My dear Friend:

I cannot send you my letters to the front and I have for a long time debated whether I should even continue writing you. For, David, among those with whom you are now in daily contact there might be some who would recognize my handwriting, and I have not the right to run that risk. You are too loyal ever to seek the explanation in your imagination, as I am loyal to the promise I gave you and which a hundred times has tortured my conscience. But even in conversation never, never refer once to having met even the Mademoiselle Duvernoy you knew on the steamer, for you might bring a sorrow too awful to contemplate on those I must protect. Even this I ask of you—destroy every letter I have written you. Do not question, mon ami, do not seek to penetrate this mystery. And oh, David, if by any unthinkable accident you might guess at the truth, for my sake I ask it,—keep the knowledge to yourself. Yes, even from me, dear friend. I must ask this of you blindly, and without question, and I do so in perfect faith.

Blindly, and without question: yes, I shall obey her. But the imagination,—that is another thing. A hundred suppositions have rushed through my head, for I have written the names of a dozen of the officers whose mess I share, and there is one, a young captain from Brittany, François d’Hauteville, who, strangely, has reminded me many times of her, in coloring and in the breeding that I know is hers,—in the very quality of his voice. Is it possible that I have been living day after day with her own flesh and blood and never divined it! Control my imagination—how is it possible!

* * * * *

I rushed through the other letters and impatiently took up the last one.

Dear Friend:

You have probably heard from Miss Brinsmade of the way we met at her cousin’s and of my decision to go to her. I think, David, you will have guessed the reasons that have dictated my decision. Believe me that it is a great happiness to be so close to some one who is dear and necessary to you. Since I have known her a new confidence in the future has come to me. How could I resist her? There is something so instantly winning in her impulsive kindness, her brave struggling determination to be of some service, and the so evident need of a woman’s love and faith. With everything against her, a false education, the incitement to pleasure, the mistaken affections of those who love her best and who would make life only a long self-indulgence; with all against her, David, it is wonderful how the deeper things in her—the instincts of the real woman—have made her seek her own salvation. The real impulse, mon ami, make no mistake about it, is her love for you and the longing to stand high in your estimation. Such an aspiration is a precious thing, David,—a trust that you must never shatter.

I have talked many times with her and I love her. She does need something that I can give her, thank God,—and to feel that, is something that means everything to me in this period of great indecision. It is a mission that I shall perform very reverently, and for your sake.

B.

I have told her only that I crossed on the steamer with you. Send your letters always to the Convent, and I shall get them there. Dear David, don’t begrudge me this little opportunity for real service. I am happier to-day than I have been in years, for I do believe that in some mysterious way Providence has granted me the opportunity to help others to a great happiness. This, mon ami, compensates for everything.

When I had read this, a feeling of helplessness again came to me. It is one thing to combat an enemy, but how resist the quiet, self-sacrificing determination of the one you love and who loves you! From the first I have known that in Bernoline’s presence my will would always yield to her inflexible view of duty. Her moral supremacy over me was immediate, and I have never questioned it. I accepted it as I accept it now,—as a faith. Yet not for a moment have I relinquished hope, even though that hope is indefinable and confused and lost in future speculation. There must be some future happiness in this world that can be shared together: otherwise—

VII

Paris, December

Down on the sad duty of burying my brother, Alan. How strangely life and death are mingled in this swift impulse of war; Ted Seaver—Captain Seaver, now—who informed me of Alan’s last moments, told me too of Molly’s coming motherhood. One generation gone, and another arriving!