlook closely and see why. They were slender, and always white,\neven when the nails were stained at preserving time. Her fingers\narched back at the joints, as if they were shrinking from\ncontacts. They were restless, and when she talked often brushed\nher hair or her dress lightly. When she was excited she sometimes\nput her hand to her throat, or felt about the neck of her gown,\nas if she were searching for a forgotten brooch. They were\nsensitive hands, and yet they seemed to have nothing to do with\nsense, to be almost like the groping fingers of a spirit.\n\n\"How do you boys feel about it?\"\n\nClaude started. \"About what, Mother? Oh, the transportation! We\ndon't worry about that. It's the Government's job to get us\nacross. A soldier mustn't worry about anything except what he's\ndirectly responsible for. If the Germans should sink a few troop\nships, it would be unfortunate, certainly, but it wouldn't cut any\nfigure in the long run. The British are perfecting an enormous\ndirigible, built to carry passengers. If our transports are sunk,\nit will only mean delay. In another year the Yankees will be\nflying over. They can't stop us.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler bent forward. \"That must be boys' talk, Claude.\nSurely you don't believe such a thing could be practicable?\"\n\n\"Absolutely. The British are depending on their aircraft\ndesigners to do just that, if everything else fails. Of course,\nnobody knows yet how effective the submarines will be in our\ncase.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler again shaded her eyes with her hand. \"When I was\nyoung, back in Vermont, I used to wish that I had lived in the\nold times when the world went ahead by leaps and bounds. And now,\nI feel as if my sight couldn't bear the glory that beats upon it.\nIt seems as if we would have to be born with new faculties, to\ncomprehend what is going on in the air and under the sea.\"\n\n\n\nXII\n\nThe afternoon sun was pouring in at the back windows of Mrs.\nFarmer's long, uneven parlour, making the dusky room look like a\ncavern with a fire at one end of it. The furniture was all in its\ncool, figured summer cretonnes. The glass flower vases that stood\nabout on little tables caught the sunlight and twinkled like tiny\nlamps. Claude had been sitting there for a long while, and he\nknew he ought to go. Through the window at his elbow he could see\nrows of double hollyhocks, the flat leaves of the sprawling\ncatalpa, and the spires of the tangled mint bed, all transparent\nin the gold-powdered light. They had talked about everything but\nthe thing he had come to say. As he looked out into the garden he\nfelt that he would never get it out. There was something in the\nway the mint bed burned and floated that made one a\nfatalist,--afraid to meddle. But after he was far away, he would\nregret; uncertainty would tease him like a splinter in his thumb.\n\nHe rose suddenly and said without apology: \"Gladys, I wish I\ncould feel sure you'd never marry my brother.\"\n\nShe did not reply, but sat in her easy chair, looking up at him\nwith a strange kind of calmness.\n\n\"I know all the advantages,\" he went on hastily, \"but they\nwouldn't make it up to you. That sort of a--compromise would make\nyou awfully unhappy. I know.\"\n\n\"I don't think I shall ever marry Bayliss,\" Gladys spoke in her\nusual low, round voice, but her quick breathing showed he had\ntouched something that hurt. \"I suppose I have used him. It gives\na school-teacher a certain prestige if people think she can marry\nthe rich bachelor of the town whenever she wants to. But I am\nafraid I won't marry him,--because you are the member of the\nfamily I have always admired.\"\n\nClaude turned away to the window. \"A fine lot I've been to\nadmire,\" he muttered.\n\n\"Well, it's true, anyway. It was like that when we went to High\nSchool, and it's kept up. Everything you do always seems exciting\nto me.\"\n\nClaude felt a cold perspiration on his forehead. He wished now\nthat he had never come. \"But that's it, Gladys. What HAVE I ever\ndone, except make one blunder after another?\"\n\nShe came over to the window and stood beside him. \"I don't know;\nperhaps it's by their blunders that one gets to know people,--by\nwhat they can't do. If you'd been like all the rest, you could\nhave got on in their way. That was the one thing I couldn't have\nstood.\"\n\nClaude was frowning out into the flaming garden. He had not heard\na word of her reply. \"Why didn't you keep me from making a fool\nof myself?\" he asked in a low voice.\n\n\"I think I tried--once. Anyhow, it's all turning out better than\nI thought. You didn't get stuck here. You've found your place.\nYou're sailing away. You've just begun.\"\n\n\"And what about you?\"\n\nShe laughed softly. \"Oh, I shall teach in the High School!\"\n\nClaude took her hands and they stood looking searchingly at each\nother in the swimming golden light that made everything\ntransparent. He never knew exactly how he found his hat and made\nhis way out of the house. He was only sure that Gladys did not\naccompany him to the door. He glanced back once, and saw her head\nagainst the bright window.\n\nShe stood there, exactly where he left her, and watched the\nevening come on, not moving, scarcely breathing. She was thinking\nhow often, when she came downstairs, she would see him standing\nhere by the window, or moving about in the dusky room, looking at\nlast as he ought to look,--like his convictions and the choice he\nhad made. She would never let this house be sold for taxes now.\nShe would save her salary and pay them off. She could never like\nany other room so well as this. It had always been a refuge from\nFrankfort; and now there would be this vivid, confident figure,\nan image as distinct to her as the portrait of her grandfather\nupon the wall.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nSunday was Claude's last day at home, and he took a long walk\nwith Ernest and Ralph. Ernest would have preferred to lose\nRalph, but when the boy was out of the harvest field he stuck to\nhis brother like a burr. There was something about Claude's new\nclothes and new manner that fascinated him, and he went through\none of those sudden changes of feeling that often occur in\nfamilies. Although they had been better friends ever since\nClaude's wedding, until now Ralph had always felt a little\nashamed of him. Why, he used to ask himself, wouldn't Claude\n\"spruce up and be somebody\"? Now, he was struck by the fact that\nhe was somebody.\n\nOn Monday morning Mrs. Wheeler wakened early, with a faintness in\nher chest. This was the day on which she must acquit herself\nwell. Breakfast would be Claude's last meal at home. At eleven\no'clock his father and Ralph would take him to Frankfort to catch\nthe train. She was longer than usual in dressing. When she got\ndownstairs Claude and Mahailey were already talking. He was\nshaving in the washroom, and Mahailey stood watching him, a side\nof bacon in her hand.\n\n\"You tell 'em over there I'm awful sorry about them old women,\nwith their dishes an' their stove all broke up.\"\n\n\"All right. I will.\" Claude scraped away at his chin.\n\nShe lingered. \"Maybe you can help 'em mend their things, like you\ndo mine fur me,\" she suggested hopefully.\n\n\"Maybe,\" he murmured absently. Mrs. Wheeler opened the stair\ndoor, and Mahailey dodged back to the stove.\n\nAfter breakfast Dan went out to the fields with the harvesters.\nRalph and Claude and Mr. Wheeler were busy with the car all\nmorning.\n\nMrs. Wheeler kept throwing her apron over her head and going down\nthe hill to see what they were doing. Whether there was really\nsomething the matter with the engine, or whether the men merely\nmade it a pretext for being together and keeping away from the\nhouse, she did not know. She felt that her presence was not much\ndesired, and at last she went upstairs and resignedly watched\nthem from the sitting-room window. Presently she heard Ralph run\nup to the third storey. When he came down with Claude's bags in\nhis hands, he stuck his head in at the door and shouted\ncheerfully to his mother:\n\n\"No hurry. I'm just taking them down so they'll be ready.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler ran after him, calling faintly, \"Wait, Ralph! Are\nyou sure he's got everything in? I didn't hear him packing.\"\n\n\"Everything ready. He says he won't have to go upstairs again.\nHe'll be along pretty soon. There's lots of time.\" Ralph shot\ndown through the basement.\n\nMrs. Wheeler sat down in her reading chair. They wanted to keep\nher away, and it was a little selfish of them. Why couldn't they\nspend these last hours quietly in the house, instead of dashing\nin and out to frighten her? Now she could hear the hot water\nrunning in the kitchen; probably Mr. Wheeler had come in to wash\nhis hands. She felt really too weak to get up and go to the west\nwindow to see if he were still down at the garage. Waiting was\nnow a matter of seconds, and her breath came short enough as it\nwas.\n\nShe recognized a heavy, hob-nailed boot on the stairs, mounting\nquickly. When Claude entered, carrying his hat in his hand, she\nsaw by his walk, his shoulders, and the way he held his head,\nthat the moment had come, and that he meant to make it short. She\nrose, reaching toward him as he came up to her and caught her in\nhis arms. She was smiling her little, curious intimate smile,\nwith half-closed eyes.\n\n\"Well, is it good-bye?\" she murmured. She passed her hands over\nhis shoulders, down his strong back and the close-fitting sides\nof his coat, as if she were taking the mould and measure of his\nmortal frame. Her chin came just to his breast pocket, and she\nrubbed it against the heavy cloth. Claude stood looking down at\nher without speaking a word. Suddenly his arms tightened and he\nalmost crushed her.\n\n\"Mother!\" he whispered as he kissed her. He ran downstairs and\nout of the house without looking back.\n\nShe struggled up from the chair where she had sunk and crept to\nthe window; he was vaulting down the hill as fast as he could go.\nHe jumped into the car beside his father. Ralph was already at\nthe wheel, and Claude had scarcely touched the cushions when they\nwere off. They ran down the creek and over the bridge, then up\nthe long hill on the other side. As they neared the crest of the\nhill, Claude stood up in the car and looked back at the house,\nwaving his cone-shaped hat. She leaned out and strained her\nsight, but her tears blurred everything. The brown, upright\nfigure seemed to float out of the car and across the fields, and\nbefore he was actually gone, she lost him. She fell back against\nthe windowsill, clutching her temples with both hands, and broke\ninto choking, passionate speech. \"Old eyes,\" she cried, \"why do\nyou betray me? Why do you cheat me of my last sight of my\nsplendid son!\"\n\n\nBook Four: The Voyage of the Anchises\n\nI\n\nA long train of crowded cars, the passengers all of the same sex,\nalmost of the same age, all dressed and hatted alike, was slowly\nsteaming through the green sea-meadows late on a summer\nafternoon. In the cars, incessant stretching of cramped legs,\nshifting of shoulders, striking of matches, passing of\ncigarettes, groans of boredom; occasionally concerted laughter\nabout nothing. Suddenly the train stops short. Clipped heads and\ntanned faces pop out at every window. The boys begin to moan and\nshout; what is the matter now?\n\nThe conductor goes through the cars, saying something about a\nfreight wreck on ahead; he has orders to wait here for half an\nhour. Nobody pays any attention to him. A murmur of astonishment\nrises from one side of the train. The boys crowd over to the\nsouth windows. At last there is something to look at,--though\nwhat they see is so strangely quiet that their own exclamations\nare not very loud.\n\nTheir train is lying beside an arm of the sea that reaches far\ninto the green shore. At the edge of the still water stand the\nhulls of four wooden ships, in the process of building. There is\nno town, there are no smoke-stacks--very few workmen. Piles of\nlumber lie about on the grass. A gasoline engine under a\ntemporary shelter is operating a long crane that reaches down\namong the piles of boards and beams, lifts a load, silently and\ndeliberately swings it over to one of the skeleton vessels, and\nlowers it somewhere into the body of the motionless thing. Along\nthe sides of the clean hulls a few riveters are at work; they sit\non suspended planks, lowering and raising themselves with\npulleys, like house painters. Only by listening very closely can\none hear the tap of their hammers. No orders are shouted, no thud\nof heavy machinery or scream of iron drills tears the air. These\nstrange boats seem to be building themselves.\n\nSome of the men got out of the cars and ran along the tracks,\nasking each other how boats could be built off in the grass like\nthis. Lieutenant Claude Wheeler stretched his legs upon the\nopposite seat and sat still at his window, looking down on this\nstrange scene. Shipbuilding, he had supposed, meant noise and\nforges and engines and hosts of men. This was like a dream.\nNothing but green meadows, soft grey water, a floating haze of\nmist a little rosy from the sinking sun, spectre-like seagulls,\nflying slowly, with the red glow tinging their wings--and those\nfour hulls lying in their braces, facing the sea, deliberating by\nthe sea.\n\nClaude knew nothing of ships or shipbuilding, but these craft did\nnot seem to be nailed together,--they seemed all of a piece, like\nsculpture. They reminded him of the houses not made with hands;\nthey were like simple and great thoughts, like purposes forming\nslowly here in the silence beside an unruffled arm of the\nAtlantic. He knew nothing about ships, but he didn't have to; the\nshape of those hulls--their strong, inevitable lines--told their\nstory, WAS their story; told the whole adventure of man with the\nsea.\n\nWooden ships! When great passions and great aspirations stirred a\ncountry, shapes like these formed along its shores to be the\nsheath of its valour. Nothing Claude had ever seen or heard or\nread or thought had made it all so clear as these untried wooden\nbottoms. They were the very impulse, they were the potential act,\nthey were the \"going over,\" the drawn arrow, the great unuttered\ncry, they were Fate, they were tomorrow!...\n\nThe locomotive screeched to her scattered passengers, like an old\nturkey-hen calling her brood. The soldier boys came running back\nalong the embankment and leaped aboard the train. The conductor\nshouted they would be in Hoboken in time for supper.\n\n\n\nII\n\nIt was midnight when the men had got their supper and began\nunrolling their blankets to sleep on the floor of the long dock\nwaiting-rooms,--which in other days had been thronged by people\nwho came to welcome home-coming friends, or to bid them God-speed\nto foreign shores. Claude and some of his men had tried to look\nabout them; but there was little to be seen. The bow of a boat,\npainted in distracting patterns of black and white, rose at one\nend of the shed, but the water itself was not visible. Down in\nthe cobble-paved street below they watched for awhile the long\nline of drays and motor trucks that bumped all night into a vast\ncavern lit by electricity, where crates and barrels and\nmerchandise of all kinds were piled, marked American\nExpeditionary Forces; cases of electrical machinery from some\nfactory in Ohio, parts of automobiles, gun-carriages, bath-tubs,\nhospital supplies, bales of cotton, cases of canned food, grey\nmetal tanks full of chemical fluids. Claude went back to the\nwaiting room, lay down and fell asleep with the glare of an\narc-light shining full in his face.\n\nHe was called at four in the morning and told where to report to\nheadquarters. Captain Maxey, stationed at a desk on one of the\nlandings, explained to his lieutenants that their company was to\nsail at eight o'clock on the Anchises. It was an English boat, an\nold liner pulled off the Australian trade, that could carry only\ntwenty-five hundred men. The crew was English, but part of the\nstores,--the meat and fresh fruit and vegetables,--were furnished\nby the United States Government. The Captain had been over the\nboat during the night, and didn't like it very well. He had\nexpected to be scheduled for one of the fine big Hamburg-American\nliners, with dining-rooms finished in rosewood, and ventilation\nplants and cooling plants, and elevators running from top to\nbottom like a New York office building. \"However,\" he said,\n\"we'll have to make the best of it. They're using everything\nthat's got a bottom now.\"\n\nThe company formed for roll-call at one end of the shed, with\ntheir packs and rifles. Breakfast was served to them while they\nwaited. After an hour's standing on the concrete, they saw\nencouraging signs. Two gangplanks were lowered from the vessel at\nthe end of the slip, and up each of them began to stream a close\nbrown line of men in smart service caps. They recognized a\ncompany of Kansas Infantry, and began to grumble because their\nown service caps hadn't yet been given to them; they would have\nto sail in their old Stetsons. Soon they were drawn into one of\nthe brown lines that went continuously up the gangways, like\nbelting running over machinery. On the deck one steward directed\nthe men down to the hold, and another conducted the officers to\ntheir cabins. Claude was shown to a four-berth state-room. One of\nhis cabin mates, Lieutenant Fanning, of his own company, was\nalready there, putting his slender luggage in order. The steward\ntold them the officers were breakfasting in the dining saloon.\n\nBy seven o'clock all the troops were aboard, and the men were\nallowed on deck. For the first time Claude saw the profile of New\nYork City, rising thin and gray against an opal-coloured morning\nsky. The day had come on hot and misty. The sun, though it was\nnow high, was a red ball, streaked across with purple clouds. The\ntall buildings, of which he had heard so much, looked\nunsubstantial and illusionary,--mere shadows of grey and pink and\nblue that might dissolve with the mist and fade away in it. The\nboys were disappointed. They were Western men, accustomed to the\nhard light of high altitudes, and they wanted to see the city\nclearly; they couldn't make anything of these uneven towers that\nrose dimly through the vapour. Everybody was asking questions.\nWhich of those pale giants was the Singer Building? Which the\nWoolworth? What was the gold dome, dully glinting through the\nfog? Nobody knew. They agreed it was a shame they could not have\nhad a day in New York before they sailed away from it, and that\nthey would feel foolish in Paris when they had to admit they had\nnever so much as walked up Broadway. Tugs and ferry boats and\ncoal barges were moving up and down the oily river, all novel\nsights to the men. Over in the Canard and French docks they saw\nthe first examples of the \"camouflage\" they had heard so much\nabout; big vessels daubed over in crazy patterns that made the\neyes ache, some in black and white, some in soft rainbow colours.\n\nA tug steamed up alongside and fastened. A few moments later a\nman appeared on the bridge and began to talk to the captain.\nYoung Fanning, who had stuck to Claude's side, told him this was\nthe pilot, and that his arrival meant they were going to start.\nThey could see the shiny instruments of a band assembling in the\nbow.\n\n\"Let's get on the other side, near the rail if we can,\" said\nFanning. \"The fellows are bunching up over here because they want\nto look at the Goddess of Liberty as we go out. They don't even\nknow this boat turns around the minute she gets into the river.\nThey think she's going over stern first!\"\n\nIt was not easy to cross the deck; every inch was covered by a\nboot. The whole superstructure was coated with brown uniforms;\nthey clung to the boat davits, the winches, the railings and\nventilators, like bees in a swarm. Just as the vessel was backing\nout, a breeze sprang up and cleared the air. Blue sky broke\noverhead, and the pale silhouette of buildings on the long island\ngrew sharp and hard. Windows flashed flame-coloured in their grey\nsides, the gold and bronze tops of towers began to gleam where\nthe sunlight struggled through. The transport was sliding down\ntoward the point, and to the left the eye caught the silver\ncobweb of bridges, seen confusingly against each other.\n\n\"There she is!\" \"Hello, old girl!\" \"Good-bye, sweetheart!\"\n\nThe swarm surged to starboard. They shouted and gesticulated to\nthe image they were all looking for,--so much nearer than they\nhad expected to see her, clad in green folds, with the mist\nstreaming up like smoke behind. For nearly every one of those\ntwenty-five hundred boys, as for Claude, it was their first\nglimpse of the Bartholdi statue. Though she was such a definite\nimage in their minds, they had not imagined her in her setting of\nsea and sky, with the shipping of the world coming and going at\nher feet, and the moving cloud masses behind her. Post-card\npictures had given them no idea of the energy of her large\ngesture, or how her heaviness becomes light among the vapourish\nelements. \"France gave her to us,\" they kept saying, as they\nsaluted her. Before Claude had got over his first thrill, the\nKansas band in the bow began playing \"Over There.\" Two thousand\nvoices took it up, booming out over the water the gay,\nindomitable resolution of that jaunty air.\n\nA Staten Island ferry-boat passed close under the bow of the\ntransport. The passengers were office-going people, on their way\nto work, and when they looked up and saw these hundreds of faces,\nall young, all bronzed and grinning, they began to shout and wave\ntheir handkerchiefs. One of the passengers was an old clergyman,\na famous speaker in his day, now retired, who went over to the\nCity every morning to write editorials for a church paper. He\nclosed the book he was reading, stood by the rail, and taking off\nhis hat began solemnly to quote from a poet who in his time was\nstill popular. \"Sail on,\" he quavered,\n\n  \"Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State,\n  Humanity, with all its fears,\n  With all its hopes of future years,\n  Is hanging breathless on thy fate.\"\n\nAs the troop ship glided down the sea lane, the old man still\nwatched it from the turtle-back. That howling swarm of brown arms\nand hats and faces looked like nothing, but a crowd of American\nboys going to a football game somewhere. But the scene was\nageless; youths were sailing away to die for an idea, a\nsentiment, for the mere sound of a phrase... and on their\ndeparture they were making vows to a bronze image in the sea.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nAll the first morning Tod Fanning showed Claude over the\nboat,--not that Fanning had ever been on anything bigger than a\nLake Michigan steamer, but he knew a good deal about machinery,\nand did not hesitate to ask the deck stewards to explain anything\nhe didn't know. The stewards, indeed all the crew, struck the\nboys as an unusually good-natured and obliging set of men.\n\nThe fourth occupant of number 96, Claude's cabin, had not turned\nup by noon, nor had any of his belongings, so the three who had\nsettled their few effects there began to hope they would have the\nplace to themselves. It would be crowded enough, at that. The\nthird bunk was assigned to an officer from the Kansas regiment,\nLieutenant Bird, a Virginian, who had been working in his uncle's\nbank in Topeka when he enlisted. He and Claude sat together at\nmess. When they were at lunch, the Virginian said in his very\ngentle voice:\n\n\"Lieutenant, I wish you'd explain Lieutenant Fanning to me. He\nseems very immature. He's been telling me about a submarine\ndestroyer he's invented, but it looks to me like foolishness.\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"Don't try to understand Fanning. Just let him\nsink in, and you'll come to like him. I used to wonder how he\never got a commission. You never can tell what crazy thing he'll\ndo.\"\n\nFanning had, for instance, brought on board a pair of white\nflannel pants, his first and only tailor-made trousers, because\nhe had a premonition that the boat would make a port and that he\nwould be asked to a garden party! He had a way of using big words\nin the wrong place, not because he tried to show off, but because\nall words sounded alike to him. In the first days of their\nacquaintance in camp he told Claude that this was a failing he\ncouldn't help, and that it was called \"anaesthesia.\" Sometimes\nthis failing was confusing; when Fanning sententiously declared\nthat he would like to be on hand when the Crown Prince settled\nhis little account with Plato, Claude was perplexed until\nsubsequent witticisms revealed that the boy meant Pluto.\n\nAt three o'clock there was a band concert on deck. Claude fell\ninto talk with the bandmaster, and was delighted to find that he\ncame from Hillport, Kansas, a town where Claude had once been\nwith his father to buy cattle, and that all his fourteen men came\nfrom Hillport. They were the town band, had enlisted in a body,\nhad gone into training together, and had never been separated.\nOne was a printer who helped to get out the Hillport Argus every\nweek, another clerked in a grocery store, another was the son of\na German watch repairer, one was still in High School, one worked\nin an automobile livery. After supper Claude found them all\ntogether, very much interested in their first evening at sea, and\narguing as to whether the sunset on the water was as fine as\nthose they saw every night in Hillport. They hung together in a\nquiet, determined way, and if you began to talk to one, you soon\nfound that all the others were there.\n\nWhen Claude and Fanning and Lieutenant Bird were undressing in\ntheir narrow quarters that night, the fourth berth was still\nunclaimed. They were in their bunks and almost asleep, when the\nmissing man came in and unceremoniously turned on the light. They\nwere astonished to see that he wore the uniform of the Royal\nFlying Corps and carried a cane. He seemed very young, but the\nthree who peeped out at him felt that he must be a person of\nconsequence. He took off his coat with the spread wings on the\ncollar, wound his watch, and brushed his teeth with an air of\nspecial personal importance. Soon after he had turned out the\nlight and climbed into the berth over Lieutenant Bird, a heavy\nsmell of rum spread in the close air.\n\nFanning, who slept under Claude, kicked the sagging mattress\nabove him and stuck his head out. \"Hullo, Wheeler! What have you\ngot up there?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Nothing smells pretty good to me. I'll have some with anybody\nthat asks me.\"\n\nNo response from any quarter. Bird, the Virginian, murmured,\n\"Don't make a row,\" and they went to sleep.\n\nIn the morning, when the bath steward came, he edged his way into\nthe narrow cabin and poked his head into the berth over Bird's.\n\"I'm sorry, sir, I've made careful search for your luggage, and\nit's not to be found, sir.\"\n\n\"I tell you it must be found,\" fumed a petulant voice overhead.\n\"I brought it over from the St. Regis myself in a taxi. I saw it\nstanding on the pier with the officers' luggage,--a black cabin\ntrunk with V.M. lettered on both ends. Get after it.\"\n\nThe steward smiled discreetly. He probably knew that the aviator\nhad come on board in a state which precluded any very accurate\nobservation on his part. \"Very well, sir. Is there anything I can\nget you for the present?\"\n\n\"You can take this shirt out and have it laundered and bring it\nback to me tonight. I've no linen in my bag.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nClaude and Fanning got on deck as quickly as possible and found\nscores of their comrades already there, pointing to dark smudges\nof smoke along the clear horizon. They knew that these vessels\nhad come from unknown ports, some of them far away, steaming\nthither under orders known only to their commanders. They would\nall arrive within a few hours of each other at a given spot on\nthe surface of the ocean. There they would fall into place,\nflanked by their destroyers, and would proceed in orderly\nformation, without changing their relative positions. Their\nescort would not leave them until they were joined by gunboats\nand destroyers off whatever coast they were bound for,--what that\ncoast was, not even their own officers knew as yet.\n\nLater in the morning this meeting was actually accomplished.\nThere were ten troop ships, some of them very large boats, and\nsix destroyers. The men stood about the whole morning, gazing\nspellbound at their sister transports, trying to find out their\nnames, guessing at their capacity. Tanned as they already were,\ntheir lips and noses began to blister under the fiery sunlight.\nAfter long months of intensive training, the sudden drop into an\nidle, soothing existence was grateful to them. Though their pasts\nwere neither long or varied, most of them, like Claude Wheeler,\nfelt a sense of relief at being rid of all they had ever been\nbefore and facing something absolutely new. Said Tod Fanning, as\nhe lounged against the rail, \"Whoever likes it can run for a\ntrain every morning, and grind his days out in a Westinghouse\nworks; but not for me any more!\"\n\nThe Virginian joined them. \"That Englishman ain't got out of bed\nyet. I reckon he's been liquouring up pretty steady. The place\nsmells like a bar. The room steward was just coming out, and he\nwinked at me. He was slipping something in his pocket, looked\nlike a banknote.\"\n\nClaude was curious, and went down to the cabin. As he entered,\nthe air-man, lying half-dressed in his upper berth, raised\nhimself on one elbow and looked down at him. His blue eyes were\ncontracted and hard, his curly hair disordered, but his cheeks\nwere as pink as a girl's, and the little yellow humming-bird\nmoustache on his upper lip was twisted sharp.\n\n\"You're missing fine weather,\" said Claude affably.\n\n\"Oh, there'll be a great deal of weather before we get over, and\ndamned little of anything else!\" He drew a bottle from under his\npillow. \"Have a nip?\"\n\n\"I don't mind if I do,\" Claude put out his hand.\n\nThe other laughed and sank back on his pillow, drawling lazily,\n\"Brave boy! Go ahead; drink to the Kaiser.\"\n\n\"Why to him in particular?\"\n\n\"It's not particular. Drink to Hindenburg, or the High Command,\nor anything else that got you out of the cornfield. That's where\nthey did get you, didn't they?\"\n\n\"Well, it's a good guess, anyhow. Where did they get you?\"\n\n\"Crystal Lake, Iowa. I think that was the place.\" He yawned and\nfolded his hands over his stomach.\n\n\"Why, we thought you were an Englishman.\"\n\n\"Not quite. I've served in His Majesty's army two years, though.\"\n\n\"Have you been flying in France?\"\n\n\"Yes. I've been back and forth all the time, England and France.\nNow I've wasted two months at Fort Worth. Instructor. That's not\nmy line. I may have been sent over as a reprimand. You can't tell\nabout my Colonel, though; may have been his way of getting me out\nof danger.\"\n\nClaude glanced up at him, shocked at such an idea.\n\nThe young man in the berth smiled with listless compassion. \"Oh,\nI don't mean Bosch planes! There are dangers and dangers. You'll\nfind you got bloody little information about this war, where they\ntrained you. They don't communicate any details of importance.\nGoing?\"\n\nClaude hadn't intended to, but at this suggestion he pulled back\nthe door.\n\n\"One moment,\" called the aviator. \"Can't you keep that\nlong-legged ass who bunks under you quiet?\"\n\n\"Fanning? He's a good kid. What's the matter with him?\"\n\n\"His general ignorance and his insufferably familiar tone,\"\nsnapped the other as he turned over.\n\nClaude found Fanning and the Virginian playing checkers, and told\nthem that the mysterious air-man was a fellow countryman. Both\nseemed disappointed.\n\n\"Pshaw!\" exclaimed Lieutenant Bird.\n\n\"He can't put on airs with me, after that,\" Fanning declared.\n\"Crystal Lake! Why it's no town at all!\"\n\nAll the same, Claude wanted to find out how a youth from Crystal\nLake ever became a member of the Royal Flying Corps. Already,\nfrom among the hundreds of strangers, half-a-dozen stood out as\nmen he was determined to know better. Taking them altogether the\nmen were a fine sight as they lounged about the decks in the\nsunlight, the petty rivalries and jealousies of camp days\nforgotten. Their youth seemed to flow together, like their brown\nuniforms. Seen in the mass like this, Claude thought, they were\nrather noble looking fellows. In so many of the faces there was a\nlook of fine candour, an expression of cheerful expectancy and\nconfident goodwill.\n\nThere was on board a solitary Marine, with the stripes of Border\nservice on his coat. He had been sick in the Navy Hospital in\nBrooklyn when his regiment sailed, and was now going over to join\nit. He was a young fellow, rather pale from his recent illness,\nbut he was exactly Claude's idea of what a soldier ought to look\nlike. His eye followed the Marine about all day.\n\nThe young man's name was Albert Usher, and he came from a little\ntown up in the Wind River mountains, in Wyoming, where he had\nworked in a logging camp. He told Claude these facts when they\nfound themselves standing side by side that evening, watching the\nbroad purple sun go down into a violet coloured sea.\n\nIt was the hour when the farmers at home drive their teams in\nafter the day's work. Claude was thinking how his mother would be\nstanding at the west window every evening now, watching the sun\ngo down and following him in her mind. When the young Marine came\nup and joined him, he confessed to a pang of homesickness.\n\n\"That's a kind of sickness I don't have to wrastle with,\" said\nAlbert Usher. \"I was left an orphan on a lonesome ranch, when I\nwas nine, and I've looked out for myself ever since.\"\n\nClaude glanced sidewise at the boy's handsome head, that came up\nfrom his neck with clean, strong lines, and thought he had done a\npretty good job for himself. He could not have said exactly what\nit was he liked about young Usher's face, but it seemed to him a\nface that had gone through things,--that had been trained down\nlike his body, and had developed a definite character. What\nClaude thought due to a manly, adventurous life, was really due\nto well-shaped bones; Usher's face was more \"modelled\" than most\nof the healthy countenances about him.\n\nWhen questioned, the Marine went on to say that though he had no\nhome of his own, he had always happened to fall on his feet,\namong kind people. He could go back to any house in Pinedale or\nDu Bois and be welcomed like a son.\n\n\"I suppose there are kind women everywhere,\" he said, \"but in\nthat respect Wyoming's got the rest of the world beat. I never\nfelt the lack of a home. Now the U. S. Marines are my family.\nWherever they are, I'm at home.\"\n\n\"Were you at Vera Cruz?\" Claude asked.\n\n\"I guess! We thought that was quite a little party at the time,\nbut I suppose it will seem small potatoes when we get over there.\nI'm figuring on seeing some first-rate scrapping. How long have\nyou been in the army?\"\n\n\"Year ago last April. I've had hard luck about getting over. They\nkept me jumping about to train men.\"\n\n\"Then yours is all to come. Are you a college graduate?\"\n\n\"No. I went away to school, but I didn't finish.\"\n\nUsher frowned at the gilded path on the water where the sun lay\nhalf submerged, like a big, watchful eye, closing. \"I always\nwanted to go to college, but I never managed it. A man in Laramie\noffered to stake me to a course in the University there, but I\nwas too restless. I guess I was ashamed of my handwriting.\" He\npaused as if he had run against some old regret. A moment later\nhe said suddenly, \"Can you parlez-vous?\"\n\n\"No. I know a few words, but I can't put them together.\"\n\n\"Same here. I expect to pick up some. I pinched quite a little\nSpanish down on the Border.\"\n\nBy this time the sun had disappeared, and all over the west the\nyellow sky came down evenly, like a gold curtain, on the still\nsea that seemed to have solidified into a slab of dark blue\nstone,--not a twinkle on its immobile surface. Across its dusky\nsmoothness were two long smears of pale green, like a robin's\negg.\n\n\"Do you like the water?\" Usher asked, in the tone of a polite\nhost. \"When I first shipped on a cruiser I was crazy about it. I\nstill am. But, you know, I like them old bald mountains back in\nWyoming, too. There's waterfalls you can see twenty miles off\nfrom the plains; they look like white sheets or something,\nhanging up there on the cliffs. And down in the pine woods, in\nthe cold streams, there's trout as long as my fore-arm.\"\n\nThat evening Claude was on deck, almost alone; there was a\nconcert down in the ward room. To the west heavy clouds had come\nup, moving so low that they flapped over the water like a black\nwashing hanging on the line.\n\nThe music sounded well from below. Four Swedish boys from the\nScandinavian settlement at Lindsborg, Kansas, were singing \"Long,\nLong Ago.\" Claude listened from a sheltered spot in the stern.\nWhat were they, and what was he, doing here on the Atlantic? Two\nyears ago he had seemed a fellow for whom life was over; driven\ninto the ground like a post, or like those Chinese criminals who\nare planted upright in the earth, with only their heads left out\nfor birds to peck at and insects to sting. All his comrades had\nbeen tucked away in prairie towns, with their little jobs and\ntheir little plans. Yet here they were, attended by unknown ships\ncalled in from the four quarters of the earth. How had they come\nto be worth the watchfulness and devotion of so many men and\nmachines, this extravagant consumption of fuel and energy? Taken\none by one, they were ordinary fellows like himself. Yet here\nthey were. And in this massing and movement of men there was\nnothing mean or common; he was sure of that. It was, from first\nto last, unforeseen, almost incredible. Four years ago, when the\nFrench were holding the Marne, the wisest men in the world had\nnot conceived of this as possible; they had reckoned with every\nfortuity but this. \"Out of these stones can my Father raise up\nseed unto Abraham.\"\n\nDownstairs the men began singing \"Annie Laurie.\" Where were those\nsummer evenings when he used to sit dumb by the windmill,\nwondering what to do with his life?