A Soldier of the Legion

by C. N. Williamson and A. M. Williamson

  CHAPTER IV

  THE UPPER BERTH

  When he had learned at the village of La Tour that Doctor Lefebre hadleft the place long ago, to practise in Paris, Max went there, and foundLefebre without difficulty. He was now, at fifty, a well-known man,still young looking, but with a somewhat melancholy face, and the longeyelids that mean Jewish ancestry. When he had listened to Max's storyhe said, with a thoughtful smile: "Do you see, it is to you I owe mysuccess? I have never repented what I did for Madame. Still less do Irepent now, having met you. I gained advantages for myself that I couldnot otherwise have had; and to-day proves that I gave them to one whoHas known how to profit by every gift. The _other_--the girl--would nothave known how. There was something strange about the child, somethingnot right, not normal. I have often wondered what she has become. But itis better for you not to think of her. Fate has shut a door between youtwo. Don't open it. That is the advice, Monsieur, of the man who broughtyou into this very extraordinary world."

  Max thanked him, but answered that, for good or ill, he had made up hismind. Doctor Lefebre shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignedregret, and told what little he knew of the Delatours since he had sentthe young woman off to Algeria with the baby. The first thing he hadheard was four or five years after, when he paid a visit to La Tour, andwas told that Maxime Delatour had left the army and settled permanentlyin Algeria. Then, no more news for several years, until one day a letterhad been forwarded to him in Paris from his old address at La Tour. Itwas from Madame Delatour, dated "Hotel Pension Delatour, Alger," askingguardedly if he would tell her where she might write to the Americanlady whose child had been born at the chateau. "The lady who had beenkind to her and her baby." She would like to send news of littleJosephine, in whom the lady might still take an interest. MadameDelatour had added in a postscript that she and her husband were keepinga small hotel in Algiers, which they had taken with "some money that hadcome to them," but were not doing as well as they could wish. DoctorLefebre, feeling sure that she meant to make trouble, had not answeredthe letter; but even had he answered, he could only have said that Mrs.Doran lived in New York. He knew no more himself, and had never tried tofind out. Since then he had heard nothing of the Delatour family.

  That same night Max left Paris for Marseilles, and the next morning hewas on board the _General Morel_ starting for Algiers. For the firsttime in his life he had to think of economy: for though Rose's legacyhad amounted to something over fifteen thousand dollars, already it wasnearly disposed of. He determined never again to touch a Doran dollarfor his own personal use, unless he discovered that the rightful ownerwas dead. He had left Fort Ellsworth owing a good deal here and there;for tradesmen were slow about sending bills to such a valuable customer.Now, however, he felt that he must pay his debts with the money that washis own; and settling them would make an immense hole in his smallinheritance. There, for instance, were the pearls and the ring he hadbought for Billie Brookton. Their cost alone was nine thousand dollars,and even if Billie should offer to give them back, he meant to ask herto keep them for remembrance. But she would not offer. He would neverhave admitted to himself that he knew she would not; yet, sincereceiving her letter, he had known. If he had by and by to tell Billiethat he was to be a poor man, she would make some charming excuse fornot sending back his presents. Or else she would not refer to them atall. Whatever the future might bring, it seemed to Max that he had lostyouth's bright vision of romance. There was no such girl in the world asthe girl he had dreamed. The letter had shown him that--the one letterhe had ever had from Billie Brookton.

  After his talk with Doctor Lefebre the change in his life became for Maxmore intimately real than it had been before. The fact that he wastravelling second-class, though an insignificant thing in itself,brought it home to him in a curious, irritating way. He felt that hemust be a weak, spoiled creature, not worthy to call himself a soldier,because little, unfamiliar shabbinesses and inconveniences disgustedhim. He remembered how he had revelled in his one trip abroad with Roseand some friends of theirs the year before he went to West Point. Theyhad motored from Paris to the Riviera, and stayed in Nice. Then theyhad come back to Marseilles, and had taken the best cabins on board agreat liner, for Egypt. What fun he and the other boy of the party hadhad! He felt now that, however things turned out, the fun of life wasover.

