Sir Gareth round tag
"THE MAID WHO BINDS HER WARRIOR'S SASH"
I couldn'ttell Tippy. The way we did I just handed her Barby's night letter without a word and Richard gave her his. She read them with no more change of expression than if they'd been weather reports. Then she said that she'd known it all along. A wooden Indian couldn't have been less demonstrative, but later I found that nothing could have pleased her more.
Richard says she can't help being born a Plymouth Rock. She's like an ice-bound brook that can't show the depth and force underlying the surface coldness. But her tenderness leaked out for us both afterwards, in all sorts of ways, and I began to understand her for the first time in my life.
She watched me take down the service flag in the window and replace it with one bearing two stars, and I'm sure she read my thoughts. She's always had an uncanny way of doing that. I was thinking how much harder it was to put up thatsecond star than the first one, because I hadn't really given Father to the service. He was in it before I was born. But the second star was the symbol of a real sacrifice that I was laying on the altar of my country. There was no laughing this time, or joking suggestion to make a ceremony of it. I felt to the bottom of my heart what I was doing, and did it in reverent silence.
Soon after she followed me to my room and laid a couple of books on the table, open at the places marked for me to read. I smiled after she went out when I saw that one was an antiquated volume of poems. All my life she has tried to teach me morals and manners by the aid of such verse as "The boy stood on the burning deck" and "Fie! What a naughty child to pout." So I picked up the books wondering what lesson she thought I needed now. The poem she marked was "The Maid who binds her Warrior's sash." As I read I understood. Dear old Tippy! It wascourageshe would teach me.
Richard was right. She couldn't say these things to me, so she brought me the words of another to help me, knowing the lesson would soon be sorely needed. The other book was a new one she had just drawn from the library, the adventures of a young gunner in the Navy. He hadwon the Croix de Guerre for distinguished service and escaped the horrors of a German prison camp, so he knew what he was talking about when he wrote the words she left for me to read.
"When you say goodbye to your son or your husband or your sweetheart, take it from me that what he will like to remember the best of all is your facewith a smile on it. It will be hard work; you will feel more like crying and so will he, maybe. That smile is your bit. I will back a smile against the weeps in a race to Berlin any time. So I am telling you, and I can't make it strong enough—send him away with a smile."
This is the verse:
"The maid, who binds her warrior's sashWith smile, which well the pain dissembles,The while, beneath the drooping lash,One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles,Though heaven alone record the tearAnd fame shall never know her story,Her heart has shed a drop as dearAs ever dewed the field of glory."
I didn't realize then how hard it was going to be to live up to those quotations, but Tippy, with so much of her life behind her full of its hardlessons—Tippy knew and took this mute way of warning me.
The storm did us a good turn in more ways than unearthing our buried treasure. It brought such cold weather in its wake that when we came in glowing from a tramp along shore just before supper, we found a jolly big fire waiting for us in the living-room. Such a one, Richard said, as would warm him many a time, thinking of it, nights when he was miles up in the air, numb as the North Pole.
We had such a long cosy evening afterward, there in the firelight.
"We'll have it just like this in our own little home when I get back," Richard kept saying. We planned the dearest house. We decided to make his Cousin James sell us his bungalow studio, not only because the Green Stairs running up the cliff to it is the place where we first saw each other when we were infants, but because it's such an artistic place, and has such a wonderful view of the sea. It's a place far too delightful to be wasted on a single person, even such a nice old bachelor as his Cousin James.
We even planned what we'd have for our first breakfast when we started to housekeeping, with Aunt Georgina's coffee urn shining at one end of the table and an old beaten-silver chop dish,that is one of Richard's memories of their studio days in Paris, at the other.
"If I could only see that picture in reality before I go!" Richard exclaimed—"if I could only sit down at that table once with you across from me, and know that it was my home and my little wife——"
Then he confessed that he wanted to take back everything he'd said about Watson and war weddings. He believed in 'em now andcouldn'tI,wouldn'tI——? But without waiting to finish the question he hurried on to answer it himself. No, he mustn't ask it. He wouldn't. It wouldn't be fair to me, young as I was, with Barby gone, nor to her. But if he could only feel that I really belonged to him——
I told him I didn't see how rushing through a whirlwind ceremony as Babe did could make us feel we belonged to each other any more than we already did, and Icouldn'tdo it without Barby, but we could say the betrothal part to each other, and that would make him feel that we were almost married. So we hunted it up in the prayer book and each repeated the part that says, "I take thee . . . from this day forward . . . to love and to cherish . . . and thereto I plight thee my troth."