\n\n\n\nIV\n\nThe morning of the third day; Claude and the Virginian and the\nMarine were up very early, standing in the bow, watching the\nAnchises mount the fresh blowing hills of water, her prow, as it\nrose and fell, always a dull triangle against the glitter. Their\nescorts looked like dream ships, soft and iridescent as shell in\nthe pearl-coloured tints of the morning. Only the dark smudges of\nsmoke told that they were mechanical realities with stokers and\nengines.\n\nWhile the three stood there, a sergeant brought Claude word that\ntwo of his men would have to report at sick-call. Corporal\nTannhauser had had such an attack of nose-bleed during the night\nthat the sergeant thought he might die before they got it\nstopped. Tannhauser was up now, and in the breakfast line, but\nthe sergeant was sure he ought not to be. This Fritz Tannhauser\nwas the tallest man in the company, a German-American boy who,\nwhen asked his name, usually said that his name was Dennis and\nthat he was of Irish descent. Even this morning he tried to joke,\nand pointing to his big red face told Claude he thought he had\nmeasles. \"Only they ain't German measles, Lieutenant,\" he\ninsisted.\n\nMedical inspection took a long while that morning. There seemed\nto be an outbreak of sickness on board. When Claude brought his\ntwo men up to the Doctor, he told them to go below and get into\nbed. As they left he turned to Claude.\n\n\"Give them hot tea, and pile army blankets on them. Make them\nsweat if you can.\" Claude remarked that the hold wasn't a very\ncheerful place for sick men.\n\n\"I know that, Lieutenant, but there are a number of sick men this\nmorning, and the only other physician on board is the sickest of\nthe lot. There's the ship's doctor, of course, but he's only\nresponsible for the crew, and so far he doesn't seem interested.\nI've got to overhaul the hospital and the medical stores this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Is there an epidemic of some sort?\"\n\n\"Well, I hope not. But I'll have plenty to do today, so I count\non you to look after those two.\" The doctor was a New Englander\nwho had joined them at Hoboken. He was a brisk, trim man, with\npiercing eyes, clean-cut features, and grey hair just the colour\nof his pale face. Claude felt at once that he knew his business,\nand he went below to carry out instructions as well as he could.\n\nWhen he came up from the hold, he saw the aviator--whose name, he\nhad learned, was Victor Morse--smoking by the rail. This\ncabin-mate still piqued his curiosity.\n\n\"First time you've been up, isn't it?\"\n\nThe aviator was looking at the distant smoke plumes over the\nquivering, bright water. \"Time enough. I wish I knew where we are\nheading for. It will be awfully awkward for me if we make a\nFrench port.\"\n\n\"I thought you said you were to report in France.\"\n\n\"I am. But I want to report in London first.\" He continued to\ngaze off at the painted ships. Claude noticed that in standing he\nheld his chin very high. His eyes, now that he was quite sober,\nwere brilliantly young and daring; they seemed scornful of things\nabout him. He held himself conspicuously apart, as if he were not\namong his own kind.\n\nClaude had seen a captured crane, tied by its leg to a hencoop,\nbehave exactly like that among Mahailey's chickens; hold its\nwings to its sides, and move its head about quickly and glare.\n\n\"I suppose you have friends in London?\" he asked.\n\n\"Rather!\" the aviator replied with feeling.\n\n\"Do you like it better than Paris?\"\n\n\"I shouldn't imagine anything was much better than London. I've\nnot been in Paris; always went home when I was on leave. They\nwork us pretty hard. In the infantry and artillery our men get\nonly a fortnight off in twelve months. I understand the Americans\nhave leased the Riviera,--recuperate at Nice and Monte Carlo. The\nonly Cook's tour we had was Gallipoli,\" he added grimly.\n\nVictor had gone a good way toward acquiring an English accent,\nthe boys thought. At least he said 'necess'ry' and 'dysent'ry'\nand called his suspenders 'braces'. He offered Claude a\ncigarette, remarking that his cigars were in his lost trunk.\n\n\"Take one of mine. My brother sent me two boxes just before we\nsailed. I'll put a box in your bunk next time I go down. They're\ngood ones.\"\n\nThe young man turned and looked him over with surprise. \"I say,\nthat's very decent of you! Yes, thank you, I will.\"\n\nClaude had tried yesterday, when he lent Victor some shirts, to\nmake him talk about his aerial adventures, but upon that subject\nhe was as close as a clam. He admitted that the long red scar on\nhis upper arm had been drilled by a sharpshooter from a German\nFokker, but added hurriedly that it was of no consequence, as he\nhad made a good landing. Now, on the strength of the cigars,\nClaude thought he would probe a little further. He asked whether\nthere was anything in the lost trunk that couldn't be replaced,\nanything \"valuable.\"\n\n\"There's one thing that's positively invaluable; a Zeiss lens, in\nperfect condition. I've got several good photographic outfits\nfrom time to time, but the lenses are always cracked by\nheat,--the things usually come down on fire. This one I got out\nof a plane I brought down up at Bar-le-Duc, and there's not a\nscratch on it; simply a miracle.\"\n\n\"You get all the loot when you bring down a machine, do you?\"\nClaude asked encouragingly.\n\n\"Of course. I've a good collection; altimeters and compasses and\nglasses. This lens I always carry with me, because I'm afraid to\nleave it anywhere.\"\n\n\"I suppose it makes a fellow feel pretty fine to bring down one\nof those German planes.\"\n\n\"Sometimes. I brought down one too many, though; it was very\nunpleasant.\" Victor paused, frowning. But Claude's open,\ncredulous face was too much for his reserve. \"I brought down a\nwoman once. She was a plucky devil, flew a scouting machine and\nhad bothered us a bit, going over our lines. Naturally, we didn't\nknow it was a woman until she came down. She was crushed\nunderneath things. She lived a few hours and dictated a letter to\nher people. I went out and dropped it inside their lines. It was\nnasty business. I was quite knocked out. I got a fortnight's\nleave in London, though. Wheeler,\" he broke out suddenly, \"I wish\nI knew we were going there now!\"\n\n\"I'd like it well enough if we were.\"\n\nVictor shrugged. \"I should hope so!\" He turned his chin in\nClaude's direction. \"See here, if you like, I'll show you London!\nIt's a promise. Americans never see it, you know. They sit in a\nY. hut and write to their Pollyannas, or they go round hunting for\nthe Tower. I'll show you a city that's alive; that is, unless\nyou've a preference for museums.\"\n\nHis listener laughed. \"No, I want to see life, as they say.\"\n\n\"Umph! I'd like to set you down in some places I can think of.\nVery well, I invite you to dine with me at the Savoy, the first\nnight we're in London. The curtain will rise on this world for\nyou. Nobody admitted who isn't in evening dress. The jewels will\ndazzle you. Actresses, duchesses, all the handsomest women in\nEurope.\"\n\n\"But I thought London was dark and gloomy since the war.\"\n\nVictor smiled and teased his small straw-coloured moustache with\nhis thumb and middle finger. \"There are a few bright spots left,\nthank you!\" He began to explain to a novice what life at the\nfront was really like. Nobody who had seen service talked about\nthe war, or thought about it; it was merely a condition under\nwhich they lived. Men talked about the particular regiment they\nwere jealous of, or the favoured division that was put in for all\nthe show fighting. Everybody thought about his own game, his\npersonal life that he managed to keep going in spite of\ndiscipline; his next leave, how to get champagne without paying\nfor it, dodging the guard, getting into scrapes with women and\ngetting out again. \"Are you quick with your French?\" he asked.\n\nClaude grinned. \"Not especially.\"\n\n\"You'd better brush up on it if you want to do anything with\nFrench girls. I hear your M.P.'s are very strict. You must be\nable to toss the word the minute you see a skirt, and make your\ndate before the guard gets onto you.\"\n\n\"I suppose French girls haven't any scruples?\" Claude remarked\ncarelessly.\n\nVictor shrugged his narrow shoulders. \"I haven't found that girls\nhave many, anywhere. When we Canadians were training in England,\nwe all had our week-end wives. I believe the girls in Crystal\nLake used to be more or less fussy,--but that's long ago and far\naway. You won't have any difficulty.\"\n\nWhen Victor was in the middle of a tale of amorous adventure, a\nlittle different from any Claude had ever heard, Tod Fanning\njoined them. The aviator did not acknowledge the presence of a\nnew listener, but when he had finished his story, walked away\nwith his special swagger, his eyes fixed upon the distance.\n\nFanning looked after him with disgust. \"Do you believe him? I\ndon't think he's any such heart-smasher. I like his nerve,\ncalling you `Leftenant'! When he speaks to me he'll have to say\nLootenant, or I'll spoil his beauty.\"\n\nThat day the men remembered long afterward, for it was the end of\nthe fine weather, and of those first long, carefree days at sea.\nIn the afternoon Claude and the young Marine, the Virginian and\nFanning, sat together in the sun watching the water scoop itself\nout in hollows and pile itself up in blue, rolling hills. Usher\nwas telling his companions a long story about the landing of the\nMarines at Vera Cruz.\n\n\"It's a great old town,\" he concluded. \"One thing there I'll\nnever forget. Some of the natives took a few of us out to the old\nprison that stands on a rock in the sea. We put in the whole day\nthere, and it wasn't any tourist show, believe me! We went down\ninto dungeons underneath the water where they used to keep State\nprisoners, kept them buried alive for years. We saw all the old\ninstruments of torture; rusty iron cages where a man couldn't lie\ndown or stand up, but had to sit bent over till he grew crooked.\nIt made you feel queer when you came up, to think how people had\nbeen left to rot away down there, when there was so much sun and\nwater outside. Seems like something used to be the matter with\nthe world.\" He said no more, but Claude thought from his serious\nlook that he believed he and his countrymen who were pouring\noverseas would help to change all that.\n\n\n\nV\n\nThat night the Virginian, who berthed under Victor Morse, had an\nalarming attack of nose-bleed, and by morning he was so weak that\nhe had to be carried to the hospital. The Doctor said they might\nas well face the facts; a scourge of influenza had broken out on\nboard, of a peculiarly bloody and malignant type.* Everybody was\na little frightened. Some of the officers shut themselves up in\nthe smoking-room, and drank whiskey and soda and played poker all\nday, as if they could keep contagion out.\n\n* The actual outbreak of influenza on transports carrying United\nStates troops is here anticipated by several months.\n\n\nLieutenant Bird died late in the afternoon and was buried at\nsunrise the next day, sewed up in a tarpaulin, with an eighteen\npound shell at his feet. The morning broke brilliantly clear and\nbitter cold. The sea was rolling blue walls of water, and the\nboat was raked by a wind as sharp as ice. Excepting those who\nwere sick, the boys turned out to a man. It was the first burial\nat sea they had ever witnessed, and they couldn't help finding it\ninteresting. The Chaplain read the burial service while they\nstood with uncovered heads. The Kansas band played a solemn\nmarch, the Swedish quartette sang a hymn. Many a man turned his\nface away when that brown sack was lowered into the cold, leaping\nindigo ridges that seemed so destitute of anything friendly to\nhuman kind. In a moment it was done, and they steamed on without\nhim.\n\nThe glittering walls of water kept rolling in, indigo, purple,\nmore brilliant than on the days of mild weather. The blinding\nsunlight did not temper the cold, which cut the face and made the\nlungs ache. Landsmen began to have that miserable sense of being\nwhere they were never meant to be. The boys lay in heaps on the\ndeck, trying to keep warm by hugging each other close. Everybody\nwas seasick. Fanning went to bed with his clothes on, so sick he\ncouldn't take off his boots. Claude lay in the crowded stern, too\ncold, too faint to move. The sun poured over them like flame,\nwithout any comfort in it. The strong, curling, foam-crested\nwaves threw off the light like millions of mirrors, and their\ncolour was almost more than the eye could bear. The water seemed\ndenser than before, heavy like melted glass, and the foam on the\nedges of each blue ridge looked sharp as crystals. If a man\nshould fall into them, he would be cut to pieces.\n\nThe whole ocean seemed suddenly to have come to life, the waves\nhad a malignant, graceful, muscular energy, were animated by a\nkind of mocking cruelty. Only a few hours ago a gentle boy had\nbeen thrown into that freezing water and forgotten. Yes, already\nforgotten; every one had his own miseries to think about.\n\nLate in the afternoon the wind fell, and there was a sinister\nsunset. Across the red west a small, ragged black cloud\nhurried,--then another, and another. They came up out of the\nsea,--wild, witchlike shapes that travelled fast and met in the\nwest as if summoned for an evil conclave. They hung there against\nthe afterglow, distinct black shapes, drawing together, devising\nsomething. The few men who were left on deck felt that no good\ncould come out of a sky like that. They wished they were at home,\nin France, anywhere but here.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nThe next morning Doctor Trueman asked Claude to help him at sick\ncall. \"I've got a bunch of sergeants taking temperatures, but\nit's too much for one man to oversee. I don't want to ask\nanything of those dude officers who sit in there playing poker\nall the time. Either they've got no conscience, or they're not\nawake to the gravity of the situation.\"\n\nThe Doctor stood on deck in his raincoat, his foot on the rail to\nkeep his equilibrium, writing on his knee as the long string of\nmen came up to him. There were more than seventy in the line that\nmorning, and some of them looked as if they ought to be in a\ndrier place. Rain beat down on the sea like lead bullets. The old\nAnchises floundered from one grey ridge to another, quite alone.\nFog cut off the cheering sight of the sister ships. The doctor\nhad to leave his post from time to time, when seasickness got the\nbetter of his will. Claude, at his elbow, was noting down names\nand temperatures. In the middle of his work he told the sergeants\nto manage without him for a few minutes. Down near the end of the\nline he had seen one of his own men misconducting himself,\nsnivelling and crying like a baby,--a fine husky boy of eighteen\nwho had never given any trouble. Claude made a dash for him and\nclapped him on the shoulder.\n\n\"If you can't stop that, Bert Fuller, get where you won't be\nseen. I don't want all these English stewards standing around to\nwatch an American soldier cry. I never heard of such a thing!\"\n\n\"I can't help it, Lieutenant,\" the boy blubbered. \"I've kept it\nback just as long as I can. I can't hold in any longer!\"\n\n\"What's the matter with you? Come over here and sit down on this\nbox and tell me.\"\n\nPrivate Fuller willingly let himself be led, and dropped on the\nbox. \"I'm so sick, Lieutenant!\"\n\n\"I'll see how sick you are.\" Claude stuck a thermometer into his\nmouth, and while he waited, sent the deck steward to bring a cup\nof tea. \"Just as I thought, Fuller. You've not half a degree of\nfever. You're scared, and that's all. Now drink this tea. I\nexpect you didn't eat any breakfast.\"\n\n\"No, sir. I can't eat the awful stuff on this boat.\"\n\n\"It is pretty bad. Where are you from?\"\n\n\"I'm from P-P-Pleasantville, up on the P-P-Platte,\" the boy\ngulped, and his tears began to flow afresh.\n\n\"Well, now, what would they think of you, back there? I suppose\nthey got the band out and made a fuss over you when you went\naway, and thought they were sending off a fine soldier. And I've\nalways thought you'd be a first rate soldier. I guess we'll forget\nabout this. You feel better already, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. This tastes awful good. I've been so sick to my\nstomach, and last night I got pains in my chest. All my crowd is\nsick, and you took big Tannhauser, I mean Corporal, away to the\nhospital. It looks like we're all going to die out here.\"\n\n\"I know it's a little gloomy. But don't you shame me before these\nEnglish stewards.\"\n\n\"I won't do it again, sir,\" he promised.\n\nWhen the medical inspection was over, Claude took the Doctor down\nto see Fanning, who had been coughing and wheezing all night and\nhadn't got out of his berth. The examination was short. The\nDoctor knew what was the matter before he put the stethoscope on\nhim. \"It's pneumonia, both lungs,\" he said when they came out\ninto the corridor. \"I have one case in the hospital that will die\nbefore morning.\"\n\n\"What can you do for him, Doctor?\"\n\n\"You see how I'm fixed; close onto two hundred men sick, and one\ndoctor. The medical supplies are wholly inadequate. There's not\ncastor oil enough on this boat to keep the men clean inside. I'm\nusing my own drugs, but they won't last through an epidemic like\nthis. I can't do much for Lieutenant Fanning. You can, though, if\nyou'll give him the time. You can take better care of him right\nhere than he could get in the hospital. We haven't an empty bed\nthere.\"\n\nClaude found Victor Morse and told him he had better get a berth\nin one of the other staterooms. When Victor left with his\nbelongings, Fanning stared after him. \"Is he going?\"\n\n\"Yes. It's too crowded in here, if you've got to stay in bed.\"\n\n\"Glad of it. His stories are too raw for me. I'm no sissy, but\nthat fellow's a regular Don Quixote.\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"You mustn't talk. It makes you cough.\"\n\n\"Where's the Virginian?\"\n\n\"Who, Bird?\" Claude asked in astonishment,--Fanning had stood\nbeside him at Bird's funeral. \"Oh, he's gone, too. You sleep if\nyou can.\"\n\nAfter dinner Doctor Trueman came in and showed Claude how to give\nhis patient an alcohol bath. \"It's simply a question of whether\nyou can keep up his strength. Don't try any of this greasy food\nthey serve here. Give him a raw egg beaten up in the juice of an\norange every two hours, night and day. Waken him out of his sleep\nwhen it's time, don't miss a single two-hour period. I'll write\nan order to your table steward, and you can beat the eggs up here\nin your cabin. Now I must go to the hospital. It's wonderful what\nthose band boys are doing there. I begin to take some pride in\nthe place. That big German has been asking for you. He's in a\nvery bad way.\"\n\nAs there were no nurses on board, the Kansas band had taken over\nthe hospital. They had been trained for stretcher and first aid\nwork, and when they realized what was happening on the Anchises,\nthe bandmaster came to the Doctor and offered the services of his\nmen. He chose nurses and orderlies, divided them into night and\nday shifts.\n\nWhen Claude went to see his Corporal, big Tannhauser did not\nrecognize him. He was quite out of his head and was conversing\nwith his own family in the language of his early childhood. The\nKansas boys had singled him out for special attention. The mere\nfact that he kept talking in a tongue forbidden on the surface of\nthe seas, made him seem more friendless and alone than the\nothers.\n\nFrom the hospital Claude went down into the hold where\nhalf-a-dozen of his company were lying ill. The hold was damp and\nmusty as an old cellar, so steeped in the smells and leakage of\ninnumerable dirty cargoes that it could not be made or kept\nclean. There was almost no ventilation, and the air was fetid\nwith sickness and sweat and vomit. Two of the band boys were\nworking in the stench and dirt, helping the stewards. Claude\nstayed to lend a hand until it was time to give Fanning his\nnourishment. He began to see that the wrist watch, which he had\nhitherto despised as effeminate and had carried in his pocket,\nmight be a very useful article. After he had made Fanning swallow\nhis egg, he piled all the available blankets on him and opened\nthe port to give the cabin an airing. While the fresh wind blew\nin, he sat down on the edge of his berth and tried to collect his\nwits. What had become of those first days of golden weather,\nleisure and good-comradeship? The band concerts, the Lindsborg\nQuartette, the first excitement and novelty of being at sea: all\nthat had gone by like a dream.\n\nThat night when the Doctor came in to see Fanning, he threw his\nstethoscope on the bed and said wearily, \"It's a wonder that\ninstrument doesn't take root in my ears and grow there.\" He sat\ndown and sucked his thermometer for a few minutes, then held it\nout for inspection. Claude looked at it and told him he ought to\ngo to bed.\n\n\"Then who's to be up and around? No bed for me, tonight. But I\nwill have a hot bath by and by.\"\n\nClaude asked why the ship's doctor didn't do anything and added\nthat he must be as little as he looked.\n\n\"Chessup? No, he's not half bad when you get to know him. He's\ngiven me a lot of help about preparing medicines, and it's a\ngreat assistance to talk the cases over with him. He'll do\nanything for me except directly handle the patients. He doesn't\nwant to exceed his authority. It seems the English marine is very\nparticular about such things. He's a Canadian, and he graduated\nfirst in his class at Edinburgh. I gather he was frozen out in\nprivate practice. You see, his appearance is against him. It's an\nawful handicap to look like a kid and be as shy as he is.\"\n\nThe Doctor rose, shored up his shoulders and took his bag.\n\"You're looking fine yourself, Lieutenant,\" he remarked.\n\n\"Parents both living? Were they quite young when you were born?\nWell, then their parents were, probably. I'm a crank about that.\nYes, I'll get my bath pretty soon, and I will lie down for an\nhour or two. With those splendid band boys running the hospital,\nI get a little lee-way.\"\n\nClaude wondered how the Doctor kept going. He knew he hadn't had\nmore than four hours sleep out of the last forty-eight, and he\nwas not a man of rugged constitution. His bath steward was, as he\nsaid, his comfort. Hawkins was an old fellow who had held better\npositions on better boats,--yes, in better times, too. He had\nfirst gone to sea as a bath steward, and now, through the\nfortunes of war, he had come back where he began,--not a good\nplace for an old man. His back was bent meekly, and he shuffled\nalong with broken arches. He looked after the comfort of all the\nofficers, and attended the doctor like a valet; got out his clean\nlinen, persuaded him to lie down and have a hot drink after his\nbath, stood on guard at his door to take messages for him in the\nshort hours when he was resting. Hawkins had lost two sons in the\nwar and he seemed to find a solemn consolation in being of\nservice to soldiers. \"Take it a bit easy now, sir. You'll 'ave it\n'ard enough over there,\" he used to say to one and another.\n\nAt eleven o'clock one of the Kansas men came to tell Claude that\nhis Corporal was going fast. Big Tannhauser's fever had left him,\nbut so had everything else. He lay in a stupor. His congested\neyeballs were rolled back in his head and only the yellowish\nwhites were visible. His mouth was open and his tongue hung out\nat one side. From the end of the corridor Claude had heard the\nfrightful sounds that came from his throat, sounds like violent\nvomiting, or the choking rattle of a man in strangulation,--and,\nindeed, he was being strangled. One of the band boys brought\nClaude a camp chair, and said kindly, \"He doesn't suffer. It's\nmechanical now. He'd go easier if he hadn't so much vitality. The\nDoctor says he may have a few moments of consciousness just at\nthe last, if you want to stay.\"\n\n\"I'll go down and give my private patient his egg, and then I'll\ncome back.\" Claude went away and returned, and sat dozing by the\nbed. After three o'clock the noise of struggle ceased; instantly\nthe huge figure on the bed became again his good-natured\ncorporal. The mouth closed, the glassy jellies were once more\nseeing, intelligent human eyes. The face lost its swollen,\nbrutish look and was again the face of a friend. It was almost\nunbelievable that anything so far gone could come back. He looked\nup wistfully at his Lieutenant as if to ask him something. His\neyes filled with tears, and he turned his head away a little.\n\n\"Mein' arme Mutter!\" he whispered distinctly.\n\nA few moments later he died in perfect dignity, not struggling\nunder torture, but consciously, it seemed to Claude,--like a\nbrave boy giving back what was not his to keep.\n\nClaude returned to his cabin, roused Fanning once more, and then\nthrew himself upon his tipping bunk. The boat seemed to wallow\nand sprawl in the waves, as he had seen animals do on the farm\nwhen they gave birth to young. How helpless the old vessel was\nout here in the pounding seas, and how much misery she carried!\nHe lay looking up at the rusty water pipes and unpainted\njoinings. This liner was in truth the \"Old Anchises\"; even the\ncarpenters who made her over for the service had not thought her\nworth the trouble, and had done their worst by her. The new\npartitions were hung to the joists by a few nails.\n\nBig Tannhauser had been one of those who were most anxious to\nsail. He used to grin and say, \"France is the only climate that's\nhealthy for a man with a name like mine.\" He had waved his\ngood-bye to the image in the New York harbour with the rest,\nbelieved in her like the rest. He only wanted to serve. It seemed\nhard.\n\nWhen Tannhauser first came to camp he was confused all the time,\nand couldn't remember instructions. Claude had once stepped him\nout in front of the line and reprimanded him for not knowing his\nright side from his left. When he looked into the case, he found\nthat the fellow was not eating anything, that he was ill from\nhomesickness. He was one of those farmer boys who are afraid of\ntown. The giant baby of a long family, he had never slept away\nfrom home a night in his life before he enlisted.\n\nCorporal Tannhauser, along with four others, was buried at\nsunrise. No band this time; the chaplain was ill, so one of the\nyoung captains read the service. Claude stood by watching until\nthe sailors shot one sack, longer by half a foot than the other\nfour, into a lead-coloured chasm in the sea. There was not even a\nsplash. After breakfast one of the Kansas orderlies called him\ninto a little cabin where they had prepared the dead men for\nburial. The Army regulations minutely defined what was to be done\nwith a deceased soldier's effects. His uniform, shoes, blankets,\narms, personal baggage, were all disposed of according to\ninstructions. But in each case there was a residue; the dead\nman's toothbrushes, his razors, and the photographs he carried\nupon his person. There they were in five pathetic little heaps;\nwhat should be done with them?\n\nClaude took up the photographs that had belonged to his corporal;\none was a fat, foolish-looking girl in a white dress that was too\ntight for her, and a floppy hat, a little flag pinned on her\nplump bosom. The other was an old woman, seated, her hands\ncrossed in her lap. Her thin hair was drawn back tight from a\nhard, angular face--unmistakably an Old-World face--and her eyes\nsquinted at the camera. She looked honest and stubborn and\nunconvinced, he thought, as if she did not in the least\nunderstand.\n\n\"I'll take these,\" he said. \"And the others--just pitch them\nover, don't you think?\"\n\n\n\nVII\n\nB Company's first officer, Captain Maxey, was so seasick\nthroughout the voyage that he was of no help to his men in the\nepidemic. It must have been a frightful blow to his pride, for\nnobody was ever more anxious to do an officer's whole duty.\n\nClaude had known Harris Maxey slightly in Lincoln; had met him at\nthe Erlichs' and afterward kept up a campus acquaintance with\nhim. He hadn't liked Maxey then, and he didn't like him now, but\nhe thought him a good officer. Maxey's family were poor folk from\nMississippi, who had settled in Nemaha county, and he was very\nambitious, not only to get on in the world, but, as he said, to\n\"be somebody.\" His life at the University was a feverish pursuit\nof social advantages and useful acquaintances. His feeling for\nthe \"right people\" amounted to veneration. After his graduation,\nMaxey served on the Mexican Border. He was a tireless drill\nmaster, and threw himself into his duties with all the energy of\nwhich his frail physique was capable. He was slight and\nfair-skinned; a rigid jaw threw his lower teeth out beyond the\nupper ones and made his face look stiff. His whole manner, tense\nand nervous, was the expression of a passionate desire to excel.\n\nClaude seemed to himself to be leading a double life these days.\nWhen he was working over Fanning, or was down in the hold helping\nto take care of the sick soldiers, he had no time to think,--did\nmechanically the next thing that came to hand. But when he had an\nhour to himself on deck, the tingling sense of ever-widening\nfreedom flashed up in him again. The weather was a continual\nadventure; he had never known any like it before. The fog, and\nrain, the grey sky and the lonely grey stretches of the ocean\nwere like something he had imagined long ago--memories of old sea\nstories read in childhood, perhaps--and they kindled a warm spot\nin his heart. Here on the Anchises he seemed to begin where\nchildhood had left off. The ugly hiatus between had closed up.\nYears of his life were blotted out in the fog. This fog which had\nbeen at first depressing had become a shelter; a tent moving\nthrough space, hiding one from all that had been before, giving\none a chance to correct one's ideas about life and to plan the\nfuture. The past was physically shut off; that was his illusion.\nHe had already travelled a great many more miles than were told\noff by the ship's log. When Bandmaster Fred Max asked him to play\nchess, he had to stop a moment and think why it was that game had\nsuch disagreeable associations for him. Enid's pale, deceptive\nface seldom rose before him unless some such accident brought it\nup. If he happened to come upon a group of boys talking about\ntheir sweethearts and war-brides, he listened a moment and then\nmoved away with the happy feeling that he was the least married\nman on the boat.\n\nThere was plenty of deck room, now that so many men were ill\neither from seasickness or the epidemic, and sometimes he and\nAlbert Usher had the stormy side of the boat almost to\nthemselves. The Marine was the best sort of companion for these\ngloomy days; steady, quiet, self-reliant. And he, too, was always\nlooking forward. As for Victor Morse, Claude was growing\npositively fond of him. Victor had tea in a special corner of the\nofficers' smoking-room every afternoon--he would have perished\nwithout it--and the steward always produced some special\ngarnishes of toast and jam or sweet biscuit for him. Claude\nusually managed to join him at that hour.\n\nOn the day of Tannhauser's funeral he went into the smoking-room\nat four. Victor beckoned the steward and told him to bring a\ncouple of hot whiskeys with the tea. \"You're very wet, you know,\nWheeler, and you really should. There,\" he said as he put down\nhis glass, \"don't you feel better with a drink?\"\n\n\"Very much. I think I'll have another. It's agreeable to be warm\ninside.\"\n\n\"Two more, steward, and bring me some fresh lemon.\" The occupants\nof the room were either reading or talking in low tones. One of\nthe Swedish boys was playing softly on the old piano. Victor\nbegan to pour the tea. He had a neat way of doing it, and today\nhe was especially solicitous. \"This Scotch mist gets into one's\nbones, doesn't it? I thought you were looking rather seedy when I\npassed you on deck.\"\n\n\"I was up with Tannhauser last night. Didn't get more than an\nhour's sleep,\" Claude murmured, yawning.\n\n\"Yes, I heard you lost your big corporal. I'm sorry. I've had bad\nnews, too. It's out now that we're to make a French port. That\ndashes all my plans. However, c'est la guerre!\" He pushed back\nhis cup with a shrug. \"Take a turn outside?\"\n\nClaude had often wondered why Victor liked him, since he was so\nlittle Victor's kind. \"If it isn't a secret,\" he said, \"I'd like\nto know how you ever got into the British army, anyway.\"\n\nAs they walked up and down in the rain, Victor told his story\nbriefly. When he had finished High School, he had gone into his\nfather's bank at Crystal Lake as bookkeeper. After banking hours\nhe skated, played tennis, or worked in the strawberry-bed,\naccording to the season. He bought two pairs of white pants every\nsummer and ordered his shirts from Chicago and thought he was a\nswell, he said. He got himself engaged to the preacher's\ndaughter. Two years ago, the summer he was twenty, his father\nwanted him to see Niagara Falls; so he wrote a modest check,\nwarned his son against saloons--Victor had never been inside\none--against expensive hotels and women who came up to ask the\ntime without an introduction, and sent him off, telling him it\nwasn't necessary to fee porters or waiters. At Niagara Falls,\nVictor fell in with some young Canadian officers who opened his\neyes to a great many things. He went over to Toronto with them.\nEnlistment was going strong, and he saw an avenue of escape from\nthe bank and the strawberry bed. The air force seemed the most\nbrilliant and attractive branch of the service. They accepted\nhim, and here he was.\n\n\"You'll never go home again,\" Claude said with conviction. \"I\ndon't see you settling down in any little Iowa town.\"\n\n\"In the air service,\" said Victor carelessly, \"we don't concern\nourselves about the future. It's not worth while.\" He took out a\ndull gold cigarette case which Claude had noticed before.\n\n\"Let me see that a minute, will you? I've often admired it. A\npresent from somebody you like, isn't it?\"\n\nA twitch of feeling, something quite genuine, passed over the\nair-man's boyish face, and his rather small red mouth compressed\nsharply. \"Yes, a woman I want you to meet. Here,\" twitching his\nchin over his high collar, \"I'll write Maisie's address on my\ncard: `Introducing Lieutenant Wheeler, A.E.F.' That's all you'll\nneed. If you should get to London before I do, don't hesitate.\nCall on her at once. Present this card, and she'll receive you.\"\n\nClaude thanked him and put the card in his pocketbook, while\nVictor lit a cigarette. \"I haven't forgotten that you're dining\nwith us at the Savoy, if we happen in London together. If I'm\nthere, you can always find me. Her address is mine. It will\nreally be a great thing for you to meet a woman like Maisie.\nShe'll be nice to you, because you're my friend.\" He went on to\nsay that she had done everything in the world for him; had left\nher husband and given up her friends on his account. She now had\na studio flat in Chelsea, where she simply waited his coming and\ndreaded his going. It was an awful life for her. She entertained\nother officers, of course, old acquaintances; but it was all\ncamouflage. He was the man.\n\nVictor went so far as to produce her picture, and Claude gazed\nwithout knowing what to say at a large moon-shaped face with\nheavy-lidded, weary eyes,--the neck clasped by a pearl collar,\nthe shoulders bare to the matronly swell of the bosom. There was\nnot a line or wrinkle in that smooth expanse of flesh, but from\nthe heavy mouth and chin, from the very shape of the face, it was\neasy to see that she was quite old enough to be Victor's mother.\nAcross the photograph was written in a large splashy hand, 'A\nmon aigle!' Had Victor been delicate enough to leave him in any\ndoubt, Claude would have preferred to believe that his relations\nwith this lady were wholly of a filial nature.\n\n\"Women like her simply don't exist in your part of the world,\"\nthe aviator murmured, as he snapped the photograph case. \"She's a\nlinguist and musician and all that. With her, every-day living is\na fine art. Life, as she says, is what one makes it. In itself,\nit's nothing. Where you came from it's nothing--a sleeping\nsickness.\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"I don't know that I agree with you, but I like\nto hear you talk.\"\n\n\"Well; in that part of France that's all shot to pieces, you'll\nfind more life going on in the cellars than in your home town,\nwherever that is. I'd rather be a stevedore in the London docks\nthan a banker-king in one of your prairie States. In London, if\nyou're lucky enough to have a shilling, you can get something for\nit.\"\n\n\"Yes, things are pretty tame at home,\" the other admitted.\n\n\"Tame? My God, it's death in life! What's left of men if you take\nall the fire out of them? They're afraid of everything. I know\nthem; Sunday-school sneaks, prowling around those little towns\nafter dark!\" Victor abruptly dismissed the subject. \"By the way,\nyou're pals with the doctor, aren't you? I'm needing some\nmedicine that is somewhere in my lost trunk. Would you mind\nasking him if he can put up this prescription? I don't want to go\nto him myself. All these medicos blab, and he might report me.\nI've been lucky dodging medical inspections. You see, I don't\nwant to get held up anywhere. Tell him it's not for you, of\ncourse.\"\n\nWhen Claude presented the piece of blue paper to Doctor Trueman,\nhe smiled contemptuously. \"I see; this has been filled by a\nLondon chemist. No, we have nothing of this sort.\" He handed it\nback. \"Those things are only palliatives. If your friend wants\nthat, he needs treatment,--and he knows where he can get it.\"\n\nClaude returned the slip of paper to Victor as they left the\ndining-room after supper, telling him he hadn't been able to get\nany.\n\n\"Sorry,\" said Victor, flushing haughtily. \"Thank you so much!\"\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTod Fanning held out better than many of the stronger men; his\nvitality surprised the doctor. The death list was steadily\ngrowing; and the worst of it was that patients died who were not\nvery sick. Vigorous, clean-blooded young fellows of nineteen and\ntwenty turned over and died because they had lost their courage,\nbecause other people were dying,--because death was in the air.\nThe corridors of the vessel had the smell of death about them.\nDoctor Trueman said it was always so in an epidemic; patients\ndied who, had they been isolated cases, would have recovered.