CHAPTER V
THE CONFESSION
“Don’t talk if you prefer not; perhaps you may be able to sleep after a little if I sit here beside you,” Mrs. Burton said gently.
“But I would prefer to be alone,” the young French girl answered, speaking English with a pretty foreign accent.
Instantly Mrs. Burton rose, intending to leave the tiny state-room; however, having gone but a few steps she heard the he same voice plead:
“No, please don’t leave me. I have been watching you and your friends ever since our ship sailed, and as I must talk to some one, I wish it to be you. If you only knew how sorry I am to have created a scene and to have given so much trouble, when everybody has been so kind.”
Then the girl began to cry again, but softly as if her desire for tears was nearly spent.
Without replying Mrs. Burton took her former position.
Occasionally she had a moment of thinking that perhaps after her years of experience as a Camp Fire guardian she was beginning to understand something of the utterly unlike temperaments of varying types of girls. Moreover, in spite of Aunt Patricia’s judgment, her work had afforded her unusual opportunities for the study of human nature.
Now, as she sat silently watching the young French girl in her effort to regain her self-control, Mrs. Burton realized that hers would be no ordinary story. Her friend had chosen to protect her by stating that she was suffering from an attack of nerves, yet this instant the girl was making an intense effort to gain a fresh hold upon herself both mentally and physically.
“I am sorry,” she repeated a moment later, “for I realize now I should never have made the attempt to return home to France, although I thought after nearly three years in the United States surely I had the courage! Still, for the past few days I have been becoming more and more convinced that I was going to fail, that I had not the strength for the work ahead of me. What you were told just now, that I had merely fainted, was not true. I had made up my mind that since I was not going to be able to be of service to my country I would not add to her burden. I could not do that; there had to be some way out, and I had to find the way.”
Sitting up, Yvonne now leaned forward, resting her small head with its heavy weight of fair hair upon her hands, clasped under her chin. She was not looking at her companion. Her eyes held an expression which betrays an inner vision.
“I did make an effort to do what you suspect. I wonder if I was wrong? Certainly I was unsuccessful, since I do not even feel ill in consequence. I suppose I ought to explain that I had written a note to apologize for the mistake I had made in urging the Red Cross unit to bring me with them to France and to say I regretted the distress and trouble I must give. Then as I was carrying the letter to the room of the friend whom you found here with me I think I must have fainted. She was shocked and angry when she learned what I had attempted to do and I have given my word I will not try again.” Yvonne was silent for a moment and then added with another catch in her voice: “Do you think it wicked of me, because I am still a little sorry I failed in what I attempted? But I don’t think you will when I have told you my history.”
Under ordinary circumstances Yvonne’s broken and incoherent story would have annoyed Mrs. Burton. She had scant sympathy and could make but slight excuse for the neurotic persons who have no fortitude with which to meet life’s inevitable disasters but expend all their energy in compassion for themselves. Especially did she resent this characteristic in a young girl, having grown accustomed to the sanity and the outdoor spirit engendered by the Camp Fire life. Moreover, one has at present no time or pity save for real tragedies.
Yet Yvonne’s attitude had not so affected her. Instead she realized that the girl’s suffering had been due to a vital cause and that the secret of her action still remained hidden.
“Had you not better rest and talk to me later?” Mrs. Burton inquired. “I think you are very tired, more so than you realize. After a time perhaps you will see things more clearly. You are young, Yvonne, to believe there is nothing more for you in life that is worth while.”
“I know that would be true if these were not war times, Madame,” the girl answered. “Will you please listen to my story now? There may be no opportunity at another time.”
Slipping out of her berth, Yvonne proffered the one small chair the state-room afforded to her visitor.
“Won’t you sit here? You may be more comfortable,” she suggested.
Then she found a seat for herself on the lounge which ran along one side of the room.
By this time the little French girl was looking so completely exhausted that Mrs. Burton would have liked again to urge her to wait. Yet after all perhaps it might be a relief to have her confession over!