But after we said it I couldn't see that it madethe thought of parting any easier. Really it seemed even harder after we'd solemnly promised ourselves to each other that way.
After a while he said there were several things he wanted to speak of before he went away. One was that his Cousin James has all his belongings in charge. Among them is a beautiful old Venetian jewel casket with his mother's rings and necklaces and things in it. His Cousin James understands that everything in it is to be mine and he hoped that I'd wear them sometimes—even if—in any event—— He didn't go on to say even ifwhat, but the unfinished sentence filled me with its unspoken dread, more than if he'd really said it.
After a long silence he said lightly that there was some satisfaction in the thought that I'd always be comfortably provided for no matter what happened, and that I could have the bungalow and the motor-boat and all the other things we'd planned. He'd made his will the day before and his Cousin James had promised to see it was carried out in every detail.
At the thought of what his speech implied and the mere idea of me having or doing any of those lovely things withouthim, I couldn't stand it any longer. I simply hid my face in the sofa cushions and let the dykes wash out to sea. It must havebroken him up somewhat himself, to see the way I took it, for his voice was shaky when he tried to comfort me. But it was so dear and tender, just like Uncle Darcy's that time he kept saying, "There's naught to fear lass, Dan'l's holding you." Every word only made me cry that much harder.
Presently he cleared his throat and asked if I supposed there was any powder left in the old powder horn over the mantel, and did I remember the time we fed some to Captain Kidd to make him game. He'd confess now, after all these years, he ate some himself that day when I wasn't looking, but its effect was about worn off by this time, and if I kept on that way much longer he'd have to have another nip at that old horn or go to pieces himself.
I sat up then and laughed, despite the big, gulpy sobs that nearly choked me. For I had to tell him that I'd eaten some of that powder myself that same time. I licked it out of the palm of my hand when his back was turned. And if the powder had lost its effect on me the horn itself hadn't. The mere mention of it made me stiffen. Hereafter I'd be just as brave as that old Revolutionary grandmother of mine who snatched it from the wall with the musket, and hustled her Minute Man off with the one grim word, "Hurry!"I promised him that hereafter he shouldn't see me shed another drop. And he didn't.
Mr. Milford came up for me early next morning to take me down to the station to see Richard off. Maybe it was because I had had that spell of wild weeps the night before, that I felt like the-morning-after-a-storm, all cleared up and shiney. At any rate I sent him off laughing. He looked so fit and so fine, starting off on his great adventure like some knight of old, that I told him I pined to go along; that under the circumstances I'd gladly change places with him. I'd much rather be Richard Moreland than G. Huntingdon.
But he said right before his Cousin James that he'd much rather I'd beMrs.Richard Moreland. It was my blushing so furiously at hearing that name applied to me for the first time which made him laugh. Then there was only time to be caught up in a good-bye embrace before the train pulled out. He swung himself up on the rear platform just as it started. He did look so handsome and so dear and I was so proud of him in his khaki that there was nothing forced in the last smile I gave him. It was the real spangled-bannery kind; such as shines in your eyes when the band plays martial music and the troops march by. Your heart beats awfully fast and you hold yourbreath, but you have the feeling that in your soul you are one of the color bearers yourself. You are keeping step with your head held high.
Afterwards when Mr. Milford helped me into the machine he said, "Georgina, you're a trump. You wear your service stars in your eyes."
When I looked at him questioningly, wondering what he meant, he said, "Oh, I know they're brown, not blue, but you showed my boy the star of 'true blue' courage in them, and I was horribly afraid for a few minutes there that maybe you wouldn't."
He talked about service flags all the way home, for we kept coming across them in the windows in every street. Over two hundred men have gone out from this little fishing town. When I told him how I felt that way, about "keeping step," he said he wished I could make some other people he knew feel the same way.
"There's poor Mrs. Carver, for instance, crying her eyes out over Titcomb and Sammy III, and talking as if she's the only mother in the world who's sacrificing anything. If you could suggest that those boys would be a bit prouder of her if she could keep step with the rest of the mothers, make her sacrifice with her head up, it would do her a world of good. She mustn't fly service starsin her window unless she can back them on the inside with the same true blue courage they stand for on the outside—the kind that sends the men to the front."
