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Page 61
Evelyn confided that, childlike, to the black-browed, stout Frenchwoman
who took a personal interest in every "buton," and then she opened her
bag and brought out Robina's photograph, standing, in a ruffled bonnet,
her solemn West Highland White terrier dog in her arms, on the garden
path of "Graystones" between tall foxgloves. And the Frenchwoman tossed
up enraptured hands at the beauty of the little girl who was to get the
doll, and did not miss the great, splendid house in the background, or
the fact that the dog was of a "_chic_" variety.
The two weeks fled, every day full of the breathless life--and death--of
a hospital in war-torn France. Every day the girl saw sights and heard
sounds which it seemed difficult to see and hear and go on living, but
she moved serene through such an environment, because she could help.
Every day she gave all that was in her to the suffering boys who were
carried, in a never-ending stream of stretchers, into the hospital. And
the strength she gave flowed back to her endlessly from, she could not
but believe it, the underlying source of all strength, which stretches
beneath and about us all, and from which those who give greatly know how
to draw.
Two or three times, during the two weeks, Evelyn had gone in to inspect
the progress of Robina's doll, and spent a happy and light-hearted
quarter of an hour with friendly Madame of the shop, deciding the color
of the lady's party coat, and of the ribbons in her minute underclothes,
and packing and repacking the trunk with enchanting fairy
foolishnesses. Again and again she smiled to herself, in bed at night,
going about her work in the long days, as she thought of the little
girl's rapture over the many and carefully planned details. For, with
all the presents showered on her, Robina's aunt knew that Robina had
never had anything as perfect as this exquisite Paris doll and her
trousseau.
The day came on which Evelyn was to make her final visit to "La
Marquise," as Madame called the doll, and the nurse was needed in the
hospital and could not go. But she telephoned Madame and made an
appointment for tomorrow.
"'La Marquise' finds herself quite ready for the voyage," Madame spoke
over the telephone. "She is all which there is of most lovely; Paris
itself has never seen a so ravishing doll. I say it. We wait anxiously
to greet Mademoiselle, I and La Marquise," Madame assured her. Evelyn,
laughing with sheer pleasure, made an engagement for the next day,
without fail, and went back to her work.
There was a badly wounded _poilu_ in her ward, whom the girl had come to
know well. He was young, perhaps twenty-seven, and his warm brown eyes
were full of a quality of gentleness which endeared him to everyone who
came near him. He was very grateful, very uncomplaining, a
simple-minded, honest, common, young peasant, with a charm uncommon. The
unending bright courage with which he made light of cruel pain, was
almost more than Evelyn, used as she was to brave men's pain, could
bear. He could not get well--the doctors said that--and it seemed that
he could not die.
"If Corporal Duplessis might die," Evelyn spoke to the surgeon.
He answered, considering: "I don't see what keeps him alive."
"I believe," said Evelyn, "there's something on his mind. He sighs
constantly. Broken-heartedly. I believe he can't die until his mind is
relieved."
"It may be that," agreed Dr. Norton. "You could help him if you could
get him to tell you." And moved on to the next shattered thing that had
been, so lately, a strong, buoyant boy.
Evelyn went back to Duplessis and bent over him and spoke cheerful
words; he smiled up at her with quick French responsiveness, and then
sighed the heavy, anxious sigh which had come to be part of him. With
that the girl took his one good hand and stroked it. "If you could tell
the American Sister what it is," she spoke softly, "that troubles your
mind, perhaps I might help you. We Americans, you know," and she smiled
at him, "we are wonderful people. We can do all sorts of magic--and I
want to help you to rest, so much. I'd do anything to help you. Won't
you tell me what it is that bothers?" Evelyn Bruce's voice was winning,
and Duplessis' eyes rested on her affectionately.
"But how the Sister understands one!" he said. "It is true that there is
a trouble. It hinders me to die"--and the heavy sigh swept out again.
"It would be a luxury for me--dying. The pain is bad, at times. Yet the
Sister knows I am glad to have it, for France. Ah, yes! But--if I might
be released. Yet the thought of what I said to her keeps me from dying
always."
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