Coming Home

but I knew she was a young woman who didn’t live by rule, and she had already struck me as having a distaste for superfluous expenditures of feeling.

Yes, she was less effective by day. She looked older for one thing; her face was pinched, and a little sallow and for the first time I noticed that her cheek-bones were too high. Her eyes, too, had lost their velvet depth: fine eyes still, but not unfathomable. But the smile with which she greeted me was charming: it ran over her tired face like a lamp-lighter kindling flames as he runs.

“I was looking for you,” she said. “Shall we have a little talk? The reception is sure to last another hour: every one of the villagers is going to tell just what happened to him or her when the Germans came.”

“And you’ve run away from the ceremony?”

“I’m a trifle tired of hearing the same adventures retold,” she said, still smiling.

“But I thought there were no adventures—that that was the wonder of it?”

She shrugged. “It makes their stories a little dull, at any rate; we’ve not a hero or a martyr to show.” She had strolled farther from the house as we talked, leading me in the direction of a bare horse-chestnut walk that led toward the park.

“Of course Jean’s got to listen to it all, poor boy; but I needn’t,” she explained.

I didn’t know exactly what to answer and we walked on a little way in silence; then she said: “If you’d carried him off this morning he would have escaped all this fuss.” After a pause she added slowly: “On the whole, it might have been as well.”

“To carry him off?”

“Yes.” She stopped and looked at me. “I wish you would.”

“Would?—Now?”

“Yes, now: as soon as you can. He’s really not strong yet—he’s drawn and nervous.” (“So are you,” I thought.) “And the excitement is greater than you can perhaps imagine—”

I gave her back her look. “Why, I think I can imagine….”

She coloured up through her sallow skin and then laughed away her blush. “Oh, I don’t mean the excitement of seeing me! But his parents, his grandmother, the cure, all the old associations—”

I considered for a moment; then I said: “As a matter of fact, you’re about the only person he hasn’t seen.”

She checked a quick answer on her lips, and for a moment or two we faced each other silently. A sudden sense of intimacy, of complicity almost, came over me. What was it that the girl’s silence was crying out to me?

“If I take him away now he won’t have seen you at all,” I continued.

She stood under the bare trees, keeping her eyes on me. “Then take him away now!” she retorted; and as she spoke I saw her face change, decompose into deadly apprehension and as quickly regain its usual calm. From where she stood she faced the courtyard, and glancing in the same direction I saw the throng of villagers coming out of the chateau. “Take him away—take him away at once!” she passionately commanded; and the next minute Jean de Rechamp detached himself from the group and began to limp down the walk in our direction.

What was I to do? I can’t exaggerate the sense of urgency Mlle. Malo’s appeal gave me, or my faith in her sincerity. No one who had seen her meeting with Rechamp the night before could have doubted her feeling for him: if she wanted him away it was not because she did not delight in his presence. Even now, as he approached, I saw her face veiled by a faint mist of emotion: it was like watching a fruit ripen under a midsummer sun. But she turned sharply from the house and began to walk on.

“Can’t you give me a hint of your reason?” I suggested as I followed.

“My reason? I’ve given it!” I suppose I looked incredulous, for she added in a lower voice: “I don’t want him to hear—yet—about all the horrors.”

“The horrors? I thought there had been none here.”

“All around us—” Her voice became a whisper. “Our friends… our neighbours… every one….”

“He can hardly avoid hearing of that, can he? And besides, since you’re all safe and happy…. Look here,” I broke off, “he’s coming after us. Don’t we look as if we were running away?”

She turned around, suddenly paler; and in a stride or two Rechamp was at our side. He was pale too; and before I could find a pretext for slipping away he had begun to speak. But I saw at once that he didn’t know or care if I was there.

“What was the name of the officer in command who was quartered here?” he asked, looking straight at the girl.

She raised her eye-brows slightly. “Do you mean to say that after listening for three hours to every inhabitant of Bechamp you haven’t found that out?”

“They all call him something different. My grandmother says he had a French name: she calls him Chariot.”

“Your grandmother was never taught German: his name was the Oberst von Scharlach.” She did not remember my presence either: the two were still looking straight in each other’s eyes.

Bechamp had grown white to the lips: he was rigid with the effort to control himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was Scharlach who was here?” he brought out at last in a low voice.

She turned her eyes in my direction. “I was just explaining to Mr. Greer—”

“To Mr. Greer?” He looked at me too, half-angrily.

“I know the stories that are about,” she continued quietly; “and I was saying to your friend that, since we had been so happy as to be spared, it seemed useless to dwell on what has happened elsewhere.”