“I was living in a château with my mother and two brothers when the war began,” Yvonne said, going directly to the heart of her story. “After the news came that war was declared and the Germans had invaded our country, my older brother, Andre, left at once to join his regiment near Paris. At that time we did not dream there could be danger near our home, which seemed so far from the front. I do not know whether you have noticed my name on our passenger list, Yvonne Fleury, and our home was called the Château Yvonne. It is not in existence any longer. But I am afraid I am not telling my story clearly. Sometimes I grow confused trying to remember when things actually happened, as they all came quickly and unexpectedly. After my brother and our men servants had gone my mother and I tried to carry on the work at the château as well as we could with only the women to help. We were not rich people; my father had died some years before, soon after my younger brother was born. But we had a good deal of land and a beautiful orchard. It seems strange to think that even the orchard has been destroyed!”
As Yvonne talked she had a little habit of frowning, almost as if she were doubting the truth of her own story. Nevertheless, however unique and impossible her story might sound to her own ears, stories like hers had grown only too familiar since the outbreak of the war in Europe.
A moment later and she seemed confused, as if scarcely knowing how to take up the threads of her own history. Afterwards she tried to speak more slowly, her voice sounding as if she were worn out both from her recent suffering and from the effort to recount her own and her country’s tragedy.
“For weeks after the war started we had almost no news of any kind to tell us what was taking place. My brother could not send us a letter, as all our trains were devoted to carrying our troops. Now and then, when an occasional motor car passed through our village, a soldier or an officer would drop on the roadside an edition speciale de la Presse. Perhaps one of the old peasants, picking up the paper, would bring it to our château. Afterwards a number of them would gather around while either my mother or I read aloud the news. In those first days the news was nearly always sad news.”
Then for a little while Yvonne made no effort to continue her story and Mrs. Burton understood her silence.
“As soon as we could, my mother and I organized a little branch of La Croix Rouge in our village and did what we could. We had many people to help and so spent most of our time making bandages from old linen. We were told then that the wounded might be sent back across the Marne to be cared for by us and that our houses must be made ready to use as hospitals. But the wounded were not cared for by us, not in those early weeks of the war. You know what took place, Madame. Our soldiers were defeated; it is now an old story. One night when the battle line was drawing closer and closer to our home we were warned to flee. But my mother could not, would not believe the word when it came and so we waited too long. We had only a farm wagon and an old horse with which to make our escape, our other horses and car having been requisitioned for the army.”
This time, when Yvonne hesitated, Mrs. Burton had a cowardly wish that she would not go on with her story, so easy it was to anticipate what might follow.
In this moment Yvonne lived over again the night in her life she could never forget. Instead of the soft lapping of the waves against the sides of the ship, the young French girl was hearing the booming of guns, the shrieking of shells and the final patter of bullets like a falling rain.
“I would prefer not to tell you anything more in detail, Mrs. Burton,” Yvonne afterwards added more calmly than one could have thought possible.
“The night of our attempted escape we were overtaken by the enemy and my little brother was killed; a few days later my mother died of the shock and exposure. I don’t know just how things happened. I remember I was alone one night in a woods with a battle going on all around me. Next morning I believe the Germans began a retreat. A French soldier found me and took me with him to the home of some French people. I think I must have been with them several weeks before I was myself again. Then I learned that our château had been burned and my brother reported killed.
“One day an American friend, who had learned of our family tragedy, came to see me and decided that it would be wiser to take me home to his own family in the United States. I was so dazed and miserable he believed I would be happier there and would sooner learn to forget. Of course after a time I was happier, but of course one can never forget. So at last I persuaded my friends I must be allowed to return to my own country, that I must help my people who were still going through all that I had endured. My friends were opposed to the idea, but because I insisted, at last they gave their consent. Then after our boat sailed I felt I could not go back to France. I was afraid. I remembered the long night in the woods–the German soldiers – ”
Mrs. Burton’s arms were about the girl.
“Please don’t talk any more of the past, Yvonne. Try to remember, my dear, that the enemy is no longer in the neighborhood of your old home. He has been driven further and further back until some day, please God, the last German soldier shall have disappeared forever from the sacred soil of France.
