THE GRAVE.

Taranaki Daily News, 23 December 1922, Page 10

THE GRAVE.

A STORY OF THE WAR. (Specially Written for the News by W. B. Hoaking, Westown.) “It’s no use, Jim,” said Nancy Lancaster wistfully shaking her head. “I’d give anything to be able to say yes; but I’ve got to be honest and tell you that my heart is Maurice’s still. Perhaps I am one of those who can only love once, but he was—oh, you knew him, Jim, you knew the splendid fellow he was.” I inclined my head. Yes, I had known Maurice Richmond well. We had been school chums together, and later rivals for the heart of Nancy Lancaster. When war broke out we had sat at the same mess, until the fate that rules the lives of army subalterns had decreed, that we should be transferred to different regiments, so that I never saw Maurice again except for a few minutes in the rest carep at Morbeque. Yes, I could recall the handsome, fair-haired lad with, the quiet charming manner, and though Maurice had lain nearly four years in a British war cemetery in France, and the war was but a memory, his rivalry was as strong as ever. “Please don’t look like that, Jim,” pleaded Nancy. “I’d give anything to make you happy, but I cannot help my nature. I’ve had a longing. Jim. to see his grave, and I am thinking of going with the Nairns when they go abroad. Perhaps when I’ve seen where he is buried it will ease the pain here,” and she laid her hand over her heart.

“If you. go I shall certainly go, too,” I said doggedly. “There are certain graves I have long wanted to see.” “We will go together, then,” said Nancy gently.

(X the trip across I shall content myself with-saying that we had perfect weather all the way over. To Nancy, New Zealand born and bred and comparatively untravelled, the voyage waA one of unalloyed delight. I too. should have found it almost as enjoyable but for the spectre of jealousy and fear that haunted my hours of solitude. In life Maurice Richmond had bested me; even in death his power could still triumph: and at times —though T loathed myself for the thought—l felt it in my heart to hate the dead man. What, T wondered, would be the outcome of Nancy’s visit to his graveside. Would she feel she had paid sufficient homage to his memory; or would it serve only to intensify her almost morbid loyalty. Mostly I feared the latter, reasoning from my own feelings. Those who had made the supreme sacrifice left the more fortunate of us with the feeling that we were their debtors; would not Nancy then share in a similar sense that feeling of indebtedness? When I discovered myself—through the enforced intimaev of our shipboard life—more in love with Nancy than ever, my thoughts became gloomy indeed. On the other side we arranged our plans to suit the Nairns. a middle-aged couple with plenty of money, and it was several weeks before we reached Nieppe on the outskirts of which little town Maurice Richmond had been killed. Nancy was strangely silent as we walked up the straight, white street that led to the cemetery, and I, too, had my thoughts; for often in the old days I had.traversed this road, and the ghosts of the gallant comrades who had accompanied me then now filed silently past the window of my memory. Harry Lownden, best and bravest of comrades; Phil West, wit and raconteur; Little Martin with the pink and white complexion of a girl and the heart of a lion; Meed. Meadows and Stratton. Pasachendaele m.ud held Lownden. West cracked his last joke in a dugout behind Bapaume ere a sniper’s bullet pierced his brain. Little Martin died gloriously in the fighting around Crevecoeur. Meed and Stratton had laid down their lives in the final ‘stunt’ that ended outside the walls of Le Quesnoy. Matthew, wounded earlier in the fighting-. breathed his last in a British general hospital at Etaples. Gallant lads all, and a lump rose in my throat as I saw their old familiar faces in that ghostly company on the pave. “Memories. Jim?” said Nancy's gentle voice, and I felt her hand touch mine an instant, so that her sympathetic understanding almost unmanned me.

