I
THERE had come a post card from Sergeant Jerry Pendleton in France. “We are ready. Everything fine. Watch our smoke!” And right after that the big news began to come in. The Americans hit the spearhead of the German advance on Paris, at a little village called Château-Thierry, difficult for doughboys to pronounce. The Americans furnished two divisions for the great attack at Soissons, which caught the Germans on the flank, and cut the supply lines of their advancing armies. The same fellows that Lanny had met and talked with; they had been training for a new kind of fighting, to attack and keep on attacking, and take machine-gun nests in spite of losses — and now they were doing it! In the few days of that battle the Germans sent in seven divisions to stop the First Division of the Americans, and when they failed, their leaders knew that the tide of the war had turned.
From that time on there was one battle that went on day and night for three months. The fifty thousand sergeants led their million and a quarter men, and the machine guns mowed some of them down and left them crumpled and writhing on the ground-but others got close, and threw their hand grenades and silenced the guns. After three days of such attacks, one of the battalions from Camp Devens, a thousand strong, came out with two hundred men unwounded. But they had taken the positions.
People read about these exploits with pride and exultation, or with shuddering and grief, according to their temperaments. Lanny, who knew more about war than anybody else he met, was of two moods in as many minutes. A poet had expressed his state of mind in alternating verses:
I sing the song of the great clean guns
that belch forth death at will.
Ah, but the wailing mothers,
the lifeless forms and still!
At the country club Lanny had met officers who were now in France, directing this all-summer and autumn battle, and he was proud of these stern, capable men and the job they were doing. As the poet had said:
I sing the acclaimed generals
that bring the victory home.
Ah, but the broken bodies
that drip like honey-comb!
A letter from Nina: “It is so dreadful, the way poor Rick has to suffer. I do not know how he can stand it. They are going to have to take out another piece of bone. Perhaps they ought to take the whole leg, but the doctors are not able to agree about it.” And then one from Beauty, with words of apology for the tear stains which marred it. These were the days when she was waiting in vain for some message from Marcel; she had to pass a still longer period, clinging to the hope that he might have been captured, and that she would get word through the organization in Switzerland which exchanged lists of prisoners.
One day there came in Lanny's mail a carefully wrapped package from France, and when he opened it, there was a charming little figure of a dancing man carved in wood. M. Pinjon, the gigolo, was back in his native village and wished to greet and thank his old friend. He didn't suggest that Lanny might interest some rich Americans in giving little dancing men as Christmas gifts; but of course Lanny knew how happy the poor cripple would be if this were done. Kind-hearted persons would take duties like this upon themselves — even while they knew how pathetically futile it was.
II
Gracyn Phillipson didn't take the trip to New York; at least not right away. The morning after her understanding with Lanny she received a letter from Walter Hayden. He had meant his praise, it appeared. He was at the town of Holborn, thirty or forty miles away, about to direct a show for the Red Cross ladies there. It was a war play, and had a “fat” part for a leading lady; the committee were dubious about their local talent, and Hayden had told them about his “find” in Newcastle. They couldn't pay any salary, but would guarantee her fifty dollars' expenses for two weeks if she cared to come. It would be a chance for her to have Hayden's direction in a straight dramatic role, and the experience might be very helpful to her. The girl was wild with delight, and phoned Lanny that she was leaving by the first train.
So now the youth had another art project to be absorbed in. When he finished his study of contracts and specifications for Budd fuses furnished to the United States navy, he did not go to the country club to play tennis, but motored to Holborn and took Gracyn Phillipson to dinner — an inexpensive procedure, since she was too excited to eat. Then he drove her to the hot little “opera house” where the rehearsals were held, and watched the work, and criticized and made suggestions, and drove home late at night. On Saturday afternoon he went and stayed overnight and on Sunday took her to the beach.
This again was supposed to be “art”; and again the gossips wouldn't believe it. It was too bad that there had to be truth in their worst suspicions. There are persons who believe in the ascetic life, and when their stories of renunciation are told, as in Browning's Ring and the Book, they make noble and inspiring literature. But Lanny Budd had been brought up under a different code, and his leading lady also had ideas of her own. On the stage she was acting a part of conventional “virtue,” and pouring intense feeling into it; but when she and Lanny were alone, she embraced him with ardor, and did not trouble to fit these two codes to each other.
Lanny felt free and happy, so long as he was in Holborn; but when he started on the long drive back to the home of Esther Remson Budd, a chill would settle over his spirit, and when he put his car in the garage and stole softly up to his room, he felt like a burglar. His stepmother didn't wait up for him, but she knew the worst — and, alas, the worst was true. She never said a word to him about it, but as the days passed, their relationship grew more and more formal. Esther saw herself justified in everything she had feared when she had let this bad woman's son into her home; he had that woman's blood and would follow her ways; he belonged in France, not in New England — at any rate not in her home, making it a target for the arrows of scandal. From that time on Esther would count the days to the latter part of September, when Lanny would be going back to school.