Woman standing before window with maid
MARKED ON THE CALENDAR
It'squeer what a way Doctor Wynne has of stepping abruptly into my life and out again. It's been so ever since I found his picture in the barrel. A few days after Richard left he unexpectedly opened the front gate and came up to the porch where Tippy and I sat knitting. I did not recognize him at first in his captain's uniform, and no one could have been further from my thoughts. I supposed he had already sailed for France.
Some business with old Mr. Carver, who is giving an ambulance to the Red Cross, brought him to Provincetown, and, happening to hear that Miss Susan Triplett was at our house, he came up to say goodbye to her before starting to join the unit to which he's been assigned. He was disappointed when he found that Miss Susan had gone back to Wellfleet. He said she was one of the few people left who had known his familyintimately, and who remembered him as a child. It gave him a sense of kinship to have her call him "Johnny" in a world where everyone else said "Doctor."
That was enough for Tippy. In her opinion any man in khaki is entitled to all the "sugar and spice and everything nice" the world can give. When she found that he has no home ties now, she adopted him on the spot. He didn't know he was being adopted, but I did, just from the positive tone of her voice. She told him her claim on him was about as old as Susan's. She'd known him when he was a bald-headed baby—held him in her arms in this very house, and sat under his father's preaching many a time in Wellfleet. And indeed he'd stay to supper. He needn't think she'd let a son of Sister Wynne's leave the house without breaking bread with her, especially when he was starting off to a far country where he was liable to get nothing but husks.
If what Tippy wanted was to give him a little slice of home to pack up and take away in his "old kit bag," she certainly succeeded. It will be many a moon before he can forget the table she spread for him, the advice she gave him and the sock she hurried to "toe off" in order that there might be a full half dozen in the package she thrust upon him at parting. An own aunt couldnot have been more solicitous for his comfort, and she did all but call him Johnny.
It's the first time I ever had any conversation with him more than a sentence or two. Now as he "reminisced" with Tippy, and told experiences of his boyhood on a Western farm and of his medical student days, I saw that the real John Wynne was not the person I imagined him to be.
What a sentimental little goose I must have been at sixteen; truly "green in judgment" to have woven such a fabric of dreams around him. Miss Crewes' story started it, putting him on a sort of pedestal, and the affair with Esther added to it, till I imagined him a romantic and knightly figure, "wrapped in the solitude" of a sad and patient melancholy. The real John Wynne is a busy, matter-of-fact physician, absorbingly interested in the war and keen to be into it, also ready to talk about anything from "cabbages to kings." Yet I suppose if anyone had told me then that I was mistaken in that early estimate of him I would have resented it. Iwantedhim to fit the role I assigned him. It made him more interesting to my callow mind to imagine him like that king in the poem when,—"The barque which held the prince went down he never smiled again."
He was so warmly interested in my account of finding his picture at that auction and keeping itall these years, that I took him across the hall to look at it. The thought came to me that maybe he'd like to have it, but when I offered it to him he said no, he had a more recent one of his mother, one more like her as he remembered her. He stood looking at it a long while and finally said it seemed so much at home there on the wall that he hoped I'd keep it there. It would sort of anchor him to the old Cape to look back and know that it was hanging in the very room where they had once been together. Then he added almost wistfully:
"Ifshewere here to wish me Godspeed, I could go away better equipped, perhaps, for what lies ahead."
Some sudden impulse prompted me to open the table drawer and take out the little service flag with the one star which I had thrust in there when I put up the new one. As I hung it under the picture I was surprised to hear myself saying, "See! Shedoeswish you Godspeed."
It was exactly as if someone else put the words into my mouth, for I had never thought of them before, and I'm sure I never quoted Scripture that way before, outside of Sunday school. It gave me the queerest sensation to be doing it as if some force outside of myself were impelling me to speak.
