Part 52 (1/2)
”Now, Gora,” she said brightly, ”give an account of yourself.”
Gora did not reply for a moment and Alexina examining her again came to the conclusion that she had been spared some of the horrors of the front. As a head nurse her responsibilities had been too heavy for philanderings, and having the literary imagination rather than the personal she had no doubt consigned it to a water-tight compartment and converted herself into a machine.
”I don't know that I can talk about it,” she said. ”I feel much like the men. It is too close. I am thankful that I Had the experience: not only to have been of actual service, indispensable, as every good nurse was, but to have been a part of that colossal drama. But I am even more thankful that it is over and if I can possibly avoid it I'll never nurse again.”
”I suppose you have had no time to write?”
”I should think not! During the brief leaves of absence I spent most of the time in bed. But I have an immense amount of material. I have no idea how much fiction has been written about the war; there might have been none, so far as I have had time to discover. I've barely read a newspaper.”
”The only reason I want to go back to America is to hear the news. I see a New York newspaper once in a while, and it is plain they have it all. We have next to none in Europe, in France at all events. Shall you write your stories here or go back to California? That would give you the necessary perspective, I should think.”
Alexina's eyes were fixed upon an execrable print many inches above the footboard, and Gora, glancing at her, reflected that she was as beautiful as ever in spite of her loss of flesh and color. Any one would be with eyes that were like stars when they looked at you and a Murillo madonna's when she lifted them the fraction of an inch. Astute as she was she had never penetrated below the surface of Alexina, nor suspected the use she made of those pliable orbs. Alexina had such an abundance of surface it occurred to few people that she might be both subtle and deep.
”I ... don't know.... I rather fear losing the atmosphere ... the immediate stimulation. Shall you go home, now that you are free?”
”I wonder. Could I stand it? I have longed for a rest--ached would be a better word.... This last year has been full of both nervous strain and desperate monotony. Nineteen-seventeen was bad enough in another way: the internal defeatist campaign, the constant menace of mutiny, soviets in the army, strikes in the munition towns,--all the rest of it.... But could one stand California after such an experience? I know they have done splendid work since we entered the war, but I know also that they will immediately subside into exactly what they were before, settle down with a long sigh of relief to enjoy life and forget that war ever was. It could not be otherwise in that climate. With that abundance.
That remoteness.... There seems no place out there for me. A decorator after this! What funny little resources we thought out in those days.... I do not see myself fitting in anywhere. Tom wants to buy Ballinger House for Maria and I fancy I'll let him have it. I can't keep it up unaided and I might as well sell as rent it. He and Judge Lawton would invest the money and I should have quite a decent income.
As for Mortimer I never want to see him again. He has not done one thing for this war--he is utterly contemptible--
”I've long since given up criticizing Mortimer. My father once sized him up. He hasn't an ounce of brain. He'd like to be quite different, but you can stretch Nature's equipment so far and no farther. He stretched his until it suddenly snapped back and found itself shrunken to less than half its natural size. Vale Mortimer. Let him rest. Why don't you divorce him? No doubt he has found some one else--
”I couldn't divorce him on that count, for I told him repeatedly to console himself. It wouldn't be playing the game. Of course there are other grounds. It would be easy enough. But our family has a strong aversion to divorce. And a unique record.... Not that that would stop me if I found any one I really wanted to marry. Nothing would stop me, in fact.”
Gora glanced at her quickly, arrested by something in her voice. She had already noticed that Alexina's limpid musical tones had deepened.
Just now they rang with something of the menace of a deep-toned bell.
”Have you found him?” she asked smiling. ”If there are obstacles, so much the more interesting. I don't fancy that romantic streak in your nature which permitted you to idealize Mortimer has quite dried up.
Once romantic always romantic--I deduce from human nature as I have studied it.”
”Well ... I am rather afraid of romance. Certainly I'd never be blinded again. A man might be nine parts demi-G.o.d and if I knew--and I should know--that there was no companions.h.i.+p in him for me I wouldn't marry him.”
”That I believe.” Alexina was once more regarding the print. Gora wondered if s.e.x would influence her at all.
”But have you met him? You were always an interesting child and you've roused my curiosity.”
”No ... yes ... I don't know ... later perhaps I'll tell you something.
But I'm far more interested in you. Have you been in France all this time?”
”Oh, no. I was in Rouen for a year. Then I was in hospitals in England until the German Drive began in. March when I was sent over again. Oh, G.o.d! what sights! what sounds! what smells!” She huddled into her chair and stared at the dull flame behind the little door of the stove.
”Oh, I know them all. Think of something else. Surely you met--but literally--hundreds of officers, and some must have interested you. The British officer at best is a superb creature--if he would only stand up straight. I saw one at the Crillon to-day whose good American shoulders made me stare at him quite rudely.”
”Who was he?”
”Haven't the faintest idea. I only saw his back, anyway. Surely you must have been more than pa.s.sing interested in one or two.”
”I am not susceptible. And nursing is not conducive to romance.”
”But you never were romantic, Gora dear. And you are good-looking in your odd way. And that was your great, chance.”