\n\n\"Do you know, Wheeler,\" the doctor remarked one day when they\ncame up from the hospital together to get a breath of air, \"I\nsometimes wonder whether all these inoculations they've been\nhaving, against typhoid and smallpox and whatnot, haven't lowered\ntheir vitality. I'll go off my head if I keep losing men! What\nwould you give to be out of it all, and safe back on the farm?\"\nHearing no reply, he turned his head, peered over his raincoat\ncollar, and saw a startled, resisting look in the young man's\nblue eyes, followed by a quick flush.\n\n\"You don't want to be back on the farm, do you! Not a little bit!\nWell, well; that's what it is to be young!\" He shook his head\nwith a smile which might have been commiseration, might have been\nenvy, and went back to his duties.\n\nClaude stayed where he was, drawing the wet grey air into his\nlungs and feeling vexed and reprimanded. It was quite true, he\nrealized; the doctor had caught him. He was enjoying himself all\nthe while and didn't want to be safe anywhere. He was sorry about\nTannhauser and the others, but he was not sorry for himself. The\ndiscomforts and misfortunes of this voyage had not spoiled it for\nhim. He grumbled, of course, because others did. But life had\nnever seemed so tempting as it did here and now. He could come up\nfrom heavy work in the hospital, or from poor Fanning and his\neverlasting eggs, and forget all that in ten minutes. Something\ninside him, as elastic as the grey ridges over which they were\ntipping, kept bounding up and saying: \"I am all here. I've left\neverything behind me. I am going over.\"\n\nOnly on that one day, the cold day of the Virginian's funeral,\nwhen he was seasick, had he been really miserable. He must be\nheartless, certainly, not to be overwhelmed by the sufferings of\nhis own men, his own friends--but he wasn't. He had them on his\nmind and did all he could for them, but it seemed to him just now\nthat he took a sort of satisfaction in that, too, and was\nsomewhat vain of his usefulness to Doctor Trueman. A nice\nattitude! He awoke every morning with that sense of freedom and\ngoing forward, as if the world were growing bigger each day and\nhe were growing with it. Other fellows were sick and dying, and\nthat was terrible,--but he and the boat went on, and always on.\n\nSomething was released that had been struggling for a long while,\nhe told himself. He had been due in France since the first battle\nof the Marne; he had followed false leads and lost precious time\nand seen misery enough, but he was on the right road at last, and\nnothing could stop him. If he hadn't been so green, so bashful,\nso afraid of showing what he felt, and so stupid at finding his\nway about, he would have enlisted in Canada, like Victor, or run\naway to France and joined the Foreign Legion. All that seemed\nperfectly possible now. Why hadn't he?\n\nWell, that was not \"the Wheelers' way.\" The Wheelers were\nterribly afraid of poking themselves in where they weren't\nwanted, of pushing their way into a crowd where they didn't\nbelong. And they were even more afraid of doing anything that\nmight look affected or \"romantic.\" They couldn't let themselves\nadopt a conspicuous, much less a picturesque course of action,\nunless it was all in the day's work. Well, History had\ncondescended to such as he; this whole brilliant adventure had\nbecome the day's work. He had got into it after all, along with\nVictor and the Marine and other fellows who had more imagination\nand self-confidence in the first place. Three years ago he used\nto sit moping by the windmill because he didn't see how a\nNebraska farmer boy had any \"call,\" or, indeed, any way, to throw\nhimself into the struggle in France. He used enviously to read\nabout Alan Seeger and those fortunate American boys who had a\nright to fight for a civilization they knew.\n\nBut the miracle had happened; a miracle so wide in its amplitude\nthat the Wheelers,--all the Wheelers and the roughnecks and the\nlow-brows were caught up in it. Yes, it was the rough-necks' own\nmiracle, all this; it was their golden chance. He was in on it,\nand nothing could hinder or discourage him unless he were put\nover the side himself--which was only a way of joking, for that\nwas a possibility he never seriously considered. The feeling of\npurpose, of fateful purpose, was strong in his breast.\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\"Look at this, Doctor!\" Claude caught Dr. Trueman on his way from\nbreakfast and handed him a written notice, signed D. T. Micks,\nChief Steward. It stated that no more eggs or oranges could be\nfurnished to patients, as the supply was exhausted.\n\nThe doctor squinted at the paper. \"I'm afraid that's your\npatient's death warrant. You'll never be able to keep him going\non anything else. Why don't you go and talk it over with Chessup?\nHe's a resourceful fellow. I'll join you there in a few minutes.\"\n\nClaude had often been to Dr. Chessup's cabin since the epidemic\nbroke out,-rather liked to wait there when he went for medicines\nor advice. It was a comfortable, personal sort of place with\ncheerful chintz hangings. The walls were lined with books, held\nin place by sliding wooden slats, padlocked at the ends. There\nwere a great many scientific works in German and English; the\nrest were French novels in paper covers. This morning he found\nChessup weighing out white powders at his desk. In the rack over\nhis bunk was the book with which he had read himself to sleep\nlast night; the title, \"Un Crime d'Amour,\" lettered in black on\nyellow, caught Claude's eye. The doctor put on his coat and\npointed his visitor to the jointed chair in which patients were\nsometimes examined. Claude explained his predicament.\n\nThe ship's doctor was a strange fellow to come from Canada, the\nland of big men and rough. He looked like a schoolboy, with small\nhands and feet and a pink complexion. On his left cheekbone was a\nlarge brown mole, covered with silky hair, and for some reason\nthat seemed to make his face effeminate. It was easy to see why\nhe had not been successful in private practice. He was like\nsomebody trying to protect a raw surface from heat and cold; so\ncursed with diffidence, and so sensitive about his boyish\nappearance that he chose to shut himself up in an oscillating\nwooden coop on the sea. The long run to Australia had exactly\nsuited him. A rough life and the pounding of bad weather had\nfewer terrors for him than an office in town, with constant\nexposure to human personalities.\n\n\"Have you tried him on malted milk?\" he asked, when Claude had\ntold him how Farming's nourishment was threatened.\n\n\"Dr. Trueman hasn't a bottle left. How long do you figure we'll\nbe at sea?\"\n\n\"Four days; possibly five.\"\n\n\"Then Lieutenant Wheeler will lose his pal,\" said Dr. Trueman,\nwho had just come in.\n\nChessup stood for a moment frowning and pulling nervously at the\nbrass buttons on his coat. He slid the bolt on his door and\nturning to his colleague said resolutely: \"I can give you some\ninformation, if you won't implicate me. You can do as you like,\nbut keep my name out of it. For several hours last night cases of\neggs and boxes of oranges were being carried into the Chief\nSteward's cabin by a flunky of his from the galley. Whatever port\nwe make, he can get a shilling each for the fresh eggs, and\nperhaps sixpence for the oranges. They are your property, of\ncourse, furnished by your government; but this is his customary\nperquisite. I've been on this boat six years, and it's always\nbeen so. About a week before we make port, the choicest of the\nremaining stores are taken to his cabin, and he disposes of them\nafter we dock. I can't say just how he manages it, but he does.\nThe skipper may know of this custom, and there may be some reason\nwhy he permits it. It's not my business to see anything. The\nChief Steward is a powerful man on an English vessel. If he has\nanything against me, sooner or later he can lose my berth for me.\nThere you have the facts.\"\n\n\"Have I your permission to go to the Chief Steward?\" Dr. Trueman\nasked.\n\n\"Certainly not. But you can go without my knowledge. He's an ugly\nman to cross, and he can make it uncomfortable for you and your\npatients.\"\n\n\"Well, we'll say no more about it. I appreciate your telling me,\nand I will see that you don't get mixed up in this. Will you go\ndown with me to look at that new meningitis case?\"\n\nClaude waited impatiently in his stateroom for the doctor's\nreturn. He didn't see why the Chief Steward shouldn't be exposed\nand dealt with like any other grafter. He had hated the man ever\nsince he heard him berating the old bath steward one morning.\nHawkins had made no attempt to defend himself, but stood like a\ndog that has been terribly beaten, trembling all over, saying\n\"Yes, sir. Yes, sir,\" while his chief gave him a cold cursing in\na low, snarling voice. Claude had never heard a man or even an\nanimal addressed with such contempt. The Steward had a cruel\nface,--white as cheese, with limp, moist hair combed back from a\nhigh forehead,--the peculiarly oily hair that seems to grow only\non the heads of stewards and waiters. His eyes were exactly the\nshape of almonds, but the lids were so swollen that the dull\npupil was visible only through a narrow slit. A long, pale\nmoustache hung like a fringe over his loose lips.\n\nWhen Dr. Trueman came back from the hospital, he declared he was\nnow ready to call on Mr. Micks. \"He's a nasty looking customer,\nbut he can't do anything to me.\"\n\nThey went to the Chief Steward's cabin and knocked.\n\n\"What's wanted?\" called a threatening voice.\n\nThe doctor made a grimace to his companion and walked in. The\nSteward was sitting at a big desk, covered with account books. He\nturned in his chair. \"I beg your pardon,\" he said coldly, \"I do\nnot see any one here. I will be--\"\n\nThe doctor held up his hand quickly. \"That's all right, Steward.\nI'm sorry to intrude, but I've something I must say to you in\nprivate. I'll not detain you long.\" If he had hesitated for a\nmoment, Claude believed the Steward would have thrown him out,\nbut he went on rapidly. \"This is Lieutenant Wheeler, Mr. Micks.\nHis fellow officer lies very ill with pneumonia in stateroom 96.\nLieutenant Wheeler has kept him alive by special nursing. He is\nnot able to retain anything in his stomach but eggs and orange\njuice. If he has these, we may be able to keep up his strength\ntill the fever breaks, and carry him to a hospital in France. If\nwe can't get them for him, he will be dead within twenty-four\nhours. That's the situation.\"\n\nThe steward rose and turned out the drop-light on his desk. \"Have\nyou received notice that there are no more eggs and oranges on\nboard? Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do for you. I did\nnot provision this ship.\"\n\n\"No. I understand that. I believe the United States Government\nprovided the fruit and eggs and meat. And I positively know that\nthe articles I need for my patient are not exhausted. Without\ngoing into the matter further, I warn you that I'm not going to\nlet a United States officer die when the means of saving him are\nprocurable. I'll go to the skipper, I'll call a meeting of the\narmy officers on board. I'll go any length to save this man.\"\n\n\"That is your own affair, but you will not interfere with me in\nthe discharge of my duties. Will you leave my cabin?\"\n\n\"In a moment, Steward. I know that last night a number of cases\nof eggs and oranges were carried into this room. They are here\nnow, and they belong to the A.E.F. If you will agree to provision\nmy man, what I know won't go any further. But if you refuse, I'll\nget this matter investigated. I won't stop till I do.\"\n\nThe Steward sat down, and took up a pen. His large, soft hand\nlooked cheesy, like his face. \"What is the number of the cabin?\"\nhe asked indifferently.\n\n\"Ninety-six.\"\n\n\"Exactly what do you require?\"\n\n\"One dozen eggs and one dozen oranges every twenty-four hours, to\nbe delivered at any time convenient to you.\"\n\n\"I will see what I can do.\"\n\nThe Steward did not look up from his writing pad, and his\nvisitors left as abruptly as they had come.\n\nAt about four o'clock every morning, before even the bath\nstewards were on duty, there was a scratching at Claude's door,\nand a covered basket was left there by a messenger who was\nunwashed, half-naked, with a sacking apron tied round his middle\nand his hairy chest splashed with flour. He never spoke, had only\none eye and an inflamed socket. Claude learned that he was a\nhalf-witted brother of the Chief Steward, a potato peeler and\ndish-washer in the galley.\n\nFour day after their interview with Mr. Micks, when they were at\nlast nearing the end of the voyage, Doctor Trueman detained\nClaude after medical inspection to tell him that the Chief\nSteward had come down with the epidemic. \"He sent for me last\nnight and asked me to take his case,--won't have anything to do\nwith Chessup. I had to get Chessup's permission. He seemed very\nglad to hand the case over to me.\"\n\n\"Is he very bad?\"\n\n\"He hasn't a look-in, and he knows it. Complications; chronic\nBright's disease. It seems he has nine children. I'll try to get\nhim into a hospital when we make port, but he'll only live a few\ndays at most. I wonder who'll get the shillings for all the eggs\nand oranges he hoarded away. Claude, my boy,\" the doctor spoke\nwith sudden energy, \"if I ever set foot on land again, I'm going\nto forget this voyage like a bad dream. When I'm in normal\nhealth, I'm a Presbyterian, but just now I feel that even the\nwicked get worse than they deserve.\"\n\nA day came at last when Claude was wakened from sleep by a sense\nof stillness. He sprang up with a dazed fear that some one had\ndied; but Fanning lay in his berth, breathing quietly.\n\nSomething caught his eye through the porthole,--a great grey\nshoulder of land standing up in the pink light of dawn, powerful\nand strangely still after the distressing instability of the sea.\nPale trees and long, low fortifications... close grey\nbuildings with red roofs... little sailboats bounding seaward...\nup on the cliff a gloomy fortress.\n\nHe had always thought of his destination as a country shattered\nand desolated,--\"bleeding France\"; but he had never seen anything\nthat looked so strong, so self-sufficient, so fixed from the\nfirst foundation, as the coast that rose before him. It was like\na pillar of eternity. The ocean lay submissive at its feet, and\nover it was the great meekness of early morning.\n\nThis grey wall, unshaken, mighty, was the end of the long\npreparation, as it was the end of the sea. It was the reason for\neverything that had happened in his life for the last fifteen\nmonths. It was the reason why Tannhauser and the gentle\nVirginian, and so many others who had set out with him, were\nnever to have any life at all, or even a soldier's death. They\nwere merely waste in a great enterprise, thrown overboard like\nrotten ropes. For them this kind release,--trees and a still\nshore and quiet water,--was never, never to be. How long would\ntheir bodies toss, he wondered, in that inhuman kingdom of\ndarkness and unrest?\n\nHe was startled by a weak voice from behind.\n\n\"Claude, are we over?\"\n\n\"Yes, Fanning. We're over.\"\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBook Five: \"Bidding the Eagles of the West Fly On\"\n\nI\n\nAt noon that day Claude found himself in a street of little\nshops, hot and perspiring, utterly confused and turned about.\nTruck drivers and boys on bell less bicycles shouted at him\nindignantly, furiously. He got under the shade of a young plane\ntree and stood close to the trunk, as if it might protect him.\nHis greatest care, at any rate, was off his hands. With the help\nof Victor Morse he had hired a taxi for forty francs, taken\nFanning to the base hospital, and seen him into the arms of a big\norderly from Texas. He came away from the hospital with no idea\nwhere he was going--except that he wanted to get to the heart of\nthe city. It seemed, however, to have no heart; only long, stony\narteries, full of heat and noise. He was still standing there,\nunder his plane tree, when a group of uncertain, lost-looking\nbrown figures, headed by Sergeant Hicks, came weaving up the\nstreet; nine men in nine different attitudes of dejection, each\nwith a long loaf of bread under his arm. They hailed Claude with\njoy, straightened up, and looked as if now they had found their\nway! He saw that he must be a plane tree for somebody else.\n\nSergeant Hicks explained that they had been trudging about the\ntown, looking for cheese. After sixteen days of heavy, tasteless\nfood, cheese was what they all wanted. There was a grocery store\nup the street, where there seemed to be everything else. He had\ntried to make the old woman understand by signs.\n\n\"Don't these French people eat cheese, anyhow? What's their word\nfor it, Lieutenant? I'm damned if I know, and I've lost my phrase\nbook. Suppose you could make her understand?\"\n\n\"Well, I'll try. Come along, boys.\"\n\nCrowding close together, the ten men entered the shop. The\nproprietress ran forward with an exclamation of despair.\nEvidently she had thought she was done with them, and was not\npleased to see them coming back. When she paused to take breath,\nClaude took off his hat respectfully, and performed the bravest\nact of his life; uttered the first phrase-book sentence he had\never spoken to a French person. His men were at his back; he had\nto say something or run, there was no other course. Looking the\nold woman in the eye, he steadily articulated:\n\n\"Avez-vous du fromage, Madame?\" It was almost inspiration to add\nthe last word, he thought; and when it worked, he was as much\nstartled as if his revolver had gone off in his belt.\n\n\"Du fromage?\" the shop woman screamed. Calling something to her\ndaughter, who was at the desk, she caught Claude by the sleeve,\npulled him out of the shop, and ran down the street with him. She\ndragged him into a doorway darkened by a long curtain, greeted\nthe proprietress, and then pushed the men after their officer, as\nif they were stubborn burros.\n\nThey stood blinking in the gloom, inhaling a sour, damp, buttery,\nsmear-kase smell, until their eyes penetrated the shadows and\nthey saw that there was nothing but cheese and butter in the\nplace. The shopkeeper was a fat woman, with black eyebrows that\nmet above her nose; her sleeves were rolled up, her cotton dress\nwas open over her white throat and bosom. She began at once to\ntell them that there was a restriction on milk products; every\none must have cards; she could not sell them so much. But soon\nthere was nothing left to dispute about. The boys fell upon her\nstock like wolves. The little white cheeses that lay on green\nleaves disappeared into big mouths. Before she could save it,\nHicks had split a big round cheese through the middle and was\ncarving it up like a melon. She told them they were dirty pigs\nand worse than the Boches, but she could not stop them.\n\n\"What's the matter with Mother, Lieutenant? What's she fussing\nabout? Ain't she here to sell goods?\"\n\nClaude tried to look wiser than he was. \"From what I can make\nout, there's some sort of restriction; you aren't allowed to buy\nall you want. We ought to have thought about that; this is a war\ncountry. I guess we've about cleaned her out.\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right,\" said Hicks wiping his clasp-knife. \"We'll\nbring her some sugar tomorrow. One of the fellows who helped us\nunload at the docks told me you can always quiet 'em if you give\n'em sugar.\"\n\nThey surrounded her and held out their money for her to take her\npay. \"Come on, ma'm, don't be bashful. What's the matter, ain't\nthis good money?\"\n\nShe was distracted by the noise they made, by their bronzed faces\nwith white teeth and pale eyes, crowding so close to her. Ten\nlarge, well-shaped hands with straight fingers, the open palms\nfull of crumpled notes.... Holding the men off under the\npretence of looking for a pencil, she made rapid calculations.\nThe money that lay in their palms had no relation to these big,\ncoaxing, boisterous fellows; it was a joke to them; they didn't\nknow what it meant in the world. Behind them were shiploads of\nmoney, and behind the ships....\n\nThe situation was unfair. Whether she took much or little out of\ntheir hands, couldn't possibly matter to the Americans, couldn't\neven dash their good humour. But there was a strain on the\ncheesewoman, and the standards of a lifetime were in jeopardy.\nHer mind mechanically fixed upon two-and-a-half; she would charge\nthem two-and-a-half times the market price of the cheese. With\nthis moral plank to cling to, she made change with conscientious\naccuracy and did not keep a penny too much from anybody. Telling\nthem what big stupids they were, and that it was necessary to\nlearn to count in this world, she urged them out of her shop. She\nliked them well enough, but she did not like to do business with\nthem. If she didn't take their money, the next one would. All the\nsame, fictitious values were distasteful to her, and made\neverything seem flimsy and unsafe.\n\nStanding in her doorway, she watched the brown band go ambling\ndown the street; as they passed in front of the old church of St.\nJacques, the two foremost stumbled on a sunken step that was\nscarcely above the level of the pavement. She laughed aloud. They\nlooked back and waved to her. She replied with a smile that was\nboth friendly and angry. She liked them, but not the legend of\nwaste and prodigality that ran before them--and followed after.\nIt was superfluous and disintegrating in a world of hard facts.\nAn army in which the men had meat for breakfast, and ate more\nevery day than the French soldiers at the front got in a week!\nTheir moving kitchens and supply trains were the wonder of\nFrance. Down below Arles, where her husband's sister had married,\non the desolate plain of the Crau, their tinned provisions were\npiled like mountain ranges, under sheds and canvas. Nobody had\never seen so much food before; coffee, milk, sugar, bacon, hams;\neverything the world was famished for. They brought shiploads of\nuseless things, too. And useless people. Shiploads of women who\nwere not nurses; some said they came to dance with the officers,\nso they would not be ennuyés.\n\nAll this was not war,--any more than having money thrust at you\nby grown men who could not count, was business. It was an\ninvasion, like the other. The first destroyed material\npossessions, and this threatened everybody's integrity. Distaste\nof such methods, deep, recoiling distrust of them, clouded the\ncheesewoman's brow as she threw her money into the drawer and\nturned the key on it.\n\nAs for the doughboys, having once stubbed their toes on the\nsunken step, they examined it with interest, and went in to\nexplore the church. It was in their minds that they must not let\na church escape, any more than they would let a Boche escape.\nWithin they came upon a bunch of their shipmates, including the\nKansas band, to whom they boasted that their Lieutenant could\n\"speak French like a native.\"\n\nThe Lieutenant himself thought he was getting on pretty well, but\na few hours later his pride was humbled. He was sitting alone in\na little triangular park beside another church, admiring the\ncropped locust trees and watching some old women who were doing\ntheir mending in the shade. A little boy in a black apron, with a\nclose-shaved, bare head, came along, skipping rope. He hopped\nlightly up to Claude and said in a most persuasive and confiding\nvoice,\n\n\"Voulez-vous me dire l'heure, s'il vous plaît, M'sieu' l'\nsoldat?\"\n\nClaude looked down into his admiring eyes with a feeling of\npanic. He wouldn't mind being dumb to a man, or even to a pretty\ngirl, but this was terrible. His tongue went dry, and his face\ngrew scarlet. The child's expectant gaze changed to a look of\ndoubt, and then of fear. He had spoken before to Americans who\ndidn't understand, but they had not turned red and looked angry\nlike this one; this soldier must be ill, or wrong in his head.\nThe boy turned and ran away.\n\nMany a serious mishap had distressed Claude less. He was\ndisappointed, too. There was something friendly in the boy's face\nthat he wanted... that he needed. As he rose he ground his\nheel into the gravel. \"Unless I can learn to talk to the CHILDREN\nof this country,\" he muttered, \"I'll go home!\"\n\n\n\nII\n\nClaude set off to find the Grand Hotel, where he had promised to\ndine with Victor Morse. The porter there spoke English. He called\na red-headed boy in a dirty uniform and told him to take the\nAmerican to vingt-quatre. The boy also spoke English. \"Plenty\nmoney in New York, I guess! In France, no money.\" He made their\nway, through musty corridors and up slippery staircases, as long\nas possible, shrewdly eyeing the visitor and rubbing his thumb\nnervously against his fingers all the while.\n\n\"Vingt-quatre, twen'y-four,\" he announced, rapping at a door with\none hand and suggestively opening the other. Claude put something\ninto it--anything to be rid of him.\n\nVictor was standing before the fireplace. \"Hello, Wheeler, come\nin. Our dinner will be served up here. It's big enough, isn't it?\nI could get nothing between a coop, and this at fifteen dollars a\nday.\"\n\nThe room was spacious enough for a banquet; with two huge beds,\nand great windows that swung in on hinges, like doors, and that\nhad certainly not been washed since before the war. The heavy red\ncotton-brocade hangings and lace curtains were stiff with dust,\nthe thick carpet was strewn with cigarette-ends and matches.\nRazor blades and \"Khaki Comfort\" boxes lay about on the dresser,\nand former occupants had left their autographs in the dust on the\ntable. Officers slept there, and went away, and other officers\narrived,--and the room remained the same, like a wood in which\ntravellers camp for the night. The valet de chambre carried away\nonly what he could use; discarded shirts and socks and old shoes.\nIt seemed a rather dismal place to have a party.\n\nWhen the waiter came, he dusted off the table with his apron and\nput on a clean cloth, napkins, and glasses. Victor and his guest\nsat down under an electric light bulb with a broken shade, around\nwhich a silent halo of flies moved unceasingly. They did not\nbuzz, or dart aloft, or descend to try the soup, but hung there\nin the center of the room as if they were a part of the lighting\nsystem. The constant attendance of the waiter embarrassed Claude;\nhe felt as if he were being watched.\n\n\"By the way,\" said Victor while the soup plates were being\nremoved, \"what do you think of this wine? It cost me thirty\nfrancs the bottle.\"\n\n\"It tastes very good to me,\" Claude replied. \"But then, it's the\nfirst champagne I've ever drunk.\"\n\n\"Really?\" Victor drank off another glass and sighed. \"I envy you.\nI wish I had it all to do over. Life's too short, you know.\"\n\n\"I should say you had made a good beginning. We're a long way\nfrom Crystal Lake.\"\n\n\"Not far enough.\" His host reached across the table and filled\nClaude's empty glass. \"I sometimes waken up with the feeling I'm\nback there. Or I have bad dreams, and find myself sitting on that\ndamned stool in the glass cage and can't make my books balance; I\nhear the old man coughing in his private room, the way he coughs\nwhen he's going to refuse a loan to some poor devil who needs it.\nI've had a narrow escape, Wheeler; 'as a brand from the burning'.\nThat's all the Scripture I remember.\"\n\nThe bright red spots on Victor's cheeks, his pale forehead and\nbrilliant eyes and saucy little moustaches seemed to give his\nquotation a peculiar vividness. Claude envied him. It must be\ngreat fun to take up a part and play it to a finish; to believe\nyou were making yourself over, and to admire the kind of fellow\nyou made. He, too, in a way, admired Victor,--though he couldn't\naltogether believe in him.\n\n\"You'll never go back,\" he said, \"I wouldn't worry about that.\"\n\n\"Take it from me, there are thousands who will never go back! I'm\nnot speaking of the casualties. Some of you Americans are likely\nto discover the world this trip... and it'll make the hell of\na lot of difference! You boys never had a fair chance. There's a\nconspiracy of Church and State to keep you down. I'm going off to\nplay with some girls tonight, will you come along?\"\n\nClaude laughed. \"I guess not.\"\n\n\"Why not? You won't be caught, I guarantee.\"\n\n\"I guess not.\" Claude spoke apologetically. \"I'm going out to see\nFanning after dinner.\"\n\nVictor shrugged. \"That ass!\" He beckoned the waiter to open\nanother bottle and bring the coffee. \"Well, it's your last chance\nto go nutting with me.\" He looked intently at Claude and lifted\nhis glass. \"To the future, and our next meeting!\" When he put\ndown his empty goblet he remarked, \"I got a wire through today;\nI'm leaving tomorrow.\"\n\n\"For London?\"\n\n\"For Verdun.\"\n\nClaude took a quick breath. Verdun... the very sound of the\nname was grim, like the hollow roll of drums. Victor was going\nthere tomorrow. Here one could take a train for Verdun, or\nthereabouts, as at home one took a train for Omaha. He felt more\n\"over\" than he had done before, and a little crackle of\nexcitement went all through him. He tried to be careless:\n\n\"Then you won't get to London soon?\"\n\n\"God knows,\" Victor answered gloomily. He looked up at the\nceiling and began to whistle softly an engaging air. \"Do you know\nthat? It's something Maisie often plays; 'Roses of Picardy.' You\nwon't know what a woman can be till you meet her, Wheeler.\"\n\n\"I hope I'll have that pleasure. I was wondering if you'd\nforgotten her for the moment. She doesn't object to these\ndiversions?\"\n\nVictor lifted his eyebrows in the old haughty way. \"Women don't\nrequire that sort of fidelity of the air service. Our engagements\nare too uncertain.\"\n\nHalf an hour later Victor had gone in quest of amorous adventure,\nand Claude was wandering alone in a brightly lighted street full\nof soldiers and sailors of all nations. There were black\nSenegalese, and Highlanders in kilts, and little lorry-drivers\nfrom Siam,--all moving slowly along between rows of cabarets and\ncinema theatres. The wide-spreading branches of the plane trees\nmet overhead, shutting out the sky and roofing in the orange\nglare. The sidewalks were crowded with chairs and little tables,\nat which marines and soldiers sat drinking schnapps and cognac and\ncoffee. From every doorway music-machines poured out jazz tunes\nand strident Sousa marches. The noise was stupefying. Out in the\nmiddle of the street a band of bareheaded girls, hardy and tough\nlooking; were following a string of awkward Americans, running\ninto them, elbowing them, asking for treats, crying, \"You dance\nme Fausse-trot, Sammie?\"\n\nClaude stationed himself before a movie theatre, where the sign\nin electric lights read, \"Amour, quand tu nous tiens!\" and stood\nwatching the people. In the stream that passed him, his eye lit\nupon two walking arm-in-arm, their hands clasped, talking eagerly\nand unconscious of the crowd,--different, he saw at once, from\nall the other strolling, affectionate couples.\n\nThe man wore the American uniform; his left arm had been\namputated at the elbow, and he carried his head awry, as if he\nhad a stiff neck. His dark, lean face wore an expression of\nintense anxiety, his eyebrows twitched as if he were in constant\npain. The girl, too, looked troubled. As they passed him, under\nthe red light of the Amour sign, Claude could see that her eyes\nwere full of tears. They were wide, blue eyes, innocent looking,\nand she had the prettiest face he had seen since he landed. From\nher silk shawl, and little bonnet with blue strings and a white\nfrill, he thought she must be a country girl. As she listened to\nthe soldier, with her mouth half-open, he saw a space between her\ntwo front teeth, as with children whose second teeth have just\ncome. While they pushed along in the crowd she looked up intently\nat the man beside her, or off into the blur of light, where she\nevidently saw nothing. Her face, young and soft, seemed new to\nemotion, and her bewildered look made one feel that she did not\nknow where to turn.\n\nWithout realizing what he did, Claude followed them out of the\ncrowd into a quiet street, and on into another, even more\ndeserted, where the houses looked as if they had been asleep a\nlong while. Here there were no street lamps, not even a light in\nthe windows, but natural darkness; with the moon high overhead\nthrowing sharp shadows across the white cobble paving. The narrow\nstreet made a bend, and he came out upon the church he and his\ncomrades had entered that afternoon. It looked larger by night,\nand but for the sunken step, he might not have been sure it was\nthe same. The dark neighbouring houses seemed to lean toward it,\nthe moonlight shone silver-grey upon its battered front.\n\nThe two walking before him ascended the steps and withdrew into\nthe deep doorway, where they clung together in an embrace so long\nand still that it was like death. At last they drew shuddering\napart. The girl sat down on the stone bench beside the door. The\nsoldier threw himself upon the pavement at her feet, and rested\nhis head on her knee, his one arm lying across her lap.\n\nIn the shadow of the houses opposite, Claude kept watch like a\nsentinel, ready to take their part if any alarm should startle\nthem. The girl bent over her soldier, stroking his head so softly\nthat she might have been putting him to sleep; took his one hand\nand held it against her bosom as if to stop the pain there. Just\nbehind her, on the sculptured portal, some old bishop, with a\npointed cap and a broken crozier, stood, holding up two fingers.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nThe next morning when Claude arrived at the hospital to see\nFanning, he found every one too busy to take account of him. The\ncourtyard was full of ambulances, and a long line of camions\nwaited outside the gate. A train-load of wounded Americans had\ncome in, sent back from evacuation hospitals to await\ntransportation home.\n\nAs the men were carried past him, he thought they looked as if\nthey had been sick a long while--looked, indeed, as if they could\nnever get well. The boys who died on board the Anchises had never\nseemed as sick as these did. Their skin was yellow or purple,\ntheir eyes were sunken, their lips sore. Everything that belonged\nto health had left them, every attribute of youth was gone. One\npoor fellow, whose face and trunk were wrapped in cotton, never\nstopped moaning, and as he was carried up the corridor he smelled\nhorribly. The Texas orderly remarked to Claude, \"In the beginning\nthat one only had a finger blown off; would you believe it?\"\n\nThese were the first wounded men Claude had seen. To shed bright\nblood, to wear the red badge of courage,--that was one thing; but\nto be reduced to this was quite another. Surely, the sooner\nthese boys died, the better.\n\nThe Texan, passing with his next load, asked Claude why he didn't\ngo into the office and wait until the rush was over. Looking in\nthrough the glass door, Claude noticed a young man writing at a\ndesk enclosed by a railing. Something about his figure, about the\nway he held his head, was familiar. When he lifted his left arm\nto prop open the page of his ledger, it was a stump below the\nelbow. Yes, there could be no doubt about it; the pale, sharp\nface, the beak nose, the frowning, uneasy brow. Presently, as if\nhe felt a curious eye upon him, the young man paused in his rapid\nwriting, wriggled his shoulders, put an iron paperweight on the\npage of his book, took a case from his pocket and shook a\ncigarette out on the table. Going up to the railing, Claude\noffered him a cigar. \"No, thank you. I don't use them any more.\nThey seem too heavy for me.\" He struck a match, moved his\nshoulders again as if they were cramped, and sat down on the edge\nof his desk.\n\n\"Where do these wounded men come from?\" Claude asked. \"I just got\nin on the Anchises yesterday.\"\n\n\"They come from various evacuation hospitals. I believe most of\nthem are the Belleau Wood lot.\"\n\n\"Where did you lose your arm?\"\n\n\"Cantigny. I was in the First Division. I'd been over since last\nSeptember, waiting for something to happen, and then got fixed in\nmy first engagement.\"\n\n\"Can't you go home?\"\n\n\"Yes, I could. But I don't want to. I've got used to things over\nhere. I was attached to Headquarters in Paris for awhile.\"\n\nClaude leaned across the rail. \"We read about Cantigny at home,\nof course. We were a good deal excited; I suppose you were?\"\n\n\"Yes, we were nervous. We hadn't been under fire, and we'd been\nfed up on all that stuff about it's taking fifty years to build a\nfighting machine. The Hun had a strong position; we looked up\nthat long hill and wondered how we were going to behave.\" As he\ntalked the boy's eyes seemed to be moving all the time, probably\nbecause he could not move his head at all. After blowing out deep\nclouds of smoke until his cigarette was gone, he sat down to his\nledger and frowned at the page in a way which said he was too\nbusy to talk.\n\nClaude saw Dr. Trueman standing in the doorway, waiting for him.\nThey made their morning call on Fanning, and left the hospital\ntogether. The Doctor turned to him as if he had something on his\nmind.\n\n\"I saw you talking to that wry-necked boy. How did he seem, all\nright?\"\n\n\"Not exactly. That is, he seems very nervous. Do you know\nanything about him?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes! He's a star patient here, a psychopathic case. I had\njust been talking to one of the doctors about him, when I came\nout and saw you with him. He was shot in the neck at Cantigny,\nwhere he lost his arm. The wound healed, but his memory is\naffected; some nerve cut, I suppose, that connects with that part\nof his brain. This psychopath, Phillips, takes a great interest\nin him and keeps him here to observe him. He's writing a book\nabout him. He says the fellow has forgotten almost everything\nabout his life before he came to France. The queer thing is, it's\nhis recollection of women that is most affected. He can remember\nhis father, but not his mother; doesn't know if he has sisters or\nnot,--can remember seeing girls about the house, but thinks they\nmay have been cousins. His photographs and belongings were lost\nwhen he was hurt, all except a bunch of letters he had in his\npocket. They are from a girl he's engaged to, and he declares he\ncan't remember her at all; doesn't know what she looks like or\nanything about her, and can't remember getting engaged. The\ndoctor has the letters. They seem to be from a nice girl in his\nown town who is very ambitious for him to make the most of\nhimself. He deserted soon after he was sent to this hospital, ran\naway. He was found on a farm out in the country here, where the\nsons had been killed and the people had sort of adopted him. He'd\nquit his uniform and was wearing the clothes of one of the dead\nsons. He'd probably have got away with it, if he hadn't had that\nwry neck. Some one saw him in the fields and recognized him and\nreported him. I guess nobody cared much but this psychopathic\ndoctor; he wanted to get his pet patient back. They call him 'the\nlost American' here.