“Sleep now, I shall sit here beside you. Later I will talk to you about joining my group of girls in France. You are not strong enough for the Red Cross work at present, but a great deal of our work will be among young French girls and you could be of the greatest aid to us if you care to help. Yet there will be time enough later to speak of our Camp Fire plans.”
However, when Yvonne had crawled back into her berth, more exhausted than she had realized, Mrs. Burton continued sitting beside her. Then, hoping the sound of her voice might be soothing and in order to help Yvonne to sleep and also because of the power of suggestion, she repeated a Camp Fire verse:
“As fagots are brought from the forest,
Firmly held by the sinews which bind them,
I will cleave to my Camp Fire sisters
Wherever, whenever I find them.
“I will strive to grow strong like the pine tree,
To be pure in my deepest desire;
To be true to the truth that is in me
And follow the Law of the Fire.”
CHAPTER VI
A FRENCH FARM HOUSE ON THE FIELD OF HONOR
“Is the French country more tragic or less so than you anticipated, Vera?” Peggy Webster inquired.
She and Vera Lagerloff were walking along what must once have served as a road, each girl carrying a large, nearly empty basket on her arm.
“Do you mean the actual country?” Vera questioned. “Then, yes, conditions are worse than I expected to find them, certainly in a neighborhood like this, where the work of restoration is only just beginning.” She frowned, shaking her head sadly. “I could never have imagined God’s earth could be transformed to look like a place of torment, and yet this countryside suggests one of the hells in Dante’s ‘Inferno.’ But if you mean are the French people more tragic than I thought to find them, then a thousand times, no! Was there ever anything so inspiring or so amazing as their happiness and courage in returning to their old homes? The fact that their homes are no longer in existence seems not to discourage them, now their beloved land has been restored. When we have been working here a longer time I hope I shall recover from my desire to weep each time I see an old man or woman happily engaged in rebuilding one of their ruined huts. It is a wonderful experience, Peggy, this opportunity to appreciate the spiritual bravery of the French people. I hope I may learn a lesson from them. I have needed just such a lesson since Billy’s death.”
For a moment Peggy Webster made no reply.
The entire countryside through which they were passing lay between the line of the German advance into France at the beginning of the war and the famous Hindenburg line to which the Boches were forced back. The Germans had so devastated the French villages and country, it was as if the plague of the world had swept across them. The valley had also suffered the bombardment of the enemy and the returning fire from their own guns.
Yet on this winter day the sun was shining brilliantly on the uptorn earth, which once had been so fair, while in a bit of broken shell not far from the road an indomitable sparrow had builded her nest.
There were no shrubs and the trees were gaunt scarred trunks, without branches or leaves, reminding one of an ancient gloomy picture in the old-time family Bible, known as “Dry Bones in the Valley.”
“Well, even the French country does not make me sorrowful, not just at present,” Peggy replied. “If only the enemy can be forced further back next spring when the expected drive takes place, what a wonderful opportunity for us to be allowed to continue to help with the restoration of the French country. I do not believe many years will be required before the land will be lovely and fruitful again. But then you know I am a tiresome practical person. You don’t suppose by any chance this portion of France will ever be destroyed by the enemy a second time? Yes, I know even such a suggestion sounds like disloyalty and I do not of course believe such a tragedy could occur. Just think, Vera, what only a handful of American women have accomplished here in the Aisne valley! Ten American women have had charge of the rehabilitation of twenty-seven villages and with the aid of the soldiers during their leaves of absence from the trenches have placed five thousand acres of land under cultivation. I hope we make a success of our work, Vera, yet whatever the future holds, we must stick to our posts.”
The two Camp Fire girls were walking ankle deep in the winter mud. Where the roads had been cut into furrows by the passing of heavy artillery, miniature streams of melted snow ran winding in and out like the branches of a river. Now and then a gulley across the road would be so deep and wide that one had to make a flying leap to cross safely.