  If the girl, Josephine Delatour, lived, he would have to leave the army;that was clear. Grant Reeves had shown him why. And it would be hard,for he loved soldiering. He could think willingly of no other professionor even business. Yet somewhere, somehow, he would have to begin at thebottom and work up. Besides, there were his real parents to be thoughtof, if they were still alive. Max felt that perhaps he was hard--orworse still, snobbish--not to feel any instinctive affection for them.His mother had sold him, in order that she might have money to go to herhusband, whom she loved so much better than her child. Well, at leastshe had a heart! That was something. And if the pair still kept a littlehotel, what of that? Was he such a mean wretch as to be ashamed becausehe was the son of a small hotel-keeper? Max began spying out in himselfhis faults and weaknesses, which, while he was happy and fortunate, hehad never suspected. And now and then he caught the words runningthrough his mind: "If only she is dead, the whole thing will be no morethan a bad dream." What a cad he was! he thought. And even if she weredead, nothing could ever be as it had been. Jack Doran was not hisfather, and he would have no right to anything that had been Jack's, noteven his love. If he kept the money it would not make him happy. Hecould never be happy again.

  It was in this mood that he went on board the _General Morel_, theoldest and worst-built ship of her line. She was carrying a crowd ofsecond-class passengers for Algiers, and the worried stewards had notime to attend to him. He found his own cabin, by the number on histicket, groping through a long, dark corridor, which smelt of food andbilge water. The stateroom was as gloomy as the passage leading to it,and he congratulated himself that at least he had the lower berth.

  His roommate, however, had been in before him, and either throughignorance or impudence had annexed Max's bunk for himself. On theroughly laundered coverlet was a miniature brown kitbag, conspicuouslynew looking. It had been carelessly left open, or had sprung open ofitself, being too tightly packed, and as Max prepared to change itsplace, muttering, "Cheek of the fellow!" he could not help seeing twophotographs in silver frames lying on top of the bag's other contents.Both portraits were of men. One was an officer in the uniform of theFrench army, with the typical soldier look which gives likeness and kinto fighting men in all races of the world. The other photograph Maxrecognized at a glance as that of Richard Stanton, the explorer.

  Queer, Max thought, as he lifted the bag, open as it was, to the upperberth. Queer, that some little _bourgeois_ Frenchman, journeyingsecond-class from Marseilles to Algiers, should have as a treasure inhis hand-baggage the portrait of a celebrated and extremely pugnaciousEnglishman who had got the newspapers down on him two or three years agofor a wild interview he had given against the _entente cordiale_. Maxremembered it and the talk about it in the officers' mess at FortEllsworth, just after he joined his regiment. However, the Frenchman'sphotographs were his own business; and Max relented not at all towardthe cheeky brute because he had a portrait of the great Richard Stantonin his bag. This was the sort of thing one had to expect when onetravelled second-class! A few weeks before he would have thought itimpossible as well as disgusting to bunk with a stranger whom he hadnever seen; but as he said to himself, with a shrug of the shoulderswhich tried to be Spartan, "Misfortune makes strange bedfellows." Maxwas disciplining himself to put up with hardships of all sorts whichwould probably become a part of everyday life. His own hand-luggage, asuitcase with his name marked on it, had been dumped down by somesteward in the corridor, and he carried it into the stateroom himself,pushing it far under the lower berth with a rather vicious kick. As rainwas falling in torrents, and a bitter wind blowing, he kept on his heavyovercoat, and went ou
t of the cabin leaving no trace of his ownershipthere except the hidden suitcase. Perhaps on that kick which had sent itout of sight the shaping of Max Doran's whole future life depended.

  On the damp deck and in the dingy "salle" of the second-class Maxwondered, with stifled repulsion, which among the fat Germans,hook-nosed Algerian Jews, dignified Arab merchants, and common-lookingFrenchmen, was to share his ridiculously small cabin. Most of themappeared to be half sick already, in fearful anticipation of the rockingthey were doomed to get in the ancient tub once she steamed out of theharbour and into the face of the gale. In the "gang," as he called it,there was visible but one person in what Max Doran had been accustomedto think of as his own "rank." That person was a girl, and despite thegloom which shut him into himself, he glanced at her now and then withcuriosity. It seemed unaccountable that such a girl should be travellingapparently alone, and especially second-class.

  The first thing that caught his attention was the colour of her hair asshe stood with her back to him, on deck. She was wrapped in a long, darkblue coat, with well-cut lines which showed the youthfulness of hertall, slim figure, as tall and slim as Billie Brookton's, but morealertly erect, more boyish. On her head was a small, close-fitting toqueof the same dark blue as her coat; and between this cap and theturned-up collar bunched out a thick roll of yellow hair. It was not asyellow as Billie's, yet at first glance it reminded him of hers, with asick longing for lost beauty and romance. Seeing the delicate figure,cloaked in the same blue which Billie affected for travelling, hethought what it would be like to have the girl with the yellow hairturn, to show Billie's face radiant with love for him, to hear herflutey voice cry: "Max, I couldn't bear it without you! Forget what Isaid in that horrid letter. I didn't mean a word of it. I've given upeverything to be your wife. Take me!"