\"\n\n\"He seems to be doing some sort of clerical work,\" Claude\nobserved discreetly.\n\n\"Yes, they say he's very well educated. He remembers the books he\nhas read better than his own life. He can't recall what his home\ntown looks like, or his home. And the women are clear wiped out,\neven the girl he was going to marry.\"\n\nClaude smiled. \"Maybe he's fortunate in that.\"\n\nThe Doctor turned to him affectionately, \"Now Claude, don't begin\nto talk like that the minute you land in this country.\"\n\nClaude walked on past the church of St. Jacques. Last night\nalready seemed like a dream, but it haunted him. He wished he\ncould do something to help that boy; help him get away from the\ndoctor who was writing a book about him, and the girl who wanted\nhim to make the most of himself; get away and be lost altogether\nin what he had been lucky enough to find. All day, as Claude came\nand went, he looked among the crowds for that young face, so\ncompassionate and tender.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nDeeper and deeper into flowery France! That was the sentence\nClaude kept saying over to himself to the jolt of the wheels, as\nthe long troop train went southward, on the second day after he\nand his company had left the port of debarkation. Fields of\nwheat, fields of oats, fields of rye; all the low hills and\nrolling uplands clad with harvest. And everywhere, in the grass,\nin the yellowing grain, along the road-bed, the poppies spilling\nand streaming. On the second day the boys were still calling to\neach other about the poppies; nothing else had so entirely\nsurpassed their expectations. They had supposed that poppies grew\nonly on battle fields, or in the brains of war correspondents.\nNobody knew what the cornflowers were, except Willy Katz, an\nAustrian boy from the Omaha packing-houses, and he knew only an\nobjectionable name for them, so he offered no information. For a\nlong time they thought the red clover blossoms were wild\nflowers,--they were as big as wild roses. When they passed the\nfirst alfalfa field, the whole train rang with laughter; alfalfa\nwas one thing, they believed, that had never been heard of\noutside their own prairie states.\n\nAll the way down, Company B had been finding the old things\ninstead of the new,--or, to their way of thinking, the new things\ninstead of the old. The thatched roofs they had so counted upon\nseeing were few and far between. But American binders, of\nwell-known makes, stood where the fields were beginning to\nripen,--and they were being oiled and put in order, not by\n\"peasants,\" but by wise-looking old farmers who seemed to know\ntheir business. Pear trees, trained like vines against the wall,\ndid not astonish them half so much as the sight of the familiar\ncottonwood, growing everywhere. Claude thought he had never\nbefore realized how beautiful this tree could be. In verdant\nlittle valleys, along the clear rivers, the cottonwoods waved and\nrustled; and on the little islands, of which there were so many\nin these rivers, they stood in pointed masses, seemed to grip\ndeep into the soil and to rest easy, as if they had been there\nfor ever and would be there for ever more. At home, all about\nFrankfort, the farmers were cutting down their cottonwoods\nbecause they were \"common,\" planting maples and ash trees to\nstruggle along in their stead. Never mind; the cottonwoods were\ngood enough for France, and they were good enough for him! He\nfelt they were a real bond between him and this people.\n\nWhen B Company had first got their orders to go into a training\ncamp in north central France, all the men were disappointed.\nTroops much rawer than they were being rushed to the front, so\nwhy fool around any longer? But now they were reconciled to the\ndelay. There seemed to be a good deal of France that wasn't the\nwar, and they wouldn't mind travelling about a little in a\ncountry like this. Was the harvest always a month later than at\nhome, as it seemed to be this year? Why did the farmers have rows\nof trees growing along the edges of every field--didn't they take\nthe strength out of the soil? What did the farmers mean by\nraising patches of mustard right along beside other crops? Didn't\nthey know that mustard got into wheat fields and strangled the\ngrain?\n\nThe second night the boys were to spend in Rouen, and they would\nhave the following day to look about. Everybody knew what had\nhappened at Rouen--if any one didn't, his neighbours were only too\neager to inform him! It had happened in the market-place, and the\nmarket-place was what they were going to find.\n\nTomorrow, when it came, proved to be black and cold, a day of\npouring rain. As they filed through the narrow, crowded streets,\nthat harsh Norman city presented no very cheering aspect. They\nwere glad, at last, to find the waterside, to go out on the\nbridge and breathe the air in the great open space over the\nriver, away from the clatter of cart-wheels and the hard voices\nand crafty faces of these townspeople, who seemed rough and\nunfriendly. From the bridge they looked up at the white chalk\nhills, the tops a blur of intense green under the low,\nlead-coloured sky. They watched the fleets of broad, deep-set\nriver barges, coming and going under their feet, with tilted\nsmokestacks. Only a little way up that river was Paris, the place\nwhere every doughboy meant to go; and as they leaned on the rail\nand looked down at the slow-flowing water, each one had in his\nmind a confused picture of what it would be like. The Seine, they\nfelt sure, must be very much wider there, and it was spanned by\nmany bridges, all longer than the bridge over the Missouri at\nOmaha. There would be spires and golden domes past counting, all\nthe buildings higher than anything in Chicago, and\nbrilliant--dazzlingly brilliant, nothing grey and shabby about it\nlike this old Rouen. They attributed to the city of their desire\nincalculable immensity, bewildering vastness, Babylonian hugeness\nand heaviness--the only attributes they had been taught to admire.\n\nLate in the morning Claude found himself alone before the Church\nof St. Ouen. He was hunting for the Cathedral, and this looked as\nif it might be the right place. He shook the water from his\nraincoat and entered, removing his hat at the door. The day, so\ndark without, was darker still within;... far away, a few\nscattered candles, still little points of light... just before\nhim, in the grey twilight, slender white columns in long rows,\nlike the stems of silver poplars.\n\nThe entrance to the nave was closed by a cord, so he walked up\nthe aisle on the right, treading softly, passing chapels where\nsolitary women knelt in the light of a few tapers. Except for\nthem, the church was empty... empty. His own breathing was\naudible in this silence. He moved with caution lest he should\nwake an echo.\n\nWhen he reached the choir he turned, and saw, far behind him, the\nrose window, with its purple heart. As he stood staring, hat in\nhand, as still as the stone figures in the chapels, a great bell,\nup aloft, began to strike the hour in its deep, melodious throat;\neleven beats, measured and far apart, as rich as the colours in\nthe window, then silence... only in his memory the throbbing\nof an undreamed-of quality of sound. The revelations of the glass\nand the bell had come almost simultaneously, as if one produced\nthe other; and both were superlatives toward which his mind had\nalways been groping,--or so it seemed to him then.\n\nIn front of the choir the nave was open, with no rope to shut it\noff. Several straw chairs were huddled on a flag of the stone\nfloor. After some hesitation he took one, turned it round, and\nsat down facing the window. If some one should come up to him and\nsay anything, anything at all, he would rise and say, \"Pardon,\nMonsieur; je ne sais pas c'est defendu.\" He repeated this to\nhimself to be quite sure he had it ready.\n\nOn the train, coming down, he had talked to the boys about the\nbad reputation Americans had acquired for slouching all over the\nplace and butting in on things, and had urged them to tread\nlightly, \"But Lieutenant,\" the kid from Pleasantville had piped\nup, \"isn't this whole Expedition a butt-in? After all, it ain't\nour war.\" Claude laughed, but he told him he meant to make an\nexample of the fellow who went to rough-housing.\n\nHe was well satisfied that he hadn't his restless companions on\nhis mind now. He could sit here quietly until noon, and hear the\nbell strike again. In the meantime, he must try to think: This\nwas, of course, Gothic architecture; he had read more or less\nabout that, and ought to be able to remember something. Gothic...\nthat was a mere word; to him it suggested something very\npeaked and pointed,--sharp arches, steep roofs. It had nothing to\ndo with these slim white columns that rose so straight and\nfar,--or with the window, burning up there in its vault of\ngloom....\n\nWhile he was vainly trying to think about architecture, some\nrecollection of old astronomy lessons brushed across his\nbrain,--something about stars whose light travels through space\nfor hundreds of years before it reaches the earth and the human\neye. The purple and crimson and peacock-green of this window had\nbeen shining quite as long as that before it got to him....\nHe felt distinctly that it went through him and farther still...\nas if his mother were looking over his shoulder. He sat\nsolemnly through the hour until twelve, his elbows on his knees,\nhis conical hat swinging between them in his hand, looking up\nthrough the twilight with candid, thoughtful eyes.\n\nWhen Claude joined his company at the station, they had the laugh\non him. They had found the Cathedral,--and a statue of Richard\nthe Lion-hearted, over the spot where the lion-heart itself was\nburied; \"the identical organ,\" fat Sergeant Hicks assured him.\nBut they were all glad to leave Rouen.\n\n\n\nV\n\nB Company reached the training camp at S-- thirty-six men short:\ntwenty-five they had buried on the voyage over, and eleven sick\nwere left at the base hospital. The company was to be attached\nto a battalion which had already seen service, commanded by\nLieutenant Colonel Scott. Arriving early in the morning, the\nofficers reported at once to Headquarters. Captain Maxey must\nhave suffered a shock when the Colonel rose from his desk to\nacknowledge his salute, then shook hands with them all around\nand asked them about their journey. The Colonel was not a very\nmartial figure; short, fat, with slouching shoulders, and a\nlumpy back like a sack of potatoes. Though he wasn't much over\nforty, he was bald, and his collar would easily slip over his\nhead without being unbuttoned. His little twinkling eyes and\ngood-humoured face were without a particle of arrogance or\nofficial dignity.\n\nYears ago, when General Pershing, then a handsome young\nLieutenant with a slender waist and yellow moustaches, was\nstationed as Commandant at the University of Nebraska, Walter\nScott was an officer in a company of cadets the Lieutenant took\nabout to military tournaments. The Pershing Rifles, they were\ncalled, and they won prizes wherever they went. After his\ngraduation, Scott settled down to running a hardware business in\na thriving Nebraska town, and sold gas ranges and garden hose for\ntwenty years. About the time Pershing was sent to the Mexican\nborder, Scott began to think there might eventually be something\nin the wind, and that he would better get into training. He went\ndown to Texas with the National Guard. He had come to France with\nthe First Division, and had won his promotions by solid,\nsoldierly qualities.\n\n\"I see you're an officer short, Captain Maxey,\" the Colonel\nremarked at their conference. \"I think I've got a man here to\ntake his place. Lieutenant Gerhardt is a New York man, came over\nin the band and got transferred to infantry. He has lately been\ngiven a commission for good service. He's had some experience and\nis a capable fellow.\" The Colonel sent his orderly out to bring\nin a young man whom he introduced to the officers as Lieutenant\nDavid Gerhardt.\n\nClaude had been ashamed of Tod Fanning, who was always showing\nhimself a sap-head, and who would never have got a commission if\nhis uncle hadn't been a Congressman. But the moment he met\nLieutenant Gerhardt's eye, something like jealousy flamed up in\nhim. He felt in a flash that he suffered by comparison with the\nnew officer; that he must be on his guard and must not let\nhimself be patronized.\n\nAs they were leaving the Colonel's office together, Gerhardt\nasked him whether he had got his billet. Claude replied that\nafter the men were in their quarters, he would look out for\nsomething for himself.\n\nThe young man smiled. \"I'm afraid you may have difficulty. The\npeople about here have been overworked, keeping soldiers, and\nthey are not willing as they once were. I'm with a nice old\ncouple over in the village. I'm almost sure I can get you in\nthere. If you'll come along, we'll speak to them, before some one\nelse is put off on them.\"\n\nClaude didn't want to go, didn't want to accept\nfavours,--nevertheless he went. They walked together along a\ndusty road that ran between half-ripe wheat fields, bordered with\npoplar trees. The wild morning-glories and Queen Anne's lace that\ngrew by the road-side were still shining with dew. A fresh breeze\nstirred the bearded grain, parting it in furrows and fanning out\nstreaks of crimson poppies. The new officer was not intrusive,\ncertainly. He walked along, whistling softly to himself, seeming\nquite lost in the freshness of the morning, or in his own\nthoughts. There had been nothing patronizing in his manner so\nfar, and Claude began to wonder why he felt ill at ease with him.\nPerhaps it was because he did not look like the rest of them.\nThough he was young, he did not look boyish. He seemed\nexperienced; a finished product, rather than something on the\nway. He was handsome, and his face, like his manner and his walk,\nhad something distinguished about it. A broad white forehead\nunder reddish brown hair, hazel eyes with no uncertainty in their\nlook, an aquiline nose, finely cut,--a sensitive, scornful mouth,\nwhich somehow did not detract from the kindly, though slightly\nreserved, expression of his face.\n\nLieutenant Gerhardt must have been in this neighbourhood for some\ntime; he seemed to know the people. On the road they passed\nseveral villagers; a rough looking girl taking a cow out to graze,\nan old man with a basket on his arm, the postman on his bicycle;\nthey all spoke to Claude's companion as if they knew him well.\n\n\"What are these blue flowers that grow about everywhere?\" Claude\nasked suddenly, pointing to a clump with his foot.\n\n\"Cornflowers,\" said the other. \"The Germans call them\nKaiser-blumen.\"\n\nThey were approaching the village, which lay on the edge of a\nwood,--a wood so large one could not see the end of it; it met\nthe horizon with a ridge of pines. The village was but a single\nstreet. On either side ran clay-coloured walls, with painted\nwooden doors here and there, and green shutters. Claude's guide\nopened one of these gates, and they walked into a little sanded\ngarden; the house was built round it on three sides. Under a\ncherry tree sat a woman in a black dress, sewing, a work table\nbeside her.\n\nShe was fifty, perhaps, but though her hair was grey she had a\nlook of youthfulness; thin cheeks, delicately flushed with pink,\nand quiet, smiling, intelligent eyes. Claude thought she looked\nlike a New England woman,--like the photographs of his mother's\ncousins and schoolmates. Lieutenant Gerhardt introduced him to\nMadame Joubert. He was quite disheartened by the colloquy that\nfollowed. Clearly his new fellow officer spoke Madame Joubert's\nperplexing language as readily as she herself did, and he felt\nirritated and grudging as he listened. He had been hoping that,\nwherever he stayed, he could learn to talk to the people a\nlittle; but with this accomplished young man about, he would\nnever have the courage to try. He could see that Mme. Joubert\nliked Gerhardt, liked him very much; and all this, for some\nreason, discouraged him.\n\nGerhardt turned to Claude, speaking in a way which included\nMadame Joubert in the conversation, though she could not\nunderstand it: \"Madame Joubert will let you come, although she\nhas done her part and really doesn't have to take any one else\nin. But you will be so well off here that I'm glad she consents.\nYou will have to share my room, but there are two beds. She will\nshow you.\"\n\nGerhardt went out of the gate and left him alone with his\nhostess. Her mind seemed to read his thoughts. When he uttered a\nword, or any sound that resembled one, she quickly and smoothly\nmade a sentence of it, as if she were quite accustomed to talking\nin this way and expected only monosyllables from strangers. She\nwas kind, even a little playful with him; but he felt it was all\ngood manners, and that underneath she was not thinking of him at\nall. When he was alone in the tile-floored sleeping room\nupstairs, unrolling his blankets and arranging his shaving\nthings, he looked out of the window and watched her where she sat\nsewing under the cherry tree. She had a very sad face, he\nthought; it wasn't grief, nothing sharp and definite like sorrow.\nIt was an old, quiet, impersonal sadness,--sweet in its\nexpression, like the sadness of music.\n\nAs he came out of the house to start back to the barracks, he\nbowed to her and tried to say, \"Au revoir, Madame. Jusq' au ce\nsoir.\" He stopped near the kitchen door to look at a\nmany-branched rose vine that ran all over the wall, full of\ncream-coloured, pink-tipped roses, just a shade stronger in\ncolour than the clay wall behind them. Madame Joubert came over\nand stood beside him, looking at him and at the rosier, \"Oui,\nc'est joli, n'est-ce pas?\" She took the scissors that hung by a\nribbon from her belt, cut one of the flowers and stuck it in his\nbuttonhole. \"Voilà.\" She made a little flourish with her thin\nhand.\n\nStepping into the street, he turned to shut the wooden door after\nhim, and heard a soft stir in the dark tool-house at his elbow.\nFrom among the rakes and spades a child's frightened face was\nstaring out at him. She was sitting on the ground with her lap\nfull of baby kittens. He caught but a glimpse of her dull, pale\nface.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nThe next morning Claude awoke with such a sense of physical\nwell-being as he had not had for a long time. The sun was\nshining brightly on the white plaster walls and on the red tiles\nof the floor. Green jalousies, half-drawn, shaded the upper part\nof the two windows. Through their slats, he could see the forking\nbranches of an old locust tree that grew by the gate. A flock of\npigeons flew over it, dipping and mounting with a sharp twinkle\nof silver wings. It was good to lie again in a house that was\ncared for by women. He must have felt that even in his sleep,\nfor when he opened his eyes he was thinking about Mahailey and\nbreakfast and summer mornings on the farm. The early stillness\nwas sweet, and the feeling of dry, clean linen against his body.\nThere was a smell of lavender about his warm pillow. He lay\nstill for fear of waking Lieutenant Gerhardt. This was the sort\nof peace one wanted to enjoy alone. When he rose cautiously on\nhis elbow and looked at the other bed, it was empty. His\ncompanion must have dressed and slipped out when day first broke.\nSomebody else who liked to enjoy things alone; that looked\nhopeful. But now that he had the place to himself, he decided to\nget up. While he was dressing he could see old M. Joubert down in\nthe garden, watering the plants and vines, raking the sand fresh\nand smooth, clipping off dead leaves and withered flowers and\nthrowing them into a wheelbarrow. These people had lost both\ntheir sons in the war, he had been told, and now they were taking\ncare of the property for their grandchildren,--two daughters of\nthe elder son. Claude saw Gerhardt come into the garden, and sit\ndown at the table under the trees, where they had their dinner\nlast night. He hurried down to join him. Gerhardt made room for\nhim on the bench.\n\n\"Do you always sleep like that? It's an accomplishment. I made\nenough noise when I dressed,--kept dropping things, but it never\nreached you.\"\n\nMadame Joubert came out of the kitchen in a purple flowered\nmorning gown, her hair in curl-papers under a lace cap. She\nbrought the coffee herself, and they sat down at the unpainted\ntable without a cloth, and drank it out of big crockery bowls.\nThey had fresh milk with it,--the first Claude had tasted in a\nlong while, and sugar which Gerhardt produced from his pocket.\nThe old cook had her coffee sitting in the kitchen door, and on\nthe step, at her feet, sat the strange, pale little girl.\n\nMadame Joubert amiably addressed herself to Claude; she knew that\nAmericans were accustomed to a different sort of morning repast,\nand if he wished to bring bacon from the camp, she would gladly\ncook it for him. She had even made pancakes for officers who\nstayed there before. She seemed pleased, however, to learn that\nClaude had had enough of these things for awhile. She called\nDavid by his first name, pronouncing it the French way, and when\nClaude said he hoped she would do as much for him, she said, Oh,\nyes, that his was a very good French name, \"mais un peu, un peu...\nromanesque,\" at which he blushed, not quite knowing whether\nshe were making fun of him or not.\n\n\"It is rather so in English, isn't it?\" David asked.\n\n\"Well, it's a sissy name, if you mean that.\"\n\n\"Yes, it is, a little,\" David admitted candidly. The day's work\non the parade ground was hard, and Captain Maxey's men were soft,\nfelt the heat,--didn't size up well with the Kansas boys who had\nbeen hardened by service. The Colonel wasn't pleased with B\nCompany and detailed them to build new barracks and extend the\nsanitation system. Claude got out and worked with the men.\nGerhardt followed his example, but it was easy to see that he\nhad never handled lumber or tin-roofing before. A kind of rivalry\nseemed to have sprung up between him and Claude, neither of them\nknew why.\n\nClaude could see that the sergeants and corporals were a little\nuncertain about Gerhardt. His laconic speech, never embroidered\nby the picturesque slang they relished, his gravity, and his\nrare, incredulous smile, alike puzzled them. Was the new officer\na dude? Sergeant Hicks asked of his chum, Dell Able. No, he\nwasn't a dude. Was he a swellhead? No, not at all; but he wasn't\na good mixer. He was \"an Easterner\"; what more he was would\ndevelop later. Claude sensed something unusual about him. He\nsuspected that Gerhardt knew a good many things as well as he\nknew French, and that he tried to conceal it, as people sometimes\ndo when they feel they are not among their equals; this idea\nnettled him. It was Claude who seized the opportunity to be\npatronizing, when Gerhardt betrayed that he was utterly unable to\nselect lumber by given measurements.\n\nThe next afternoon, work on the new barracks was called off\nbecause of rain. Sergeant Hicks set about getting up a boxing\nmatch, but when he went to invite the lieutenants, they had both\ndisappeared. Claude was tramping toward the village, determined\nto get into the big wood that had tempted him ever since his\narrival.\n\nThe highroad became the village street, and then, at the edge of\nthe wood, became a country road again. A little farther on, where\nthe shade grew denser, it split up into three wagon trails, two\nof them faint and little used. One of these Claude followed. The\nrain had dwindled to a steady patter, but the tall brakes growing\nup in the path splashed him to the middle, and his feet sank in\nspongy, mossy earth. The light about him, the very air, was\ngreen. The trunks of the trees were overgrown with a soft green\nmoss, like mould. He was wondering whether this forest was not\nalways a damp, gloomy place, when suddenly the sun broke through\nand shattered the whole wood with gold. He had never seen\nanything like the quivering emerald of the moss, the silky green\nof the dripping beech tops. Everything woke up; rabbits ran across\nthe path, birds began to sing, and all at once the brakes were\nfull of whirring insects.\n\nThe winding path turned again, and came out abruptly on a\nhillside, above an open glade piled with grey boulders. On the\nopposite rise of ground stood a grove of pines, with bare, red\nstems. The light, around and under them, was red like a rosy\nsunset. Nearly all the stems divided about half-way up into two\ngreat arms, which came together again at the top, like the\npictures of old Grecian lyres.\n\nDown in the grassy glade, among the piles of flint boulders,\nlittle white birches shook out their shining leaves in the\nlightly moving air. All about the rocks were patches of purple\nheath; it ran up into the crevices between them like fire. On one\nof these bald rocks sat Lieutenant Gerhardt, hatless, in an\nattitude of fatigue or of deep dejection, his hands clasped about\nhis knees, his bronze hair ruddy in the sun. After watching him\nfor a few minutes, Claude descended the slope, swishing the tall\nferns.\n\n\"Will I be in the way?\" he asked as he stopped at the foot of the\nrocks.\n\n\"Oh, no!\" said the other, moving a little and unclasping his\nhand.\n\nClaude sat down on a boulder. \"Is this heather?\" he asked. \"I\nthought I recognized it, from 'Kidnapped.' This part of the world\nis not as new to you as it is to me.\"\n\n\"No. I lived in Paris for several years when I was a student.\"\n\n\"What were you studying?\"\n\n\"The violin.\"\n\n\"You are a musician?\" Claude looked at him wonderingly.\n\n\"I was,\" replied the other with a disdainful smile, languidly\nstretching out his legs in the heather.\n\n\"That seems too bad,\" Claude remarked gravely.\n\n\"What does?\"\n\n\"Why, to take fellows with a special talent. There are enough of\nus who haven't any.\"\n\nGerhardt rolled over on his back and put his hands under his\nhead. \"Oh, this affair is too big for exceptions; it's universal.\nIf you happened to be born twenty-six years ago, you couldn't\nescape. If this war didn't kill you in one way, it would in\nanother.\" He told Claude he had trained at Camp Dix, and had come\nover eight months ago in a regimental band, but he hated the work\nhe had to do and got transferred to the infantry.\n\nWhen they retraced their steps, the wood was full of green\ntwilight. Their relations had changed somewhat during the last\nhalf hour, and they strolled in confidential silence up the\nhome-like street to the door of their own garden.\n\nSince the rain was over, Madame Joubert had laid the cloth on the\nplank table under the cherry tree, as on the previous evenings.\nMonsieur was bringing the chairs, and the little girl was\ncarrying out a pile of heavy plates. She rested them against her\nstomach and leaned back as she walked, to balance them. She wore\nshoes, but no stockings, and her faded cotton dress switched\nabout her brown legs. She was a little Belgian refugee who had\nbeen sent there with her mother. The mother was dead now, and the\nchild would not even go to visit her grave. She could not be\ncoaxed from the court-yard into the quiet street. If the\nneighbour children came into the garden on an errand, she hid\nherself. She would have no playmates but the cat; and now she had\nthe kittens in the tool house.\n\nDinner was very cheerful that evening. M. Joubert was pleased\nthat the storm had not lasted long enough to hurt the wheat. The\ngarden was fresh and bright after the rain. The cherry tree shook\ndown bright drops on the tablecloth when the breeze stirred. The\nmother cat dozed on the red cushion in Madame Joubert's sewing\nchair, and the pigeons fluttered down to snap up earthworms that\nwriggled in the wet sand. The shadow of the house fell over the\ndinner-table, but the tree-tops stood up in full sunlight, and\nthe yellow sun poured on the earth wall and the cream-coloured\nroses. Their petals, ruffled by the rain, gave out a wet, spicy\nsmell.\n\nM. Joubert must have been ten years older than his wife. There\nwas a great contentment in his manner and a pleasant sparkle in\nhis eye. He liked the young officers. Gerhardt had been there\nmore than two weeks, and somewhat relieved the stillness that\nhad settled over the house since the second son died in hospital.\nThe Jouberts had dropped out of things. They had done all they\ncould do, given all they had, and now they had nothing to look\nforward to,--except the event to which all France looked forward.\nThe father was talking to Gerhardt about the great sea-port the\nAmericans were making of Bordeaux; he said he meant to go there\nafter the war, to see it all for himself.\n\nMadame Joubert was pleased to hear that they had been walking in\nthe wood. And was the heather in bloom? She wished they had\nbrought her some. Next time they went, perhaps. She used to walk\nthere often. Her eyes seemed to come nearer to them, Claude\nthought, when she spoke of it, and she evidently cared a great\ndeal more about what was blooming in the wood than about what the\nAmericans were doing on the Garonne. He wished he could talk to\nher as Gerhardt did. He admired the way she roused herself and\ntried to interest them, speaking her difficult language with such\nspirit and precision. It was a language that couldn't be mumbled;\nthat had to be spoken with energy and fire, or not spoken at all.\nMerely speaking that exacting tongue would help to rally a broken\nspirit, he thought.\n\nThe little maid who served them moved about noiselessly. Her dull\neyes never seemed to look; yet she saw when it was time to bring\nthe heavy soup tureen, and when it was time to take it away.\nMadame Joubert had found that Claude liked his potatoes with his\nmeat--when there was meat--and not in a course by themselves. She\nhad each time to tell the little girl to go and fetch them. This\nthe child did with manifest reluctance,--sullenly, as if she were\nbeing forced to do something wrong. She was a very strange little\ncreature, altogether. As the two soldiers left the table and\nstarted for the camp, Claude reached down into the tool house and\ntook up one of the kittens, holding it out in the light to see it\nblink its eyes. The little girl, just coming out of the kitchen,\nuttered a shrill scream, a really terrible scream, and squatted\ndown, covering her face with her hands. Madame Joubert came out\nto chide her.\n\n\"What is the matter with that child?\" Claude asked as they\nhurried out of the gate. \"Do you suppose she was hurt, or abused\nin some way?\"\n\n\"Terrorized. She often screams like that at night. Haven't you\nheard her? They have to go and wake her, to stop it. She doesn't\nspeak any French; only Walloon. And she can't or won't learn, so\nthey can't tell what goes on in her poor little head.\"\n\nIn the two weeks of intensive training that followed, Claude\nmarvelled at Gerhardt's spirit and endurance. The muscular strain\nof mimic trench operations was more of a tax on him than on any\nof the other officers. He was as tall as Claude, but he weighed\nonly a hundred and forty-six pounds, and he had not been roughly\nbred like most of the others. When his fellow officers learned\nthat he was a violinist by profession, that he could have had a\nsoft job as interpreter or as an organizer of camp\nentertainments, they no longer resented his reserve or his\noccasional superciliousness. They respected a man who could have\nwriggled out and didn't.\n\n\nVII\n\nOn the march at last; through a brilliant August day Colonel\nScott's battalion was streaming along one of the dusty,\nwell-worn roads east of the Somme, their railway base well behind\nthem. The way led through rolling country; fields, hills, woods,\nlittle villages shattered but still habitable, where the people\ncame out to watch the soldiers go by.\n\nThe Americans went through every village in march step, colours\nflying, the band playing, \"to show that the morale was high,\" as\nthe officers said. Claude trudged on the outside of the\ncolumn,--now at the front of his company, now at the\nrear,--wearing a stoical countenance, afraid of betraying his\nsatisfaction in the men, the weather, the country.\n\nThey were bound for the big show, and on every hand were\nreassuring signs: long lines of gaunt, dead trees, charred and\ntorn; big holes gashed out in fields and hillsides, already half\nconcealed by new undergrowth; winding depressions in the earth,\nbodies of wrecked motor-trucks and automobiles lying along the\nroad, and everywhere endless straggling lines of rusty\nbarbed-wire, that seemed to have been put there by chance,--with\nno purpose at all.\n\n\"Begins to look like we're getting in, Lieutenant,\" said Sergeant\nHicks, smiling behind his salute.\n\nClaude nodded and passed forward.\n\n\"Well, we can't arrive any too soon for us, boys?\" The Sergeant\nlooked over his shoulder, and they grinned, their teeth flashing\nwhite in their red, perspiring faces. Claude didn't wonder that\neverybody along the route, even the babies, came out to see them;\nhe thought they were the finest sight in the world. This was the\nfirst day they had worn their tin hats; Gerhardt had shown them\nhow to stuff grass and leaves inside to keep their heads cool.\nWhen they fell into fours, and the band struck up as they\napproached a town, Bert Fuller, the boy from Pleasantville on the\nPlatte, who had blubbered on the voyage over, was guide right,\nand whenever Claude passed him his face seemed to say, \"You won't\nget anything on me in a hurry, Lieutenant!\"\n\nThey made camp early in the afternoon, on a hill covered with\nhalf-burned pines. Claude took Bert and Dell Able and Oscar the\nSwede, and set off to make a survey and report the terrain.\n\nBehind the hill, under the burned edge of the wood, they found an\nabandoned farmhouse and what seemed to be a clean well.\n\nIt had a solid stone curb about it, and a wooden bucket hanging\nby a rusty wire. When the boys splashed the bucket about, the\nwater sent up a pure, cool breath. But they were wise boys, and\nknew where dead Prussians most loved to hide. Even the straw in\nthe stable they regarded with suspicion, and thought it would be\njust as well not to bed anybody there.\n\nSwinging on to the right to make their circuit, they got into\nmud; a low field where the drain ditches had been neglected and\nhad overflowed. There they came upon a pitiful group of humanity,\nbemired. A woman, ill and wretched looking, sat on a fallen log\nat the end of the marsh, a baby in her lap and three children\nhanging about her. She was far gone in consumption; one had only\nto listen to her breathing and to look at her white, perspiring\nface to feel how weak she was. Draggled, mud to the knees, she\nwas trying to nurse her baby, half hidden under an old black\nshawl. She didn't look like a tramp woman, but like one who had\nonce been able to take proper care of herself, and she was still\nyoung. The children were tired and discouraged. One little boy\nwore a clumsy blue jacket, made from a French army coat. The\nother wore a battered American Stetson that came down over his\nears. He carried, in his two arms, a pink celluloid clock. They\nall looked up and waited for the soldiers to do something.\n\nClaude approached the woman, and touching the rim of his helmet,\nbegan: \"Bonjour, Madame. Qu'est que c'est?\"\n\nShe tried to speak, but went off into a spasm of coughing, only\nable to gasp, \"'Toinette, 'Toinette!\"\n\n'Toinette stepped quickly forward. She was about eleven, and\nseemed to be the captain of the party. A bold, hard little face\nwith a long chin, straight black hair tied with rags, uneasy,\ncrafty eyes; she looked much less gentle and more experienced\nthan her mother. She began to explain, and she was very clever at\nmaking herself understood. She was used to talking to foreign\nsoldiers,--spoke slowly, with emphasis and ingenious gestures.\n\nShe, too, had been reconnoitering. She had discovered the empty\nfarmhouse and was trying to get her party there for the night.\nHow did they come here? Oh, they were refugees. They had been\nstaying with people thirty kilometers from here. They were trying\nto get back to their own village. Her mother was very sick,\npresque morte and she wanted to go home to die. They had heard\npeople were still living there; an old aunt was living in their\nown cellar,--and so could they if they once got there. The point\nwas, and she made it over and over, that her mother wished to die\nchez elle, comprenez-vous? They had no papers, and the French\nsoldiers would never let them pass, but now that the Americans\nwere here they hoped to get through; the Americans were said to\nbe toujours gentils.\n\nWhile she talked in her shrill, clicking voice, the baby began to\nhowl, dissatisfied with its nourishment. The little girl\nshrugged. \"Il est toujours en colère,\" she muttered. The woman\nturned it around with difficulty--it seemed a big, heavy baby,\nbut white and sickly--and gave it the other breast. It began\nsucking her noisily, rooting and sputtering as if it were\nfamished. It was too painful, it was almost indecent, to see this\nexhausted woman trying to feed her baby. Claude beckoned his men\naway to one side, and taking the little girl by the hand drew her\nafter them.\n\n\"Il faut que votre mère--se reposer,\" he told her, with the grave\ncaesural pause which he always made in the middle of a French\nsentence. She understood him. No distortion of her native tongue\nsurprised or perplexed her. She was accustomed to being addressed\nin all persons, numbers, genders, tenses; by Germans, English,\nAmericans. She only listened to hear whether the voice was kind,\nand with men in this uniform it usually was kind.\n\nHad they anything to eat? \"Vous avez quelque chose à manger?\"\n\n\"Rien. Rien du tout.\"\n\nWasn't her mother \"trop malade à marcher?\"\n\nShe shrugged; Monsieur could see for himself.\n\nAnd her father?\n\nHe was dead; \"mort à la Marne, en quatorze.\"\n\n\"At the Marne?