"Don't you suppose," I said slowly, "that if God so loved the world that He could give His only son to die for it, that he must know howhumanfathers and mothers feel when they do the same thing? Don't you believe that He'd let a mother, even up in heaven, have some way to comfort and help a son who was offeringhislife to save the world? The men in the trenches can't see the stars we hang out for them here at home, but they feel our spirit of helpfulness flowing out to them. How do we know that the windows of heaven are not hung with stars that mean the same thing? How do we know but what those who watch and wait for us up there are not aiding us in ways greater than we dream possible? Helping us as Israel was helped, by the invisible hosts and chariots of fire, in the mountain round about Elisha?"
The tenderest smile lit up his face. "It's strange you should have hit upon that particular story," he said. "It was one of my mother's favorites. She began telling it to me when I was no bigger than that little chap there, leaning against her shoulder."
Then he turned and held out his hand, saying, "You've given me more than you can ever know, Miss Huntingdon. Thank you for hanging thatlittle service star there. She does say Godspeed, and its help will go with me overseas."
A little while later he went away, and I've wondered a dozen times since what made me say that to him.
The month of July in my 1917 calendar is a motley page, the first half of it being marked with a perfect jumble of red rings and black crosses. They stand for all that happened between my home-coming after Commencement and Richard's goodbye. When you consider that into one day alone was crowded my birthday anniversary, Babe's wedding, Aunt Elspeth's death, and the greatest experience of my life, it's no wonder that in looking back over it all July seems almost as long and eventful as all the years which went before it.
There is a triple ring around the twenty-seventh. I couldn't make it red enough, for that is the joyful day that Richard's cablegram came, saying that he was safe in England. It was also the day that Babe came home from her honeymoon, alone, of course. Watson joined his ship two days after they left here, and she visited his people the rest of the time. I've not marked that event but I'll not forget it soon, because she was so provoking when I ran in to tell her my news.Not that she wasn't interested in hearing of Richard's safety, or that she wasn't enthusiastic about my engagement and my solitaire, but she had such a superior married air, as if the mere fact of her being Mrs. Watson Tucker made all she said and felt important.
She gave me to understand that while it was natural that she should worry about Watson, and almost die of anxiety when the mails were late, I oughtn't to feel the separation as keenly as she, because I was merely engaged.
"Mydear, you can't realize the difference until you've had the experience," she said patronizingly. I told her Richard had been a part of my life ever since I was a child, and it stood to reason that he filled a larger place in it than Watson could in hers, having only come into it recently.
It's no use arguing with Babe. You never get anywhere. So I just looked down on my little ring of pirate gold and felt sorry for her. She has no link like that to remind her of such buried treasure as Richard and I share—the memory of all those years when we were growing up together.
Early in August I had the joy of putting a big red capital L on my calendar, to mark the day that Richard's first letter came. He was well, he had had a comfortable crossing, he had passed allhis tests and begun his special training for the coast patrol. It is almost worth the separation to have a letter like that. Not only did he tell me right out in the dearest way how much he cares for me, regardless of the censor's possible embarrassment, but every line showed his buoyant spirits over the chance that has come to him at last. He has wanted it so desperately, tried for it so gallantly and worked and waited so patiently that I would be a selfish pig not to be glad too, and Iamglad.
Judith asked how I had the heart to go into the tableaux that Mrs. Tupman is getting up for the Yarn fund. She was sure she couldn't if she were in my place. She'd be thinking all the time of the danger he is in. She wondered if I realized that the elements themselves conspire against an aviator—fire, earth and even water, if he's in the naval force, to say nothing of the risk of the enemy's guns.
She couldn't understand it when I said I wasn't going to make myself miserable thinking of such things. And I'm not. He's having his heart's desire at last, and I'm so happy for him that I won't let myself be sorry for me.
His next letter was written five thousand feet up in the air. He went to twenty thousand feet that trip, but couldn't write at such a height, becausehis hand got so cold he had to put his glove on. Of course it was only a short scribbled note, but it thrilled me to the core to have one written under such circumstances.
In the postscript, added after landing, he said, "I never go up without wishing you could share with me the amazing sensations of such a flight. You would love the diving and twirling and swooping. You were always such a good little sport I don't like to have you left out of the game. Never mind, we'll have a flier of our own when I come back, and we'll go up every day. We had an exciting chase after some enemy planes the other day. We sent down one raiding Boche and came near getting winged ourselves. I wish I might tell you the important particulars, but the things which would interest you most are the very ones we are not at liberty to write about. All I can say is that life over here now is one perpetual thrill, and it's a source of constant thanksgiving to me that Fate landed me in this branch of the service instead of the one I was headed for when I skipped off to Canada."