About a quarter of a mile away the Aisne watered the countryside and the towns. Not far off was the classic old town of Rheims with her ancient Cathedral already partly destroyed. Encircling the landscape was the crown of low hills where not for days but years the tides of battle have surged up and down from victory to defeat, from defeat to victory, until during the winter of 1917 and 1918 there was a lull in the world conflict.
Finally the two girls came in sight of a field. Already a devoted effort was being made to prepare the ground for an early spring plowing. Stray bits of shell, the half of a battered helmet, the butt of a broken gun had been laid in a neat pile, the larger stones had been placed beside them.
Standing in front of a tiny hut which evidently had been partly burned down, were an old man and woman busily at work trying to rebuild their house. A small quantity of new lumber lay on the ground beside them.
“Dear me, I wish I were a carpenter, a mason, a doctor, I don’t know what else, and a million times a millionaire, then one might really be useful!” Peggy exclaimed, as she and Vera stopped to gaze sympathetically at the old couple.
The next instant their attention was also attracted by a child who was sitting near the pile of broken stones and shells nursing something in her arms. At first she did not observe the two American girls, although they were facing her and not many yards away.
Her shock of dark hair looked as if it had been cut from her head in the darkness, she had large unhappy black eyes and a thin, haggard face.
Finally discovering the two older girls, with an unexpected cry of terror, she made a flying leap toward the house, still clasping her broken doll, and hid herself inside.
At the child’s cry the man and woman also turned as if they too were frightened and yet unable to flee. For an instant Vera and Peggy saw in their faces a suggestion of what they all too recently had endured. The next moment the old peasants were bowing and smiling with unfailing politeness.
“Do you think we might speak to them, Vera?” Peggy inquired. “Of course we do not wish to be obtrusive, but I have a few groceries which I did not give away in the village still remaining in my basket. It is possible they might find them useful. How glad I am Yvonne Fleury is living with us! Already she has taught me more than I could ever learn in any other way about the French people, their gentleness, their infinite industry and patience and above all their beautiful manners. I hope no one of them will ever feel any American tries to help in a spirit of patronage; as for myself, each day I pray for a fresh gift of tact.”
Vera started forward.
“Come with me, Peggy, I think I can persuade the two old people to realize we only wish to be helpful. You see, my own people were Russian peasants and there ought to be a bond of sympathy between us. It is true the French earned their liberty over a century ago, while our liberty yet hangs in the balance, now that German autocracy is trying to replace the Russian. I believe I am a better carpenter than these old people; if they are friendly I intend to ask them to allow me to return to assist them with their work tomorrow.”
Afterwards for ten or fifteen minutes the two girls remained talking happily with their new acquaintances.
Like many other Americans, both Vera and Peggy had firm faith in their knowledge of the French language until their arrival in France. Assuredly they could understand each other perfectly as well as other Americans and English friends who spoke French slowly and deliberately. But unfortunately the French folk apparently speak with greater rapidity than any other nation on the face of the earth and with a wealth of idioms and unexpected intonations, leaving the foreigner who has never lived in France floundering hopelessly in pursuit of their meaning.
In contrast with their other new French acquaintances the two American girls now found the old peasant and his wife a real satisfaction. Their vocabularies were not large and they spoke in a halting, simple fashion not difficult to translate.
Their story was not unlike the story of thousands of other families in the stricken regions of France. During the period of victory the Germans had been quartered in the nearby village, but as the village was not large and the soldiers were numerous, a few of them had been sent to live with the small peasant farmers not far from the town. They were ordered not only to live upon them, but also to secure whatever livestock they owned, or whatever food of value.
Père and Mère Michét had possessed a daughter and a son-in-law. The son they thought still alive and fighting for France. Their daughter, Marguerite Michét, had disappeared.
“La petite Marguerite, she has never been herself since her mother was taken,” Mère Michét explained. “I tell her always la bonne mère will return, but she is afraid of strangers; you will pardon her?”
When at last the girls had been permitted to leave their small offerings and had started toward their new home, Vera had agreed to return next day to render what assistance she could toward the restoration of the little house. Peggy was to come back in order to persuade the little French girl to make friends and perhaps pay them a visit at the farm.