\" Claude repeated, glancing in perplexity at the\nnursing baby. Her sharp eyes followed his, and she instantly\ndivined his doubt. \"The baby?\" she said quickly. \"Oh, the baby is\nnot my brother, he is a Boche.\"\n\nFor a moment Claude did not understand. She repeated her\nexplanation impatiently, something disdainful and sinister in her\nmetallic little voice. A slow blush mounted to his forehead.\n\nHe pushed her toward her mother, \"Attendez là.\"\n\n\"I guess we'll have to get them over to that farmhouse,\" he told\nthe men. He repeated what he had got of the child's story. When\nhe came to her laconic statement about the baby, they looked at\neach other. Bert Fuller was afraid he might cry again, so he kept\nmuttering, \"By God, if we'd a-got here sooner, by God if we had!\"\nas they ran back along the ditch.\n\nDell and Oscar made a chair of their crossed hands and carried\nthe woman, she was no great weight. Bert picked up the little boy\nwith the pink clock; \"Come along, little frog, your legs ain't\nlong enough.\"\n\nClaude walked behind, holding the screaming baby stiffly in his\narms. How was it possible for a baby to have such definite\npersonality, he asked himself, and how was it possible to dislike\na baby so much? He hated it for its square, tow-thatched head and\nbloodless ears, and carried it with loathing... no wonder it\ncried! When it got nothing by screaming and stiffening, however,\nit suddenly grew quiet; regarded him with pale blue eyes, and\ntried to make itself comfortable against his khaki coat. It put\nout a grimy little fist and took hold of one of his buttons.\n\"Kamerad, eh?\" he muttered, glaring at the infant. \"Cut it out!\"\n\nBefore they had their own supper that night, the boys carried hot\nfood and blankets down to their family.\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nFour o'clock... a summer dawn... his first morning in the\ntrenches.\n\nClaude had just been along the line to see that the gun teams\nwere in position. This hour, when the light was changing, was a\nfavourite time for attack. He had come in late last night, and\nhad everything to learn. Mounting the firestep, he peeped over\nthe parapet between the sandbags, into the low, twisting mist.\nJust then he could see nothing but the wire entanglement, with\nbirds hopping along the top wire, singing and chirping as they\ndid on the wire fences at home. Clear and flute-like they sounded\nin the heavy air,--and they were the only sounds. A little breeze\ncame up, slowly clearing the mist away. Streaks of green showed\nthrough the moving banks of vapour. The birds became more\nagitated. That dull stretch of grey and green was No Man's Land.\nThose low, zigzag mounds, like giant molehills protected by wire\nhurdles, were the Hun trenches; five or six lines of them. He\ncould easily follow the communication trenches without a glass.\nAt one point their front line could not be more than eighty yards\naway, at another it must be all of three hundred. Here and there\nthin columns of smoke began to rise; the Hun was getting\nbreakfast; everything was comfortable and natural. Behind the\nenemy's position the country rose gradually for several miles,\nwith ravines and little woods, where, according to his map, they\nhad masked artillery. Back on the hills were ruined farmhouses\nand broken trees, but nowhere a living creature in sight. It was\na dead, nerveless countryside, sunk in quiet and dejection. Yet\neverywhere the ground was full of men. Their own trenches, from\nthe other side, must look quite as dead. Life was a secret, these\ndays.\n\nIt was amazing how simply things could be done. His battalion had\nmarched in quietly at midnight, and the line they came to relieve\nhad set out as silently for the rear. It all took place in utter\ndarkness. Just as B Company slid down an incline into the shallow\nrear trenches, the country was lit for a moment by two star\nshells, there was a rattling of machine guns, German Maxims,--a\nsporadic crackle that was not followed up. Filing along the\ncommunication trenches, they listened anxiously; artillery fire\nwould have made it bad for the other men who were marching to the\nrear. But nothing happened. They had a quiet night, and this\nmorning, here they were!\n\nThe sky flamed up saffron and silver. Claude looked at his watch,\nbut he could not bear to go just yet. How long it took a Wheeler\nto get round to anything! Four years on the way; now that he was\nhere, he would enjoy the scenery a bit, he guessed. He wished his\nmother could know how he felt this morning. But perhaps she did\nknow. At any rate, she would not have him anywhere else. Five\nyears ago, when he was sitting on the steps of the Denver State\nHouse and knew that nothing unexpected could ever happen to him...\nsuppose he could have seen, in a flash, where he would be\ntoday? He cast a long look at the reddening, lengthening\nlandscape, and dropped down on the duckboard.\n\nClaude made his way back to the dugout into which he and Gerhardt\nhad thrown their effects last night. The former occupants had\nleft it clean. There were two bunks nailed against the side\nwalls,--wooden frames with wire netting over them, covered with\ndry sandbags. Between the two bunks was a soap-box table, with a\ncandle stuck in a green bottle, an alcohol stove, a bainmarie,\nand two tin cups. On the wall were coloured pictures from Jugend,\ntaken out of some Hun trench.\n\nHe found Gerhardt still asleep on his bed, and shook him until he\nsat up.\n\n\"How long have you been out, Claude? Didn't you sleep?\"\n\n\"A little. I wasn't very tired. I suppose we could heat shaving\nwater on this stove; they've left us half a bottle of alcohol.\nIt's quite a comfortable little hole, isn't it?\"\n\n\"It will doubtless serve its purpose,\" David remarked dryly. \"So\nsensitive to any criticism of this war! Why, it's not your\naffair; you've only just arrived.\"\n\n\"I know,\" Claude replied meekly, as he began to fold his\nblankets. \"But it's likely the only one I'll ever be in, so I may\nas well take an interest.\"\n\nThe next afternoon four young men, all more or less naked, were\nbusy about a shell-hole full of opaque brown water. Sergeant Hicks\nand his chum, Dell Able, had hunted through half the blazing hot\nmorning to find a hole not too scummy, conveniently, and even\npicturesquely situated, and had reported it to the Lieutenants.\nCaptain Maxey, Hicks said, could send his own orderly to find his\nown shell-hole, and could take his bath in private. \"He'd never\nwash himself with anybody else,\" the Sergeant added. \"Afraid of\nexposing his dignity!\"\n\nBruger and Hammond, the two second Lieutenants, were already out\nof their bath, and reclined on what might almost be termed a\ngrassy slope, examining various portions of their body with\ninterest. They hadn't had all their clothes off for some time,\nand four days of marching in hot weather made a man anxious to\nlook at himself.\n\n\"You wait till winter,\" Gerhardt told them. He was still\nsplashing in the hole, up to his armpits in muddy water. \"You\nwon't get a wash once in three months then. Some of the Tommies\ntold me that when they got their first bath after Vimy, their\nskins peeled off like a snake's. What are you doing with my\ntrousers, Bruger?\"\n\n\"Hunting for your knife. I dropped mine yesterday, when that\nshell exploded in the cut-off. I darned near dropped my old nut!\"\n\n\"Shucks, that wasn't anything. Don't keep blowing about it--shows\nyou're a greenhorn.\"\n\nClaude stripped off his shirt and slid into the pool beside\nGerhardt. \"Gee, I hit something sharp down there! Why didn't you\nfellows pull out the splinters?\"\n\nHe shut his eyes, disappeared for a moment, and came up\nsputtering, throwing on the ground a round metal object, coated\nwith rust and full of slime. \"German helmet, isn't it? Phew!\" He\nwiped his face and looked about suspiciously.\n\n\"Phew is right!\" Bruger turned the object over with a stick. \"Why\nin hell didn't you bring up the rest of him? You've spoiled my\nbath. I hope you enjoy it.\"\n\nGerhardt scrambled up the side. \"Get out, Wheeler! Look at that,\"\nhe pointed to big sleepy bubbles, bursting up through the thick\nwater. \"You've stirred up trouble, all right! Something's going\nvery bad down there.\"\n\nClaude got out after him, looking back at the activity in the\nwater. \"I don't see how pulling out one helmet could stir the\nbottom up so. I should think the water would keep the smell\ndown.\"\n\n\"Ever study chemistry?\" Bruger asked scornfully. \"You just opened\nup a graveyard, and now we get the exhaust. If you swallowed any\nof that German cologne--Oh, you should worry!\"\n\nLieutenant Hammond, still barelegged, with his shirt tied over\nhis shoulders, was scratching in his notebook. Before they left\nhe put up a placard on a split stick.\n\nNo Public Bathing!! Private Beach\n\nC. Wheeler, Co. B. 2-th Inf'ty.\n\n.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .\n\nThe first letters from home! The supply wagons brought them up,\nand every man in the Company got something except Ed Drier, a\nfarm-hand from the Nebraska sand hills, and Willy Katz, the\ntow-headed Austrian boy from the South Omaha packing-houses.\nTheir comrades were sorry for them. Ed didn't have any \"folks\" of\nhis own, but he had expected letters all the same. Willy was sure\nhis mother must have written. When the last ragged envelope was\ngiven out and he turned away empty-handed, he murmured, \"She's\nBohunk, and she don't write so good. I guess the address wasn't\nplain, and some fellow in another comp'ny has got my letter.\"\n\nNo second class matter was sent up,--the boys had hoped for\nnewspapers from home to give them a little war news, since they\nnever got any here. Dell Able's sister, however, had enclosed a\nclipping from the Kansas City Star; a long account by one of the\nBritish war correspondents in Mesopotamia, describing the\nhardships the soldiers suffered there; dysentery, flies,\nmosquitoes, unimaginable heat. He read this article aloud to a\ngroup of his friends as they sat about a shell-hole pool where\nthey had been washing their socks. He had just finished the story\nof how the Tommies had found a few mud huts at the place where\nthe original Garden of Eden was said to have been,--a desolate\nspot full of stinging insects--when Oscar Petersen, a very\nreligious Swedish boy who was often silent for days together,\nopened his mouth and said scornfully,\n\n\"That's a lie!\"\n\nDell looked up at him, annoyed by the interruption. \"How do you\nknow it is?\"\n\n\"Because; the Lord put four cherubims with swords to guard the\nGarden, and there ain't no man going to find it. It ain't\nintended they should. The Bible says so.\"\n\nHicks began to laugh. \"Why, that was about six thousand years\nago, you cheese! Do you suppose your cherubims are still there?\"\n\n\"'Course they are. What's a thousand years to a cherubim?\nNothin'!\"\n\nThe Swede rose and sullenly gathered up his socks.\n\nDell Able looked at his chum. \"Ain't he the complete bonehead?\nSolid ivory!\"\n\nOscar wouldn't listen further to a \"pack of lies\" and walked off\nwith his washing.\n\n.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .\n\nBattalion Headquarters was nearly half a mile behind the front\nline, part dugout, part shed, with a plank roof sodded over. The\nColonel's office was partitioned off at one end; the rest of the\nplace he gave over to the officers for a kind of club room. One\nnight Claude went back to make a report on the new placing of the\ngun teams. The young officers were sitting about on soap boxes,\nsmoking and eating sweet crackers out of tin cases. Gerhardt was\nworking at a plank table with paper and crayons, making a clean\ncopy of a rough map they had drawn up together that morning,\nshowing the limits of fire. Noise didn't fluster him; he could\nsit among a lot of men and write as calmly as if he were alone.\n\nThere was one officer who could talk all the others down,\nwherever he was; Captain Barclay Owens, attached from the\nEngineers. He was a little stumpy thumb of a man, only five feet\nfour, and very broad,--a dynamo of energy. Before the war he was\nbuilding a dam in Spain, \"the largest dam in the world,\" and in\nhis excavations he had discovered the ruins of one of Julius\nCaesar's fortified camps. This had been too much for his\neasily-inflamed imagination. He photographed and measured and\nbrooded upon these ancient remains. He was an engineer by day and\nan archaeologist by night. He had crates of books sent down from\nParis,--everything that had been written on Caesar, in French and\nGerman; he engaged a young priest to translate them aloud to him\nin the evening. The priest believed the American was mad.\n\nWhen Owens was in college he had never shown the least interest\nin classical studies, but now it was as if he were giving birth\nto Caesar. The war came along, and stopped the work on his dam.\nIt also drove other ideas into his exclusively engineering\nbrains. He rushed home to Kansas to explain the war to his\ncountrymen.. He travelled about the West, demonstrating exactly\nwhat had happened at the first battle of the Marne, until he had\na chance to enlist.\n\nIn the Battalion, Owens was called \"Julius Caesar,\" and the men\nnever knew whether he was explaining the Roman general's\noperations in Spain, or Joffre's at the Marne, he jumped so from\none to the other. Everything was in the foreground with him;\ncenturies made no difference. Nothing existed until Barclay Owens\nfound out about it. The men liked to hear him talk. Tonight he\nwas walking up and down, his yellow eyes rolling, a big black\ncigar in his hand, lecturing the young officers upon French\ncharacteristics, coaching and preparing them. It was his legs\nthat made him so funny; his trunk was that of a big man, set on\ntwo short stumps.\n\n\"Now you fellows don't want to forget that the night-life of\nParis is not a typical thing at all; that's a show got up for\nforeigners.... The French peasant, he's a thrifty fellow....\nThis red wine's all right if you don't abuse it; take it\ntwo-thirds water and it keeps off dysentery.... You don't\nhave to be rough with them, simply firm. Whenever one of them\naccosts me, I follow a regular plan; first, I give her\ntwenty-five francs; then I look her in the eye and say, 'My girl,\nI've got three children, three boys.' She gets the point at once;\nnever fails. She goes away ashamed of herself.\"\n\n\"But that's so expensive! It must keep you poor, Captain Owens,\"\nsaid young Lieutenant Hammond innocently. The others roared.\n\nClaude knew that David particularly detested Captain Owens of the\nEngineers, and wondered that he could go on working with such\nconcentration, when snatches of the Captain's lecture kept\nbreaking through the confusion of casual talk and the noise of\nthe phonograph. Owens, as he walked up and down, cast furtive\nglances at Gerhardt. He had got wind of the fact that there was\nsomething out of the ordinary about him.\n\nThe men kept the phonograph going; as soon as one record buzzed\nout, somebody put in another. Once, when a new tune began, Claude\nsaw David look up from his paper with a curious expression. He\nlistened for a moment with a half-contemptuous smile, then\nfrowned and began sketching in his map again. Something about his\nmomentary glance of recognition made Claude wonder whether he had\nparticular associations with the air,--melancholy, but beautiful,\nClaude thought. He got up and went over to change the record\nhimself this time. He took out the disk, and holding it up to the\nlight, read the inscription:\n\n\"Meditation from Thais--Violin solo--David Gerhardt.\"\n\nWhen they were going back along the communication trench in the\nrain, wading single file, Claude broke the silence abruptly.\n\"That was one of your records they played tonight, that violin\nsolo, wasn't it?\"\n\n\"Sounded like it. Now we go to the right. I always get lost\nhere.\"\n\n\"Are there many of your records?\"\n\n\"Quite a number. Why do you ask?\"\n\n\"I'd like to write my mother. She's fond of good music. She'll\nget your records, and it will sort of bring the whole thing\ncloser to her, don't you see?\"\n\n\"All right, Claude,\" said David good-naturedly. \"She will find\nthem in the catalogue, with my picture in uniform alongside. I\nhad a lot made before I went out to Camp Dix. My own mother gets\na little income from them. Here we are, at home.\" As he struck a\nmatch two black shadows jumped from the table and disappeared\nbehind the blankets. \"Plenty of them around, these wet nights.\nGet one? Don't squash him in there. Here's the sack.\"\n\nGerhardt held open the mouth of a gunny sack, and Claude thrust\nthe squirming corner of his blanket into it and vigorously\ntrampled whatever fell to the bottom. \"Where do you suppose the\nother is?\" \"He'll join us later. I don't mind the rats half so\nmuch as I do Barclay Owens. What a sight he would be with his\nclothes off! Turn in; I'll go the rounds.\" Gerhardt splashed out\nalong the submerged duckboard. Claude took off his shoes and\ncooled his feet in the muddy water. He wished he could ever get\nDavid to talk about his profession, and wondered what he looked\nlike on a concert platform, playing his violin.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nThe following night, Claude was sent back to Division\nHead-quarters at Q-- with information the Colonel did not care to\ncommit to paper. He set off at ten o'clock, with Sergeant Hicks\nfor escort. There had been two days of rain, and the\ncommunication trenches were almost knee-deep in water. About half\na mile back of the front line, the two men crawled out of the\nditch and went on above ground. There was very little shelling\nalong the front that night. When a flare went up, they dropped\nand lay on their faces, trying, at the same time, to get a squint\nat what was ahead of them.\n\nThe ground was rough, and the darkness thick; it was past\nmidnight when they reached the east-and-west road--usually full\nof traffic, and not entirely deserted even on a night like this.\nTrains of horses were splashing through the mud, with shells on\ntheir backs, empty supply wagons were coming back from the front.\nClaude and Hicks paused by the ditch, hoping to get a ride. The\nrain began to fall with such violence that they looked about for\nshelter. Stumbling this way and that, they ran into a big\nartillery piece, the wheels sunk over the hubs in a mud-hole.\n\n\"Who's there?\" called a quick voice, unmistakably British.\n\n\"American infantrymen, two of us. Can we get onto one of your\ntrucks till this lets up?\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly! We can make room for you in here, if you're not\ntoo big. Speak quietly, or you'll waken the Major.\" Giggles and\nsmothered laughter; a flashlight winked for a moment and showed a\nline of five trucks, the front and rear ones covered with\ntarpaulin tents. The voices came from the shelter next the gun.\nThe men inside drew up their legs and made room for the\nstrangers; said they were sorry they hadn't anything dry to offer\nthem except a little rum. The intruders accepted this gratefully.\n\nThe Britishers were a giggly lot, and Claude thought, from their\nvoices, they must all be very young. They joked about their Major\nas if he were their schoolmaster. There wasn't room enough on the\ntruck for anybody to lie down, so they sat with their knees under\ntheir chins and exchanged gossip. The gun team belonged to an\nindependent battery that was sent about over the country,\n\"wherever needed.\" The rest of the battery had got through, gone\non to the east, but this big gun was always getting into trouble;\nnow something had gone wrong with her tractor and they couldn't\npull her out. They called her \"Jenny,\" and said she was taken\nwith fainting fits now and then, and had to be humoured. It was\nlike going about with your grandmother, one of the invisible\nTommies said, \"she is such a pompous old thing!\" The Major was\nasleep on the rear truck; he was going to get the V.C. for\nsleeping. More giggles.\n\nNo, they hadn't any idea where they were going; of course, the\nofficers knew, but artillery officers never told anything. What\nwas this country like, anyhow? They were new to this part, had\njust come down from Verdure.\n\nClaude said he had a friend in the air service up there; did they\nhappen to know anything about Victor Morse?\n\nMorse, the American ace? Hadn't he heard? Why, that got into the\nLondon papers. Morse was shot down inside the Hun line three\nweeks ago. It was a brilliant affair. He was chased by eight\nBoche planes, brought down three of them, put the rest to flight,\nand was making for base, when they turned and got him. His\nmachine came down in flames and he jumped, fell a thousand feet\nor more.\n\n\"Then I suppose he never got his leave?\" Claude asked.\n\nThey didn't know. He got a fine citation.\n\nThe men settled down to wait for the weather to improve or the\nnight to pass. Some of them fell into a doze, but Claude felt\nwide awake. He was wondering about the flat in Chelsea; whether\nthe heavy-eyed beauty had been very sorry, or whether she was\nplaying \"Roses of Picardy\" for other young officers. He thought\nmournfully that he would never go to London now. He had quite\ncounted on meeting Victor there some day, after the Kaiser had\nbeen properly disposed of. He had really liked Victor. There was\nsomething about that fellow... a sort of debauched baby, he\nwas, who went seeking his enemy in the clouds. What other age\ncould have produced such a figure? That was one of the things\nabout this war; it took a little fellow from a little town, gave\nhim an air and a swagger, a life like a movie-film,--and then a\ndeath like the rebel angels.\n\nA man like Gerhardt, for instance, had always lived in a more or\nless rose-colored world; he belonged over here, really. How could\nhe know what hard moulds and crusts the big guns had broken open\non the other side of the sea? Who could ever make him understand\nhow far it was from the strawberry bed and the glass cage in the\nbank, to the sky-roads over Verdure?\n\nBy three o'clock the rain had stopped. Claude and Hicks set off\nagain, accompanied by one of the gun team who was going back to\nget help for their tractor. As it began to grow light, the two\nAmericans wondered more and more at the extremely youthful\nappearance of their companion. When they stopped at a shell-hole\nand washed the mud from their faces, the English boy, with his\nhelmet off and the weather stains removed, showed a countenance\nof adolescent freshness, almost girlish; cheeks like pink apples,\nyellow curls above his forehead, long, soft lashes.\n\n\"You haven't been over very long, have you?\" Claude asked in a\nfatherly tone, as they took the road again.\n\n\"I came out in 'sixteen. I was formerly in the infantry.\"\n\nThe Americans liked to hear him talk; he spoke very quickly, in a\nhigh, piping voice.\n\n\"How did you come to change?\"\n\n\"Oh, I belonged to one of the Pal Battalions, and we got cut to\npieces. When I came out of hospital, I thought I'd try another\nbranch of the service, seeing my pals were gone.\"\n\n\"Now, just what is a Pal Battalion?\" drawled Hicks. He hated all\nEnglish words he didn't understand, though he didn't mind French\nones in the least.\n\n\"Fellows who signed up together from school,\" the lad piped.\n\nHicks glanced at Claude. They both thought this boy ought to be\nin school for some time yet, and wondered what he looked like\nwhen he first came over.\n\n\"And you got cut up, you say?\" he asked sympathetically.\n\n\"Yes, on the Somme. We had rotten luck. We were sent over to take\na trench and couldn't. We didn't even get to the wire. The Hun\nwas so well prepared that time, we couldn't manage it. We went\nover a thousand, and we came back seventeen.\"\n\n\"A hundred and seventeen?\"\n\n\"No, seventeen.\"\n\nHicks whistled and again exchanged looks with Claude. They could\nneither of them doubt him. There was something very unpleasant\nabout the idea of a thousand fresh-faced schoolboys being sent\nout against the guns. \"It must have been a fool order,\" he\ncommented. \"Suppose there was some mistake at Headquarters?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, Headquarters knew what it was about! We'd have taken it,\nif we'd had any sort of luck. But the Hun happened to be full of\nfight. His machine guns did for us.\"\n\n\"You were hit yourself?\" Claude asked him.\n\n\"In the leg. He was popping away at me all the while, but I\nwriggled back on my tummy. When I came out of the hospital my leg\nwasn't strong, and there's less marching in the artillery.\n\n\"I should think you'd have had about enough.\"\n\n\"Oh, a fellow can't stay out after all his chums have been\nkilled! He'd think about it all the time, you know,\" the boy\nreplied in his clear treble.\n\nClaude and Hicks got into Headquarters just as the cooks were\nturning out to build their fires. One of the Corporals took them\nto the officers' bath,--a shed with big tin tubs, and carried away\ntheir uniforms to dry them in the kitchen. It would be an hour\nbefore the officers would be about, he said, and in the meantime\nhe would manage to get clean shirts and socks for them.\n\n\"Say, Lieutenant,\" Hicks brought out as he was rubbing himself\ndown with a real bath towel, \"I don't want to hear any more about\nthose Pal Battalions, do you? It gets my goat. So long as we were\ngoing to get into this, we might have been a little more\nprevious. I hate to feel small.\" \"Guess we'll have to take our\nmedicine,\" Claude said dryly, \"There wasn't anywhere to duck, was\nthere? I felt like it. Nice little kid. I don't believe American\nboys ever seem as young as that.\"\n\n\"Why, if you met him anywhere else, you'd be afraid of using bad\nwords before him, he's so pretty! What's the use of sending an\norphan asylum out to be slaughtered? I can't see it,\" grumbled\nthe fat sergeant. \"Well, it's their business. I'm not going to\nlet it spoil my breakfast. Suppose we'll draw ham and eggs,\nLieutenant?\"\n\n\n\nX\n\nAfter breakfast Claude reported to Headquarters and talked with\none of the staff Majors. He was told he would have to wait until\ntomorrow to see Colonel James, who had been called to Paris for a\ngeneral conference. He had left in his car at four that morning,\nin response to a telephone message.\n\n\"There's not much to do here, by way of amusement,\" said the\nMajor. \"A movie show tonight, and you can get anything you want\nat the estaminet,--the one on the square, opposite the English\ntank, is the best. There are a couple of nice Frenchwomen in the\nRed Cross barrack, up on the hill, in the old convent garden.\nThey try to look out for the civilian population, and we're on\ngood terms with them. We get their supplies through with our own,\nand the quartermaster has orders to help them when they run\nshort. You might go up and call on them. They speak English\nperfectly.\"\n\nClaude asked whether he could walk in on them without any kind of\nintroduction.\n\n\"Oh, yes, they're used to us! I'll give you a card to Mlle.\nOlive, though. She's a particular friend of mine. There you are:\n'Mlle. Olive de Courcy, introducing, etc.' And, you understand,\"\nhere he glanced up and looked Claude over from head to foot,\n\"she's a perfect lady.\"\n\nEven with an introduction, Claude felt some hesitancy about\npresenting himself to these ladies. Perhaps they didn't like\nAmericans; he was always afraid of meeting French people who\ndidn't. It was the same way with most of the fellows in his\nbattalion, he had found; they were terribly afraid of being\ndisliked. And the moment they felt they were disliked, they\nhastened to behave as badly as possible, in order to deserve it;\nthen they didn't feel that they had been taken in--the worst\nfeeling a doughboy could possibly have!\n\nClaude thought he would stroll about to look at the town a\nlittle. It had been taken by the Germans in the autumn of 1914,\nafter their retreat from the Marne, and they had held it until\nabout a year ago, when it was retaken by the English and the\nChasseurs d'Alpins. They had been able to reduce it and to drive\nthe Germans out, only by battering it down with artillery; not\none building remained standing.\n\nRuin was ugly, and it was nothing more, Claude was thinking, as\nhe followed the paths that ran over piles of brick and plaster.\nThere was nothing picturesque about this, as there was in the war\npictures one saw at home. A cyclone or a fire might have done\njust as good a job. The place was simply a great dump-heap; an\nexaggeration of those which disgrace the outskirts of American\ntowns. It was the same thing over and over; mounds of burned\nbrick and broken stone, heaps of rusty, twisted iron, splintered\nbeams and rafters, stagnant pools, cellar holes full of muddy\nwater. An American soldier had stepped into one of those holes a\nfew nights before, and been drowned.\n\nThis had been a rich town of eighteen thousand inhabitants; now\nthe civilian population was about four hundred. There were people\nthere who had hung on all through the years of German occupation;\nothers who, as soon as they heard that the enemy was driven out,\ncame back from wherever they had found shelter. They were living\nin cellars, or in little wooden barracks made from old timbers\nand American goods boxes. As he walked along, Claude read\nfamiliar names and addresses, painted on boards built into the\nsides of these frail shelters: \"From Emery Bird, Thayer Co.\nKansas City, Mo.\" \"Daniels and Fisher, Denver, Colo.\" These\ninscriptions cheered him so much that he began to feel like going\nup and calling on the French ladies.\n\nThe sun had come out hot after three days of rain. The stagnant\npools and the weeds that grew in the ditches gave out a rank,\nheavy smell. Wild flowers grew triumphantly over the piles of\nrotting wood and rusty iron; cornflowers and Queen Anne's lace\nand poppies; blue and white and red, as if the French colours\ncame up spontaneously out of the French soil, no matter what the\nGermans did to it.\n\nClaude paused before a little shanty built against a\nhalf-demolished brick wall. A gilt cage hung in the doorway, with\na canary, singing beautifully. An old woman was working in the\ngarden patch, picking out bits of brick and plaster the rain had\nwashed up, digging with her fingers around the pale carrot-tops\nand neat lettuce heads. Claude approached her, touched his\nhelmet, and asked her how one could find the way to the Red\nCross.\n\nShe wiped her hands on her apron and took him by the elbow. \"Vous\nsavez le tank Anglais? Non? Marie, Marie!\"\n\n(He learned afterward that every one was directed to go this way\nor that from a disabled British tank that had been left on the\nsite of the old town hall.)\n\nA little girl ran out of the barrack, and her grandmother told\nher to go at once and take the American to the Red Cross. Marie\nput her hand in Claude's and led him off along one of the paths\nthat wound among the rubbish. She took him out of the way to show\nhim a church,--evidently one of the ruins of which they were\nproudest,--where the blue sky was shining through the white\narches. The Virgin stood with empty arms over the central door; a\nlittle foot sticking to her robe showed where the infant Jesus\nhad been shot away.\n\n\"Le bébé est cassé, mais il a protégé sa mère,\" Marie explained\nwith satisfaction. As they went on, she told Claude that she had\na soldier among the Americans who was her friend. \"Il est bon, il\nest gai, mon soldat,\" but he sometimes drank too much alcohol,\nand that was a bad habit. Perhaps now, since his comrade had\nstepped into a cellar hole Monday night while he was drunk, and\nhad been drowned, her \"Sharlie\" would be warned and would do\nbetter. Marie was evidently a well brought up child. Her father,\nshe said, had been a schoolmaster. At the foot of the convent\nhill, she turned to go home. Claude called her back and awkwardly\ntried to give her some money, but she thrust her hands behind her\nand said resolutely, \"Non, merci. Je n'ai besoin de rien,\" and\nthen ran away down the path.\n\nAs he climbed toward the top of the hill he noticed that the\nground had been cleaned up a bit. The path was clear, the bricks\nand hewn stones had been piled in neat heaps, the broken hedges\nhad been trimmed and the dead parts cut away. Emerging at last\ninto the garden, he stood still for wonder; even though it was in\nruins, it seemed so beautiful after the disorder of the world\nbelow.\n\nThe gravel walks were clean and shining. A wall of very old\nboxwoods stood green against a row of dead Lombardy poplars.\nAlong the shattered side of the main building, a pear tree,\ntrained on wires like a vine, still flourished,--full of little\nred pears. Around the stone well was a shaven grass plot, and\neverywhere there were little trees and shrubs, which had been too\nlow for the shells to hit,--or for the fire, which had seared the\npoplars, to catch. The hill must have been wrapped in flames at\none time, and all the tall trees had been burned.\n\nThe barrack was built against the walls of the cloister,--three\narches of which remained, like a stone wing to the shed of\nplanks. On a ladder stood a one-armed young man, driving nails\nvery skillfully with his single hand. He seemed to be making a\nframe projection from the sloping roof, to support an awning. He\ncarried his nails in his mouth. When he wanted one, he hung his\nhammer to the belt of his trousers, took a nail from between his\nteeth, stuck it into the wood, and then deftly rapped it on the\nhead. Claude watched him for a moment, then went to the foot of\nthe ladder and held out his two hands. \"Laissez-moi,\" he\nexclaimed.\n\nThe one aloft spat his nails out into his palm, looked down, and\nlaughed. He was about Claude's age, with very yellow hair and\nmoustache and blue eyes. A charming looking fellow.\n\n\"Willingly,\" he said. \"This is no great affair, but I do it to\namuse myself, and it will be pleasant for the ladies.\" He\ndescended and gave his hammer to the visitor. Claude set to work\non the frame, while the other went under the stone arches and\nbrought back a roll of canvas,--part of an old tent, by the look\nof it.\n\n\"Un héritage des Boches,\" he explained unrolling it upon the\ngrass. \"I found it among their filth in the cellar, and had the\nidea to make a pavilion for the ladies, as our trees are\ndestroyed.\" He stood up suddenly. \"Perhaps you have come to see\nthe ladies?\"\n\n\"Plus tard.\"\n\nVery well, the boy said, they would get the pavilion done for a\nsurprise for Mlle. Olive when she returned. She was down in the\ntown now, visiting the sick people. He bent over his canvas\nagain, measuring and cutting with a pair of garden shears, moving\nround the green plot on his knees, and all the time singing.\nClaude wished he could understand the words of his song.\n\nWhile they were working together, tying the cloth up to the\nframe, Claude, from his elevation, saw a tall girl coming slowly\nup the path by which he had ascended. She paused at the top, by\nthe boxwood hedge, as if she were very tired, and stood looking\nat them. Presently she approached the ladder and said in slow,\ncareful English, \"Good morning. Louis has found help, I see.\"\n\nClaude came down from his perch.\n\n\"Are you Mlle. de Courcy? I am Claude Wheeler. I have a note of\nintroduction to you, if I can find it.\"\n\nShe took the card, but did not look at it. \"That is not\nnecessary. Your uniform is enough. Why have you come?\"\n\nHe looked at her in some confusion. \"Well, really, I don't know!\nI am just in from the front to see Colonel James, and he is in\nParis, so I must wait over a day. One of the staff suggested my\ncoming up here--I suppose because it is so nice!\" he finished\ningenuously.\n\n\"Then you are a guest from the front, and you will have lunch\nwith Louis and me. Madame Barre is also gone for the day. Will you\nsee our house?\" She led him through the low door into a living\nroom, unpainted, uncarpeted, light and airy. There were coloured\nwar posters on the clean board walls, brass shell cases full of\nwild flowers and garden flowers, canvas camp-chairs, a shelf of\nbooks, a table covered by a white silk shawl embroidered with big\nbutterflies. The sunlight on the floor, the bunches of fresh\nflowers, the white window curtains stirring in the breeze,\nreminded Claude of something, but he could not remember what.\n\n\"We have no guest room,\" said Mlle. de Courcy. \"But you will come\nto mine, and Louis will bring you hot water to wash.\"\n\nIn a wooden chamber at the end of the passage, Claude took off\nhis coat, and set to work to make himself as tidy as possible.\nHot water and scented soap were in themselves pleasant things.\nThe dresser was an old goods box, stood on end and covered with\nwhite lawn. On it there was a row of ivory toilet things, with\ncombs and brushes, powder and cologne, and a pile of white\nhandkerchiefs fresh from the iron. He felt that he ought not to\nlook about him much, but the odor of cleanness, and the\nindefinable air of personality, tempted him. In one corner, a\ncurtain on a rod made a clothes-closet; in another was a low iron\nbed, like a soldier's, with a pale blue coverlid and white\npillows. He moved carefully and splashed discreetly. There was\nnothing he could have damaged or broken, not even a rug on the\nplank floor, and the pitcher and hand-basin were of iron; yet he\nfelt as if he were imperiling something fragile.\n\nWhen he came out, the table in the living room was set for three.\nThe stout old dame who was placing the plates paid no attention\nto him,--seemed, from her expression, to scorn him and all his\nkind. He withdrew as far as possible out of her path and picked\nup a book from the table, a volume of Heine's Reisebilder in\nGerman.\n\nBefore lunch Mlle. de Courcy showed him the store room in the\nrear, where the shelves were stocked with rows of coffee tins,\ncondensed milk, canned vegetables and meat, all with American\ntrade names he knew so well; names which seemed doubly familiar\nand \"reliable\" here, so far from home. She told him the people in\nthe town could not have got through the winter without these\nthings. She had to deal them out sparingly, where the need was\ngreatest, but they made the difference between life and death.\nNow that it was summer, the people lived by their gardens; but\nold women still came to beg for a few ounces of coffee, and\nmothers to get a can of milk for the babies.\n\nClaude's face glowed with pleasure. Yes, his country had a long\narm. People forgot that; but here, he felt, was some one who did\nnot forget. When they sat down to lunch he learned that Mlle. de\nCourcy and Madame Barre had been here almost a year now; they\ncame soon after the town was retaken, when the old inhabitants\nbegan to drift back. The people brought with them only what they\ncould carry in their arms.