The thing made for unhappiness between her and her husband also. Robbie didn't feel as she did; Robbie had met the girl, and thought she was the right sort for Lanny to have at this stage of his life. He couldn't say that to Esther, of course; he had to pretend that he didn't know what was going on — at the same time knowing that Esther didn't believe him.
III
This interlude with Gracyn was a strange experience for Lanny. She was a “daughter of the people,” and his acquaintance with these had been limited to servants and his childhood playmates in France. She had hardly any tradition of culture; her mother had been a clerk who had married her employer late in his life and inherited his small business. Gracyn had gone through school as Lanny was doing, bored with most subjects and forgetting them overnight. She had lived through four years of world war and it had become known to her that America was helping England and France to fight Germany; but she hadn't got quite clear about Britain and England, she didn't know which side Austria was on, and if you had mentioned Bulgaria and Bougainvillaea, she couldn't have told which was which. She was all the time pulling “boners” like that, and never minded if you laughed. “Don't expect me to know about anything but acting,” she would say.
When she was a child in school she had posed in some tableaux, representing “Columbia,” and “Innocence,” and so on, and it had set her imagination on fire; she had discovered a way of escape from the harassments of daily life, with a mother always in debt and very rarely a good substantial meal on the table. She found that she could lose herself in a world of imagination, full of beautiful, rich, and delightful people — “like you, Lanny,” she said. She had driven her childhood friends to act in stories which she made up and in which she played the princess, the endangered and adored one. She haunted the local “opera house,” to which traveling companies now and then came; she learned that sometimes they would use a child to walk across the stage in a crowd scene, or to be dressed up and petted by some actress playing the mother. Thus she had watched plays from the wings, absorbed in the story, and, no matter how humble her part, she had lived it.
She was passionate and intense in whatever she did; making love to her was like holding a live bird in your hand and feeling the throbbing of its heart. Her emotions came like waves rolling on the ocean, sweeping a boat along; but they passed quickly and were succeeded by another kind of waves. Lanny would become aware that she was no longer loving him, but was thinking about love to be enacted on the stage. It would be one of the principal things she had to do, of course; and while she did it she would start to talk about it from the technical point of view. She had studied the fine points of the actresses she had been able to see; also the favorites of the motion picture screen, and Lanny found it startling in the midst of a tête-à-tête to be told that Gloria Swanson heaved her bosom thus and so when she was manifesting passion, and the audiences seemed to like it, but Gracyn thought it was rather overdone, and what did Lanny think?
It was unfortunate that two great crises had come piling into the life of this highstrung creature at the same time: the arrival of her Prince Charming, and the dawning of her stage career. It made too much excitement to be packed into one small female frame, and she seemed likely to burst with it. As it happened, the career part had a time-schedule that could not be altered; she had to be on hand for rehearsals, and she had to know her lines and every detail of her “business” as the exacting Mr. Hayden ordered it. So love-making had to be put off to odd moments, and food and sleep were neglected almost entirely.
Lanny had to put up with many things which his fastidious friends would have found “vulgar.” He had to keep reminding himself all the time that Gracyn was poor; that she had had no “advantages”; that things which he took for granted were entirely new and strange to her. It was desire for independence which made her want to eat in cheap “joints,” and to stay in a lodging-house room which not merely had no conveniences, but was dingy, even dirty. If she talked a great deal about money, that, too, was part of her fate, for money governed her chance to act, to travel, to know the world and be received by it. If she seemed ravenous for success, lacking in poise and dignity — well, as Lanny drove back to his luxurious home, he would reflect that the founder of Budd's must have had some lust for success, some intensity of concentration upon getting his patents, raising his working capital, driving his labor, finding his customers, getting his contracts signed. Because Lanny's progenitor had fought like this, Lanny himself could be gracious and serene, and look upon the still-struggling ones with astonishment mildly tinged with displeasure.
Lanny came to realize that he was not merely a lover and a possible backer; he was a model, a specimen of the genus “gentleman” in the technical sense of the word. He was the first that Gracyn had had a chance to know and she was making full use of her opportunity. She watched how he ate, how he dressed, how he pronounced words; she put him through interrogatories about various matters that came up. What was “Ascot”? Where was “the Riviera”? She had heard of Monte Carlo, because there was a song about a man who broke the bank there. She knew that the fashions came from “gay Paree,” but she didn't know why it was called that, and was surprised to be told that the French pronounced the name of their capital city differently from Americans. Indeed, this seemed so unlikely that she wondered if Lanny wasn't making fun of her!
