A Soldier of the Legion | Page 6

little time together, though they were always
on affectionate terms. She had never spoken a disagreeable word to him,
never given him a cross look. Only--there had been nothing of the
mother about her. She had treated him like a nice visiting boy who
must be entertained, even fascinated, and then gently got rid of when he
began to be a bore. In his first term at West Point she had sailed for
Europe, and stopped there for two years. When he was graduated she
had gone again, and stayed another year. They had met only once since
he had been stationed at Fort Ellsworth: last Christmas, when he had
run on to New York and surprised her. She had been in great beauty,
looking not a day over thirty. And now--Max could not make it seem
true. But, at least, she wanted him. Max clutched at the thought with
passion, and scarcely heard Grant saying that he must hurry on to the
office; he had come only for a word and a handshake: it was better that
the governor alone should go with dear old Max to the house.
Mrs. Doran's town automobile was waiting with a solemn chauffeur
and footman who bent their eyes reverently, not to look the stricken
young soldier in the face. Max had a sick thrill as he saw the smart blue
monster, with its row of glittering glass eyes; it had been his Christmas
present to his mother by request. When the telegram told him briefly
that she had been hurt in a motor accident, he had thought with agony
that it might have been in the car he had given. He was thankful that it
had not been so. That would have seemed too horrible--as if he had
killed her. Now he would hear how it had really happened. Every nerve
was tense as if he were awaiting an operation without anesthetics.
There were not many blocks to go from the Grand Central to the Fifth
Avenue home of the Dorans, an old house which had been remodelled

and made magnificent by Max's father to receive his bride. In less than
ten minutes the blue automobile had slipped through all the traffic and
reached its destination; but many questions can be asked and answered
in eight minutes. Between the moment of starting, and the moment
when Max's one hastily packed suitcase was being carried up to the
door, he had heard the whole story. The fated car had been a friend's
car. There had been a collision. The two automobiles had turned over.
For half an hour she had lain crushed under the weight of the motor
before she could be got out. Her back was broken, and she had been
horribly burnt. Even if she could have lived--which was
impossible--she would have been shockingly disfigured. Edwin Reeves
had been with her once, for a few minutes: she had wanted to speak to
him about certain things, matters of business, and the doctors, who
never left her, had stopped giving her opiates on purpose. From the first
she had said that she must be kept alive till Max could come, and that
no matter what she had to suffer her mind must be clear for a talk with
him. After that, nothing mattered. She wanted to die and be out of her
misery. When Mr. Reeves had been taken into her room her face had
been covered with a white veil, and Max must prepare himself to be
received in the same way. It was better that he should know this
beforehand and be spared a shock.
Never to see that beautiful face again in this world! Max felt like one
dead and galvanized as he walked into the house and was received by a
doctor--some great specialist whose name he had heard, but whom he
had never chanced to meet. Not once did his thoughts rush back to
Billie Brookton, and the night when he had meant to put on her finger
the blue diamond in the platinum ring. Billie was in another world, a
world a million miles away, as following the doctor Max walked softly
into his mother's room.
There he had once more that insistent feeling of unreality. The gay
room with its shell-pink melting into yellow and orange looked so
unsuited to any condition but joy that it was impossible to believe
tragedy had stalked in uninvited. Even with the morning light shut out
by the drawn yellow curtains, and the electricity turned on in the flower
or gauze-shaded lamps, it looked a place dedicated to the joy of life and

beauty. But when, with a physical effort, Max turned his eyes to the
bed, copied from one where Marie Antoinette had slept, he saw that
which seemed to