\n\n\"They must love their country so much, don't you think, when they\nendure such poverty to come back to it?\" she said. \"Even the old\nones do not often complain about their dear things--their linen,\nand their china, and their beds. If they have the ground, and\nhope, all that they can make again. This war has taught us all\nhow little the made things matter. Only the feeling matters.\"\n\nExactly so; hadn't he been trying to say this ever since he was\nborn? Hadn't he always known it, and hadn't it made life both\nbitter and sweet for him? What a beautiful voice she had, this\nMlle. Olive, and how nobly it dealt with the English tongue. He\nwould like to say something, but out of so much... what? He\nremained silent, therefore, sat nervously breaking up the black\nwar bread that lay beside his plate.\n\nHe saw her looking at his hand, felt in a flash that she regarded\nit with favour, and instantly put it on his knee, under the\ntable.\n\n\"It is our trees that are worst,\" she went on sadly. \"You have\nseen our poor trees? It makes one ashamed for this beautiful part\nof France. Our people are more sorry for them than to lose their\ncattle and horses.\"\n\nMlle. de Courcy looked over-taxed by care and responsibility,\nClaude thought, as he watched her. She seemed far from strong.\nSlender, grey-eyed, dark-haired, with white transparent skin and a\ntoo ardent colour in her lips and cheeks,--like the flame of a\nfeverish activity within. Her shoulders drooped, as if she were\nalways tired. She must be young, too, though there were threads\nof grey in her hair,--brushed flat and knotted carelessly at the\nback of her head.\n\nAfter the coffee, Mlle. de Courcy went to work at her desk, and\nLouis took Claude to show him the garden. The clearing and\ntrimming and planting were his own work, and he had done it all\nwith one arm. This autumn he would accomplish much more, for he\nwas stronger now, and he had the habitude of working\nsingle-handed. He must manage to get the dead trees down; they\ndistressed Mademoiselle Olive. In front of the barrack stood four\nold locusts; the tops were naked forks, burned coal-black, but\nthe lower branches had put out thick tufts of yellow-green\nfoliage, so vigorous that the life in the trunks must still be\nsound. This fall, Louis said, he meant to get some strong\nAmerican boys to help him, and they would saw off the dead limbs\nand trim the tops flat over the thick boles. How much it must\nmean to a man to love his country like this, Claude thought; to\nlove its trees and flowers; to nurse it when it was sick, and\ntend its hurts with one arm. Among the flowers, which had come\nback self-sown or from old roots, Claude found a group of tall,\nstraggly plants with reddish stems and tiny white blossoms,--one\nof the evening primrose family, the Gaura, that grew along the\nclay banks of Lovely Creek, at home. He had never thought it very\npretty, but he was pleased to find it here. He had supposed it\nwas one of those nameless prairie flowers that grew on the\nprairie and nowhere else.\n\nWhen they went back to the barrack, Mlle. Olive was sitting in\none of the canvas chairs Louis had placed under the new pavilion.\n\n\"What a fine fellow he is!\" Claude exclaimed, looking after him.\n\n\"Louis? Yes. He was my brother's orderly. When Emile came home on\nleave he always brought Louis with him, and Louis became like one\nof the family. The shell that killed my brother tore off his arm.\nMy mother and I went to visit him in the hospital, and he seemed\nashamed to be alive, poor boy, when my brother was dead. He put\nhis hand over his face and began to cry, and said, 'Oh, Madame,\nil était toujours plus chic que moi!'\"\n\nAlthough Mlle. Olive spoke English well, Claude saw that she did\nso only by keeping her mind intently upon it. The stiff sentences\nshe uttered were foreign to her nature; her face and eyes ran\nahead of her tongue and made one wait eagerly for what was\ncoming. He sat down in a sagging canvas chair, absently twisting\na sprig of Gaura he had pulled.\n\n\"You have found a flower?\" She looked up.\n\n\"Yes. It grows at home, on my father's farm.\"\n\nShe dropped the faded shirt she was darning. \"Oh, tell me about\nyour country! I have talked to so many, but it is difficult to\nunderstand. Yes, tell me about that!\"\n\nNebraska--What was it? How many days from the sea, what did it\nlook like? As he tried to describe it, she listened with\nhalf-closed eyes. \"Flat-covered with grain-muddy rivers. I think\nit must be like Russia. But your father's farm; describe that to\nme, minutely, and perhaps I can see the rest.\"\n\nClaude took a stick and drew a square in the sand: there, to\nbegin with, was the house and farmyard; there was the big\npasture, with Lovely Creek flowing through it; there were the\nwheatfields and cornfields, the timber claim; more wheat and\ncorn, more pastures. There it all was, diagrammed on the yellow\nsand, with shadows gliding over it from the half-charred locust\ntrees. He would not have believed that he could tell a stranger\nabout it in such detail. It was partly due to his listener, no\ndoubt; she gave him unusual sympathy, and the glow of an unusual\nmind. While she bent over his map, questioning him, a light dew\nof perspiration gathered on her upper lip, and she breathed\nfaster from her effort to see and understand everything. He told\nher about his mother and his father and Mahailey; what life was\nlike there in summer and winter and autumn--what it had been like\nin that fateful summer when the Hun was moving always toward\nParis, and on those three days when the French were standing at\nthe Marne; how his mother and father waited for him to bring the\nnews at night, and how the very cornfields seemed to hold their\nbreath.\n\nMlle. Olive sank back wearily in her chair. Claude looked up and\nsaw tears sparkling in her brilliant eyes. \"And I myself,\" she\nmurmured, \"did not know of the Marne until days afterward, though\nmy father and brother were both there! I was far off in Brittany,\nand the trains did not run. That is what is wonderful, that you\nare here, telling me this! We, we were taught from childhood that\nsome day the Germans would come; we grew up under that threat.\nBut you were so safe, with all your wheat and corn. Nothing could\ntouch you, nothing!\"\n\nClaude dropped his eyes. \"Yes,\" he muttered, blushing, \"shame\ncould. It pretty nearly did. We are pretty late.\" He rose from\nhis chair as if he were going to fetch something.... But\nwhere was he to get it from? He shook his head. \"I am afraid,\" he\nsaid mournfully, \"there is nothing I can say to make you\nunderstand how far away it all seemed, how almost visionary. It\ndidn't only seem miles away, it seemed centuries away.\"\n\n\"But you do come,--so many, and from so far! It is the last\nmiracle of this war. I was in Paris on the fourth day of July,\nwhen your Marines, just from Belleau Wood, marched for your\nnational fete, and I said to myself as they came on, 'That is a\nnew man!' Such heads they had, so fine there, behind the ears.\nSuch discipline and purpose. Our people laughed and called to\nthem and threw them flowers, but they never turned to look...\neyes straight before. They passed like men of destiny.\" She threw\nout her hands with a swift movement and dropped them in her lap.\nThe emotion of that day came back in her face. As Claude looked\nat her burning cheeks, her burning eyes, he understood that the\nstrain of this war had given her a perception that was almost\nlike a gift of prophecy.\n\nA woman came up the hill carrying a baby. Mlle. de Courcy went to\nmeet her and took her into the house. Claude sat down again,\nalmost lost to himself in the feeling of being completely\nunderstood, of being no longer a stranger. In the far distance\nthe big guns were booming at intervals. Down in the garden Louis\nwas singing. Again he wished he knew the words of Louis' songs.\nThe airs were rather melancholy, but they were sung very\ncheerfully. There was something open and warm about the boy's\nvoice, as there was about his face-something blond, too. It was\ndistinctly a bland voice, like summer wheatfields, ripe and\nwaving. Claude sat alone for half an hour or more, tasting a new\nkind of happiness, a new kind of sadness. Ruin and new birth; the\nshudder of ugly things in the past, the trembling image of\nbeautiful ones on the horizon; finding and losing; that was life,\nhe saw.\n\nWhen his hostess came back, he moved her chair for her out of the\ncreeping sunlight. \"I didn't know there were any French girls\nlike you,\" he said simply, as she sat down.\n\nShe smiled. \"I do not think there are any French girls left.\nThere are children and women. I was twenty-one when the war came,\nand I had never been anywhere without my mother or my brother or\nsister. Within a year I went all over France alone; with\nsoldiers, with Senegalese, with anybody. Everything is different\nwith us.\" She lived at Versailles, she told him, where her father\nhad been an instructor in the Military School. He had died since\nthe beginning of the war. Her grandfather was killed in the war\nof 1870. Hers was a family of soldiers, but not one of the men\nwould be left to see the day of victory.\n\nShe looked so tired that Claude knew he had no right to stay.\nLong shadows were falling in the garden. It was hard to leave;\nbut an hour more or less wouldn't matter. Two people could hardly\ngive each other more if they were together for years, he thought.\n\n\"Will you tell me where I can come and see you, if we both get\nthrough this war?\" he asked as he rose.\n\nHe wrote it down in his notebook.\n\n\"I shall look for you,\" she said, giving him her hand.\n\nThere was nothing to do but to take his helmet and go. At the\nedge of the hill, just before he plunged down the path, he\nstopped and glanced back at the garden lying flattened in the\nsun; the three stone arches, the dahlias and marigolds, the\nglistening boxwood wall. He had left something on the hilltop\nwhich he would never find again.\n\nThe next afternoon Claude and his sergeant set off for the front.\nThey had been told at Headquarters that they could shorten their\nroute by following the big road to the military cemetery, and\nthen turning to the left. It was not advisable to go the latter\nhalf of the way before nightfall, so they took their time through\nthe belt of straggling crops and hayfields.\n\nWhen they struck the road they came upon a big Highlander sitting\nin the end of an empty supply wagon, smoking a pipe and rubbing\nthe dried mud out of his kilts. The horses were munching in their\nnose-bags, and the driver had disappeared. The Americans hadn't\nhappened to meet with any Highlanders before, and were curious.\nThis one must be a good fighter, they thought; a brawny giant\nwith a bulldog jaw, and a face as red and knobby as his knees.\nMore because he admired the looks of the man than because he\nneeded information, Hicks went up and asked him if he had noticed\na military cemetery on the road back. The Kilt nodded.\n\n\"About how far back would you say it was?\"\n\n\"I wouldn't say at all. I take no account of their kilometers,\"\nhe replied dryly, rubbing away at his skirt as if he had it in a\nwashtub.\n\n\"Well, about how long will it take us to walk it?\"\n\n\"That I couldn't say. A Scotsman would do it in an hour.\"\n\n\"I guess a Yankee can do it as quick as a Scotchman, can't be?\"\nHicks asked jovially.\n\n\"That I couldn't say. You've been four years gettin' this far, I\nknow verra well.\"\n\nHicks blinked as if he had been hit. \"Oh, if that's the way you\ntalk--\"\n\n\"That's the way I do,\" said the other sourly.\n\nClaude put out a warning hand. \"Come on, Hicks. You'll get\nnothing by it.\" They went up the road very much disconcerted.\nHicks kept thinking of things he might have said. When he was\nangry, the Sergeant's forehead puffed up and became dark red,\nlike a young baby's. \"What did you call me off for?\" he\nsputtered.\n\n\"I don't see where you'd have come out in an argument, and you\ncertainly couldn't have licked him.\"\n\nThey turned aside at the cemetery to wait until the sun went\ndown. It was unfenced, unsodded, and a wagon trail ran through\nthe middle, bisecting the square. On one side were the French\ngraves, with white crosses; on the other side the German graves,\nwith black crosses. Poppies and cornflower ran over them. The\nAmericans strolled about, reading the names. Here and there the\nsoldier's photograph was nailed upon his cross, left by some\ncomrade to perpetuate his memory a little longer.\n\nThe birds, that always came to life at dusk and dawn, began to\nsing, flying home from somewhere. Claude and Hicks sat down\nbetween the mounds and began to smoke while the sun dropped.\nLines of dead trees marked the red west. This was a dreary\nstretch of country, even to boys brought up on the flat prairie.\nThey smoked in silence, meditating and waiting for night. On a\ncross at their feet the inscription read merely: Soldat Inconnu,\nMort pour La France.\n\nA very good epitaph, Claude was thinking. Most of the boys who\nfell in this war were unknown, even to themselves. They were too\nyoung. They died and took their secret with them,--what they were\nand what they might have been. The name that stood was La France.\nHow much that name had come to mean to him, since he first saw a\nshoulder of land bulk up in the dawn from the deck of the\nAnchises. It was a pleasant name to say over in one's mind, where\none could make it as passionately nasal as one pleased and never\nblush.\n\nHicks, too, had been lost in his reflections. Now he broke the\nsilence. \"Somehow, Lieutenant, 'mort' seems deader than 'dead.'\nIt has a coffinish sound. And over there they're all 'tod,' and\nit's all the same damned silly thing. Look at them set out here,\nblack and white, like a checkerboard. The next question is, who\nput 'em here, and what's the good of it?\"\n\n\"Search me,\" the other murmured absently.\n\nHicks rolled another cigarette and sat smoking it, his plump face\nwrinkled with the gravity and labour of his cerebration. \"Well,\"\nhe brought out at last, \"we'd better hike. This afterglow will\nhang on for an hour,--always does, over here.\"\n\n\"I suppose we had.\" They rose to go. The white crosses were now\nviolet, and the black ones had altogether melted in the shadow.\nBehind the dead trees in the west, a long smear of red still\nburned. To the north, the guns were tuning up with a deep\nthunder. \"Somebody's getting peppered up there. Do owls always\nhoot in graveyards?\"\n\n\"Just what I was wondering, Lieutenant. It's a peaceful spot,\notherwise. Good-night, boys,\" said Hicks kindly, as they left the\ngraves behind them.\n\nThey were soon finding their way among shell holes, and jumping\ntrench-tops in the dark,-beginning to feel cheerful at getting\nback to their chums and their own little group. Hicks broke out\nand told Claude how he and Dell Able meant to go into business\ntogether when they got home; were going to open a garage and\nautomobile-repair shop. Under their talk, in the minds of both,\nthat lonely spot lingered, and the legend: Soldat Inconnu, Mort\npour La France.\n\n\nXI\n\nAfter four days' rest in the rear, the Battalion went to the\nfront again in new country, about ten kilometers east of the\ntrench they had relieved before. One morning Colonel Scott sent\nfor Claude and Gerhardt and spread his maps out on the table.\n\n\"We are going to clean them out there in F 6 tonight, and\nstraighten our line. The thing that bothers us is that little\nvillage stuck up on the hill, where the enemy machine guns have a\nstrong position. I want to get them out of there before the\nBattalion goes over. We can't spare too many men, and I don't\nlike to send out more officers than I can help; it won't do to\nreduce the Battalion for the major operation. Do you think you\ntwo boys could manage it with a hundred men? The point is, you\nwill have to be out and back before our artillery begins at three\no'clock.\"\n\nUnder the hill where the village stood, ran a deep ravine, and\nfrom this ravine a twisting water course wound up the hillside.\nBy climbing this gully, the raiders should be able to fall on the\nmachine gunners from the rear and surprise them. But first they\nmust get across the open stretch, nearly one and a half\nkilometers wide, between the American line and the ravine,\nwithout attracting attention. It was raining now, and they could\nsafely count on a dark night.\n\nThe night came on black enough. The Company crossed the open\nstretch without provoking fire, and slipped into the ravine to\nwait for the hour of attack, A young doctor, a Pennsylvanian,\nlately attached to the staff, had volunteered to come with them,\nand he arranged a dressing station at the bottom of the ravine,\nwhere the stretchers were left. They were to pick up their\nwounded on the way back. Anything left in that area would be\nexposed to the artillery fire later on.\n\nAt ten o'clock the men began to ascend the water-course, creeping\nthrough pools and little waterfalls, making a continuous spludgy\nsound, like pigs rubbing against the sty. Claude, with the head\nof the column, was just pulling out of the gully on the hillside\nabove the village, when a flare went up, and a volley of fire\nbroke from the brush on the up-hill side of the water-course;\nmachine guns, opening on the exposed line crawling below. The Hun\nhad been warned that the Americans were crossing the plain and\nhad anticipated their way of approach. The men in the gully were\ntrapped; they could not retaliate with effect, and the bullets\nfrom the Maxims bounded on the rocks about them like hail.\nGerhardt ran along the edge of the line, urging the men not to\nfall back and double on themselves, but to break out of the gully\non the downhill side and scatter.\n\nClaude, with his group, started back. \"Go into the brush and get\n'em! Our fellows have got no chance down there. Grenades while\nthey last, then bayonets. Pull your plugs and don't hold on too\nlong.\"\n\nThey were already on the run, charging the brush. The Hun gunners\nknew the hill like a book, and when the bombs began bursting\namong them, they took to trails and burrows. \"Don't follow them\noff into the rocks,\" Claude kept calling. \"Straight ahead! Clear\neverything to the ravine.\"\n\nAs the German gunners made for cover, the firing into the gully\nstopped, and the arrested column poured up the steep defile after\nGerhardt.\n\nClaude and his party found themselves back at the foot of the\nhill, at the edge of the ravine from which they had started.\nHeavy firing on the hill above told them the rest of the men had\ngot through. The quickest way back to the scene of action was by\nthe same water-course they had climbed before. They dropped into\nit and started up. Claude, at the rear, felt the ground rise\nunder him, and he was swept with a mountain of earth and rock\ndown into the ravine.\n\nHe never knew whether he lost consciousness or not. It seemed to\nhim that he went on having continuous sensations. The first, was\nthat of being blown to pieces; of swelling to an enormous size\nunder intolerable pressure, and then bursting. Next he felt\nhimself shrink and tingle, like a frost-bitten body thawing out.\nThen he swelled again, and burst. This was repeated, he didn't\nknow how often. He soon realized that he was lying under a great\nweight of earth; his body, not his head. He felt rain falling on\nhis face. His left hand was free, and still attached to his arm.\nHe moved it cautiously to his face. He seemed to be bleeding from\nthe nose and ears. Now he began to wonder where he was hurt; he\nfelt as if he were full of shell splinters. Everything was buried\nbut his head and left shoulder. A voice was calling from\nsomewhere below.\n\n\"Are any of you fellows alive?\"\n\nClaude closed his eyes against the rain beating in his face. The\nsame voice came again, with a note of patient despair.\n\n\"If there's anybody left alive in this hole, won't he speak up?\nI'm badly hurt myself.\"\n\nThat must be the new doctor; wasn't his dressing station\nsomewhere down here? Hurt, he said. Claude tried to move his legs\na little. Perhaps, if he could get out from under the dirt, he\nmight hold together long enough to reach the doctor. He began to\nwriggle and pull. The wet earth sucked at him; it was painful\nbusiness. He braced himself with his elbows, but kept slipping\nback.\n\n\"I'm the only one left, then?\" said the mournful voice below.\n\nAt last Claude worked himself out of his burrow, but he was\nunable to stand. Every time he tried to stand, he got faint and\nseemed to burst again. Something was the matter with his right\nankle, too--he couldn't bear his weight on it. Perhaps he had\nbeen too near the shell to be hit; he had heard the boys tell of\nsuch cases. It had exploded under his feet and swept him down\ninto the ravine, but hadn't left any metal in his body. If it had\nput anything into him, it would have put so much that he wouldn't\nbe sitting here speculating. He began to crawl down the slope on\nall fours. \"Is that the Doctor? Where are you?\"\n\n\"Here, on a stretcher. They shelled us. Who are you? Our fellows\ngot up, didn't they?\"\n\n\"I guess most of them did. What happened back here?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid it's my fault,\" the voice said sadly. \"I used my\nflash light, and that must have given them the range. They put\nthree or four shells right on top of us. The fellows that got\nhurt in the gully kept stringing back here, and I couldn't do\nanything in the dark. I had to have a light to do anything. I\njust finished putting on a Johnson splint when the first shell\ncame. I guess they're all done for now.\"\n\n\"How many were there?\"\n\n\"Fourteen, I think. Some of them weren't much hurt. They'd all be\nalive, if I hadn't come out with you.\"\n\n\"Who were they? But you don't know our names yet, do you? You didn't\nsee Lieutenant Gerhardt among them?\"\n\n\"Don't think so.\"\n\n\"Nor Sergeant Hicks, the fat fellow?\"\n\n\"Don't think so.\"\n\n\"Where are you hurt?\"\n\n\"Abdominal. I can't tell anything without a light. I lost my\nflash light. It never occurred to me that it could make trouble;\nit's one I use at home, when the babies are sick,\" the doctor\nmurmured.\n\nClaude tried to strike a match, with no success. \"Wait a minute,\nwhere's your helmet?\" He took off his metal hat, held it over the\ndoctor, and managed to strike a light underneath it. The wounded\nman had already loosened his trousers, and now he pulled up his\nbloody shirt. His groin and abdomen were torn on the left side.\nThe wound, and the stretcher on which he lay, supported a mass of\ndark, coagulated blood that looked like a great cow's liver.\n\n\"I guess I've got mine,\" the Doctor murmured as the match went\nout.\n\nClaude struck another. \"Oh, that can't be! Our fellows will be\nback pretty soon, and we can do something for you.\"\n\n\"No use, Lieutenant. Do you suppose you could strip a coat off\none of those poor fellows? I feel the cold terribly in my\nintestines. I had a bottle of French brandy, but I suppose it's\nburied.\"\n\nClaude stripped off his own coat, which was warm on the inside,\nand began feeling about in the mud for the brandy. He wondered\nwhy the poor man wasn't screaming with pain. The firing on the\nhill had ceased, except for the occasional click of a Maxim, off\nin the rocks somewhere. His watch said 12:10; could anything have\nmiscarried up there?\n\nSuddenly, voices above, a clatter of boots on the shale. He began\nshouting to them.\n\n\"Coming, coming!\" He knew the voice. Gerhardt and his rifles ran\ndown into the ravine with a bunch of prisoners. Claude called to\nthem to be careful. \"Don't strike a light! They've been shelling\ndown here.\"\n\n\"All right are you, Wheeler? Where are the wounded?\"\n\n\"There aren't any but the Doctor and me. Get us out of here\nquick. I'm all right, but I can't walk.\"\n\nThey put Claude on a stretcher and sent him ahead. Four big\nGermans carried him, and they were prodded to a lope by Hicks and\nDell Able. Four of their own men took up the doctor, and Gerhardt\nwalked beside him. In spite of their care, the motion started the\nblood again and tore away the clots that had formed over his\nwounds. He began to vomit blood and to strangle. The men put the\nstretcher down. Gerhardt lifted the Doctor's head. \"It's over,\"\nhe said presently. \"Better make the best time you can.\"\n\nThey picked up their load again. \"Them that are carrying him now\nwon't jolt him,\" said Oscar, the pious Swede.\n\nB Company lost nineteen men in the raid. Two days later the\nCompany went off on a ten-day leave. Claude's sprained ankle was\ntwice its natural size, but to avoid being sent to the hospital\nhe had to march to the railhead. Sergeant Hicks got him a giant\nshoe he found stuck on the barbed wire entanglement. Claude and\nGerhardt were going off on their leave together.\n\nXII\n\nA rainy autumn night; Papa Joubert sat reading his paper. He\nheard a heavy pounding on his garden gate. Kicking off his\nslippers, he put on the wooden sabots he kept for mud, shuffled\nacross the dripping garden, and opened the door into the dark\nstreet. Two tall figures with rifles and kits confronted him. In\na moment he began embracing them, calling to his wife:\n\n\"Nom de diable, Maman, c'est David, David et Claude, tous les\ndeux!\"\n\nSorry-looking soldiers they appeared when they stood in the\ncandlelight, plastered with clay, their metal hats shining like\ncopper bowls, their clothes dripping pools of water upon the\nflags of the kitchen floor. Mme. Joubert kissed their wet cheeks,\nand Monsieur, now that he could see them, embraced them again.\nWhence had they come, and how had it fared with them, up there?\nVery well, as anybody could see. What did they want\nfirst,--supper, perhaps? Their room was always ready for them; and\nthe clothes they had left were in the big chest.\n\nDavid explained that their shirts had not once been dry for four\ndays; and what they most desired was to be dry and to be clean.\nOld Martha, already in bed, was routed out to heat water. M.\nJoubert carried the big washtub upstairs. Tomorrow for\nconversation, he said; tonight for repose. The boys followed him\nand began to peel off their wet uniforms, leaving them in two\nsodden piles on the floor. There was one bath for both, and they\nthrew up a coin to decide which should get into the warm water\nfirst. M. Joubert, seeing Claude's fat ankle strapped up in\nadhesive bandages, began to chuckle. \"Oh, I see the Boche made\nyou dance up there!\"\n\nWhen they were clad in clean pyjamas out of the chest, Papa\nJoubert carried their shirts and socks down for Martha to wash.\nHe returned with the big meat platter, on which was an omelette\nmade of twelve eggs and stuffed with bacon and fried potatoes.\nMme. Joubert brought the three-story earthen coffee-pot to the\ndoor and called, \"Bon appetit!\" The host poured the coffee and\ncut up the loaf with his clasp knife. He sat down to watch them\neat. How had they found things up there, anyway? The Boches\npolite and agreeable as usual? Finally, when there was not a\ncrumb of anything left, he poured for each a little glass of\nbrandy, \"pour cider la digestion,\" and wished them good-night. He\ntook the candle with him.\n\nPerfect bliss, Claude reflected, as the chill of the sheets grew\nwarm around his body, and he sniffed in the pillow the old smell\nof lavender. To be so warm, so dry, so clean, so beloved! The\njourney down, reviewed from here, seemed beautiful. As soon as\nthey had got out of the region of martyred trees, they found the\nland of France turning gold. All along the river valleys the\npoplars and cottonwoods had changed from green to yellow,--evenly\ncoloured, looking like candle flames in the mist and rain. Across\nthe fields, along the horizon they ran, like torches passed from\nhand to hand, and all the willows by the little streams had\nbecome silver. The vineyards were green still, thickly spotted\nwith curly, blood-red branches. It all flashed back beside his\npillow in the dark: this beautiful land, this beautiful people,\nthis beautiful omelette; gold poplars, blue-green vineyards, wet,\nscarlet vine leaves, rain dripping into the court, fragrant\ndarkness... sleep, stronger than all.\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nThe woodland path was deep in leaves. Claude and David were lying\non the dry, springy heather among the flint boulders. Gerhardt,\nwith his Stetson over his eyes, was presumably asleep. They were\nhaving fine weather for their holiday. The forest rose about this\nopen glade like an amphitheatre, in golden terraces of\nhorse chestnut and beech. The big nuts dropped velvety and brown,\nas if they had been soaked in oil, and disappeared in the dry\nleaves below. Little black yew trees, that had not been visible\nin the green of summer, stood out among the curly yellow brakes.\nThrough the grey netting of the beech twigs, stiff holly bushes\nglittered.\n\nIt was the Wheeler way to dread false happiness, to feel cowardly\nabout being fooled. Since he had come back, Claude had more than\nonce wondered whether he took too much for granted and felt more\nat home here than he had any right to feel. The Americans were\nprone, he had observed, to make themselves very much at home, to\nmistake good manners for good-will. He had no right to doubt the\naffection of the Jouberts, however; that was genuine and\npersonal,--not a smooth surface under which almost any shade of\nscorn might lie and laugh... was not, in short, the\ntreacherous \"French politeness\" by which one must not let oneself\nbe taken in. Merely having seen the season change in a country\ngave one the sense of having been there for a long time. And,\nanyway, he wasn't a tourist. He was here on legitimate business.\n\nClaude's sprained ankle was still badly swollen. Madame Joubert\nwas sure he ought not to move about on it at all, begged him to\nsit in the garden all day and nurse it. But the surgeon at the\nfront had told him that if he once stopped walking, he would have\nto go to the hospital. So, with the help of his host's best\nholly-wood cane, he limped out into the forest every day. This\nafternoon he was tempted to go still farther. Madame Joubert had\ntold him about some caves at the other end of the wood,\nunderground chambers where the country people had gone to live in\ntimes of great misery, long ago, in the English wars. The English\nwars; he could not remember just how far back they were,--but\nlong enough to make one feel comfortable. As for him, perhaps he\nwould never go home at all. Perhaps, when this great affair was\nover, he would buy a little farm and stay here for the rest of\nhis life. That was a project he liked to play with. There was no\nchance for the kind of life he wanted at home, where people were\nalways buying and selling, building and pulling down. He had\nbegun to believe that the Americans were a people of shallow\nemotions. That was the way Gerhardt had put it once; and if it\nwas true, there was no cure for it. Life was so short that it\nmeant nothing at all unless it were continually reinforced by\nsomething that endured; unless the shadows of individual\nexistence came and went against a background that held together.\nWhile he was absorbed in his day dream of farming in France, his\ncompanion stirred and rolled over on his elbow.\n\n\"You know we are to join the Battalion at A--. They'll be living\nlike kings there. Hicks will get so fat he'll drop over on the\nmarch. Headquarters must have something particularly nasty in\nmind; the infantry is always fed up before a slaughter. But I've\nbeen thinking; I have some old friends at A--. Suppose we go on\nthere a day early, and get them to take us in? It's a fine old\nplace, and I ought to go to see them. The son was a fellow\nstudent of mine at the Conservatoire. He was killed the second\nwinter of the war. I used to go up there for the holidays with\nhim; I would like to see his mother and sister again. You've no\nobjection?\"\n\nClaude did not answer at once. He lay squinting off at the beech\ntrees, without moving. \"You always avoid that subject with me,\ndon't you?\" he said presently.\n\n\"What subject?\"\n\n\"Oh, anything to do with the Conservatoire, or your profession.\"\n\n\"I haven't any profession at present. I'll never go back to the\nviolin.\"\n\n\"You mean you couldn't make up for the time you'll lose?\"\n\nGerhardt settled his back against a rock and got out his pipe.\n\"That would be difficult; but other things would be harder. I've\nlost much more than time.\"\n\n\"Couldn't you have got exemption, one way or another?\"\n\n\"I might have. My friends wanted to take it up and make a test\ncase of me. But I couldn't stand for it. I didn't feel I was a\ngood enough violinist to admit that I wasn't a man. I often wish\nI had been in Paris that summer when the war broke out; then I\nwould have gone into the French army on the first impulse, with\nthe other students, and it would have been better.\"\n\nDavid paused and sat puffing at his pipe. Just then a soft\nmovement stirred the brakes on the hillside. A little barefoot\ngirl stood there, looking about. She had heard voices, but at\nfirst did not see the uniforms that blended with the yellow and\nbrown of the wood. Then she saw the sun shining on two heads; one\nsquare, and amber in colour,--the other reddish bronze, long and\nnarrow. She took their friendliness for granted and came down the\nhill, stopping now and again to pick up shiny horse chestnuts and\npop them into a sack she was dragging. David called to her and\nasked her whether the nuts were good to eat.\n\n\"Oh, non!\" she exclaimed, her face expressing the liveliest\nterror, \"pour les cochons!\" These inexperienced Americans might\neat almost anything. The boys laughed and gave her some pennies,\n\"pour les cochons aussi.\" She stole about the edge of the wood,\nstirring among the leaves for nuts, and watching the two\nsoldiers.\n\nGerhardt knocked out his pipe and began to fill it again. \"I went\nhome to see my mother in May, of 1914. I wasn't here when the war\nbroke out. The Conservatoire closed at once, so I arranged a\nconcert tour in the States that winter, and did very well. That\nwas before all the little Russians went over, and the field\nwasn't so crowded. I had a second season, and that went well. But\nI was getting more nervous all the time; I was only half there.\"\nHe smoked thoughtfully, sitting with folded arms, as if he were\ngoing over a succession of events or states of feeling. \"When my\nnumber was drawn, I reported to see what I could do about getting\nout; I took a look at the other fellows who were trying to\nsquirm, and chucked it. I've never been sorry. Not long\nafterward, my violin was smashed, and my career seemed to go\nalong with it.\"\n\nClaude asked him what he meant.\n\n\"While I was at Camp Dix, I had to play at one of the\nentertainments. My violin, a Stradivarius, was in a vault in New\nYork. I didn't need it for that concert, any more than I need it\nat this minute; yet I went to town and brought it out. I was\ntaking it up from the station in a military car, and a drunken\ntaxi driver ran into us. I wasn't hurt, but the violin, lying\nacross my knees, was smashed into a thousand pieces. I didn't\nknow what it meant then; but since, I've seen so many beautiful\nold things smashed... I've become a fatalist.\"\n\nClaude watched his brooding head against the grey flint rock.\n\n\"You ought to have kept out of the whole thing. Any army man\nwould say so.\"\n\nDavid's head went back against the boulder, and he threw one of\nthe, chestnuts lightly into the air. \"Oh, one violinist more or\nless doesn't matter! But who is ever going back to anything?\nThat's what I want to know!\"\n\nClaude felt guilty; as if David must have guessed what apostasy\nhad been going on in his own mind this afternoon. \"You don't\nbelieve we are going to get out of this war what we went in for,\ndo you?\" he asked suddenly.\n\n\"Absolutely not,\" the other replied with cool indifference.\n\n\"Then I certainly don't see what you're here for!\"\n\n\"Because in 1917 I was twenty-four years old, and able to bear\narms. The war was put up to our generation. I don't know what\nfor; the sins of our fathers, probably. Certainly not to make the\nworld safe for Democracy, or any rhetoric of that sort. When I\nwas doing stretcher work, I had to tell myself over and over that\nnothing would come of it, but that it had to be. Sometimes,\nthough, I think something must.... Nothing we expect, but\nsomething unforeseen.\" He paused and shut his eyes. \"You remember\nin the old mythology tales how, when the sons of the gods were\nborn, the mothers always died in agony? Maybe it's only Semele\nI'm thinking of. At any rate, I've sometimes wondered whether the\nyoung men of our time had to die to bring a new idea into the\nworld... something Olympian. I'd like to know. I think I shall\nknow. Since I've been over here this time, I've come to believe\nin immortality. Do you?\"\n\nClaude was confused by this quiet question. \"I hardly know. I've\nnever been able to make up my mind.\"\n\n\"Oh, don't bother about it! If it comes to you, it comes. You\ndon't have to go after it. I arrived at it in quite the same way\nI used to get things in art,--knowing them and living on them\nbefore I understood them. Such ideas used to seem childish to\nme.\" Gerhardt sprang up. \"Now, have I told you what you want to\nknow about my case?\" He looked down at Claude with a curious\nglimmer of amusement and affection. \"I'm going to stretch my\nlegs. It's four o'clock.\"\n\nHe disappeared among the red pine stems, where the sunlight made\na rose-colored lake, as it used to do in the summer... as it\nwould do in all the years to come, when they were not there to\nsee it, Claude was thinking. He pulled his hat over his eyes and\nwent to sleep.\n\nThe little girl on the edge of the beech wood left her sack and\nstole quietly down the hill. Sitting in the heather and drawing\nher feet up under her, she stayed still for a long time, and\nregarded with curiosity the relaxed, deep breathing body of the\nAmerican soldier.\n\nThe next day was Claude's twenty-fifth birthday, and in honour of\nthat event Papa Joubert produced a bottle of old Burgundy from\nhis cellar, one of a few dozens he had laid in for great\noccasions when he was a young man.