IV
The role which had been put before this stage-struck girl was one for which her Prince Charming was oddly equipped to give help. It was an English play, the leading lady being a war nurse in a base hospital in France. She was a mysterious person, and the interest of the play depended upon the gradual disclosure that she was a lady of high station. She became the object of adoration of a young wounded officer whom she nursed back to recovery; but she did not yield to his love, and the audience was kept in suspense as to the reason until the last act, when an officer who turned up at the hospital was recognized as the husband who had deserted her several years back. Of course her sense of duty prevailed — otherwise the play would not have been chosen by a group of society ladies of this highly moral town of Holborn. The handsome young adorer went back to the trenches in sorrow, and one learned from the play that war affords many opportunities to exhibit self-renunciation.
“Are there really women who would behave like that?” Gracyn wanted to know. Lanny said, yes, he was quite sure of it; nine-tenths of the ladies who saw the play would at least think that it was their duty to behave like that and would shed genuine tears of sympathy. He said that his stepmother would be one of them; and right away Gracyn wanted to know all about Esther Remson Budd.
Still more important, she had to have information about the manners of an English lady, a being entirely remote from her experience. Lanny was moved to tell her that he had known an English war nurse whose grandfather was an earl, and who was soon to marry the grandson of another. Straightway Rosemary began to be merged with Esther in the dramatic role — a very odd combination. Gracyn, of course, had a nose for romance, and after she had asked a score of questions about Rosemary — where Lanny had met her, and how, and what he had said and what she had said — she asked him pointblank if he and the girl hadn't been lovers, and Lanny didn't think it worth while to deny this. The revelation increased his authority and prestige.
He wouldn't let Gracyn tell Walter Hayden about this aspect of the matter. But the director knew that Lanny had lived abroad and possessed a treasure of knowledge about fashionable life. Together they pumped him and built the production on his advice — costumes, scenery, business, dialect, everything. The young society man of Holborn who took the part of the “juvenile” — that is, the wounded officer who fell in love — became Rick with his wounded leg, plus a few touches of Lanny himself. The French officer who lay in the next bed took on the mannerisms of Marcel Detaze. The comic hospital servant acquired a Provencal accent like Leese, the family cook at Bienvenu. Gracyn Phillipson received the “juvenile's” lovemaking with all the ardor of Rosemary Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver; but instead of being a “free woman” she became the Stern Daughter of the Voice of God of Wordsworth's “Ode to Duty.” That part of her was Esther Remson Budd; and she was so sorrowful, so highminded, so eloquent, that some of the ladies of the college town of Holborn had tears in their eyes even at rehearsals.
So Lanny became a sort of assistant director, and gave an education as well as receiving one. He lived a double life, one lobe of his brain full of stage business, and the other full of munitions contracts and correspondence. He left the office at five, and was in Holborn by six, had supper with Gracyn and sometimes with Hayden, attended the rehearsal, and was back in bed by midnight. He saw the play growing under his hands and it was a fascinating experience, enabling him to understand the girl's hunger for a stage career. He told his father about it, and Robbie was sympathetic and kept his uneasiness to himself. He surely didn't want his son drawn into that disorderly and hysterical kind of life; but he told himself that every youngster has to have his fling and it would be poor tactics trying to force him.
V
The great day in the evening drew near. The frightened amateur players had rehearsed a good part of the previous night; but Lanny hadn't been able to stay for that, he had to leave them to their fate. He invited several of his friends to the show; Robbie promised to bring others, but Esther politely alleged a previous engagement. Rumors had spread concerning the dramatic “find,” and the wealth and fashion of one Connecticut valley was on hand; the Red Cross would have another thousand dollars with which to buy bandages and medicines.
Lanny had thought he knew Gracyn Phillipson by now, but he was astonished by what she did that evening. Every trace of fright and uncertainty was left in the wings like a discarded garment; she came upon the stage a war nurse, exhausted with her labors and aching with pity, yet dignified and conscious of her social position. All the incongruous elements had been assembled into a character — it might not have satisfied an English lady of society, but it met New England ladies' ideas of such a person. They believed in her noble love for the young officer, and when she made her sorrowful renunciation their hearts were wrung.
The actress had shifted her names around, and appeared on the playbill as “Phyllis Gracyn.” The director considered that better suited for the electric signs on Broadway, for which he now felt sure that it was destined. Lanny listened to the excited questions of people about him: “Who is she? Where does she come from? How did they find her?” When the show was over, they crowded behind the scenes to meet and congratulate her. Lanny didn't try to join them; she had told him to go home — all she wanted was to crawl into bed in her lodging-house room and sleep a full twenty-four hours.
