V
On an autumn afternoon of blue sky and sunshine, Stephen had the Croix de Guerre pinned on her breast by a white-haired and white-moustached general. First came the motherly Mrs. Claude Breakspeare, whose tunic looked much too tight for her bosom, then Stephen and one or two other members of that valiant and untiring Unit. The general kissed each one in turn on both cheeks, while overhead hovered a fleet of Aces; troops presented arms, veteran troops tried in battle, and having the set look of war in their eyes—for the French have a very nice taste in such matters. And presently Stephen’s bronze Croix de Guerre would carry three miniature stars on its ribbon, and each star would stand for a mention in dispatches.
That evening she and Mary walked over the fields to a little town not very far from their billets. They paused for a moment to watch the sunset, and Mary stroked the new Croix de Guerre; then she looked straight up into Stephen’s eyes, her mouth shook, and Stephen saw that she was crying. After this they must walk hand in hand for a while. Why not? There was no one just then to see them.
Mary said: “All my life I’ve been waiting for something.”
“What was it, my dear?” Stephen asked her gently.
And Mary answered: “I’ve been waiting for you, and it’s seemed such a dreadful long time, Stephen.”
The barely healed wound across Stephen’s cheek flushed darkly, for what could she find to answer?
“For me?” she stammered.
Mary nodded gravely: “Yes, for you. I’ve always been waiting for you; and after the war you’ll send me away.” Then she suddenly caught hold of Stephen’s sleeve: “Let me come with you—don’t send me away, I want to be near you. … I can’t explain … but I only want to be near you, Stephen. Stephen—say you won’t send me away. …”
Stephen’s hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what she would answer.
Then she said very slowly: “After the war—no, I won’t send you away from me, Mary.”