After walking on for a short added distance, both girls finally reached their own French farm house.
It was now late afternoon and the old battered building appeared homely and forbidding. Once upon a time, with the French love of color, the farm house had been painted a bright pink, but now the color had been washed off, as if tears had rolled down the face of some poor old painted lady, smearing her faded cheeks. A fire had evidently been started when the Germans began their retreat, which for some freakish reason had died down after destroying only the rear portion of the building.
After the arrival of the Camp Fire unit in France the entire party had gone straight to Paris as they planned, where their credentials had been presented to the proper authorities, as well as a brief outline of the work which they hoped to be allowed to undertake. Their idea was at once so simple and so practical that no objection was raised.
The Camp Fire unit looked forward to establishing a community farm in one of the ruined districts of France. So after a short stay in Paris, following the advice of the American Committee, Mrs. Burton and Aunt Patricia set out to find a home for their unit. Later the Camp Fire girls joined them at the old farm house on the Aisne.
Only a little time had passed, nevertheless the farm already suggested home.
As Peggy and Vera entered the open space where a gate had once stood, they discovered the entire Camp Fire community outside in the yard.
As usual, Aunt Patricia was giving orders to everybody in sight, while Mrs. Burton in her effort to be of assistance as she urged the others not to attempt too much, was fluttering about, as often as not in the way.
As a matter of fact, the Camp Fire girls were paying but little attention either to her or to Aunt Patricia. Mary Gilchrist, a few moments before, having driven her motor into the farm yard, the girls were at present helping her to unload.
After crossing to France with the Sunrise Camp Fire Unit, Mary had become so much one of them that she had concluded to remain with them for a time, certainly until she could find more useful work. Therefore her motor and her services were temporarily at their disposal.
It is amazing what women and girls are accomplishing these days without masculine aid, and whether or not this is a fortunate state of affairs, the war has left no choice.
Since they were both strong and energetic, Vera and Peggy were glad to have reached home at so critical a moment. However, the other girls were getting on quite comfortably without their aid. Bettina and Alice Ashton, having placed a plank at the end of the car, managed so that the large boxes and packing cases could slide onto the ground without being lifted. Nearly every box of any size bore the name of “Miss Patricia Lord.”
Finally, “Gill,” for the Camp Fire girls were by this time calling Mary Gilchrist by her diminutive title, as she seemed to prefer it, standing up on the seat of her motor, began signaling for attention.
“Be quiet for a moment everybody, please, and listen as diligently as you can. I am not a magician, nor yet a ventriloquist, yet if you will be perfectly silent you will think I am one or both.”
The next instant and Mary’s audience became aware of an extraordinary combination of familiar noises proceeding from the depths of her motor. One felt like a guest at a “mad tea-party,” although of a different nature from Alice’s. The noises were a mingled collection of squawks and cackles and crowing, and pitched in a considerably lower key, a rich but unmistakable grunt.
Alone Aunt Patricia appeared gratified, almost exultant.
Stepping over toward the car with her long, militant stride, she gave her commands briefly.
“Here, Vera, you have more brains than the other girls, help me to move these crates. Polly Burton considered it possible to run a community farm without a farm animal within twenty miles. But then she was not brought up on a small place in Ireland where we kept the pig in the parlor!” And here Miss Patricia’s rich Irish brogue betrayed her cheerfulness for she only gave sway to her Irish pronunciation in moments of excitement.
The next moment, not only with Vera’s but also with Peggy’s and Alice Ashton’s aid, the four women dragged forward a large wooden box with open slats containing a noble collection of fowls, then another of geese and ducks. Finally with extreme caution they engineered the landing of a crate which had been the temporary home of a comfortable American hog and her eugenic family.
“Good gracious, Aunt Patricia, how did you ever manage to acquire such valuable possessions?” Mrs. Burton demanded.
