after a sleepless, uncomfortable night, spent sitting bolt upright in a compartment of the paris-brest train, kendall arrived at the dirty, unkempt, unattractive seaport which was his destination. his baggage was taken from him by the branch of the army which looked after such matters, and he found his way to the provost’s office, where he showed his orders and was told to report daily to see if his name was posted in the list of those to sail. no further information was given him as to the date of his departure nor the vessel upon which he should sail.
he secured a room at the continental h?tel, the best the city afforded, and found it unspeakable—and then for six interminable days he wandered about the town, waiting, waiting for the convoy which seemed destined never to arrive. he played innumerable games of bridge, walked a dozen times a day to a vantage-point on the old fortifications from which he could gain a panoramic view of the harbor and its jostling craft.... far out at the entrance swayed and tossed an observation balloon, keeping ceaseless watch of the sea for lurking submarines....
no vessels came save one, the torpedoed mt. vernon, which had sailed early on the morning of his arrival. it staggered into port with a great hole in its side, and presently disappeared into dry dock farther into the bay.... then the report spread that cholera had broken out in the town and was magnified to appalling proportions.... there was nothing to do but play bridge and walk to the harbor to look for an incoming convoy, and to eat and sleep. it was maddening....
the harbor ceased to be interesting. german prisoners compelled to labor on the docks became commonplace; scurrying destroyers failed to stir the imagination.... and then one morning ken walked to his usual vantage-point and saw at anchor the gigantic leviathan....
presently orders were posted and his name appeared upon the list. he was to report himself with his hand-baggage at a certain point early next morning.... the morning was overcast and cold, with a chilling, slanting drizzle of rain, and everybody was out of spirits and uncomfortable as they waited for the lighter to carry them out to the transport. there was no shelter, and they stood about the deck of the little boat, backs to the slashing rain, for no sooner had they left the wharf than the rain descended in earnest.
finally they were on board and were assigned to rooms, but this was not the end of the waiting. forty-eight hours remained while the vessel was being coaled, but at last she started, a consort on either side and a flock of destroyers for convoy.
the voyage was not unpleasant, and it was interesting, at least, to watch the little destroyers plunging and rolling through the great waves until one night they disappeared and left the three transports alone.... there were six days and a half of plowing westward through the atlantic, days when one wore constantly his life-jacket and rather expected to hear at any moment the detonation of the defensive guns or the explosion of a torpedo against the vessel’s sides.... but at last land came into view—only to be obscured by fog that compelled the leviathan to crawl along, feeling her way with the lead.... and then, as suddenly as it had come, the fog vanished and they were in the harbor, with the goddess visible ahead and the sky-line of the metropolis over to the right.... nobody left the deck. it was an experience and every man wanted to feel every second of it, witness every manifestation of it.... vessels cheered them and they cheered in return.... it was america—home. they had been to the war and had returned, some of them battered, broken, but nevertheless returned. it was exhilarating, wonderful.
an early morning ferry-boat, crowded with civilians, ran under their bows, and some competent individual led the cheering. crash, crash, crash, sounded the enthusiastic welcome of those who had remained behind, and every man on the transport knew that those cheers were for him....
the great vessel swung about and docked by the aid of snorting, grunting tugs, and after more delays and formalities they set foot on shore.... kendall went directly to the pennsylvania station to book a lower berth for washington.
a week later he was in detroit on furlough—in his old home, amid familiar surroundings ... under his own roof with his father and mother. it was very much the same. the war touched the life of the city but lightly. it was all as he remembered it, all as he had expected it to be ... and paris and the distant war seemed to be matters that had occurred in a dream.... on sunday he went to church with his mother and father and received the homage and congratulations of the vestibule....
that afternoon he went to his room to write—to write the promised letter to andree. it was not easy ... for the decision had not yet been made. he wrote and destroyed and wrote again. he promised to return; he assured her of his love ... but when he read he was not satisfied.... he was in detroit, in another world, and andree did not belong to that world. he was surprised to find how well this world satisfied him and how unreal that other world he had known and loved had become.... this was his world, these were the things he was meant to do and the thoughts he was meant to think. this was america, and he was an american!...
he tried to think of paris, to get back again into the spirit of paris, but could not do so.... it had become unreal, distant, not appealing....
but andree ... she was not unreal, not distant. she was very real, present in his heart—and yet she was of that other world, a stranger, an alien.... he loved her—but—there was always that but.
he wrote still another letter and read it. yes, he had decided. he could not give her up. he would bring her here and let the consequences be what they might.... the letter was placed in its envelop and he drew out his note-book to look for her address.... it was there, those written words which should forever remove andree from the land of lovely mystery.... but he did not open the book. it lay in his hand, but he dared not open it.... he went to the window and looked out upon the street, that typically american, typically middle-western street.... he stood so for many minutes, then walked toward the fireplace and tossed the note-book into the blaze.... the thing was done, the decision was made and was irrevocable ... and andree would always remain a glowing mystery....
he went again to his desk and wrote another letter. it was brief:
dear maude—there is no woman in my life but you. when you come home i shall come to you for my answer.
he inclosed it, addressed it, stamped it, and went out to the post-box on the corner. even now he hesitated a moment, but it was only a moment.... the letter dropped inside. it could not be recalled.
but he did not move from the spot. for a long time he stood staring before him with eyes that did not see the typically american street, with a consciousness that did not feel his typically middle-western surroundings.... what he felt was that something true and faithful and beautiful had found a place in his life never to be removed. what he saw was a vision of andree, waiting ... waiting....
