The Wrong Twin Page 19

  CHAPTER XIX

  Two lines of helmeted men went over the crest of the hill. Private Cowanwas no longer conscious of aching feet and leaden legs or of the burdenthat bowed his shoulders. There was a pounding in his ears, and in hismind a verse of Scripture that had lingered inexplicably there sincetheir last billet at Comprey. His corporal, late a theological student,had read and expounded bits of the Bible to such as would listen.Forsaking beaten paths, he had one day explored Revelations. He hadexplained the giving unto seven angels of seven golden vials of thewrath of God, but later came upon a verse that gave him pause:

  "And there appeared a great wonder in heaven; a woman clothed with thesun, and the moon under her feet, and upon her head a crown of twelvestars."

  It seemed that everything in Revelations had a hidden meaning, and theexpert found this obscure. There had been artless speculation among thelisteners. A private with dice had professed to solve the riddle of theNumber Seven, and had even alleged that twelve might be easier to throwif one kept repeating the verse, but this by his fellows was held to berank superstition. No really acceptable exposition had been offered ofthe woman clothed with the sun, and under her feet the moon, and uponher head a crown of twelve stars.

  Wilbur Cowan, marching up the hill, now sounded the words to himself;they went with that pounding in his ears. At last he knew what theymeant--a great wonder in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, and underher feet the moon. Over and over he chanted the words.

  So much was plain to him. But how had it come about? They had looked,then enveloped each other, not thinking, blindly groping. They had beenout of themselves, not on guard, not held by a thousand bands of oldhabit that back in Newbern would have restrained them. Lacking these,they had rushed to that wild contact like two charged clouds, andeverything was changed by that moment's surrender to some force beyondtheir relaxed wills. Something between them had not been, now it was;something compelling; something that had, for its victory, needed onlythat they confront each other, not considering, not resisting, biddable.

  In his arms she had cried: "But how did we know--how did we know?"

  He had found no answer. Holding her fiercely as he did, it seemed enoughthat they did know. He had surrendered, but could not reason--was evenincurious.

  At the last she had said: "But if it shouldn't be true; if it's onlybecause we're both worn down and saw someone from home. Suppose it'smere--"

  She had broken off to thump his shoulder in reassurance, to cling moreabjectly. It was then she had wept, shakingly, in a vast impatience withherself for trying to reason.

  "It is true! It is true--it's true, it's true!" she had told him withpiteous vehemence, then wilted again to his support, one hand strokinghis dusty cheek.

  When the command had come down the line she seemed about to fall, butbraced herself with new strength from some hidden source. When hereleased her she stood erect, regarding him with something of thetwisted, humorous quirk about her lips that for an instant brought herback to him as the little girl of long ago. Not until then had he beenable to picture her as Patricia Whipple. Then he saw. Her smile becamesurer.

  "You've gone and spoiled the whole war for me!" she called to him.

  * * * * *

  The war, too, had been spoiled for Private Cowan. He was unable to keephis mind on it. Of the Second Battle of the Marne he was to rememberlittle worth telling.

  Two nights later they came to rest in the woods back of St. Eugene, inthe little valley of the Surmelin, that gateway to Paris from thefarthest point of the second German drive. It was a valley shining withthe gold of little wheat fields, crimson-specked with poppies. Itrecalled to Private Cowan merely the farmland rolling away from that oldhouse of red brick where he had gone one day with SharonWhipple--yesterday it might have been. Even the winding creek--thoughthe French called theirs a river--was like the other creek, its coursemarked by a tangle of shrubs and small growths; and the sides of thevalley were flanked familiarly with stony ridges sparsely covered withsecond-growth timber. Newbern, he kept thinking, would lie four milesbeyond that longest ridge, and down that yellow road Sharon Whipplemight soon be driving his creaking, weathered buggy and the gaunt roan.The buggy would sag to one side and Sharon would be sitting"slaunchwise," as he called it. Over the ridge, at Newbern's edge, wouldbe the bony little girl who was so funny and willful.