Although the marks of war had pretty well been erased, yet the number of new buildings testified to the damage wrought by the last bombardment. A few years ago a German ‘sausage’ strung in the sky ha.d spied down this street, and signalled the movements of troops to the guns of which it was the eye. Once, J remember, as we had halted for a spell, the gun had spoken and shells burst along this street amongst the houses. And I recalled as but yesterday the proud, beautiful face of the French girl who had emerged from a shop door to serve hot coffee to the troops —the proud carriage of her head, as, disdainful of th? bursting shells, she had scorneJ to take shelter, and by her example had stiffened more than one man to display a sang froid he was far from feeling. Death had lurked treacherously in that street, but now what more eloquent testimony of peace and safety could there be than the chant of childish voices in the school. There was something arresting’)' significant in the sight of the white crosses in the cemetery. Silently we entered the gate, and nearly obeying an impulse to salute. I bared my head and felt a queer little shiver pass up and down my spine. We had been directed with painstaking care to the exact spot where Maurice Richmond was buried, yet on reaching there we paused in doubt; for a girl knelt beside the grave adjusting some flowers in a vase. Hearing our footsteps she turned her head, and then rose gracefully to her feet, revealing a face whose proud yet sad beauty seemeu vaguely familiar to me. In a flash came recollection. She was the girl who had served coffee to the men that day of the bombardment. For the space of seconds we three gazed at each other, and the question in Nancy’s mind I know was the same as in my own. Then the French girl spoke, startling us with her perfect English rendered in a soft musical voice with only the slightest of an accent. “You have come to see the lieutenant’s grave?’’ “Yes, we have came all the wav from} New Zealand.” said Nancy. “You are then Mademoiselle Lancaster?”, asked the French girl. “Yon know my name?” Nancy started. The other bowed, but her eyes were, watchful. “You were perhaps a friend of the lieutenant?” suggested Nancy. “A friend, yes,” replied the French girl. She hesitated, and then I felt her eyes upon my face, felt them searching my own with a certain sombre intensity that embarrassed me. Then she turned to the girl I loved.

“Mademoiselle,” she said, “I have something to tell you. Will you, when you are ready, please accompany me to my home. I will wait for you at the gate.” She bowed to both of us and walked, away. I

“Who is she, Jim?” Nancy turned to me. Her voice held a note of frightened appeal. “See, she has tended his grave, yet, he never mentioned a French girl at Nieppe.” “A mere acquaintance, perhaps,” I suggested. “Some of these French girls are queer, they will do things like this out of sheer love of their country.”

shook her head. “There is more in it than that.” She stared at the grave and I saw her lips move as she read the brief inscription on the cross, then touching me on the arm she said: “Come, Jim, let us hear what she has to say.” The girl was waiting for u»s at the gate. “I am Estelle Pruvost. Lieutenant Richmond probably never mentioned my name, although he spoke often of you.” She gazed inquiringly at me, and Nancy performed the introduction. Estelle led us to the very shop from which I remembered she had emerged that day to serve the coffee. Tn a neat, clean little room at the back where a polished stove burned brightly she bade us seat ourselves and took a chair opposite. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “you are wondering what T was to Maurice Richmond. There beside his grave to-day I was tempted to tell you a falsehood, because I thought it was as he would have wished. Now I know it is the good God who bids me tell you the truth. It will hurt, I know, but it is better that you should be told.”

■ Stealing a glance at her T saw Nancy stiffen, and knew she had prepared herself for startling news.

“Mademoiselle.” pursued the French girl, “you asked me if I were a friend of the lieutenant. T was more than his friend. We Were lovers.” “That is a falsehood!” cried Nancy, white tn the lips. “Pardon me, mademoiselle.” said Estelle Pruvost quietly, “it is the truth.”

“What proof have you?” demanded the girl I loved. “Remember I was his fiancee, and Maurice was honorable—he would not have deceived me.”

“Mademoiselle Lancaster.” said the French girl with quiet sadness, “there is much of life that you do not understand. You in your country so far away do not know what war is—vou hear but you do not understand. Listen then to mv story before yon condemn. I loved Maurice Richmond the moment I saw him. and he loved me. No, do not contradict me—” as Nanev made a passionate gesture of dissent.