  Soon the girl did turn from the rain blowing into her face, and thatface was of an entirely different type from Billie's. Seeing it, afterthat attack upon his imagination, was a sharp relief to Max. Still hedid not lose interest. The girl's hair was not so yellow where it grewon her head and framed the rather thin oval of her face, as in thethick-rolled mass behind, golden still with childhood's gold. Except forher tall slenderness she was not in the least like Billie Brookton; andshe would have no great pretension to beauty had it not been for a pairof long, gray, thick-lashed eyes which looked out softly and sweetly onthe world. Her nose was too small and her mouth too large, but thedelicate cutting of the nostrils and the bow of the coral-pink upper liphad fascination and a sensitiveness that was somehow pathetic. She heldher head high, on a long and lovely throat, which gave her a look ofcourage, but a forced courage, not the christening gift of godmothernature. That sort of girl, Max reflected, was meant to be cherished andtaken care of. And why was she not taken care of? He wondered if she hadrun away from home, in her dainty prettiness, to be jostled by thisunappreciative, second-class crowd? She was brave enough, though,despite her look of flower-delicacy, to stop on deck long after the shiphad steamed out from the comparatively quiet, rock-bound harbour, andplunged into the tossing sea. At last a big wave drove the girl away,and Max did not see her again until dinner time. He came late andreluctantly into the close-smelling dining-saloon, and found her alreadyseated at the long table. Her place was nearly opposite his, and as hesat down she looked up with a quick, interested look which had girlishcuriosity in it, and a complete lack of self-consciousness that wasperhaps characteristic. Evidently, as he had separated her in his mindfrom the rabble, wondering about her, so she had separated him andwondered also. She was too far away for Max to speak, even if he haddared; but a moment later a big man who squeezed himself in betweentable and revolving chair, next to the girl, made an excuse to ask forthe salt, and begin a conversation. He did this in a matter-of-fact,bourgeois way, however, which not even a prude or a snob could thinkoffensive. And apparently the girl was far from being a prude or a snob.She answered with a soft, girlish charm of manner which gave theimpression that she was generously kind of heart. Then something thatthe man said made her flush up and start with surprise.

  From that moment on the two were absorbed in each other. Could it be,Max asked himself, that the big, rough fellow and the daintily bred girlhad found an acquaintance in common? There seemed to be a gulf betweenthem as wide as the world, yet evidently they had hit upon some subjectwhich interested them both. Through the clatter of dishes Max caughtwords, or fragments of sentences, all spoken in French. The man had acommon accent, but the girl's was charming. She had a peculiarly sweet,soft voice, that somehow matched the sweetness and softness of the long,straight-lashed eyes under the low, level brows, so delicately yetclearly pencilled. Max guessed at first that she was English; then fromsome slight inflection of tone, wondered if she were Irish instead. Itwas a name which sounded like "Sidi-bel-Abbes" that made the girl startand blush, and turn to her neighbour with sudden interest. Again andagain they mentioned "Sidi-bel-Abbes," which meant nothing for Max untilhe heard the girl say "La Legion Etrangere." Immediately therecollection of a book he had read flashed into Max's brain. Why, yes,of course, Sidi-bel-Abbes was a place in Algeria, the headquarters ofthe Foreign Legion, that mysterious band of men without a country, inwhom men of all countries are interested. What was there in the subjectof the Foreign Legion to attract such a girl? Could she be going aloneto Sidi-bel-Abbes, hoping to find some lost relative--a brother,perhaps? She asked the man eager questions, which Max could not hear,but the big fellow shook his bullet-shaped head. Evidently he had littleinformation to give on the subject which specially appealed to her; butthere were others on which he held forth volubly; and though the girl'sattention flagged sometimes, she could have been no more gracious in hermanner to the common fellow if he had been an exiled king. "_La Boxe_"were the words which Max began to hear repeated, and a boxer was whatthe man looked like: a second or third rate professional. Max wishedthat he could catch what was being said, for boxing was one of his ownaccomplishments. He boxed so well that once, before he was twenty-one,he had knocked out his master, an ex-lightweight champion, in threerounds. Since then he had kept up his practice, and the sporting setamong the officers at Fort Ellsworth had been proud of their Max Doran.

