CHAPTER XVIII

A Poem and a Conversation

Not the next day, but the one following, Barbara and Mildred walked over to the old chateau together.

Nona did not go with them, as Sonya did not appear to be well and she did not wish to leave her. So she sent a message of explanation to the Countess Amelie, saying that she hoped to be able to call upon her very soon.

It chanced that Sonya did not know of Nona's decision. She was lying down when the girls went away and believed she had the little house to herself. Really she was not ill, only tired and perhaps happier than she had been in a long time. It is true that she had confessed herself defeated and that there was no longer any illusion in her own mind. Perhaps so long as she lived, war and not peace would flourish upon the earth. But the world learns its lessons in strange and dreadful ways and perchance peace might be born in the end from the horror and waste of bloodshed.

By and by, when she felt more rested, Sonya got up and went down into the old dining room of the farmhouse, which the girls had made into their living room. There was a possibility that the fire might be dying out and it would be wise to replenish it.

To her surprise Sonya discovered Nona curled up in a chair by the window, reading.

The older woman no longer wore black; it had become too depressing in a continent where more than half of the women were in mourning. She had on a simple frock of a curious Russian blue, made almost like a monk's cowl, with a heavy blue cord knotted about her waist.

Nona stared at her friend for a moment in silence. It was curious that whatever costume Sonya Valesky wore seemed to have been created for her. Nona recalled the beauty of her clothes in their first meeting on shipboard, yet they held no greater distinction than this simple dress. Well, perhaps personality is the strongest force in the world and Sonya Valesky's distinction, whatever her mistakes, lay in this.

She now walked across the room and put a few of Francois' precious pine logs on the fire.

At this Nona stirred. "Don't trouble to do that, Sonya; I meant to in another minute. I thought you were ill upstairs."

Sonya shook her head. "I am not in the least ill and you are please to stop worrying about me, Nona. I thought you had gone with your friends to the chateau. What has kept you at home?"

The younger girl answered vaguely, not caring to confess her real motive, since her companion would have been distressed by it.

"If you are all right, Sonya, suppose you stay down here in the living room with me. I have just found a wonderful poem in an American magazine which I meant to save to read to you. Somehow I think it may comfort you. For it shows that there is a big design in this old universe, which works itself out somehow, in spite of all the tragedies and failures of human beings."

In a big chair in the half shadow Sonya sat down, folding her hands together loosely in her lap. It was a fashion which had come to be almost a habit with her recently. Curious that it should express a kind of resignation!

Nona began reading at once. "The poem is called 'At the Last' and is by George Sterling, a Californian, I believe.

"Now steel-hoofed War is loosened on the world, With rapine and destruction, as the smoke From ashen farm and city soils the sky. Earth reeks. The camp is where the vineyard was. The flocks are gone. The rains are on the hearth, And trampled Europe knows the winter near. Orchards go down. Home and cathedral fall In ruin, and the blackened provinces Reach on to drear horizons. Soon the snow Shall cover all, and soon be stained with red, A quagmire and a shambles, and ere long Shall cold and hunger dice for helpless lives. So man gone mad, despoils the gentle earth And wages war on beauty and on good.

"And yet I know how brief the reign shall be Of Desolation. But a little while, And time shall heal the desecrated lands, The quenchless fire of life shall take its own, The waters of renewal spring again. Quiet shall come, a flood of verdure clothe The fields misused. The vine and tree once more Shall bloom beside the trench, and humble roofs Cover again the cradle and the bed. Yea! Life shall have her way with us, until The past is dim with legend, and the days That now in nightmare brood upon the world Shall fold themselves in purples of romance, The peace shall come, so sure as ripples end And crystalline tranquillity returns Above a pebble cast into a pool."

When Nona had finished neither she nor her companion made any comment for a moment.

Yet when the girl looked across at the older woman for her opinion, she discovered that Sonya's cheeks had flushed and that her eyes were shining.

"Thank you, Nona; I shall not forget that," she then said, repeating to herself, "'The peace shall come, so sure as ripples end.' I suppose the trouble is we have not faith and patience enough to believe that love and peace must triumph before God's plan can be worked out."

Then Sonya got up. "Come, Nona," she suggested. "Don't you think it would be more agreeable to take a walk. It is really a lovely afternoon and I've some things I wish to talk to you about. Besides, I want to see the woods you girls have told me of."

It was delicious outdoors and Nona and Sonya both forgot their serious mood of a little while before. One could not be always serious even in war times in so lovely a land as southern France. No wonder the French nation is gay; it is their method of showing their gratitude for the country that gave them birth.

Finally the woman and girl reached the pool in the woods which Nona had once named "the pool of Melisande," and Eugenia had afterwards called "the pool of truth." However, since in Maeterlinck's play Melisande was seeking the light in the depth of the water, perhaps after all the two titles had almost a similar meaning.

Anyhow, by the pool Sonya chose to make a confession.

"Do you remember, Nona, once long ago, or perhaps it just seems a long time to me, you and I met a Colonel Dalton, an officer in the British army whom I had known before. I think I promised then to tell you of my previous acquaintance with him. I had almost forgotten."

Nona slipped her arm through her companion's.

"Don't tell me if you had rather not. We will both have a great deal to learn of each other when we go back to the United States to live together."

Sonya smiled. "There is no use waiting. I have never even told you, Nona, whether or not I am married. You see, I am often called Madame Valesky in Russia, but that is only a courtesy title. I have never married. The fact is, I once lived in England for some time and was engaged to Colonel Dalton. I think we cared a good deal for each other, but he was a soldier and we did not approve of each other's views of life. So by and by our engagement was broken off, which was probably the best thing for us both."

"Has Colonel Dalton ever married?" Nona inquired inconsequentially.

Her companion shook her head. "Really, I don't know. Suppose we walk on now to the hut where your little French girl Nicolete once lived."

When the two friends reached the hut, Nona Davis exclaimed in amazement:

"What on earth has happened? Why, our hut isn't a hut any longer; it is a charming little house with some one living in it. I am going to knock and see who it can be. French people are so courteous, I am sure they won't mind telling me."

Nona knocked and the next moment the door was opened by a young French woman. For an instant they stared at each other, then kissed in a bewilderingly friendly fashion.

"Why, Nicolete, I can't believe my own eyes!" Nona protested. "What are you doing back here in your own little house, only it is so changed that I would scarcely have recognized it."

Nicolete's dark eyes shone and the vivid color flooded her face.

"I am married," she explained. "You remember Monsieur Renay, whom Mademoiselle Barbara named 'Monsieur Bebe?' Well," Nicolete laughed bewitchingly, "he is my husband."

"And is he—" Nona asked and hesitated.

Nicolete shook her head. "He can tell the light from the darkness, and now and then can see me moving in the shadow. Some day, the doctors say, his sight may be fully restored. He has seen the best specialists. Madame Eugenie sent us both to Paris. She it was who made us a home here in the woods out of the old hut, so that my husband might have the fresh air and grow strong to aid his recovery."

"Madame Eugenie," it was a pretty title and one that Eugenia would probably always have in this French country, which had so long known the old Countess as Madame Castaigne.

When Barbara and Mildred returned from the chateau Nona sincerely hoped they would bring news of Eugenia's arrival, since she was growing more than anxious to see her again.