When he heard from her again she was in New York. Walter Hayden had advised her to come without delay. She wouldn't have to bother Lanny for money, because she had saved the greater part of her fifty dollars. She would write him as soon as she had something to tell. As he knew, she wasn't much at letter-writing; she was always running into words that she wasn't sure about.
Lanny returned to the armaments business and found it now lacking in glamour. He had satisfied the first rush of curiosity, and had discovered that contracts are complicated and that when you have read too many they become a blur in your mind; at least that was the case with him, though apparently not with his father. Lanny kept thinking about speeches in the play, and the way Gracyn had said them. They had got all mixed up in his mind with Rosemary, Rick, and Marcel; and it made him sad.
He went back to tennis and swimming at the country club. He had become a figure of romance in the eyes of the debutantes and the smart young matrons; he had had an affair with a brilliant young actress and might still be having it. More than one of them gave signs of being willing to “cut her out,” but Lanny was absent-minded. It was August, and the papers reported a heat wave in New York; how was that frail little creature standing it? She was meeting this manager and that, she wrote; hopes were being held out to her; she would have good news soon. But not a word about love! Did she think that the Stern Daughter of the Voice of God might be opening Lanny's mail?
The war kept haunting him. Every time he went home he looked for a cablegram about Marcel; but nothing came. He thought about the monstrous battle line, stretched like a serpent across north eastern France; the mass deeds of heroism, the mass agony and death. The newspapers fed it to you, twice every day; you break fasted on glory and supped on grief:
I sing the song of the billowing flags,
the bugles that cry before.
Ah, but the skeletons flapping rags,
the lips that speak no more!
VI
September, and there came an ecstatic letter from Gracyn. She had a part; a grand part; something tremendous; her future was assured. Unfortunately, she couldn't tell about it; she was pledged to keep it a strict secret. “Oh, Lanny, I am so happy! And so grateful to you. I'd never have made the grade if it hadn't been for you. Forgive me if I don't write more. I have a part to learn. I am going to be a success and you'll be proud of me.”
So that was that; very mysterious, and a trifle disconcerting to a young man in love. A week passed, ten days, it was almost time to go back to school. Lanny found that he was glad, for it wasn't comfortable living in Esther's home when he knew that she didn't want him and was watching him all the time, anxious when he made the children happy, when he had too much influence over them. He knew that he had ruined himself with his stepmother and that nothing he could do would ever restore him to her favor.
All right; he might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb; he decided suddenly that he wanted to see the great city of New York. He had had only a few hours there on his arrival, and only one trip with his father the previous summer. He hadn't seen the great bridges, the art galleries, the museums — to say nothing of the theatrical district, where many new plays were being got ready. He mentioned it to his father, who said all right. He sent his trunk to the school by express and packed a suitcase and took a morning train to the metropolis.
He had the bright idea that he would surprise Gracyn; so he took a taxi to the address to which he had been writing. He found it was a poor lodging house — and that she had moved from there a month ago, leaving no address. Her mail was being forwarded by the post office; but at the post office they wouldn't give the address — he would have to write her a letter and wait for a reply. After thinking it over he decided to call Walter Hayden's office. The director was away on an assignment, but his secretary said, yes, she knew about Phyllis Gracyn, she was rehearsing at the Metropole Theater — she had the leading part in The Colonel's Lady, a new play by somebody who was apparently somebody, although Lanny had never heard the name.
He drove to the theater. You don't have to send in your card during rehearsals; one of the front doors is apt to be unlocked, and you can walk in and look around. Lanny did so. Since the auditorium was dark no one paid any attention to him; he took a seat in back and watched.
Gracyn was on the bare stage with perhaps a dozen other persons, mostly men: a director, a couple of assistants, a property boy, and so on — Lanny was familiar with the procedure by now. The place was hot, and all the men were in their shirtsleeves and mopped their foreheads frequently. Gracyn was sitting in a chair watching the work; when her cue came she would get up and go through a scene.
Another war play; the men sat at small tables and it became apparent that they were supposed to be doughboys in a wine shop somewhere behind the lines. Gracyn was a French girl, daughter of the proprietor — her father scolded her for being too free with the soldiers. When he went off she teased them and some of her lines were a trifle crude — evidently it was a “realistic” play. The doughboys sang songs, one of them “Madelon,” in translation. “She laughs — it is the only harm she knows.”
Gracyn was doing it with great spirit. Oh, yes, she could act! Lanny had never seen the American boys in France, but he recalled the scene with the French soldiers when he and his mother motored to see Marcel. He thought: “I could have given the director a lot of help.” But they wouldn't let Gracyn tell what she was doing. And yet the secretary at Hayden's place had known about it and had told it freely. Very strange!
