Told in Between the Dances.
by Jane Hardy.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.3 #17 (Aug 1906).
Antipathies similar to that possessed by the hero of this story are not uncommon. King James I. could not bear the sight of a drawn sword, and on one occasion shook so violently that he nearly ran the point of the sword into the eye of a gentleman upon whom he was conferring the honour of knighthood. Earl Roberts, too, has an antipathy for cats. Such harmless things as roses, music, and apples have possessed a horror for some people.
A few muttered words of introduction, a bow, a smile, the writing down of initials on a programme, and they were off, floating down the room in the perfect unison of two exquisite dancers.
Allison Moore, the most graceful dancer in Dublin, had always a choice of the best partners, but never before had she floated on clouds as in the arms of this tall Frenchman.
When they had been round the room once, he drew her out from the circle of dancers.
"A thousand pardons, mademoiselle," he said, "but my heart is weak and I can no dance for long. Will you sit with me?"
A faint shade passed over Allison's face. To dance with this man was one thing; to sit out and listen to his queer English quite another.
She looked up, and instantly saw that he had divined what was passing in her mind. Something in his look interested her and made her determine to be gracious.
"Why, certainly!" she said, with one of her charming little smiles that had made many a man's heart beat fast. "With pleasure!"
The grave Frenchman bowed, and led her through the conservatory out upon the terrace. He led her straight to two basket chairs at some distance, overlooking the garden. A few other couples were scattered about, but all were engrossed in their own affairs.
"You will not have too cold?" he asked gently, looking down at her in the clear moonlight. And then as she, smiling, said:
"No," he dropped into silence.
Allison looked at him curiously. To be brought out upon the terrace to sit in silence was not what she had been accustomed to—the noted Irish beauty—and yet this strange man interested her and she was content to wait his time.
At last he spoke.
"This so moonlight night," he said, "much remind me of a friend I had. He was an Englishman, mademoiselle, and he had a story. It will not—what do you say?—bore you if I speak his story?"
"Not at all," she said, with a faint smile in her eyes. Men generally brought her out here to tell their own stories! She looked up, and, meeting his grave eyes, again she had the feeling that he had read her thoughts. A faint flush came into her face, but the Frenchman did not notice it. He was looking out into the moonlight.
"It was in Africa that I meet him," he began. "I was there making a book when your war was beginning, and I so love a fight that I go with the English and write for les journaux de Paris. His face was pleasing to me when I first saw it. He had a very earnest and so—sensitive face. His hair was fair, just the colour that you often see on your English babies, and he had large blue eyes comme un enfant. Ma foi! he was handsome, although he had a deep-deep—cicatrice—on his brow."
Allison caught her breath for an instant. She was listening now, and the Frenchman, though he was still looking across the garden, felt the change.
"And," went on the even voice, "this young Englishman and me, we became big friends. We shared the same tent—when there was one, mademoiselle—and we were always together. At last one night I saw down into the Englishman's heart. Does it interest you, mademoiselle?"
"Stories from real life always do," she answered lightly. The Frenchman bowed, and then continued:
"So one evening we were sitting all alone by ourselves over a camp fire. And the Englishman, he talk much to me, and I heard and watched his face in the light of the fire. He tell me of his mother, mademoiselle, with such tenderness and a so great reverence that I think to myself so good a son could make a good husband. And when a man begin to talk of his mother, mademoiselle, other confidences will not remain long behind. He tell me that long since a boy he had been cursed—pardon the word, mademoiselle—by a so great fear of water, and that fear had all spoilt his life. He said to me, mademoiselle, that his poor mother had been nearly drowned just before he was born, and that was how he got this fear which had caused the great grief of his life. I had always known that he had one, because when he did not work or fight, he had so sad a face."
The Frenchman made a barely perceptible pause, but Allison sat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her dainty face looking as if cut out in marble. As she did not speak, he went on:
"And there is a lady in my story, mademoiselle, a so beautiful lady which I think must have been—like you—and he love this dear lady. All went well until one day they were walking near a river when a little child fell in. The lady sees him first, and she calls to her lover—my friend—to go quick help the poor child. Mais, mademoiselle, he stood still. And the lady she call to him again in great pain for the child and, mademoiselle, he could not move one step. And then"—the Frenchman's voice grew husky—"the poor child it was gone.
"The young lady, she was Irish, mademoiselle—like yourself—and passionate—and she turn and make him bitter reproaches. She was wearing on her breast a crimson rose he had given her. She tore it off and threw it on the ground with the one word, 'Coward!' and went away. It is a hard word, mademoiselle, 'lâche, and she would not hear anything he could say. Oh, mademoiselle, my heart bleed for him when he tell me the story. His grief to have lost the child was so strong—and to have lost his love as well! So he came away to fight and forget her."
"And did he?" whispered Allison, and two tears fell unheeded on her dainty dress.
"That is in the other half of my story, mademoiselle," replied the Frenchman, watching the progress of those two little glittering tears. A great cloud rolled across the moon, and out of the darkness he spoke again:
"One night a handful of men in advance of our—er—columns, were surprised par l'ennemi. As they were too many men for us to kill, we had to fall back, leaving two men wounded behind. The moon was hidden behind the clouds—as it is now, mademoiselle—and my English friend, he crawl on his hands and knees and bring in one man on his back. Then he went out for the second—mais, mademoiselle, the moon pierce through the clouds and they fire the guns on him. He bring his man in, mademoiselle, but he was bleeding from many places." The Frenchman stopped an instant, and then went on: "When he was buried, mademoiselle, they bring to me all that was found on him—just a faded red rose."
A silence fell between them, and then the Frenchman spoke again.
"And that is why, mademoiselle, the moonlight makes me think of my friend, and I wish always that perhaps one day I might find out that lady and tell her the rest of the story. She only knows half."
"I think she would be glad to hear it," said Allison, with a break in her soft voice. She dropped her face into her hands to hide her quivering lips. The Frenchman watched her with infinite pity in his eyes. "Mademoiselle," he whispered, "you must not have too great a grief." He stopped, and then he added in a different tone; "Here is a gentleman who look for you."
They both rose, and as the second man joined them she turned her brilliant eyes on the Frenchman.
"It was for his country?" she asked.
The Frenchman hesitated.
"I think, mademoiselle," he said, "it was for the sake of one little red rose."