\n\nDuring that week of idleness at Madame Joubert's, Claude often\nthought that the period of happy \"youth,\" about which his old\nfriend Mrs. Erlich used to talk, and which he had never\nexperienced, was being made up to him now. He was having his\nyouth in France. He knew that nothing like this would ever come\nagain; the fields and woods would never again be laced over with\nthis hazy enchantment. As he came up the village street in the\npurple evening, the smell of wood-smoke from the chimneys went to\nhis head like a narcotic, opened the pores of his skin, and\nsometimes made the tears come to his eyes. Life had after all\nturned out well for him, and everything had a noble significance.\nThe nervous tension in which he had lived for years now seemed\nincredible to him... absurd and childish, when he thought of\nit at all. He did not torture himself with recollections. He was\nbeginning over again.\n\nOne night he dreamed that he was at home; out in the ploughed\nfields, where he could see nothing but the furrowed brown earth,\nstretching from horizon to horizon. Up and down it moved a boy,\nwith a plough and two horses. At first he thought it was his\nbrother Ralph; but on coming nearer, he saw it was himself,--and\nhe was full of fear for this boy. Poor Claude, he would never,\nnever get away; he was going to miss everything! While he was\nstruggling to speak to Claude, and warn him, he awoke.\n\nIn the years when he went to school in Lincoln, he was always\nhunting for some one whom he could admire without reservations;\nsome one he could envy, emulate, wish to be. Now he believed that\neven then he must have had some faint image of a man like\nGerhardt in his mind. It was only in war times that their paths\nwould have been likely to cross; or that they would have had\nanything to do together... any of the common interests that\nmake men friends.\n\n XIV\n\nGerhardt and Claude Wheeler alighted from a taxi before the open\ngates of a square-roofed, solid-looking house, where all the\nshutters on the front were closed, and the tops of many trees\nshowed above the garden wall. They crossed a paved court and\nrang at the door. An old valet admitted the young men, and took\nthem through a wide hall to the salon, which opened on the\ngarden. Madame and Mademoiselle would be down very soon. David\nwent to one of the long windows and looked out. \"They have kept\nit up, in spite of everything. It was always lovely here.\"\n\nThe garden was spacious,--like a little park. On one side was a\ntennis court, on the other a fountain, with a pool and\nwater-lilies. The north wall was hidden by ancient yews; on the\nsouth two rows of plane trees, cut square, made a long arbour. At\nthe back of the garden there were fine old lindens. The gravel\nwalks wound about beds of gorgeous autumn flowers; in the rose\ngarden, small white roses were still blooming, though the leaves\nwere already red.\n\nTwo ladies entered the drawing-room. The mother was short, plump,\nand rosy, with strong, rather masculine features and yellowish\nwhite hair. The tears flashed into her eyes as David bent to kiss\nher hand, and she embraced him and touched both his cheeks with\nher lips.\n\n\"Et vous, vous aussi!\" she murmured, touching the coat of his\nuniform with her fingers. There was but a moment of softness. She\ngathered herself up like an old general, Claude thought, as he\nstood watching the group from the window, drew her daughter\nforward, and asked David whether he recognized the little girl\nwith whom he used to play. Mademoiselle Claire was not at all\nlike her mother; slender, dark, dressed in a white costume de\ntennis and an apple green hat with black ribbons, she looked very\nmodern and casual and unconcerned. She was already telling David\nshe was glad he had arrived early, as now they would be able to\nhave a game of tennis before tea. Maman would bring her knitting\nto the garden and watch them. This last suggestion relieved\nClaude's apprehension that he might be left alone with his\nhostess. When David called him and presented him to the ladies,\nMlle. Claire gave him a quick handshake, and said she would be\nvery glad to try him out on the court as soon as she had beaten\nDavid. They would find tennis shoes in their room,--a collection\nof shoes, for the feet of all nations; her brother's, some that\nhis Russian friend had forgotten when he hurried off to be\nmobilized, and a pair lately left by an English officer who was\nquartered on them. She and her mother would wait in the garden.\nShe rang for the old valet.\n\nThe Americans found themselves in a large room upstairs, where\ntwo modern iron beds stood out conspicuous among heavy mahogany\nbureaus and desks and dressing-tables, stuffed chairs and velvet\ncarpets and dull red brocade window hangings. David went at once\ninto the little dressing-room and began to array himself for the\ntennis court. Two suits of flannels and a row of soft shirts hung\nthere on the wall.\n\n\"Aren't you going to change?\" he asked, noticing that Claude\nstood stiff and unbending by the window, looking down into the\ngarden. \"Why should I?\" said Claude scornfully. \"I don't play\ntennis. I never had a racket in my hand.\"\n\n\"Too bad. She used to play very well, though she was only a\nyoungster then.\" Gerhardt was regarding his legs in trousers two\ninches too short for him. \"How everything has changed, and yet\nhow everything is still the same! It's like coming back to places\nin dreams.\"\n\n\"They don't give you much time to dream, I should say!\" Claude\nremarked.\n\n\"Fortunately!\"\n\n\"Explain to the girl that I don't play, will you? I'll be down\nlater.\"\n\n\"As you like.\"\n\nClaude stood in the window, watching Gerhardt's bare head and\nMlle. Claire's green hat and long brown arm go bounding about\nover the court.\n\nWhen Gerhardt came to change before tea, he found his fellow\nofficer standing before his bag, which was open, but not\nunpacked.\n\n\"What's the matter? Feeling shellshock again?\"\n\n\"Not exactly.\" Claude bit his lip. \"The fact is, Dave, I don't\nfeel just comfortable here. Oh, the people are all right. But\nI'm out of place. I'm going to pull out and get a billet\nsomewhere else, and let you visit your friends in peace. Why\nshould I be here? These people don't keep a hotel.\"\n\n\"They very nearly do, from what they've been telling me. They've\nhad a string of Scotch and English quartered on them. They like\nit, too,-or have the good manners to pretend they do. Of course,\nyou'll do as you like, but you'll hurt their feelings and put me\nin an awkward position. To be frank, I don't see how you can go\naway without being distinctly rude.\"\n\nClaude stood looking down at the contents of his bag in an\nirresolute attitude. Catching a glimpse of his face in one of the\nbig mirrors, Gerhardt saw that he looked perplexed and miserable.\nHis flash of temper died, and he put his hand lightly on his\nfriend's shoulder.\n\n\"Come on, Claude! This is too absurd. You don't even have to\ndress, thanks to your uniform,--and you don't have to talk, since\nyou're not supposed to know the language. I thought you'd like\ncoming here. These people have had an awfully rough time; can't\nyou admire their pluck?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, I do! It's awkward for me, though.\" Claude pulled off\nhis coat and began to brush his hair vigorously. \"I guess I've\nalways been more afraid of the French than of the Germans. It\ntakes courage to stay, you understand. I want to run.\"\n\n\"But why? What makes you want to?\"\n\n\"Oh, I don't know! Something in the house, in the atmosphere.\"\n\n\"Something disagreeable?\"\n\n\"No. Something agreeable.\"\n\nDavid laughed. \"Oh, you'll get over that!\"\n\nThey had tea in the garden, English fashion--English tea, too,\nMlle. Claire informed them, left by the English officers.\n\nAt dinner a third member of the family was introduced, a little\nboy with a cropped head and big black eyes. He sat on Claude's\nleft, quiet and shy in his velvet jacket, though he followed the\nconversation eagerly, especially when it touched upon his brother\nRene, killed at Verdun in the second winter of the war. The\nmother and sister talked about him as if he were living, about\nhis letters and his plans, and his friends at the Conservatoire\nand in the Army. Mlle. Claire told Gerhardt news of all the girl\nstudents he had known in Paris: how this one was singing for the\nsoldiers; another, when she was nursing in a hospital which was\nbombed in an air raid, had carried twenty wounded men out of the\nburning building, one after another, on her back, like sacks of\nflour. Alice, the dancer, had gone into the English Red Cross and\nlearned English. Odette had married a New Zealander, an officer\nwho was said to be a cannibal; it was well known that his tribe\nhad eaten two Auvergnat missionaries. There was a great deal more\nthat Claude could not understand, but he got enough to see that\nfor these women the war was France, the war was life, and\neverything that went into it. To be alive, to be conscious and\nhave one's faculties, was to be in the war.\n\nAfter dinner, when they went into the salon, Madame Fleury asked\nDavid whether he would like to see Rene's violin again, and\nnodded to the little boy. He slipped away and returned carrying\nthe case, which he placed on the table. He opened it carefully\nand took off the velvet cloth, as if this was his peculiar\noffice, then handed the instrument to Gerhardt.\n\nDavid turned it over under the candles, telling Madame Fleury\nthat he would have known it anywhere, Rene's wonderful Amati,\nalmost too exquisite in tone for the concert hall, like a woman\nwho is too beautiful for the stage. The family stood round and\nlistened to his praise with evident satisfaction. Madame Fleury\ntold him that Lucien was très sérieux with his music, that his\nmaster was well pleased with him, and when his hand was a little\nlarger he would be allowed to play upon Rene's violin. Claude\nwatched the little boy as he stood looking at the instrument in\nDavid's hands; in each of his big black eyes a candle flame was\nreflected, as if some steady fire were actually burning there.\n\n\"What is it, Lucien?\" his mother asked.\n\n\"If Monsieur David would be so good as to play before I must go\nto bed--\" he murmured entreatingly.\n\n\"But, Lucien, I am a soldier now. I have not worked at all for\ntwo years. The Amati would think it had fallen into the hands of\na Boche.\"\n\nLucien smiled. \"Oh, no! It is too intelligent for that. A little,\nplease,\" and he sat down on a footstool before the sofa in\nconfident anticipation.\n\nMlle. Claire went to the piano. David frowned and began to tune\nthe violin. Madame Fleury called the old servant and told him to\nlight the sticks that lay in the fireplace. She took the\narm-chair at the right of the hearth and motioned Claude to a\nseat on the left. The little boy kept his stool at the other end\nof the room. Mlle. Claire began the orchestral introduction to\nthe Saint-Saens concerto.\n\n\"Oh, not that!\" David lifted his chin and looked at her in\nperplexity.\n\nShe made no reply, but played on, her shoulders bent forward.\nLucien drew his knees up under his chin and shivered. When the\ntime came, the violin made its entrance. David had put it back\nunder his chin mechanically, and the instrument broke into that\nsuppressed, bitter melody.\n\nThey played for a long while. At last David stopped and wiped his\nforehead. \"I'm afraid I can't do anything with the third\nmovement, really.\"\n\n\"Nor can I. But that was the last thing Rene played on it, the\nnight before he went away, after his last leave.\" She began\nagain, and David followed. Madame Fleury sat with half-closed\neyes, looking into the fire. Claude, his lips compressed, his\nhands on his knees, was watching his friend's back. The music was\na part of his own confused emotions. He was torn between generous\nadmiration, and bitter, bitter envy. What would it mean to be\nable to do anything as well as that, to have a hand capable of\ndelicacy and precision and power? If he had been taught to do\nanything at all, he would not be sitting here tonight a wooden\nthing amongst living people. He felt that a man might have been\nmade of him, but nobody had taken the trouble to do it;\ntongue-tied, foot-tied, hand-tied. If one were born into this\nworld like a bear cub or a bull calf, one could only paw and\nupset things, break and destroy, all one's life.\n\nGerhardt wrapped the violin up in its cloth. The little boy\nthanked him and carried it away. Madame Fleury and her daughter\nwished their guests goodnight.\n\nDavid said he was warm, and suggested going into the garden to\nsmoke before they went to bed. He opened one of the long windows\nand they stepped out on the terrace. Dry leaves were rustling\ndown on the walks; the yew trees made a solid wall, blacker than\nthe darkness. The fountain must have caught the starlight; it was\nthe only shining thing,--a little clear column of twinkling\nsilver. The boys strolled in silence to the end of the walk.\n\n\"I guess you'll go back to your profession, all right,\" Claude\nremarked, in the unnatural tone in which people sometimes speak\nof things they know nothing about.\n\n\"Not I. Of course, I had to play for them. Music has always been\nlike a religion in this house. Listen,\" he put up his hand; far\naway the regular pulsation of the big guns sounded through the\nstill night. \"That's all that matters now. It has killed\neverything else.\"\n\n\"I don't believe it.\" Claude stopped for a moment by the edge of\nthe fountain, trying to collect his thoughts. \"I don't believe it\nhas killed anything. It has only scattered things.\" He glanced\nabout hurriedly at the sleeping house, the sleeping garden, the\nclear, starry sky not very far overhead. \"It's men like you that\nget the worst of it,\" he broke out. \"But as for me, I never knew\nthere was anything worth living for, till this war came on.\nBefore that, the world seemed like a business proposition.\"\n\n\"You'll admit it's a costly way of providing adventure for the\nyoung,\" said David drily.\n\n\"Maybe so; all the same...\"\n\nClaude pursued the argument to himself long after they were in\ntheir luxurious beds and David was asleep. No battlefield or\nshattered country he had seen was as ugly as this world would be\nif men like his brother Bayliss controlled it altogether. Until\nthe war broke out, he had supposed they did control it; his\nboyhood had been clouded and enervated by that belief. The\nPrussians had believed it, too, apparently. But the event had\nshown that there were a great many people left who cared about\nsomething else.\n\nThe intervals of the distant artillery fire grew shorter, as if\nthe big guns were tuning up, choking to get something out. Claude\nsat up in his bed and listened. The sound of the guns had from\nthe first been pleasant to him, had given him a feeling of\nconfidence and safety; tonight he knew why. What they said was,\nthat men could still die for an idea; and would burn all they had\nmade to keep their dreams. He knew the future of the world was\nsafe; the careful planners would never be able to put it into a\nstrait-jacket,--cunning and prudence would never have it to\nthemselves. Why, that little boy downstairs, with the candlelight\nin his eyes, when it came to the last cry, as they said, could\n\"carry on\" for ever! Ideals were not archaic things, beautiful\nand impotent; they were the real sources of power among men. As\nlong as that was true, and now he knew it was true--he had come\nall this way to find out--he had no quarrel with Destiny. Nor did\nhe envy David. He would give his own adventure for no man's. On\nthe edge of sleep it seemed to glimmer, like the clear column of\nthe fountain, like the new moon,--alluring, half-averted, the\nbright face of danger.\n\n\n\nXV\n\nWhen Claude and David rejoined their Battalion on the 20th of\nSeptember, the end of the war looked as far away as ever. The\ncollapse of Bulgaria was unknown to the American army, and their\nacquaintance with European affairs was so slight that this would\nhave meant very little to them had they heard of it. The German\narmy still held the north and east of France, and no one could\nsay how much vitality was left in that sprawling body.\n\nThe Battalion entrained at Arras. Lieutenant Colonel Scott had\norders to proceed to the railhead, and then advance on foot into\nthe Argonne.\n\nThe cars were crowded, and the railway journey was long and\nfatiguing. They detrained at night, in the rain, at what the men\nsaid seemed to be the jumping off place. There was no town, and\nthe railway station had been bombed the day before, by an air\nfleet out to explode artillery ammunition. A mound of brick, and\nholes full of water told where it had been. The Colonel sent\nClaude out with a patrol to find some place for the men to sleep.\nThe patrol came upon a field of straw stacks, and at the end of it\nfound a black farmhouse.\n\nClaude went up and hammered on the door. Silence. He kept\nhammering and calling, \"The Americans are here!\" A shutter\nopened. The farmer stuck his head out and demanded gruffly what\nwas wanted; \"What now?\"\n\nClaude explained in his best French that an American battalion\nhad just come in; might they sleep in his field if they did not\ndestroy his stacks?\n\n\"Sure,\" replied the farmer, and shut the window.\n\nThat one word, coming out of the dark in such an unpromising\nplace, had a cheering effect upon the patrol, and upon the men,\nwhen it was repeated to them. \"Sure, eh?\" They kept laughing over\nit as they beat about the field and dug into the straw. Those who\ncouldn't burrow into a stack lay down in the muddy stubble. They\nwere asleep before they could feel sorry for themselves.\n\nThe farmer came out to offer his stable to the officers, and to\nbeg them not on any account to make a light. They had never been\nbothered here by air raids until yesterday, and it must be\nbecause the Americans were coming and were sending in ammunition.\n\nGerhardt, who was called to talk to him, told the farmer the\nColonel must study his map, and for that the man took them down\ninto the cellar, where the children were asleep. Before he lay\ndown on the straw bed his orderly had made for him, the Colonel\nkept telling names and kilometers off on his fingers. For\nofficers like Colonel Scott the names of places constituted one\nof the real hardships of the war. His mind worked slowly, but it\nwas always on his job, and he could go without sleep for more\nhours together than any of his officers. Tonight he had scarcely\nlain down, when a sentinel brought in a runner with a message.\nThe Colonel had to go into the cellar again to read it. He was to\nmeet Colonel Harvey at Prince Joachim farm, as early as possible\ntomorrow morning. The runner would act as guide.\n\nThe Colonel sat with his eye on his watch, and interrogated the\nmessenger about the road and the time it would take to get over\nthe ground. \"What's Fritz's temper up here, generally speaking?\"\n\n\"That's as it happens, sir. Sometimes we nab a night patrol of a\ndozen or fifteen and send them to the rear under a one-man guard.\nThen, again, a little bunch of Heinies will fight like the devil.\nThey say it depends on what part of Germany they come from; the\nBavarians and Saxons are the bravest.\"\n\nColonel Scott waited for an hour, and then went about, shaking\nhis sleeping officers.\n\n\"Yes, sir.\" Captain Maxey sprang to his feet as if he had been\ncaught in a disgraceful act. He called his sergeants, and they\nbegan to beat the men up out of the strawstacks and puddles. In\nhalf an hour they were on the road.\n\nThis was the Battalion's first march over really bad roads, where\nwalking was a question of pulling and balancing. They were soon\nwarm, at any rate; it kept them sweating. The weight of their\nequipment was continually thrown in the wrong place. Their wet\nclothing dragged them back, their packs got twisted and cut into\ntheir shoulders. Claude and Hicks began wondering to each other\nwhat it must have been like in the real mud, up about Ypres and\nPasschendaele, two years ago. Hicks had been training at Arras\nlast week, where a lot of Tommies were \"resting\" in the same way,\nand he had tales to tell.\n\nThe Battalion got to Joachim farm at nine o'clock. Colonel Harvey\nhad not yet come up, but old Julius Caesar was there with his\nengineers, and he had a hot breakfast ready for them. At six\no'clock in the evening they took the road again, marching until\ndaybreak, with short rests. During the night they captured two\nHun patrols, a bunch of thirty men. At the halt for breakfast,\nthe prisoners wanted to make themselves useful, but the cook said\nthey were so filthy the smell of them would make a stew go bad.\nThey were herded off by themselves, a good distance from the grub\nline.\n\nIt was Gerhardt, of course, who had to go over and question them.\nClaude felt sorry for the prisoners; they were so willing to tell\nall they knew, and so anxious to make themselves agreeable; began\ntalking about their relatives in America, and said brightly that\nthey themselves were going over at once, after the war--seemed to\nhave no doubt that everybody would be glad to see them!\n\nThey begged Gerhardt to be allowed to do something. Couldn't they\ncarry the officers' equipment on the march? No, they were too\nbuggy; they might relieve the sanitary squad. Oh, that they would\ngladly do, Herr Offizier!\n\nThe plan was to get to Rupprecht trench and take it before\nnightfall. It was easy taking--empty of everything but vermin and\nhuman discards; a dozen crippled and sick, left for the enemy to\ndispose of, and several half-witted youths who ought to have been\nlocked up in some institution. Fritz had known what it meant when\nhis patrols did not come back. He had evacuated, leaving behind\nhis hopelessly diseased, and as much filth as possible. The\ndugouts were fairly dry, but so crawling with vermin that the\nAmericans preferred to sleep in the mud, in the open.\n\nAfter supper the men fell on their packs and began to lighten\nthem, throwing away all that was not necessary, and much that\nwas. Many of them abandoned the new overcoats that had been\nserved out at the railhead; others cut off the skirts and made\nthe coats into ragged jackets. Captain Maxey was horrified at\nthese depredations, but the Colonel advised him to shut his eyes.\n\"They've got hard going before them; let them travel light. If\nthey'd rather stand the cold, they've got a right to choose.\"\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nThe Battalion had twenty-four hours' rest at Rupprecht trench,\nand then pushed on for four days and nights, stealing trenches,\ncapturing patrols, with only a few hours' sleep,--snatched by the\nroadside while their food was being prepared. They pushed hard\nafter a retiring foe, and almost outran themselves. They did\noutrun their provisions; on the fourth night, when they fell\nupon a farm that had been a German Headquarters, the supplies\nthat were to meet them there had not come up, and they went to\nbed supperless.\n\nThis farmhouse, for some reason called by the prisoners Frau\nHulda farm, was a nest of telephone wires; hundreds of them ran\nout through the walls, in all directions. The Colonel cut those\nhe could find, and then put a guard over the old peasant who had\nbeen left in charge of the house, suspecting that he was in the\npay of the enemy.\n\nAt last Colonel Scott got into the Headquarters bed, large and\nlumpy,--the first one he had seen since he left Arras. He had not\nbeen asleep more than two hours, when a runner arrived with\norders from the Regimental Colonel. Claude was in a bed in the\nloft, between Gerhardt and Bruger. He felt somebody shaking him,\nbut resolved that he wouldn't be disturbed and went on placidly\nsleeping. Then somebody pulled his hair,--so hard that he sat up.\nCaptain Maxey was standing over the bed.\n\n\"Come along, boys. Orders from Regimental Headquarters. The\nBattalion is to split here. Our Company is to go on four\nkilometers tonight, and take the town of Beaufort.\"\n\nClaude rose. \"The men are pretty well beat out, Captain Maxey,\nand they had no supper.\"\n\n\"That can't be helped. Tell them we are to be in Beaufort for\nbreakfast.\"\n\nClaude and Gerhardt went out to the barn and roused Hicks and his\npal, Dell Able. The men were asleep in dry straw, for the first\ntime in ten days. They were completely worn out, lost to time and\nplace. Many of them were already four thousand miles away,\nscattered among little towns and farms on the prairie. They were\na miserable looking lot as they got together, stumbling about in\nthe dark.\n\nAfter the Colonel had gone over the map with Captain Maxey, he\ncame out and saw the Company assembled. He wasn't going with\nthem, he told them, but he expected them to give a good account\nof themselves. Once in Beaufort, they would have a week's rest;\nsleep under cover, and live among people for awhile.\n\nThe men took the road, some with their eyes shut, trying to make\nbelieve they were still asleep, trying to have their agreeable\ndreams over again, as they marched. They did not really waken up\nuntil the advance challenged a Hun patrol, and sent it back to\nthe Colonel under a one-man guard. When they had advanced two\nkilometers, they found the bridge blown up. Claude and Hicks went\nin one direction to look for a ford, Bruger and Dell Able in the\nother, and the men lay down by the roadside and slept heavily.\nJust at dawn they reached the outskirts of the village, silent\nand still.\n\nCaptain Maxey had no information as to how many Germans might be\nleft in the town. They had occupied it ever since the beginning\nof the war, and had used it as a rest camp. There had never been\nany fighting there.\n\nAt the first house on the road, the Captain stopped and pounded.\nNo answer.\n\n\"We are Americans, and must see the people of the house. If you\ndon't open, we must break the door.\"\n\nA woman's voice called; \"There is nobody here. Go away, please,\nand take your men away. I am sick.\"\n\nThe Captain called Gerhardt, who began to explain and reassure\nthrough the door. It opened a little way, and an old woman in a\nnightcap peeped out. An old man hovered behind her. She gazed in\nastonishment at the officers, not understanding. These were the\nfirst soldiers of the Allies she had ever seen. She had heard the\nGermans talk about Americans, but thought it was one of their\nlies, she said. Once convinced, she let the officers come in and\nreplied to their questions.\n\nNo, there were no Boches left in her house. They had got orders\nto leave day before yesterday, and had blown up the bridge. They\nwere concentrating somewhere to the east. She didn't know how\nmany were still in the village, nor where they were, but she\ncould tell the Captain where they had been. Triumphantly she\nbrought out a map of the town--lost, she said with a meaning\nsmile, by a German officer--on which the billets were marked.\n\nWith this to guide them, Captain Maxey and his men went on up the\nstreet. They took eight prisoners in one cellar, seventeen in\nanother. When the villagers saw the prisoners bunched together in\nthe square, they came out of their houses and gave information.\nThis cleaning up, Bert Fuller remarked, was like taking fish\nfrom the Platte River when the water was low, simply pailing them\nout! There was no sport in it.\n\nAt nine o'clock the officers were standing together in the square\nbefore the church, checking off on the map the houses that had\nbeen searched. The men were drinking coffee, and eating fresh\nbread from a baker's shop. The square was full of people who had\ncome out to see for themselves. Some believed that deliverance\nhad come, and others shook their heads and held back, suspecting\nanother trick. A crowd of children were running about, making\nfriends with the soldiers. One little girl with yellow curls and\na clean white dress had attached herself to Hicks, and was eating\nchocolate out of his pocket. Gerhardt was bargaining with the\nbaker for another baking of bread. The sun was shining, for a\nchange,--everything was looking cheerful. This village seemed to\nbe swarming with girls; some of them were pretty, and all were\nfriendly. The men who had looked so haggard and forlorn when dawn\novertook them at the edge of the town, began squaring their\nshoulders and throwing out their chests. They were dirty and\nmud-plastered, but as Claude remarked to the Captain, they\nactually looked like fresh men.\n\nSuddenly a shot rang out above the chatter, and an old woman in a\nwhite cap screamed and tumbled over on the pavement,--rolled\nabout, kicking indecorously with both hands and feet. A second\ncrack,--the little girl who stood beside Hicks, eating chocolate,\nthrew out her hands, ran a few steps, and fell, blood and brains\noozing out in her yellow hair. The people began screaming and\nrunning. The Americans looked this way and that; ready to dash,\nbut not knowing where to go. Another shot, and Captain Maxey fell\non one knee, blushed furiously and sprang up, only to fall\nagain,--ashy white, with the leg of his trousers going red.\n\n\"There it is, to the left!\" Hicks shouted, pointing. They saw\nnow. From a closed house, some distance down a street off the\nsquare, smoke was coming. It hung before one of the upstairs\nwindows. The Captain's orderly dragged him into a wineshop.\nClaude and David, followed by the men, ran down the street and\nbroke in the door. The two officers went through the rooms on the\nfirst floor, while Hicks and his lot made straight for an\nenclosed stairway at the back of the house. As they reached the\nfoot of the stairs, they were met by a volley of rifle shots, and\ntwo of the men tumbled over. Four Germans were stationed at the\nhead of the steps.\n\nThe Americans scarcely knew whether their bullets or their\nbayonets got to the Huns first; they were not conscious of going\nup, till they were there. When Claude and David reached the\nlanding, the squad were wiping their bayonets, and four grey\nbodies were piled in the corner.\n\nBert Fuller and Dell Able ran down the narrow hallway and threw\nopen the door into the room on the street. Two shots, and Dell\ncame back with his jaw shattered and the blood spouting from the\nleft side of his neck. Gerhardt caught him, and tried to close\nthe artery with his fingers.\n\n\"How many are in there, Bert?\" Claude called.\n\n\"I couldn't see. Look out, sir! You can't get through that door\nmore than two at a time!\"\n\nThe door still stood open, at the end of the corridor. Claude\nwent down the steps until he could sight along the floor of the\npassage, into the front room. The shutters were closed in there,\nand the sunlight came through the slats. In the middle of the\nfloor, between the door and the windows, stood a tall chest of\ndrawers, with a mirror attached to the top. In the narrow space\nbetween the bottom of this piece of furniture and the floor, he\ncould see a pair of boots. It was possible there was but one man\nin the room, shooting from behind his movable fort,--though there\nmight be others hidden in the corners.\n\n\"There's only one fellow in there, I guess. He's shooting from\nbehind a big dresser in the middle of the room. Come on, one of\nyou, we'll have to go in and get him.\"\n\nWilly Katz, the Austrian boy from the Omaha packing house,\nstepped up and stood beside him.\n\n\"Now, Willy, we'll both go in at once; you jump to the right, and\nI to the left,--and one of us will jab him. He can't shoot both\nways at once. Are you ready? All right--Now!\"\n\nClaude thought he was taking the more dangerous position himself,\nbut the German probably reasoned that the important man would be\non the right. As the two Americans dashed through the door, he\nfired. Claude caught him in the back with his bayonet, under the\nshoulder blade, but Willy Katz had got the bullet in his brain,\nthrough one of his blue eyes. He fell, and never stirred. The\nGerman officer fired his revolver again as he went down, shouting\nin English, English with no foreign accent,\n\n\"You swine, go back to Chicago!\" Then he began choking with\nblood.\n\nSergeant Hicks ran in and shot the dying man through the temples.\nNobody stopped him.\n\nThe officer was a tall man, covered with medals and orders; must\nhave been very handsome. His linen and his hands were as white as\nif he were going to a ball. On the dresser were the files and\npaste and buffers with which he had kept his nails so pink and\nsmooth. A ring with a ruby, beautifully cut, was on his little\nfinger. Bert Fuller screwed it off and offered it to Claude. He\nshook his head. That English sentence had unnerved him. Bert held\nthe ring out to Hicks, but the Sergeant threw down his revolver\nand broke out:\n\n\"Think I'd touch anything of his? That beautiful little girl, and\nmy buddy--He's worse than dead, Dell is, worse!\" He turned his\nback on his comrades so that they wouldn't see him cry.\n\n\"Can I keep it myself, sir?\" Bert asked.\n\nClaude nodded. David had come in, and was opening the shutters.\nThis officer, Claude was thinking, was a very different sort of\nbeing from the poor prisoners they had been scooping up like\ntadpoles from the cellars. One of the men picked up a gorgeous\nsilk dressing gown from the bed, another pointed to a\ndressing-case full of hammered silver. Gerhardt said it was\nRussian silver; this man must have come from the Eastern front.\nBert Fuller and Nifty Jones were going through the officer's\npockets. Claude watched them, and thought they did about right.\nThey didn't touch his medals; but his gold cigarette case, and\nthe platinum watch still ticking on his wrist,--he wouldn't have\nfurther need for them. Around his neck, hung by a delicate chain,\nwas a miniature case, and in it was a painting,--not, as Bert\nromantically hoped when he opened it, of a beautiful woman, but\nof a young man, pale as snow, with blurred forget-me-not eyes.\n\nClaude studied it, wondering. \"It looks like a poet, or\nsomething. Probably a kid brother, killed at the beginning of the\nwar.\"\n\nGerhardt took it and glanced at it with a disdainful expression.\n\"Probably. There, let him keep it, Bert.\" He touched Claude on\nthe shoulder to call his attention to the inlay work on the\nhandle of the officer's revolver.\n\nClaude noticed that David looked at him as if he were very much\npleased with him,--looked, indeed, as if something pleasant had\nhappened in this room; where, God knew, nothing had; where, when\nthey turned round, a swarm of black flies was quivering with\ngreed and delight over the smears Willy Katz' body had left on\nthe floor. Claude had often observed that when David had an\ninteresting idea, or a strong twinge of recollection, it made\nhim, for the moment, rather heartless. Just now he felt that\nGerhardt's flash of high spirits was in some way connected with\nhim. Was it because he had gone in with Willy? Had David doubted\nhis nerve?\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nWhen the survivors of Company B are old men, and are telling over\ntheir good days, they will say to each other, \"Oh, that week we\nspent at Beaufort!\" They will close their eyes and see a little\nvillage on a low ridge, lost in the forest, overgrown with oak\nand chestnut and black walnut... buried in autumn colour, the\nstreets drifted deep in autumn leaves, great branches interlacing\nover the roofs of the houses, wells of cool water that tastes of\nmoss and tree roots. Up and down those streets they will see\nfigures passing; themselves, young and brown and clean-limbed;\nand comrades, long dead, but still alive in that far-away\nvillage. How they will wish they could tramp again, nights on\ndays in the mud and rain, to drag sore feet into their old\nbillets at Beaufort! To sink into those wide feather beds and\nsleep the round of the clock while the old women washed and dried\ntheir clothes for them; to eat rabbit stew and pommes frites in\nthe garden,--rabbit stew made with red wine and chestnuts. Oh,\nthe days that are no more!\n\nAs soon as Captain Maxey and the wounded men had been started on\ntheir long journey to the rear, carried by the prisoners, the\nwhole company turned in and slept for twelve hours--all but\nSergeant Hicks, who sat in the house off the square, beside the\nbody of his chum.\n\nThe next day the Americans came to life as if they were new men,\njust created in a new world. And the people of the town came to\nlife... excitement, change, something to look forward to at\nlast! A new flag, le drapeau étoilé, floated along with the\ntricolour in the square. At sunset the soldiers stood in\nformation behind it and sang \"The Star Spangled Banner\" with\nuncovered heads. The old people watched them from the doorways.\nThe Americans were the first to bring \"Madelon\" to Beaufort. The\nfact that the village had never heard this song, that the\nchildren stood round begging for it, \"Chantez-vous la Madelon!\"\nmade the soldiers realize how far and how long out of the world\nthese villagers had been. The German occupation was like a\ndeafness which nothing pierced but their own arrogant martial\nairs.\n\nBefore Claude was out of bed after his first long sleep, a runner\narrived from Colonel Scott, notifying him that he was in charge\nof the Company until further orders. The German prisoners had\nburied their own dead and dug graves for the Americans before\nthey were sent off to the rear. Claude and David were billeted at\nthe edge of the town, with the woman who had given Captain Maxey\nhis first information, when they marched in yesterday morning.\nTheir hostess told them, at their mid-day breakfast, that the old\ndame who was shot in the square, and the little girl, were to be\nburied this afternoon. Claude decided that the Americans might as\nwell have their funeral at the same time. He thought he would ask\nthe priest to say a prayer at the graves, and he and David set\noff through the brilliant, rustling autumn sunshine to find the\nCure's house. It was next the church, with a high-walled garden\nbehind it. Over the bell-pull in the outer wall was a card on\nwhich was written, \"Tirez fort.\"\n\nThe priest himself came out to them, an old man who seemed weak\nlike his doorbell. He stood in his black cap, holding his hands\nagainst his breast to keep them from shaking, and looked very old\nindeed,--broken, hopeless, as if he were sick of this world and\ndone with it. Nowhere in France had Claude seen a face so sad as\nhis. Yes, he would say a prayer. It was better to have Christian\nburial, and they were far from home, poor fellows! David asked\nhim whether the German rule had been very oppressive, but the old\nman did not answer clearly, and his hands began to shake so\nuncontrollably over his cassock that they went away to spare him\nembarrassment.\n\n\"He seems a little gone in the head, don't you think?\" Claude\nremarked.\n\n\"I suppose the war has used him up. How can he celebrate mass\nwhen his hands quiver so?