VII
Lanny didn't want to disturb her. He waited until the rehearsal was over and she was about to leave. Then he came down the aisle, saying: “Hello, Gracyn.”
She was startled. “Lanny! Of all people! Where on earth did you come from?”
“Out of a taxi,” he said.
“How did you find me?”
“Your secret appears to have leaked.”
She came into the auditorium to join him. She led him back, away from the others, and sat down. “Darling,” she said, swiftly, “I have something that's dreadfully hard to tell you. I couldn't put it on paper. But you have to know right away.” She caught her breath and said: “I have a lover.”
“A what?” he exclaimed. When he took in the meaning of her words, he said: “Oh, my God!”
“I know you'll think it's horrid, but don't be too mean to me. I couldn't help it. It's the man who's putting up the money for the show and giving me this part.”
The youth had never been so stunned in all his life. He was speechless; and the girl rushed on:
“I had a chance, Lanny; I might never have had another. He's a big coffee merchant, who happened to see my performance in Holborn. He lives in New York and he invited me to come. He offered to take me to a good manager and find me a part — right away, without any waste of time. What could I say, Lanny?”
The youth remembered his mother's phrase. “You paid the price?”
“Don't be horrid to me, Lanny. Don't let's spoil our friendship. Try to see my side. You know I'm an actress. I told you I didn't know anything else, I didn't care about anything else — I wanted to get on the stage, and I'm doing it.”
“There isn't any honest way?”
“Please, darling — use your common sense. This is New York. What chance does a girl stand? I'd have tramped the heels off my shoes going to managers' offices, and they wouldn't even have seen me. I'd have called myself lucky to get a part with three lines — and I'd have spent a month or two rehearsing, going into debt for my board while I did it. The play might have failed the first week, and I'd have twenty dollars, maybe thirty, to pay my debts with. Believe me, I've talked to show girls these few weeks, and I know what the game is.”
“Well, it's all right,” he said. “I wish you success, and the highest salary on Broadway.”
“Don't sneer at me, Lanny. Life has been easy for you. You were born with a gold spoon in your mouth, and you've no right to scorn a poor girl.”
“I'll do my best to remember it. Thanks for telling me the truth.”
“I'd have told you before, Lanny; but it was so hard. I hate to lose you for a friend.”
“I'm afraid you have done so,” he said, coldly. “Your angel might be jealous.”
“I know it's a shock, darling. But you know so little about the stage world. Somebody had to give me a start. You couldn't have done it — you surely know that.”
Said he: “It may interest you to hear that I was thinking of asking you to marry me.”
Did this startle her? If so, she was a good actress. “I haven't failed to consider that. But you have to go to school, and then to college — that's five years, and in that time I'd be an old woman.”
“My father would have helped me to marry, if I'd asked him.”
“I know, dear, but can't you understand? I don't want to be a wife, I want to be an actress! I couldn't think of settling down and having babies, and being a society lady — not in Newcastle, not even in France. I want to have a career — and what sort of a life would it be for you, tagging along behind a stage celebrity? Would you enjoy being called Mister Phyllis Gracyn?”
He saw that she had thought it all out; and, anyhow, it was too late. No good saying any unkind words. “All right, darling,” he said — it was the stage name. “I'll be a good sport, and wish you all the luck there is. I'm only sorry I couldn't give you what you needed.”
“No, Lanny dear,” she said. “It's thirty thousand dollars!” And there wasn't any acting in what she put into those words!
VIII
The sun was going down as Lanny climbed onto the top of one of the big Fifth Avenue busses, which for a dime took you uptown, and across to Riverside Drive, and up to where the nation had built a great granite tomb for General Grant, in the shape of a soap box with a cheese box on top. Part of the time Lanny looked at the crowds on the avenue, and at sailboats and steamers on the river; the rest of the time he thought about the strange adventure into which he had blundered. He decided that he wasn't proud of it, and wouldn't tell anybody, excepting of course Robbie, and perhaps Rick or Kurt if he ever saw them again.
He told himself that he had made himself cheap. That little tart-well, no, he mustn't call her names — she had her side, she had her job to do and might do it well. But he mustn't let himself blunder like that again; he must know more about a woman before he threw himself into her arms. A man had to have standards; he must learn to say no. Lanny thought about the number of times he had said yes to Gracyn Phillipson, and in such extravagant language. He writhed with humiliation.