  Every moment the weather grew worse, and one after another the fewsecond-class passengers who had dared to risk dining faded away. Atlast, about halfway through the badly served meal, the girl got up witha wan little smile for her talkative neighbour, and went out, keepingher balance by catching at the back of a chair now and then. Thebullet-headed man soon followed, charging at the open door like a bull,as a wave dropped the floor under his feet. But Max, priding himself onhis qualities as a sailor, managed to sit through the meagre dessert.

  The girl was not visible on the rain-swept deck, or in the gloomyreading-room, where Max glanced over old French papers until his opticnerves sent imperative messages of protest to his brain. Then he strayedon deck again, finding excuse after excuse to keep out of his cabin,where no doubt a seasick roommate was by this time wallowing andguzzling. At last, however, his swimming head begged for a pillow, nomatter how hard, and in desperation he went below. He found the cabindoor on the hook, and the faded curtain of cretonne drawn across. Therewas one comfort, at least: the wretch liked air. Max hoped the fellowhad gone to sleep, in which case there might be some chance of rest.Gently he unhooked the door and fastened it again in the same manner. Alittle light flittered through the thin curtain, enabling Max to gropehis way about the tiny stateroom, and he determined not to rouse hiscompanion by switching on the electricity.

  It had occurred to him, on his way to the cabin, that he might find hisberth usurped by a prostrate form, as in the afternoon by a bag. But hisfirst peering glance through the dimness reassured him on this point.The owner of the bag had taken the hint, and stowed himself in his ownbunk. Max could just make out a huddled shape under bedclothes which hadbeen drawn high for warmth. Then he knelt down to grope for the suitcasewhich he had pushed far under his own berth. Seeking it in thesem
i-darkness, a wave sent him sprawling. He heard from somewhere ashrill crash of glass, a sudden babble of excited voices, and decided itwould not be worth while to undress unless the storm should abate. Hescrambled up, and thankfully flung himself, just as he was, on to hisbunk. In the wild confusion of squeaking, straining planks, the thump ofwaves against the porthole, the demon-shrieks of infuriated wind, andthe shouts and running to and fro of sailors overhead, it seemedimpossible that any human being could sleep. Yet the creature overheadwas mercifully quiet; and suddenly slumber fell upon Max, shutting outthought and sound. For a while he slept heavily; but by and by dreamscame and lifted the curtain of unconsciousness, stirring him torestlessness. It seemed that he had lived through years since New York,and that everything had long ago been decided for him, one way or theother, though his dulled brain kept the secret. He knew only that he wasat Sidi-bel-Abbes--Sidi-bel-Abbes. How he had got there, and what he wasdoing, he could not tell. It ought to be a town, but it was not. Therewere no houses nor buildings of any kind in this strange Sidi-bel-Abbes.He could see only waves of yellow sand, billowing and moving all aroundhim like sea waves; and it was sea as well as desert. Suddenly one ofthe waves rolled away, to show a small white tent, almost like a coveredboat. A voice was calling to him from it, and he struggled to get near,falling and stumbling among the yellow waves. Then abruptly he startedback. It was Billie Brookton's voice. Instead of being glad to hear it,he was bitterly, bleakly disappointed, and felt chilled to the heartwith cold. Surprised at his own despair, he waked up, with a greatstart, just in time to brace his feet against the bottom of the berthand save himself from being thrown out by a shuddering bound of theship. From overhead he heard a sigh of pain or weariness, and the topberth creaked with some movement of its occupant. "The beast's awake!"thought Max, resentfully. "Now for ructions! No more hope of sleep forme, I suppose."

  But all was still again, except for a faint rustling as if the pillowwere being turned over. At the same instant something long and supple,like a thick, silky rope, slid down from above. He could see it in thedim light as it fell and brushed his hand protruding, palm uppermost,over the edge of the bunk. Quite mechanically he shut his fingers on thething, to prevent its dropping to the floor, and, to his amazement, itfelt to the touch like a woman's hair. His hand was full of it--a great,satin-soft curl it seemed to be. Only, it _couldn't_ be that, of course!Maybe he was half dreaming still. He opened his fingers and let thestuff go. But instead of falling to the floor, the long rope swayedgently back and forth with the rocking of the ship. It _was_ hair! Awonderful plait of hair, attached to a woman's head. A woman was lyingthere in the upper berth.