\" As they crossed the church steps,\nDavid touched Claude's arm and pointed into the square. \"Look,\nevery doughboy has a girl already! Some of them have trotted out\nfatigue caps! I supposed they'd thrown them all away!\"\n\nThose who had no caps stood with their helmets under their arms,\nin attitudes of exaggerated gallantry, talking to the women,--who\nseemed all to have errands abroad. Some of them let the boys\ncarry their baskets. One soldier was giving a delighted little\ngirl a ride on his back.\n\nAfter the funeral every man in the Company found some sympathetic\nwoman to talk to about his fallen comrades. All the garden\nflowers and bead wreaths in Beaufort had been carried out and put\non the American graves. When the squad fired over them and the\nbugle sounded, the girls and their mothers wept. Poor Willy Katz,\nfor instance, could never have had such a funeral in South Omaha.\n\nThe next night the soldiers began teaching the girls to dance the\n\"Pas Seul\" and the \"Fausse Trot.\" They had found an old violin in\nthe town; and Oscar, the Swede, scraped away on it. They danced\nevery evening. Claude saw that a good deal was going on, and he\nlectured his men at parade. But he realized that he might as well\nscold at the sparrows. Here was a village with several hundred\nwomen, and only the grandmothers had husbands. All the men were\nin the army; hadn't even been home on leave since the Germans\nfirst took the place. The girls had been shut up for four years\nwith young men who incessantly coveted them, and whom they must\nconstantly outwit. The situation had been intolerable--and\nprolonged. The Americans found themselves in the position of Adam\nin the garden.\n\n\"Did you know, sir,\" said Bert Fuller breathlessly as he overtook\nClaude in the street after parade, \"that these lovely girls had\nto go out in the fields and work, raising things for those dirty\npigs to eat? Yes, sir, had to work in the fields, under German\nsentinels; marched out in the morning and back at night like\nconvicts! It's sure up to us to give them a good time now.\"\n\nOne couldn't walk out of an evening without meeting loitering\ncouples in the dusky streets and lanes. The boys had lost all\ntheir bashfulness about trying to speak French. They declared\nthey could get along in France with three verbs, and all,\nhappily, in the first conjugation: manger, aimer, payer,--quite\nenough! They called Beaufort \"our town,\" and they were called\n\"our Americans.\" They were going to come back after the war, and\nmarry the girls, and put in waterworks!\n\n\"Chez-moi, sir!\" Bill Gates called to Claude, saluting with a\nbloody hand, as he stood skinning rabbits before the door of his\nbillet. \"Bunny casualties are heavy in town this week!\"\n\n\"You know, Wheeler,\" David remarked one morning as they were\nshaving, \"I think Maxey would come back here on one leg if he\nknew about these excursions into the forest after mushrooms.\"\n\n\"Maybe.\"\n\n\"Aren't you going to put a stop to them?\"\n\n\"Not I!\" Claude jerked, setting the corners of his mouth grimly.\n\"If the girls, or their people, make complaint to me, I'll\ninterfere. Not otherwise. I've thought the matter over.\"\n\n\"Oh, the girls--\" David laughed softly. \"Well, it's something to\nacquire a taste for mushrooms. They don't get them at home, do\nthey?\"\n\nWhen, after eight days, the Americans had orders to march, there\nwas mourning in every house. On their last night in town, the\nofficers received pressing invitations to the dance in the\nsquare. Claude went for a few moments, and looked on. David was\ndancing every dance, but Hicks was nowhere to be seen. The poor\nfellow had been out of everything. Claude went over to the church\nto see whether he might be moping in the graveyard.\n\nThere, as he walked about, Claude stopped to look at a grave that\nstood off by itself, under a privet hedge, with withered leaves\nand a little French flag on it. The old woman with whom they\nstayed had told them the story of this grave.\n\nThe Cure's niece was buried there. She was the prettiest girl in\nBeaufort, it seemed, and she had a love affair with a German\nofficer and disgraced the town. He was a young Bavarian,\nquartered with this same old woman who told them the story, and\nshe said he was a nice boy, handsome and gentle, and used to sit\nup half the night in the garden with his head in his\nhands--homesick, lovesick. He was always after this Marie Louise;\nnever pressed her, but was always there, grew up out of the\nground under her feet, the old woman said. The girl hated\nGermans, like all the rest, and flouted him. He was sent to the\nfront. Then he came back, sick and almost deaf, after one of the\nslaughters at Verdun, and stayed a long while. That spring a\nstory got about that some woman met him at night in the German\ngraveyard. The Germans had taken the land behind the church for\ntheir cemetery, and it joined the wall of the Cure's garden. When\nthe women went out into the fields to plant the crops, Marie\nLouise used to slip away from the others and meet her Bavarian in\nthe forest. The girls were sure of it now; and they treated her\nwith disdain. But nobody was brave enough to say anything to the\nCure. One day, when she was with her Bavarian in the wood, she\nsnatched up his revolver from the ground and shot herself. She\nwas a Frenchwoman at heart, their hostess said.\n\n\"And the Bavarian?\" Claude asked David later. The story had\nbecome so complicated he could not follow it.\n\n\"He justified her, and promptly. He took the same pistol and shot\nhimself through the temples. His orderly, stationed at the edge\nof the thicket to keep watch, heard the first shot and ran toward\nthem. He saw the officer take up the smoking pistol and turn it\non himself. But the Kommandant couldn't believe that one of his\nofficers had so much feeling. He held an enquête, dragged the\ngirl's mother and uncle into court, and tried to establish that\nthey were in conspiracy with her to seduce and murder a German\nofficer. The orderly was made to tell the whole story; how and\nwhere they began to meet. Though he wasn't very delicate about\nthe details he divulged, he stuck to his statement that he saw\nLieutenant Muller shoot himself with his own hand, and the\nKommandant failed to prove his case. The old Cure had known\nnothing of all this until he heard it aired in the military\ncourt. Marie Louise had lived in his house since she was a child,\nand was like his daughter. He had a stroke or something, and has\nbeen like this ever since. The girl's friends forgave her, and\nwhen she was buried off alone by the hedge, they began to take\nflowers to her grave. The Kommandant put up an affiche on the\nhedge, forbidding any one to decorate the grave. Apparently,\nnothing during the German occupation stirred up more feeling than\npoor Marie Louise.\"\n\nIt would stir anybody, Claude reflected. There was her lonely\nlittle grave, the shadow of the privet hedge falling across it.\nThere, at the foot of the Cure's garden, was the German cemetery,\nwith heavy cement crosses,--some of them with long inscriptions;\nlines from their poets, and couplets from old hymns. Lieutenant\nMuller was there somewhere, probably. Strange, how their story\nstood out in a world of suffering. That was a kind of misery he\nhadn't happened to think of before; but the same thing must have\noccurred again and again in the occupied territory. He would\nnever forget the Cure's hands, his dim, suffering eyes.\n\nClaude recognized David crossing the pavement in front of the\nchurch, and went back to meet him.\n\n\"Hello! I mistook you for Hicks at first. I thought he might be\nout here.\" David sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette.\n\n\"So did I. I came out to look for him.\"\n\n\"Oh, I expect he's found some shoulder to cry on. Do you realize,\nClaude, you and I are the only men in the Company who haven't got\nengaged? Some of the married men have got engaged twice. It's a\ngood thing we're pulling out, or we'd have banns and a bunch of\nchristenings to look after.\" \"All the same,\" murmured Claude, \"I\nlike the women of this country, as far as I've seen them.\" While\nthey sat smoking in silence, his mind went back to the quiet\nscene he had watched on the steps of that other church, on his\nfirst night in France; the country girl in the moonlight, bending\nover her sick soldier.\n\nWhen they walked back across the square, over the crackling\nleaves, the dance was breaking up. Oscar was playing \"Home, Sweet\nHome,\" for the last waltz.\n\n\"Le dernier baiser,\" said David. \"Well, tomorrow we'll be gone,\nand the chances are we won't come back this way.\"\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\"With us it's always a feast or a famine,\" the men groaned, when\nthey sat down by the road to munch dry biscuit at noon. They had\ncovered eighteen miles that morning, and had still seven more to\ngo. They were ordered to do the twenty-five miles in eight hours.\nNobody had fallen out yet, but some of the boys looked pretty\nwell wilted. Nifty Jones said he was done for. Sergeant Hicks was\nexpostulating with the faint-hearted. He knew that if one man\nfell out, a dozen would.\n\n\"If I can do it, you can. It's worse on a fat man like me. This\nis no march to make a fuss about. Why, at Arras I talked with a\nlittle Tommy from one of those Pal Battalions that got\nslaughtered on the Somme. His battalion marched twenty-five miles\nin six hours, in the heat of July, into certain death. They were\nall kids out of school, not a man of them over five-foot-three,\ncalled them the 'Bantams.' You've got to hand it to them,\nfellows.\"\n\n\"I'll hand anything to anybody, but I can't go no farther on\nthese,\" Jones muttered, nursing his sore feet.\n\n\"Oh, you! We're going to heave you onto the only horse in the\nCompany. The officers, they can walk!\"\n\nWhen they got into Battalion lines there was food ready for them,\nbut very few wanted it. They drank and lay down in the bushes.\nClaude went at once to Headquarters and found Barclay Owens, of\nthe Engineers, with the Colonel, who was smoking and studying his\nmaps as usual.\n\n\"Glad to see you, Wheeler. Your men ought to be in good shape,\nafter a week's rest. Let them sleep now. We've got to move out of\nhere before midnight, to relieve two Texas battalions at Moltke\ntrench. They've taken the trench with heavy casualties and are\nbeat out; couldn't hold it in case of counter-attack. As it's an\nimportant point, the enemy will try to recover it. I want to get\ninto position before daylight, so he won't know fresh troops are\ncoming in. As ranking officer, you are in charge of the Company.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir. I'll do my best.\"\n\n\"I'm sure you will. Two machine gun teams are going up with us,\nand some time tomorrow a Missouri battalion comes up to support.\nI'd have had you over here before, but I only got my orders to\nrelieve yesterday. We may have to advance under shell fire. The\nenemy has been putting a lot of big stuff over; he wants to cut\noff that trench.\"\n\nClaude and David got into a fresh shell hole, under the\nhalf-burned scrub, and fell asleep. They were awakened at dusk by\nheavy artillery fire from the north.\n\nAt ten o'clock the Battalion, after a hot meal, began to advance\nthrough almost impassable country. The guns must have been\npounding away at the same range for a long while; the ground was\nworked and kneaded until it was soft as dough, though no rain had\nfallen for a week. Barclay Owens and his engineers were throwing\ndown a plank road to get food and the ammunition wagons across.\nBig shells were coming over at intervals of twelve minutes. The\nintervals were so regular that it was quite possible to get\nforward without damage. While B Company was pulling through the\nshell area, Colonel Scott overtook them, on foot, his orderly\nleading his horse.\n\n\"Know anything about that light over there, Wheeler?\" he asked.\n\"Well, it oughtn't to be there. Come along and see.\"\n\nThe light was a mere match-head down in the ground, Claude hadn't\nnoticed it before. He followed the Colonel, and when they reached\nthe spark they found three officers of A Company crouching in a\nshell crater, covered with a piece of sheet-iron.\n\n\"Put out that light,\" called the Colonel sharply. \"What's the\nmatter, Captain Brace?\"\n\nA young man rose quickly. \"I'm waiting for the water, sir. It's\ncoming up on mules, in petrol cases, and I don't want to get\nseparated from it. The ground's so bad here the drivers are\nlikely to get lost.\"\n\n\"Don't wait more than twenty minutes. You must get up and take\nyour position on time, that's the important thing, water or no\nwater.\"\n\nAs the Colonel and Claude hurried back to overtake the Company,\nfive big shells screamed over them in rapid succession. \"Run,\nsir,\" the orderly called. \"They're getting on to us; they've\nshortened the range.\"\n\n\"That light back there was just enough to give them an idea,\" the\nColonel muttered.\n\nThe bad ground continued for about a mile, and then the advance\nreached Headquarters, behind the eighth trench of the great\nsystem of trenches. It was an old farmhouse which the Germans had\nmade over with reinforced concrete, lining it within and without,\nuntil the walls were six feet thick and almost shell-proof, like\na pill-box. The Colonel sent his orderly to enquire about A\nCompany. A young Lieutenant came to the door of the farmhouse.\n\n\"A Company is ready to go into position, sir. I brought them\nup.\"\n\n\"Where is Captain Brace, Lieutenant?\"\n\n\"He and both our first lieutenants were killed, Colonel. Back in\nthat hole. A shell fell on them not five minutes after you were\ntalking to them.\"\n\n\"That's bad. Any other damage?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. There was a cook wagon struck at the same time; the\nfirst one coming along Julius Caesar's new road. The driver was\nkilled, and we had to shoot the horses. Captain Owens, he near\ngot scalded with the stew.\"\n\nThe Colonel called in the officers one after another and\ndiscussed their positions with them.\n\n\"Wheeler,\" he said when Claude's turn came, \"you know your map?\nYou've noticed that sharp loop in the front trench, in H 2; the\nBoar's Head, I believe they call it. It's a sort of spear point\nthat reaches out toward the enemy, and it will be a hot place to\nhold. If I put your company in there, do you think you can do the\nBattalion credit in case of a counter attack?\"\n\nClaude said he thought so.\n\n\"It's the nastiest bit of the line to hold, and you can tell your\nmen I pay them a compliment when I put them there.\"\n\n\"All right, sir. They'll appreciate it.\"\n\nThe Colonel bit off the end of a fresh cigar. \"They'd better, by\nthunder! If they give way and let the Hun bombers in, it will let\ndown the whole line. I'll give you two teams of Georgia machine\nguns to put in that point they call the Boar's Snout. When the\nMissourians come up tomorrow, they'll go in to support you, but\nuntil then you'll have to take care of the loop yourselves. I've\ngot an awful lot of trench to hold, and I can't spare you any\nmore men.\"\n\nThe Texas men whom the Battalion came up to relieve had been\nliving for sixty hours on their iron rations, and on what they\ncould pick off the dead Huns. Their supplies had been shelled on\nthe way, and nothing had got through to them. When the Colonel\ntook Claude and Gerhardt forward to inspect the loop that B\nCompany was to hold, they found a wallow, more like a dump heap\nthan a trench. The men who had taken the position were almost too\nweak to stand. All their officers had been killed, and a sergeant\nwas in command. He apologized for the condition of the loop.\n\n\"Sorry to leave such a mess for you to clean up, sir, but we got\nit bad in here. He's been shelling us every night since we drove\nhim out. I couldn't ask the men to do anything but hold on.\"\n\n\"That's all right. You beat it, with your boys, quick! My men\nwill hand you out some grub as you go back.\"\n\nThe battered defenders of the Boar's Head stumbled past them\nthrough the darkness into the communication. When the last man\nhad filed out, the Colonel sent for Barclay Owens. Claude and\nDavid tried to feel their way about and get some idea of the\ncondition the place was in. The stench was the worst they had yet\nencountered, but it was less disgusting than the flies; when they\ninadvertently touched a dead body, clouds of wet, buzzing flies\nflew up into their faces, into their eyes and nostrils. Under\ntheir feet the earth worked and moved as if boa constrictors were\nwriggling down there soft bodies, lightly covered. When they had\nfound their way up to the Snout they came upon a pile of corpses,\na dozen or more, thrown one on top of another like sacks of\nflour, faintly discernible in the darkness. While the two\nofficers stood there, rumbling, squirting sounds began to come\nfrom this heap, first from one body, then from another--gases,\nswelling in the liquefying entrails of the dead men. They seemed\nto be complaining to one another; glup, glup, glup.\n\nThe boys went back to the Colonel, who was standing at the mouth\nof the communication, and told him there was nothing much to\nreport, except that the burying squad was needed badly.\n\n\"I expect!\" The Colonel shook his head. When Barclay Owens\narrived, he asked him what could be done here before daybreak.\nThe doughty engineer felt his way about as Claude and Gerhardt\nhad done; they heard him coughing, and beating off the flies. But\nwhen he came back he seemed rather cheered than discouraged.\n\n\"Give me a gang to get the casualties out, and with plenty of\nquick-lime and concrete I can make this loop all right in four\nhours, sir,\" he declared.\n\n\"I've brought plenty of lime, but where'll you get your\nconcrete?\"\n\n\"The Hun left about fifty sacks of it in the cellar, under your\nHeadquarters. I can do better, of course, if I have a few hours\nmore for my concrete to dry.\"\n\n\"Go ahead, Captain.\" The Colonel told Claude and David to bring\ntheir men up to the communication before light, and hold them\nready. \"Give Owens' cement a chance, but don't let the enemy put\nover any surprise on you.\"\n\nThe shelling began again at daybreak; it was hardest on the rear\ntrenches and the three-mile area behind. Evidently the enemy felt\nsure of what he had in Moltke trench; he wanted to cut off\nsupplies and possible reinforcements. The Missouri battalion did\nnot come up that day, but before noon a runner arrived from their\nColonel, with information that they were hiding in the wood. Five\nBoche planes had been circling over the wood since dawn,\nsignalling to the enemy Headquarters back on Dauphin Ridge; the\nMissourians were sure they had avoided detection by lying close\nin the under-brush. They would come up in the night. Their\nlinemen were following the runner, and Colonel Scott would be in\ntelephone communication with them in half an hour.\n\nWhen B Company moved into the Boar's Head at one o'clock in the\nafternoon, they could truthfully say that the prevailing smell\nwas now that of quick-lime. The parapet was evenly built up, the\nfiring step had been partly restored, and in the Snout there were\ngood emplacements for the machine guns. Certain unpleasant\nreminders were still to be found if one looked for them. In the\nSnout a large fat boot stuck stiffly from the side of the trench.\nCaptain Ovens explained that the ground sounded hollow in there,\nand the boot probably led back into a dugout where a lot of Hun\nbodies were entombed together. As he was pressed for time, he had\nthought best not to look for trouble. In one of the curves of the\nloop, just at the top of the earth wall, under the sand bags, a\ndark hand reached out; the five fingers, well apart, looked like\nthe swollen roots of some noxious weed. Hicks declared that this\nobject was disgusting, and during the afternoon he made Nifty\nJones and Oscar scrape down some earth and make a hump over the\npaw. But there was shelling in the night, and the earth fell\naway.\n\n\"Look,\" said Jones when he wakened his Sergeant. \"The first thing\nI seen when daylight come was his old fingers, wigglin' in the\nbreeze. He wants air, Heinie does; he won't stay covered.\"\n\nHicks got up and re-buried the hand himself, but when he came\naround with Claude on inspection, before breakfast, there were\nthe same five fingers sticking out again. The Sergeant's forehead\npuffed up and got red, and he swore that if he found the man who\nplayed dirty jokes, he'd make him eat this one.\n\nThe Colonel sent for Claude and Gerhardt to come to breakfast\nwith him. He had been talking by telephone with the Missouri\nofficers and had agreed that they should stay back in the bush\nfor the present. The continual circling of planes over the wood\nseemed to indicate that the enemy was concerned about the actual\nstrength of Moltke trench. It was possible their air scouts had\nseen the Texas men going back,--otherwise, why were they holding\noff?\n\nWhile the Colonel and the officers were at breakfast, a corporal\nbrought in two pigeons he had shot at dawn. One of them carried a\nmessage under its wing. The Colonel unrolled a strip of paper and\nhanded it to Gerhardt.\n\n\"Yes, sir, it's in German, but it's code stuff. It's a German\nnursery rhyme. Those reconnoitering planes must have dropped\nscouts on our rear, and they are sending in reports. Of course,\nthey can get more on us than the air men can. Here, do you want\nthese birds, Dick?\"\n\nThe boy grinned. \"You bet I do, sir! I may get a chance to fry\n'em, later on.\"\n\nAfter breakfast the Colonel went to inspect B Company in the\nBoar's Head. He was especially pleased with the advantageous\nplacing of the machine guns in the Snout. \"I expect you'll have a\nquiet day,\" he said to the men, \"but I wouldn't like to promise\nyou a quiet night. You'll have to be very steady in here; if\nFritz takes this loop, he's got us, you understand.\"\n\nThey had, indeed, a quiet day. Some of the men played cards, and\nOscar read his Bible. The night, too, began well. But at four\nfifteen everybody was roused by the gas alarm. Gas shells came\nover for exactly half an hour. Then the shrapnel broke loose;\nnot the long, whizzing scream of solitary shells, but drum-fire,\ncontinuous and deafening. A hundred electrical storms seemed\nraging at once, in the air and on the ground. Balls of fire were\nrolling all over the place. The range was a little long for the\nBoar's Head, they were not getting the worst of it; but thirty\nyards back everything was torn to pieces. Claude didn't see how\nanybody could be left alive back there. A single twister had\nkilled six of his men at the rear of the loop, where they were\nshovelling to keep the communication clear. Captain Owns' neat\nearthworks were being badly pounded.\n\nClaude and Gerhardt were consulting together when the smoke and\ndarkness began to take on the livid colour that announced the\ncoming of daybreak. A messenger ran in from the Colonel; the\nMissourians had not yet come up, and his telephone communication\nwith them was cut off. He was afraid they had got lost in the\nbombardment. \"The Colonel says you are to send two men back to\nbring them up; two men who can take charge if they're stampeded.\"\n\nWhen the messenger shouted this order, Gerhardt and Hicks looked\nat each other quickly, and volunteered to go.\n\nClaude hesitated. Hicks and David waited for no further consent;\nthey ran down the communication and disappeared.\n\nClaude stood in the smoke that was slowly growing greyer, and\nlooked after them with the deepest stab of despair he had ever\nknown. Only a man who was bewildered and unfit to be in command\nof other men would have let his best friend and his best officer\ntake such a risk. He was standing there under shelter, and his\ntwo friends were going back through that curtain of flying steel,\ntoward the square from which the lost battalion had last\nreported. If he knew them, they would not lose time following the\nmaze of trenches; they were probably even now out on the open,\nrunning straight through the enemy barrage, vaulting trench tops.\n\nClaude turned and went back into the loop. Well, whatever\nhappened, he had worked with brave men. It was worth having lived\nin this world to have known such men. Soldiers, when they were in\na tight place, often made secret propositions to God; and now he\nfound himself offering terms: If They would see to it that David\ncame back, They could take the price out of him. He would pay.\nDid They understand?\n\nAn hour dragged by. Hard on the nerves, waiting. Up the\ncommunication came a train with ammunition and coffee for the\nloop. The men thought Headquarters did pretty well to get hot\nfood to them through that barrage. A message came up in the\nColonel's hand:\n\n\"Be ready when the barrage stops.\"\n\nClaude took this up and showed it to the machine gunners in the\nSnout. Turning back, he ran into Hicks, stripped to his shirt and\ntrousers, as wet as if he had come out of the river, and splashed\nwith blood. His hand was wrapped up in a rag. He put his mouth to\nClaude's ear and shouted: \"We found them. They were lost. They're\ncoming. Send word to the Colonel.\"\n\n\"Where's Gerhardt?\"\n\n\"He's coming; bringing them up. God, it's stopped!\"\n\nThe bombardment ceased with a suddenness that was stupefying. The\nmen in the loop gasped and crouched as if they were falling from\na height. The air, rolling black with smoke and stifling with the\nsmell of gases and burning powder, was still as death. The\nsilence was like a heavy anaesthetic.\n\nClaude ran back to the Snout to see that the gun teams were\nready. \"Wake up, boys! You know why we're here!\"\n\nBert Fuller, who was up in the look-out, dropped back into the\ntrench beside him. \"They're coming, sir.\"\n\nClaude gave the signal to the machine guns. Fire opened all along\nthe loop. In a moment a breeze sprang up, and the heavy smoke\nclouds drifted to the rear. Mounting to the firestep, he peered\nover. The enemy was coming on eight deep, on the left of the\nBoar's Head, in long, waving lines that reached out toward the\nmain trench. Suddenly the advance was checked. The files of\nrunning men dropped behind a wrinkle in the earth fifty yards\nforward and did not instantly re-appear. It struck Claude that\nthey were waiting for something; he ought to be clever enough to\nknow for what, but he was not. The Colonel's line man came up to\nhim.\n\n\"Headquarters has a runner from the Missourians. They'll be up in\ntwenty minutes. The Colonel will put them in here at once. Till\nthen you must manage to hold.\"\n\n\"We'll hold. Fritz is behaving queerly. I don't understand his\ntactics...\"\n\nWhile he was speaking, everything was explained. The Boar's Snout\nspread apart with an explosion that split the earth, and went up\nin a volcano of smoke and flame. Claude and the Colonel's\nmessenger were thrown on their faces. When they got to their\nfeet, the Snout was a smoking crater full of dead and dying men.\nThe Georgia gun teams were gone.\n\nIt was for this that the Hun advance had been waiting behind the\nridge. The mine under the Snout had been made long ago, probably,\non a venture, when the Hun held Moltke trench for months without\nmolestation. During the last twenty-four hours they had been\ngetting their explosives in, reasoning that the strongest\ngarrison would be placed there.\n\nHere they were, coming on the run. It was up to the rifles. The\nmen who had been knocked down by the shock were all on their feet\nagain. They looked at their officer questioningly, as if the\nwhole situation had changed. Claude felt they were going soft\nunder his eyes. In a moment the Hun bombers would be in on them,\nand they would break. He ran along the trench, pointing over the\nsand bags and shouting, \"It's up to you, it's up to you!\"\n\nThe rifles recovered themselves and began firing, but Claude felt\nthey were spongy and uncertain, that their minds were already on\nthe way to the rear. If they did anything, it must be quick, and\ntheir gun-work must be accurate. Nothing but a withering fire\ncould check.... He sprang to the firestep and then out on the\nparapet. Something instantaneous happened; he had his men in\nhand.\n\n\"Steady, steady!\" He called the range to the rifle teams behind\nhim, and he could see the fire take effect. All along the Hun\nlines men were stumbling and falling. They swerved a little to\nthe left; he called the rifles to follow, directing them with his\nvoice and with his hands. It was not only that from here he could\ncorrect the range and direct the fire; the men behind him had\nbecome like rock. That line of faces below; Hicks, Jones, Fuller,\nAnderson, Oscar.... Their eyes never left him. With these men\nhe could do anything.\n\nThe right of the Hun line swerved out, not more than twenty yards\nfrom the battered Snout, trying to run to shelter under that pile\nof debris and human bodies. A quick concentration of rifle fire\ndepressed it, and the swell came out again toward the left.\nClaude's appearance on the parapet had attracted no attention\nfrom the enemy at first, but now the bullets began popping about\nhim; two rattled on his tin hat, one caught him in the shoulder.\nThe blood dripped down his coat, but he felt no weakness. He felt\nonly one thing; that he commanded wonderful men. When David came\nup with the supports he might find them dead, but he would find\nthem all there. They were there to stay until they were carried\nout to be buried. They were mortal, but they were unconquerable.\n\nThe Colonel's twenty minutes must be almost up, he thought. He\ncouldn't take his eyes from the front line long enough to look at\nhis wrist watch.... The men behind him saw Claude sway as if\nhe had lost his balance and were trying to recover it. Then he\nplunged, face down, outside the parapet. Hicks caught his foot\nand pulled him back. At the same moment the Missourians ran\nyelling up the communication. They threw their machine guns up on\nthe sand bags and went into action without an unnecessary motion.\n\nHicks and Bert Fuller and Oscar carried Claude forward toward the\nSnout, out of the way of the supports that were pouring in. He\nwas not bleeding very much. He smiled at them as if he were going\nto speak, but there was a weak blankness in his eyes. Bert tore\nhis shirt open; three clean bullet holes. By the time they looked\nat him again, the smile had gone... the look that was Claude\nhad faded. Hicks wiped the sweat and smoke from his officer's\nface. \"Thank God I never told him,\" he said. \"Thank God for\nthat!\"\n\nBert and Oscar knew what Hicks meant. Gerhardt had been blown to\npieces at his side when they dashed back through the enemy\nbarrage to find the Missourians. They were running together\nacross the open, not able to see much for smoke. They bumped into\na section of wire entanglement, left above an old trench. David\ncut round to the right, waving Hicks to follow him. The two were\nnot ten yards apart when the shell struck. Then Sergeant Hicks\nran on alone.\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nThe sun is sinking low, a transport is steaming slowly up the\nnarrows with the tide. The decks are covered with brown men. They\ncluster over the superstructure like bees in swarming time. Their\nattitudes are relaxed and lounging. Some look thoughtful, some\nwell contented, some are melancholy, and many are indifferent, as\nthey watch the shore approaching. They are not the same men who\nwent away.\n\nSergeant Hicks was standing in the stern, smoking, reflecting,\nwatching the twinkle of the red sunset upon the cloudy water. It\nis more than a year since he sailed for France. The world has\nchanged in that time, and so has he.\n\nBert Fuller elbowed his way up to the Sergeant. \"The doctor says\nColonel Maxey is dying, He won't live to get off the boat, much\nless to ride in the parade in New York tomorrow.\"\n\nHicks shrugged, as if Maxey's pneumonia were no affair of his.\n\"Well, we should worry! We've left better officers than him over\nthere.\"\n\n\"I'm not saying we haven't. But it seems too bad, when he's so\nstrong for fuss and feathers. He's been sending cables about that\nparade for weeks.\"\n\n\"Huh!\" Hicks elevated his eyebrows and glanced sidewise in\ndisdain. Presently he sputtered, squinting down at the glittering\nwater, \"Colonel Maxey, anyhow! Colonel for what Claude and\nGerhardt did, I guess!\" Hicks and Bert Fuller have been helping\nto keep the noble fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. They have always\nhung together and are usually quarrelling and grumbling at each\nother when they are off duty. Still, they hang together. They are\nthe last of their group. Nifty Jones and Oscar, God only knows\nwhy, have gone on to the Black Sea.\n\nDuring the year they were in the Rhine valley, Bert and Hicks\nwere separated only once, and that was when Hicks got a two\nweeks' leave and, by dint of persevering and fatiguing travel,\nwent to Venice. He had no proper passport, and the consuls and\nofficials to whom he had appealed in his difficulties begged him\nto content himself with something nearer. But he said he was\ngoing to Venice because he had always heard about it. Bert Fuller\nwas glad to welcome him back to Coblentz, and gave a \"wine party\"\nto celebrate his return. They expect to keep an eye on each\nother. Though Bert lives on the Platte and Hicks on the Big Blue,\nthe automobile roads between those two rivers are excellent.\n\nBert is the same sweet-tempered boy he was when he left his\nmother's kitchen; his gravest troubles have been frequent\nbetrothals. But Hicks' round, chubby face has taken on a slightly\ncynical expression,--a look quite out of place there. The chances\nof war have hurt his feelings... not that he ever wanted\nanything for himself. The way in which glittering honours bump\ndown upon the wrong heads in the army, and palms and crosses\nblossom on the wrong breasts, has, as he says, thrown his compass\noff a few points.\n\nWhat Hicks had wanted most in this world was to run a garage and\nrepair shop with his old chum, Dell Able. Beaufort ended all\nthat. He means to conduct a sort of memorial shop, anyhow, with\n\"Hicks and Able\" over the door. He wants to roll up his sleeves\nand look at the logical and beautiful inwards of automobiles for\nthe rest of his life.\n\nAs the transport enters the North River, sirens and steam\nwhistles all along the water front begin to blow their shrill\nsalute to the returning soldiers. The men square their shoulders\nand smile knowingly at one another; some of them look a little\nbored. Hicks slowly lights a cigarette and regards the end of it\nwith an expression which will puzzle his friends when he gets\nhome.\n\nBy the banks of Lovely Creek, where it began, Claude Wheeler's\nstory still goes on. To the two old women who work together in\nthe farmhouse, the thought of him is always there, beyond\neverything else, at the farthest edge of consciousness, like the\nevening sun on the horizon.\n\n Mrs. Wheeler got the word of his death one afternoon in the\nsitting-room, the room in which he had bade her good-bye. She was\nreading when the telephone rang.\n\n\"Is this the Wheeler farm? This is the telegraph office at\nFrankfort. We have a message from the War Department,--\" the\nvoice hesitated. \"Isn't Mr. Wheeler there?\"\n\n\"No, but you can read the message to me.\"\n\nMrs. Wheeler said, \"Thank you,\" and hung up the receiver. She\nfelt her way softly to her chair. She had an hour alone, when\nthere was nothing but him in the room,--but him and the map\nthere, which was the end of his road. Somewhere among those\nperplexing names, he had found his place.\n\nClaude's letters kept coming for weeks afterward; then came the\nletters from his comrades and his Colonel to tell her all.\n\nIn the dark months that followed, when human nature looked to her\nuglier than it had ever done before, those letters were Mrs.\nWheeler's comfort. As she read the newspapers, she used to think\nabout the passage of the Red Sea, in the Bible; it seemed as if\nthe flood of meanness and greed had been held back just long\nenough for the boys to go over, and then swept down and engulfed\neverything that was left at home. When she can see nothing that\nhas come of it all but evil, she reads Claude's letters over\nagain and reassures herself; for him the call was clear, the\ncause was glorious. Never a doubt stained his bright faith. She\ndivines so much that he did not write. She knows what to read\ninto those short flashes of enthusiasm; how fully he must have\nfound his life before he could let himself go so far--he, who was\nso afraid of being fooled! He died believing his own country\nbetter than it is, and France better than any country can ever\nbe. And those were beautiful beliefs to die with. Perhaps it was\nas well to see that vision, and then to see no more. She would\nhave dreaded the awakening,--she sometimes even doubts whether he\ncould have borne at all that last, desolating disappointment. One\nby one the heroes of that war, the men of dazzling soldiership,\nleave prematurely the world they have come back to. Airmen whose\ndeeds were tales of wonder, officers whose names made the blood\nof youth beat faster, survivors of incredible dangers,--one by\none they quietly die by their own hand. Some do it in obscure\nlodging houses, some in their office, where they seemed to be\ncarrying on their business like other men. Some slip over a\nvessel's side and disappear into the sea. When Claude's mother\nhears of these things, she shudders and presses her hands tight\nover her breast, as if she had him there. She feels as if God had\nsaved him from some horrible suffering, some horrible end. For as\nshe reads, she thinks those slayers of themselves were all so\nlike him; they were the ones who had hoped extravagantly,--who in\norder to do what they did had to hope extravagantly, and to\nbelieve passionately. And they found they had hoped and believed\ntoo much. But one she knew, who could ill bear disillusion...\nsafe, safe.\n\nMahailey, when they are alone, sometimes addresses Mrs. Wheeler\nas \"Mudder\"; \"Now, Mudder, you go upstairs an' lay down an' rest\nyourself.\" Mrs. Wheeler knows that then she is thinking of\nClaude, is speaking for Claude. As they are working at the table\nor bending over the oven, something reminds them of him, and they\nthink of him together, like one person: Mahailey will pat her\nback and say, \"Never you mind, Mudder; you'll see your boy up\nyonder.\" Mrs. Wheeler always feels that God is near,--but\nMahailey is not troubled by any knowledge of interstellar spaces,\nand for her He is nearer still,--directly overhead, not so very\nfar above the kitchen stove."