  They moved forward to the south bank of the Marne. Beyond thatfifty-yard stream lay the enemy, reported now to be stacking up driveimpedimenta. The reports bored Private Cowan. He wished they would hurrythe thing through. He had other matters in hand. A woman clothed withthe sun, and under her feet the moon, and upon her head a crown of--hecould not make the crown of stars seem right. She was crowned with anurse's cap, rusty hair showing beneath, and below this her wan,wistful, eager face, the eyes half shutting in vain attempts to reason.The face would be drawn by some inner torment; then its tortured linesmelt to a smile of sure conviction. But she was clothed with the sun,and the moon was under her feet. So much he could make seem true.

  The dark of a certain night fell on the waiting regiment. Cricketssounded their note, a few silent birds winged furtively overhead.Rolling kitchens brought up the one hot meal of the day, to be taken tothe front by carrying parties. Company commanders made a lastreconnaissance of their positions. For Private Cowan it was a moment ofdouble waiting. Waiting for battle was now secondary. In a tiny slittrench on the forward edge of a railway embankment Private Brennonremarked upon the locomotion of the foreign frog.

  "Will you look at 'em walk!" said Spike. "Just like an animal! Don'tthey ever learn to hop like regular gorfs?"

  Said Private Cowan: "I suppose you saw that girl back there the otherday?"

  "Me and the regiment," said Spike, and chewed gum discreetly.

  "She's a girl from back home. Funny! I'd never taken much notice of herbefore."

  "You took a-plenty back there. You've raised your average awful high.I'll say it!"

  "I hardly knew what I was doing."

  "Didn't you? We did!"

  "Since then sometimes I forget what we're here for."

  "Don't worry, kid! You'll be told."

  "It's funny how things happen that you never expected, but afterward yousee it was natural as anything."

  * * * * *

  At midnight the quiet sky split redly asunder. German guns began to feela way to Paris. The earth rocked in a gentle rhythm under a rain ofshells. Shrapnel and gas lent vivacity to the assault. Guns to theirutmost reach swept the little valley like a Titan's sickle. PrivateCowan nestled his cheek against the earthen side of his little slittrench and tried to remember what she had worn that last night inNewbern. Something glistening, warm in colour, like ripe fruit; and arusty braid bound her head. She had watched, doubtfully, to see ifpeople were not impatient at her talk. A rattlepate, old Sharon calledher. She was something else now; some curious sort of woman, older, notafraid. She wouldn't care any more if people were impatient.

  At four o'clock of that morning the bombardment of the front line gaveway to a rolling barrage. Close behind this, hugging it, as the mensaid, came gray waves of the enemy. It was quieter after the barrage hadpassed: only the tack-tack of machine guns and the clash of meetingbayonets.

  "Going to have some rough stuff," said Private Brennon.

  For a long time then Private Cowan was so engrossed with the routine ofhis present loose trade that the name of Whipple seemed to have no roomin his mind. For four hours he had held a cold rifle and thought. Nowthe gun was hot, its bayonet wet, and he thought not at all. When it wasover he was one of fifty-two men left of his company that had numberedtwo hundred and fifty-one. But his own uniform would still be clean ofwound chevrons.

  Two divisions of German shock troops had broken against a regiment ofAmerican fighting men.

  "I don't like fighting any more," said Private Cowan.

  "Pushed 'em across the crick," said Pr
ivate Brennon. "Now we chase 'em!"

  So they joined the chase and fought again at Jaulgonne, where it rainedfor three days and nights, and Private Cowan considered his life indanger because he caught cold; it might develop into pneumonia. Hedidn't want to get sick and die--not now. It had not, of late, occurredto him that he would be in any danger save from sickness. But he threwoff the menacing cold and was fit for the big battle at Fismes,stubbornly pronounced "Fissims" by Private Brennon, after repeatedcorrections.

  Private Cowan thought now, when not actually engaged at his loose trade,of his brother. He wished the boy could have been with him. He wouldhave learned something. He would have learned that you feel differentlyabout a country if once you fight for it. His country had been only aname; he had merely ached to fight. Now he hated fighting; words couldnever tell how he loathed it; but his country had become more than aname. He would fight again for that. He wished Merle could have had thisnew feeling about his country.