He didn't want to go home in that mood, and he didn't want to go to school ahead of time, so he put up at a hotel, and spent his time in the museums and art galleries. He looked at hundreds of paintings — and all the nudes were Gracyn, except those that were Rosemary. He told himself with bitterness that they were all for sale, whether for thirty-thousand-dollar shows on Broadway, or for three dollars, the price of the pitiful painted ones who hunted on that Great White Way in the late hours of the evening. Rosemary's price would be a title and a country estate, but she was being sold just the same; it didn't matter that the bargain would be solemnized by a bishop in fancy costume, and proclaimed by pealing chimes in St. Margaret's. Would he ever meet one that didn't have her price? And how would he know her — since they were all so hellishly clever at fooling you?
There was another hot spell in New York, and he looked at the crowds of steaming people. The women wore light and airy garments and the young ones tripped gaily; but all the men who wanted to be thought respectable had to wear hot coats, and Lanny pitied them and himself. It was the time of year when “everybody” was supposed to be out of town; but there was an enormous number of “nobodies,” and Lanny marveled how nature had managed it so that they all wanted to live. There were more Jews than anywhere else in the world and he might have satisfied his curiosity about that race if he had had time. There were great numbers of soldiers, and foreigners of every sort, so New York didn't seem very different from Paris. He found a French restaurant and had his dinners there and felt at home; he wished his mother were with him — what a comfort to tell her about Gracyn and hear her wise comments!
IX
The young man went back to St. Thomas's, and forgot his troubles in the pleasure of meeting his schoolfellows and hearing stories of where they had been and what they had done. He had a firm resolve to buckle down and make a record that would please his father and grandfather, and perhaps even his stepmother. It was pleasant to have your work cut up into daily chunks, duly weighed and measured, so that you knew exactly what you had to do and were spared all uncertainties and moral struggles.
The Americans had begun their attack in the Argonne, a forest full of rock-strewn hills and deep ravines thick with brush, one of the most heavily fortified districts in the war zone, and considered by the Germans to be impregnable. The doughboys were hammering there, and fifty thousand of them would be killed or wounded in three weeks. It was the greatest battle in American history, and it was a part of Lanny's life; his friends were in it, and his heart. There came now and then a post card from Jerry Pendleton — that fellow had been fighting every day and almost every night for a month and hadn't been touched. Now he was back in a rest camp, enjoying the peace his valor won. Somehow Lanny couldn't think of wounds and death in connection with Jerry; he was the wearer of some sort of Tarnhelm and would come out safe and whole to tell Lanny about it.
Also a letter from Nina. She had a brother who had been in the fighting south of the Somme and had got what the British called a “blighty” wound, one that brought him home and kept him out of danger for a while. Rick had had his operation, and this time they really hoped for better results. There were even a few lines from Rick to prove it; nothing about wounds, of course, you'd never know if Rick was suffering. “Well, old top, it looks like Fritz is really in trouble. Moving out and no time to pack his boxes. Cheerio!”
Beauty was always a dependable correspondent, and managed to smile through her tears. No word from Marcel yet. M. Rochambeau had written to friends in Switzerland, asking for information. M. Rochambeau said that Germany was cracking; discontent was breaking out everywhere inside the country. President Wilson's propaganda was having a tremendous effect; his “Fourteen Points” left the German people no reason for fighting. Baby Marceline was thriving, and all the world agreed that she was the most beautiful baby in the Midi.
Lanny knew, of course, that all this was an effort on his mother's part to hide her grieving for Marcel. What was she going to do when the war was over? He had made up his mind that his stepfather was dead; and Beauty was not a person who could live alone. Sometimes he wondered, had he made a mistake in bringing about that marriage? What would he have done if he had known that Marcel was going to be a mutilé inside of one year and a corpse in less than four? Maybe she should have taken the plate-glass man after all!
X
The Allied armies continued their grinding advance. The Hindenburg line was cracked and the Germans forced to retreat. First Bulgaria collapsed, then Turkey, then Austria; there came a revolution in Germany and the Kaiser fled to Holland — all that series of dramatic events, culminating in the day when everybody rushed into the streets of American cities and towns, shouting and singing and dancing, blowing horns and beating tin pans, making every sort of racket they could think of. The war was over! There wasn't going to be any more killing! No more bombs, shells, bullets, poison gas, torpedoes! The boys who were still alive could stay alive! The war to end war had been won and the world was safe for democracy! People thought all these things, one after another, and with — each thought they shouted and sang and danced some more.
Even at St. Thomas's Academy, the place of good manners, there was a celebration. Lanny got his father on the telephone; they laughed together, and Lanny cried a little. He sent a cablegram to his mother and one to Rick. People were behaving the same way in France, of course. Even those cold and aloof beings, the gentlemen of England, were rushing out into the streets embracing strangers. It had been a tough grind for the people of that small island; they hadn't been in such danger since the days of the Spanish Armada.
