The White Shadow | Page 7

hand and wrung mine, and Rowden risked his neck
to give us both one last cordial grasp.
"Count on me-on us," cried Clifford, speaking in English, "if you
are--troubled!"
By what, my poor Clifford? Can you, with all your gay courage, turn
back the hands of the dials? Can you, with all your warm devotion, add
one second to the magic second and make it two? The shadows we cast
are white.
The train stole out into the night, and I saw them grouped on the
platform, silhouettes in the glare of the yellow signals. I drew in my
head and shut the window. Sweetheart's face had grown very serious,
but now she smiled across from her corner.

"Aren't you coming over by me, Jack?"
VII.
We must have been moving very swiftly, for the car rocked and
trembled, and it was probably that which awoke me. I looked across at
Sweetheart. She was lying on her side, one cheek resting on her gloved
hand, her travelling cap pushed back, her eyes shut. I smoothed away
the curly strands of hair which straggled across her cheeks, and tucked
another rug well about her feet. Her feet were small as a child's. I speak
as if she were not a child. She was eighteen then.
The next time I awoke we lay in a long gaslit station. Some soldiers
were disembarking from the forward carriages, and a gendarme stalked
up and down the platform.
I looked sleepily about for the name of the station. It was painted in
blue over the buffet-- "Petit St. Yves." "Is it possible we are in
Brittany?" I thought. Then the voices of the station hands, who were
hoisting a small boat upon the forward carriage, settled my doubts.
"Allons! tire hardiment, Jean Louis! mets le cannotte deboutte."
ArreÌ‚te toi Yves! doucement! doucement! SacreÌ garce!"
Somewhere in the darkness a mellow bell tolled. I settled back to
slumber, my eyes on Sweetheart.
She slept.
VIII.
I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine. From our window I could look
into the centre of a most enchanting little town, all built of white
limestone and granite. The June sunshine slanted on thatched roof and
painted gable, and fairly blazed on the little river slipping by under the
stone bridge in the square.
The streets and the square were alive with rosy-faced women in white

head-dresses. Everywhere the constant motion of blue skirts and
spotless coiffes, the twinkle of varnished socks, the clump! clump! of
sabots.
Like a black shadow a priest stole across the square. Above him the
cross on the church glowed like a live cinder, flashing its reflection
along the purple-slated roof from the eaves of which a cloud of
ash-gray pigeons drifted into the gutter below. I turned from the
window to encounter Sweetheart's eyes. Her lips moved a little, her
long lashes heavy with slumber drooped lower, then with a little sigh
she sat bolt upright. When I laughed, as I always did, she smiled, a little
confused, a little ashamed, murmuring: "Bonjour, mon cheÌri! Quelle
heure est-il?" That was always the way Sweetheart awoke.
"O dear, I am so rumpled!" she said. "Jack, get me the satchel this
minute, and don't look at me until I ask you to."
I unlocked the satchel, and then turning to the window again threw it
wide open. Oh, how sweet came the morning air from the meadows!
Some young fellows below on the bank of the stream were poking long
cane fishing-rods under the arches of the bridge.
"Sweetheart," I said over my shoulder, "I believe there are trout in this
stream."
"Mr. Elliott says that whenever you see a puddle you always say that,"
she replied.
"What does he know about it?" I answered, "for I am touchy on the
subject; "he doesn't know a catfish from a--a dogfish."
"Neither do I, Jack dear, but I'm going to learn. Don't be cross."
She had finished her toilet and came over to the window, leaning out
over my shoulder.
"Where are we?" she cried in startled wonder at the little white town
and the acres of swaying clover. "Oh, Jack, is--is this the country?"

A man in uniform passing under our window looked up surprised.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded; then, seeing Sweetheart, he
took off his gold-laced cap, and added, with a bow: "This carriage goes
no farther, monsieur--madame---------"
"Merci!" exclaimed Sweetheart, "we wish to go to QuimperleÌ!"
"And we have tickets for QuimperleÌ," I insisted.
"But," smiled the official, "this is QuimperleÌ."
It was true. There was the name written over the end of the station; and,
looking ahead, I saw that our car had been detached and was standing
in stately seclusion under the freight shed. How long it had been
standing so