“By ordering them shipped from my own farm in Massachusetts a month or more before we sailed for France and then by forwarding my address to the proper persons after we landed here,” Miss Patricia answered calmly. Ignoring any further assistance, she began opening a box which was filled with grain.
“I presume other things have arrived for me as well, Mary Gilchrist?” Miss Patricia questioned.
Mary nodded and laughed. She looked very fetching in her motor driver’s costume of khaki with the short skirt and trousers and the Norfolk jacket belted in military fashion. On her hair, which had ruddy red brown lights in it, she wore a small military hat deeply dented in the center.
“Goodness gracious, Aunt Patricia, dozens of things!” she replied. “You must have chartered an entire steamer to bring over your gifts to the French nation. Best of all, there are two beautiful cows waiting for you in Soissons at this moment. I could not bring them in the motor, nor did I dare invite them to amble along behind my car. But I have arranged with an old man in the town to escort the cows out to our place tomorrow, or as soon as possible.”
No one did anything but stare at Miss Patricia for the next few seconds.
Whether or not this condition of affairs made her unusually self-conscious, or whatever the reason, finally she rested from her labor of opening boxes to gaze first at Mrs. Burton and then slowly from one girl’s face to the other’s.
“I don’t mean to add to your burdens by asking any one of you to assist me in running my farm,” she began in a tone which might have been considered apologetic had it emanated from any one than Aunt Patricia. “I intend to find an old man to help and to do the rest myself.”
Then a peculiar expression crossed the rugged old face.
“You see, I was raised on a tiny farm in Ireland and used sometimes to know what it meant to be hungry until my brother came over to the United States and made a fortune in ways I am more or less ashamed to remember. I have been telling Polly Burton that I crossed over to France because I wished to look after her and also to help her care for you girls. But that was not the whole truth. I think I came largely because I could not sleep in my bed of nights knowing how many old people and babies there were in this devil-ridden portion of France who were hungry. Oh, there are many people as well as the governments interested in keeping the soldiers well fed! Maybe it’s a crime these days for the old and for babies to require food! Yet they do need it. So if you don’t mind, Polly, I want the people in our neighborhood to feel that they can come to our farm for milk and eggs, or whatever we have to give them. I left word with the manager of my farm near Boston to ship livestock to me in France whenever the chance offers. I am hoping after a little, when these old people get back on their farms that we may be able to give each family sufficient stock to keep them going until their young men and women return home. But remember, I don’t wish to interfere with what you children are doing, nursing the sick and opening schools and starting play centers. Heaven only knows what you are not undertaking! As I said before, I’ll just look after my farm.”
Here Miss Patricia attempted to return to her usual belligerent manner, but found it difficult because Mrs. Burton had placed her arm about her. Try as Aunt Patricia might to conceal her adoration of Mrs. Burton, it was nearly always an impossible feat.
Besides Mrs. Burton was exclaiming with a little catch in her voice:
“You dear, splendid, old Irish gentlewoman! Is there anybody in the world in the least like you? Of course you were right when you announced that I never would think of the really practical things we should require for our work over here. But, although I spent as much money as I could possibly afford, I have realized every day since our arrival, that if I had expended every cent I ever hope to possess, it would have amounted to nothing. Yet I never once thought of the shipping of stock for the little farms in our neighborhood, Aunt Patricia. I am sure you will make life more worth while for every man and woman in this part of the French country before many months.”
Instead of appearing gratified by these compliments, Miss Patricia was heard to murmur something or other about Polly Burton’s fashion of exaggeration. Then, perhaps partly to conceal embarrassment, she began tearing the slats from the side of one of her crates. Afterwards, driving her travel-worn flock of chickens toward the chicken house, which she herself had made ready, and shooing them with her black skirt, Miss Patricia temporarily disappeared.
Through tears Mrs. Burton laughed at the picture.
Vera followed Miss Patricia, whom she had learned to like and admire since the afternoon of their extraordinary introduction.
“I hope to be allowed to help with the farm work, Aunt Patricia,” she urged. “You know I too was brought up on Mr. Webster’s farm in New Hampshire, besides, all my people in Russia were peasant farmers.”