A couple of weeks later came Thanksgiving Day and Lanny went home. One of the first things his father said was: “Well, kid, I guess I'm going to have to go back to Europe pretty soon. There'll be a lot of matters to be cleared up.”
Lanny's first thought was: You can cross the ocean and enjoy it! You can walk on deck and look for whales instead of submarines!
One needed time for that to sink in. Then he said: “Listen, Robbie — don't be surprised. I want you to take me with you.”
“You mean — to stay?”
“I've thought it all over. I'll be a lot happier in France. I can get much more of what I want there.”
“Aren't you happy here?”
“Everybody's been kind to me, and I'm glad I came. I had to know your people, and I wouldn't have missed the experience. But I have to see my mother, too. And she needs me right now. I don't think she's ever going to see Marcel again.”
“You could visit her, you know.”
“Of course; but I have to think of one place as home, and that's Juan.”
“What about the business?”
“If I'm going to help you, it'll be over there. You'll be going back and forth, and I'll see as much of you one way as the other.”
“You don't care about going to college?”
“I don't think so, Robbie. I've asked people about it and it isn't what I need. I was going through with it on account of the war, and to please you.”
“Just what is it you want — if you know?”
“It isn't easy to put into words. More than anything else I want art. I've lived here a year and a half and I've heard almost no music. I haven't seen any good plays — of course I might see them in New York, but I haven't any friends there, all my best friends are in England and France.”
“You'll be a foreigner, Lanny.”
“I'll be a citizen of several countries. The world will need some like that.”
“Just what exactly do you plan to do?”
“I want to feel my way. The first thing is to stop doing all the things that I don't want to do. I'm in a sort of education treadmill. I make myself like it, but all the time I know that I don't; and if I dropped it and went on board a ship with you I'd feel like a bird getting out of a cage. Don't misunderstand me, I don't want to loaf; but I'm nineteen, and I believe I can direct my own education. I want to have time to read the books I'm interested in. I want to meet cultured people, and know what's going on in the arts — music, drama, painting, everything. Paris is going to be interesting right now, with the peace conference. Do you suppose you can manage to get me a passport? I understand they let hardly anybody go.” “I can fix that up all right, if you're sure it's what you want.” “I want to know what you're doing, and I want to help you — I'll be your secretary, run your errands, anything. To be with you and meet the people you meet — don't you see how much more that's worth to me than being stuck in a classroom at St. Thomas's, hearing lectures on modern European history by some master who's a child in comparison with you? Everything they have is out of books, and I can get the same books and read them in a tenth of the time. I'll wager you that on the steamer going across I can learn more modern European history than I'd get in a whole term in school.” “All right,” said the father. “I guess it's no use trying to fit you into anybody else's boots.”
XI
Lanny motored up to the school to pack his belongings, and say good-by to his masters and his fellow-pupils, who thought he was the luckiest youth in the state. Then he came home and started saying farewell to people at the country club and to the many members of the family. Most of all he wanted to see the Reverend Eli Budd; but fate had other plans about that. There came a telegram saying that the patriarch had passed away peacefully in his sleep, and that the funeral would be held two days later.
Lanny motored up to Norton with Robbie and his wife and an elderly widowed cousin who was visiting them. The Budd tribe had assembled from all over New England — there must have been two hundred of them in the little Unitarian church, where the deceased had been the minister for fifty years of his life. The Budd men were all grave and solid-looking, all dressed pretty much alike, whether they were munitions magnates or farmers, bankers or clergymen. They listened in silence while the present minister extolled the virtues of the departed, and when they came outside, where the first snowflakes of the year were falling, the older ones agreed that the Budd line was producing no more great men. When the will was opened, everyone was puzzled because the old man had left his library to his great-grandnephew, Lanning Prescott Budd. Some of them didn't know who that was, till the whisper went round that it was Robert Budd's bastard, who was now going back to France and would probably take the books with him.
Robbie had got the passports, and the steamer sailed two days later. The son went over to the office and said good-by to all the executives and secretaries who had been kind to him. He had had to see a good deal of his Uncle Lawford in the office, and he now went in and shook hands with that morose and silent man, who unbent sufficiently to say that he wished him well. Lanny called on his grandfather at his home, and the old gentleman, who had aged a lot under the strain of the war, didn't make any attempt to seem cheerful. He said he didn't know how Robbie could be expecting to drum up any more business in Europe now; they had munitions enough on hand to blow up the whole continent, and he wasn't sure but what they might just as well do so.