  It was before Fismes, being out where he had no call to be, and afterwinning a finish fight with a strangely staring spectacled foe, that hestumbled across the inert form of Private Brennon, who must also havegone where he had no call to go. He leaned over him. Spike's mask wasbroken, but half adjusted. He shouldered the burden, grunting as he didso, angered by the weight of it. He was irritated, too, by men who werefiring at him, but his greater resentment was for Spike's unreasonablemass.

  "You son of a gun--hog fat! Overweight, that's what you are! You'llnever make a hundred and thirty-three again, not you! Gee, gosh, a lightheavyweight, that's what you are!"

  He complained to the unhearing Spike all the way back to a dressingstation, though twice refusing help to carry his load.

  "Mustard gas," said the surgeon.

  He was back there when Spike on his stretcher came violently to life.

  "What a dark night!" said Spike between two of the spasms that wrenchedhim. "Can't see your hand before your face!"

  "Say, you're hog fat!" grumbled Private Cowan. "You weigh a ton!"

  "It's dark, but it feels light--it's warm."

  Private Cowan leaned to shield the sun from Spike's garbled face.

  "Sure it's dark!" said he.

  "Can't see your hand before your face!"

  Spike was holding up a hand, thumb and fingers widely spread, moving itbefore his sightless eyes.

  "You got to go back. You're too fat to be up here."

  He rested his hand on Spike's forehead but withdrew it quickly whenSpike winced.

  He went on with the war; and the war went on.

  * * * * *

  "You would never guess," wrote Winona, "who was brought to this basehospital last week. It was the Mr. Brennon I wrote you of, Mr. EdwardBrennon, the friend of Wilbur's who went with him from Newbern. He isblind from gas, poor thing! Our head surgeon knew him. It seems he isone of the prettiest lightweights the head surgeon ever saw in action, atwo-handed fighter with a good right and a good left. These are termsused in the sport of boxing.

  "Of course he knows he is blind, but at first he thought he wasonly in the dark. Wilbur had told him of me. The most curiousmisunderstanding--he is positive he once saw me at home. Says I am theprettiest thing he ever looked at, and don't I remember coming into thepost office one day in a white dress and white shoes and a blue parasoland getting some mail and going out to a motor where some people waitedfor me? The foolish thing insists I have blue eyes and light brown hairand I was smiling when I looked at him in passing; not smiling at him,of course, but from something the people in the car had said; and I hadone glove off and carried the other with the blue sunshade. And I thinkhe means a girl from Rochester that visited the Hendricks, those millpeople, summer before last. She was pretty enough, in a girlish way, butnot at all my type. But I can't convince Edward it was not I he saw. Ihave given up trying. What harm in letting him think so? He says,anyway, he would know I am beautiful, because he can feel it even if Icome into the room. Did you ever hear such talk? But I am looking a lotbetter, in spite of all I have been through.

  "I had a week in Paris last month, and bought some clothes, a real Parisdress and things." You would not know me in the new outfit. The skirt isof rather a daring shortness, but such is the mode now, and I am told itbecomes me. Poor Edward, he is so patient, except for spells when heseems to go mad with realizing his plight. He is still a man. Hisexpression is forceful. He doesn't smoke, and warns me against it,though the few cigarettes I allow myself are a precious relief. But Ihave promised him to give up the habit when the war is over. He is astrong man, but helpless. He still believes I am the pretty thing he sawin the post office. The skirt is pleated, light summer stuff, and fallsin a straight line. Of course I have the shoes and stockings that gowith it."

  "There!" exploded the judge. "Taking up with prize fighters--traipsinground in a regular French dress, looking like something she's notsupposed to be!"

  "Lysander!" rebuked his wife hotly.

  "He tells me lots about Wilbur," continued the letter. "He hints thatthe boy is in love, but will say nothing definite. Men are soclose-mouthed. I hope our boy doesn't marry some little French anybody.His face is not exactly pleasant to look upon for the time being, but hehas a very winning personality."

  "Who's she mean that for?" demanded the Judge, truculently. "The Cowanboy?"