“It was so, Mademoiselle. You have seen perhaps, the blacksmith shape a piece of iron hot from the fire—so war shapes the souls of some men. Maurice left you a youth—ho met me as a man —yet do not think ho had altered for the worse. Tie spoke of you often — tortured himself with the question as to whether he should tell you of our love. ‘Estelle,’” he used to cry. ‘Have T to hurt her with the truth. Who knows I may be killed! Why should she suffer needlessly.’ And there were times, much as he loved mo, that he welcomed the trenches again, because for the time being it eased his self-torture. Always his thought was to spare you pain. If he had a weakness, it was a shrinking from hurting you. “ ‘lf I tell her.’ he said, ‘it will shake her faith in life—she loves me, and there is no one to whom she can turn. There was a man, an old pal of mine, who could, perhaps, help her to forget, but ho. too. is a soldier. Yet I hate the deceit,’ he would break out, ‘hate it with every fibre of mv being—yet if T tell her it will break her heart.’ Always lip camo back to that. Sometimes he would keep away from me for days —then he would come and lay his head on mv ’breast hero. “ ‘Estelle.’ Tip would say. ‘T have tried to do without you. but without yoiir love I believe neither in God nor anything else. If I am to nut you out of my life. T may as well resign my commission—my very efficiency is hound un with you. You are the spirit of Franco incarnate. I thrill at flip thought that. 1 fight for you; every hardship is worth bearing, every danger something to bo welcomed because it is for your sake.’ “Yet- the knowledge of his deceit—though he felt it justified—tortured him. ‘There are times’ he told me. ‘when 1 feel that a Bosche’s bullet would be the best thing for me.' and I ever lived in fear that this feeling would prompt him to some rash act that would bring the desired end. Then one day there came word that the division was to he ordered south. Maurice told me the •news as we sat on the bench by the summer house. It was very still that evening and the humming of aeroplanes going on a bombing, raid could be plainly heard.

“ ‘Estelle, ma ch ere.’ he said, and his voice was quiet and peaceful- ‘Your love has been a. wonderful thing for me. If God ever failed me or man I should «till be content with-your love. The war has taught me to despise shams, it has taught me to value only the essentials, but I shall go south tomorrow with a happier heart if I leave you behind as-my wife. ~.1 have been thinking it over, there is, no need for me to get permission, your priest can perform the ceremony. What do you say?’ ‘“Maurice, T told him. ‘your love is all that matters —yet if that is your wish—willingly I will marry you.’ So we talked it over. The battalion was not to depart until afternoon: there was to be a rifle and equipment inspection; when it was over he would meet me at Father Abri’s house. So we planned sitting there, my hand in his. while the stars came out and the moon rose in the sky.

“The Germans fired a few shells into the town that night. Thev made a terrible noise amongst the houses, but I knew that none of them fell near the billets. It was Madame Dufois who told m? the news next day. ‘The Bosche’ she said, ‘did ill work last night, -lave vou not heard—the two sisters T pfois killed in their beds and the good Father Abri dving and his housekeeper wounded?’ My only thought was Maurice’s disappointment. Ho saw mo for a few minutes that morning. ‘Who can foretell the future?’ he said. ‘Mv darling, Father Abri cannot marry us now.’ ‘“What matter it.’ I cried proudly, ‘it cannot alter the fact of our love.’ “His battalion moved out before dusk. The German observation balloon staying later that evening in the sky spied the movements of the troops. The German guns shelled the road. Maurice was hit by a splinter and died almost instantly. That, Mademoiselle, is my story.” White-faced and stricken, Nancy had listened to the tale. Now she raised tortured eyes to the French girl’s face. “If what you have told me is true, why have vnv ‘old me?”

“Mademoiselle,” said the other gently, “were you fickle and light-hearted I should never have told you; but when I saw that you were one of those, who remain steadfast to a memory of love when they believe that love was true I knew it was a. sin for you not to know the truth.” “The truth!” cried Nancy fiercely. “What am I to believe? What if you are telling me this but to deceive me.” A eorrowful smile flitted across the face of Estelle Pruvost. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “I forgive you for doubting me, but it can soon be remedied. Listen.” Startled, we raised our heads, but heard only the shouts and chatter ot the school children as they raced home from school. Then the front door opened—came eager footsteps along the passage and into the room there burst -there could not be the slightest doubt —a miniature replica of Maurice Richmond himself. There was the same fair hair, the same fine features, only the mother’s eyes gazed out of the lace of '“Maurice’s z soi».” said the French girl

simply —“his and mine. Nanev proved herself great in that moment. I saw a shiver shake her frame, then rising she went forwarrt, o-athered the boy in her arms and kls ® e “ him with a passionate intensity that frightened him. Releasing him, Naney touched for a moment the shoulder ot the young mother. “Mademoiselle,” she said, ‘I ask y»« r forgiveness—and may I say -1 envy Then her eyes sad and wistful met my i own—and hope leaped in my heart at ' something else 1 imagined I saw. ( “Jim—Jim—take home.