“There's going to be hell to pay at home,” he warned. “All our workingmen have got too big for their breeches, and we've got to turn a lot of them off when we finish these government contracts. They've been watching that lunatic asylum in Russia, and they'll be ready to try it here when they find we've nothing more to give them. Better take my advice and learn something about business, so you can take care of yourself in a dangerous time.”
“I'm planning to stick close to my father, sir, and learn all that he'll teach me.”
“Well, if you listen to me you'll forget all this nonsense about music and stage plays. There are temptations enough in a young man's life without going out to hunt for them.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” said the youth, humbly. This was a rebuke, and he had earned it. “I don't think there'll be much pleasure-seeking in France for quite a while. They are a nation of widows and cripples, and most of the people I know are working hard trying to help them.”
“Humph!” said Grandfather Samuel, who wasn't going to believe anything good about France if he could help it. He went on to talk about the world situation, which was costing him a lot of sleep. Forces apparently beyond control had drawn America into the European mess, and it wasn't going to be easy getting her out again. American businessmen would be compelled to sell more and more to foreigners. “We Budds have always been plain country people,” declared the grandfather. “Not many of us know any foreign languages, and we distrust their manners and their morals. We can use someone who knows them, and can advise us — that is, if it's possible for anybody to live among them and not become as corrupt as they are.”
“I'll bear your advice in mind, sir,” replied the youth. “I have learned a great deal from my visit here, and I mean to profit by it.”
That was all, but it was enough, according to the old gentleman's code. He wouldn't try to pin anyone down. Lanny had been to Bible class, and had had his chance at Salvation; whether he took it or not was up to him, and whatever he did would be what the Lord had predestined him to do. The Lord would be watching him and judging him — and so would the Lord's deputy, the president of Budd Gunmakers.
XII
There remained the partings from Robbie's own family. The two boys were sorry indeed to see him go, for he had been a splash of bright color in their precisely ordered lives. He found time for a heart-to-heart talk with Bess, the only person in Connecticut who shed tears over him. She pledged herself to write to him, and he promised to send her pictures of places in Europe where he went and of people he met. “Some day you'll come over there,” he said; and she answered that Robbie would have to bring her, or she would come as a stowaway.
As for Esther, she kissed him, and perhaps was really sorry. He thanked her with genuine affection; he felt that he had done wrong and was to blame for the coldness which had grown between them. He would always admire her and understand her; she would always be afraid of him.
Father and son went to New York by a morning train. Robbie had business in the afternoon, and in the evening Lanny had another good-by to say. Through the newspapers he had been following the fortunes of a dramatic production called The Colonel's Lady, which had opened in Atlantic City the beginning of October and had scored a hit; it had run there for two weeks, and had then had a successful opening at the Metropole Theater. Lanny wanted to see it, and Robbie said, sure, they'd both go. Their steamer had one of those midnight sailings which allow the pleasure-loving ones a last fling on the Great White Way.
Lanny didn't want to meet “Phyllis Gracyn”; he just wanted to see her act. He got seats for the show, for which one had to pay a premium. They were well down in front, but Gracyn probably didn't see the visitors. They followed the fortunes of a French innkeeper's daughter who was fascinated by the brilliance of an American “shavetail,” but wasn't able to resist the lure of a French colonel, whose jealous wife involved him with a German spy in order to punish him. Out of this came an exciting melodrama, which was going to hold audiences in spite of peace negotiations.
Lanny was interested in two things: first, the performance of Gracyn, which wasn't finished by any means, but was full of energy and “pep”; and, second, the personality of the young American officer. Evidently the play was one of those which had been written at rehearsals, and Gracyn had had a part in it. Lanny had taught her, and she had taught the author and the young actor; so there were many touches in which Lanny recognized himself — mannerisms, phrases, opinions about the war, items about the French, their attitude to the doughboys and the doughboys' to them. There were even a few third-hand touches of Sergeant Jerry Pendleton in this Broadway hit!
“Well, you did a good job,” said Robbie. “Charge it up to education and don't fall in love with any more stage ladies.”
“I've made a note of it,” said the dutiful son.
“Or else — note this: that if you'd had thirty thousand dollars, you might have licked the coffee merchant!”
They were in the taxi on the way to the steamer; and Lanny grinned. “There's an English poem supposed to be sung by the devil, and the chorus runs: 'How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho, how pleasant it is to have money!'”
“All right,” replied the father. “But you can bet that poet had money, or he wouldn't have been sitting around making up verses.”
On board the steamer; and one more farewell to say. Standing on the deck, watching the lights of the metropolis recede, Robbie pointed to an especially bright light across the bay and said: “The Statue of Liberty.”
She had come from France, and Lanny was going home. She waved her torch to him, as a sign that she understood how he felt.