Tatterdemalion | Page 7

to tell her; but the day went by, and in spite of oxygen and brandy it did not come. She was sinking fast; her only movements were a tiny compression now and then of the lips, a half-opening of the eyes, and once a smile when the parrot spoke. The rally came at eight o'clock. Mademoiselle was sitting by the couch when the voice came fairly strong: "Give my love to my dear soldiers, and take them their francs out of my purse, please. Augustine, take care of Polly. I want to see if the emerald ring fits you. Take it off, please "; and, when it had been put on the little finger of the sobbing girl: " There, you see, it does. That's very nice. Your sweetheart will like that when you have one. What do you say, Mademoiselle? My son and daughter coming? All that way? " The lips smiled a moment, and then tears forced their way into her eyes. " My darlings! How good of them! Oh! what a cold journey they'll have! Get my room ready, Augustine, with a good fire! What are you crying for? Remember what Polly says: ' Keep smiling! ' Think how bad it is for the poor soldiers if we women go crying! The Queen never cries, and she has ever so much to make her!"
No one could tell whether she knew that she was dying, except perhaps for those words, "Take care of Polly," and the gift of the ring.
She did not even seem anxious as to whether she would live to see her children. Her smile moved Mademoiselle to whisper to Augustine:
"Elle a la sourire divine."
"Ah! Mademoiselle, comme elle est brave, la pauvre dame f C'est qu'elle pense toujours aux autres." And the girl's tears dropped on the emerald ring.
Night fell the long night; would she wake again? Both watched with her, ready at the faintest movement to administer oxygen and brandy. She was still breathing, but very faintly, when at six o'clock they heard the express come in and presently the carriage stop before the house. Mademoiselle stole down to let them in.
Still in their travelling coats her son and daughter knelt down beside the couch, watching in the dim candle-light for a sign and cherishing her cold hands. Daylight came; they put the shutters back and blew out the candles. Augustine, huddled in the far corner, cried gently to herself. Mademoiselle had withdrawn. The two still knelt, tears running down their cheeks. The face of their mother was so transparent, so exhausted; the least little twitching of just-opened lips showed that she breathed. A tiny sigh escaped; her eyelids fluttered. The son, leaning forward, said:
"Sweetheart, we're here."
The eyes opened then; something more than a simple human spirit seemed to look through it gazed for a long, long minute; then the lips parted. They bent to catch the sound.
"My darlings don't cry; smile! " And the eyes closed again. On her face a smile, so touching that it rent the heart, flickered and went out. Breath had ceased to pass the faded lips.
In the long silence the French girl's helpless sobbing rose; the parrot stirred uneasily in his still-covered cage. And the son and daughter knelt, pressing their faces hard against the couch.
1917.

II
DEFEAT
SHE had been standing there on the pavement a quarter of an hour or so after her shilling's worth of concert. Women of her profession are not supposed to have redeeming points, especially when like May Belinski, as she now preferred to dub herself they are German; but this woman certainly had music in her soul. She often gave herself these "music baths " when the Promenade Concerts were on, and had just spent half her total wealth in listening to some Mozart and a Beethoven symphony.
She was feeling almost elated, full of divine sound, and of the wonderful summer moonlight that was filling the whole dark town. Women "of a certain type " have, at all events, emotions and what a comfort that is, even to themselves! To stand just there had become rather a habit of hers. One could seem to be waiting for somebody coming out of the concert, not yet over which, of course, was precisely what she was doing. One need not for ever be stealthily glancing and perpetually moving on in that peculiar way, which, while it satisfied the police and Mrs. Grundy, must not quite deceive others as to her business in life. She had only " been at it " long enough to have acquired a nervous dread of almost everything not long enough to have passed through that dread to callousness. Some women take so much longer than others. And even for a woman " of a certain type " her position was exceptionally nerveracking