The Girl from Alsace Part 4

"Then it hasn't been wasted. But you say you're from Philadelphia. I know some people in Philadelphia--the Courtlandt Bryces are sort of cousins of mine."

But the girl shook her head.

"That sort of thing happens only in novels," she said. "But there is no reason I shouldn't tell you my name, if you want to know it. It is Millicent Field, and its possessor is very undistinguished--just a school-teacher--not at all in the same social circle as the Courtlandt Bryces."

Stewart colored a little.

"My name is Bradford Stewart," he said, "and I also am very undistinguished--just a surgeon on the staff at Johns Hopkins. Did you get to Vienna?"

"No; that was too far for us."

"There was a clinic there; I saw some wonderful things. These German surgeons certainly know their business."

Miss Field made a little grimace.

"Perhaps," she admitted. "But do you know the impression of Germany that I am taking home with me? It is that Germany is a country run solely in the interests of the male half of creation. Women are tolerated only because they are necessary in the scheme of things."

Stewart laughed.

"There was a book published a year or two ago," he said, "called 'Germany and the Germans.' Perhaps you read it?"

"No."

"I remember it for one remark. Its author says that Germany is the only country on earth where the men's hands are better kept than the women's."

Miss Field clapped her hands in delight.

"Delicious!" she cried. "Splendid! And it is true," she added, more seriously. "Did you see the women cleaning the streets in Munich?"

"Yes."

"And harvesting the grain, and spreading manure, and carrying great burdens--doing all the dirty work and the heavy work. What are the men doing, I should like to know?"

"Madam," spoke up the bearded stranger by the window, in a deep voice which made everybody jump, "I will tell you what the men are doing--they are in the army, preparing themselves for the defense of their fatherland. Do you think it is of choice they leave the harvesting and street-cleaning and carrying of burdens to their mothers and wives and sisters? No; it is because for them is reserved a greater task--the task of confronting the revengeful hate of France, the envious hate of England, the cruel hate of Russia. That is their task to-day, madam, and they accept it with light hearts, confident of victory!"

There was a moment's silence. Mrs. Field was the first to find her voice.

"All the same," she said, "that does not justify the use of cows as draft animals!"

The German stared at her an instant in astonishment, then turned away to the window with a gesture of contempt, as of one who refuses to argue with lunatics, and paid no further heed to the Americans.

With them, the conversation turned from war, which none of them really believed would come, to home, for which they were all longing. Home, Stewart told himself, means everything to middle-aged women of fixed habits. It was astonishing that they should tear themselves away from it, even for a tour of Europe, for to them travel meant martyrdom. Home!

How their eyes brightened as they spoke the word! They were going through to Brussels, then to Ostend, after a look at Ghent and Bruges, and so to England and their boat.

"I intend to spend the afternoon at Aix-la-Chapelle," said Stewart, "and go on to Brussels to-night or in the morning. Perhaps I shall see you there."

Miss Field mentioned the hotel at which the party would stop.

"What is there at Aix-la-Chapelle?" she asked. "I suppose I ought to know, but I don't."

"There's a cathedral, with the tomb of Charlemagne, and his throne, and a lot of other relics. I was always impressed by Charlemagne. He was the real thing in the way of emperors."

"I should like to see his tomb," said Miss Field. "Why can't we stop at Aix-la-Chapelle, mother?"

But Mrs. Field shook her head.

"We will get out of Germany as quickly as we can," she said, and the other members of the party nodded their hearty agreement.

Meanwhile the train rolled steadily on through a beautiful and peaceful country, where war seemed incredible and undreamed of. White villas dotted the thickly-wooded hillsides; quaint villages huddled in the valleys. And finally the train crossed a long viaduct and rumbled into the station at Aix-la-Chapelle.

The platform was deserted, save for a few guards and porters. Stewart opened the door and was about to step out, when a guard waved him violently back. Looking forward, he saw that the soldiers were detraining.

"Good!" he said. "You can get your old seats again!" and, catching the eye of the guard, gave him a nod which promised a liberal tip.

That worthy understood it perfectly, and the moment the last soldier was on the platform, he beckoned to Stewart and his party, a.s.sisted them to find their old compartments, ejected a peasant who had taken refuge in one of them, a.s.sured the ladies that they would have no further inconvenience, and summoned a porter to take charge of Stewart's suit-cases. In short, he did everything he could to earn the shining three-mark piece which Stewart slipped into his hand.

And then, after receiving the thanks of the ladies and promising to look them up in Brussels, Stewart followed his porter across the platform to the entrance.

Millicent Field looked after him a little wistfully.

"How easy it is for a man to do things!" she remarked to n.o.body in particular. "Never speak to me again of woman suffrage!"

CHAPTER III

"STATE OF WAR"

Stewart, following his porter, was engulfed in the human tide which had been beating clamorously against the gates, and which surged forward across the platform as soon as they were opened. There were tourists of all nations, alarmed by the threat of war, and there were also many people who, to Stewart at least, appeared to be Germans; and all of them were running toward the train, looking neither to the right nor left, dragging along as much luggage as they could carry.

As he stepped aside for a moment out of the way of this torrent, Stewart found himself beside the bearded stranger who had waxed eloquent in defense of Germany. He was watching the crowd with a look at once mocking and sardonic, as a spider might watch a fly struggling vainly to escape from the web. He glanced at Stewart, then turned away without any sign of recognition.

"Where do you go, sir?" the porter asked, when they were safely through the gates.

"To the Kolner Hof."

"It is but a step," said the porter, and he unhooked his belt, pa.s.sed it through the handles of the suit-cases, hooked it together again and lifted it to his shoulder. "This way, sir, if you please."

The Kolner Hof proved to be a modest inn just around the corner, where Stewart was received most cordially by the plump, high-colored landlady.

Lunch would be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile, if the gentleman would follow the waiter, he would be shown to a room where he could remove the traces of his journey. But first would the gentleman fill in the blank required by the police?

So Stewart filled in the blank, which demanded his name, his nationality, his age, his business, his home address, the place from which he had come to Aix-la-Chapelle and the place to which he would go on leaving it, handed it back to the smiling landlady, and followed an ugly, hang-dog waiter up the stair.

The room into which he was shown was a very pleasant one, scrupulously clean, and as he made his toilet, Stewart reflected how much more of comfort and how much warmer welcome was often to be had at the small inns than at the big ones, and mentally thanked the officer of police who had recommended this one. He found he had further reason for grat.i.tude when he sat down to lunch, served on a little table set in one corner of a shady court--the best lunch he had eaten for a long time, as he told the landlady when she came out presently, knitting in hand, and sat down near him. She could speak a little English, it appeared, and a little French, and these, with Stewart's little German, afforded a medium of communication limping, it is true, but sufficient.

She received the compliments of her guest with the dignity of one who knew them to be deserved.