Even Richard's reference to the enemy planes which came near winging them did not fill me with uneasiness, because all his life he's gone through accidents unscathed. Once when he was only half-grown he brought his sailboat safely into portthrough a squall which crippled it, and old Captain Ames declared if it had been any other boy alongshore he'd have been drowned. That for level head and steady nerve he'd never seen his beat. Even back in the days when his crazy stunts in bicycle riding made the town's hair stand on end, he never had a bad fall. So I didn't worry when two weeks went by without bringing further word from him. But when three passed and then a whole month, I began to get anxious. Now that it's beginning on the second month, I'm awfully worried.
mother and child portrait
BRAVE LITTLE CARRIER PIGEON!
Wehave had another storm. It wrecked so many vessels and sent so many fishermen to their death that the dreadful tenth of August will go down in the annals of Provincetown as a day of dole for the whole Cape. So many families suffered from it. Most of them are Portuguese, and many of them are totally unprovided for, now that their breadwinners are taken.
At first it seemed to me that I just couldn't go down to the Fayals', but Tippy, who had been several times, said I ought to, because Mrs. Fayal has always been so good about coming in for an extra day's cleaning and has done our washing so many years, and I used to play with Rosalie. I didn't know what to say or do that could be of any possible comfort. But Rosalie clung to me so the night that her father was brought home, that I sat with them till morning.
There wasn't a stronger, sturdier fisherman along the coast than Joe Fayal. I've seen himgo clumping past our house a thousand times in his high boots and yellow oilskins, and the flash of his white teeth and black eyes always gave the impression of his being more alive than most people. When I saw the white drowned thing they brought home in place of him I began to be afraid—afraid of the "peril of the sea." If it can dothatto one strong man it can do it to another.
All night Mrs. Fayal sat in a corner behind the stove. Sometimes she wrung her hands without a word, and sometimes she kept up a sort of moaning whimper—"The War took both my boys and now the Sea's taken my man!" I can hear her yet.
The days that followed were too full for me to worry as much as I would have done otherwise over Richard's long silence. The poverty of all those desolate families came uppermost. A fund was started for the widows and orphans, and all parts of New England came to the rescue. Artists, actors, the summer people, the home folks—everybody responded. A series of benefits and tag days began. I was asked to serve on so many committees and to help in so many enterprises that I raced through the days as if I were a fast express train, trying to make connections. I didn't have time to think during the day, but at night when I lay counting up the time since I'dhad a letter, the waves booming up against the breakwater took to repeating that wail of Mrs. Fayal's, and the fog bell tolled it: "The Sea's taken my man." And I'd be so afraid I'd pull the covers over my ears to shut out the sound.
Then seven letters came in a bunch. The long silence had not been Richard's fault, nor was anything the matter. There had simply been delays in the mail service. I vowed I'd let that be a lesson to me, not to worry next time.
Barby came home late in the summer, and the very day of her arrival I had to go to Brewster on a "war-bread" campaign. I had promised to be demonstrator any time they called for me. It was tough luck to have the call hit that first day. I hadn't had her to myself for ages, and after the wild scramble of the summer I longed for a quiet day in a rocking chair at home, where we could talk over all the things that had happened since the last time we were together—principally Richard.
If there were no war now, I suppose that's about all we'd be doing these days, spending long, placid hours together, embroidering dainty lingerie and putting my initials on table linen and such things. But there'll be no "hope chest" for me while there's a soldier left in a hospital to need pajamas and bandages, or one in the trencheswho needs socks. The wild beast is not only on our door-steps now, he has us by the very throats.
Barby came with the intention of taking me back with her, and Tippy, too, if she could persuade her to go. Although we're not the very important hub of a very important wheel as she is in Washington, we are the hubs of a good many little wheels which we have started, and which would stop if we left. I was wild to go, but Tippy has no patience with people who put their hands to the plow and then look back. She kept reminding me of the various things that I have gotten into good running order, such as the Junior Red Cross, and a new Busy Bees Circle which Minnie Waite is running, under my direction and prodding. They are doing wonderfully well as long as the prodding never lets up.
While we were debating the question it was settled for us in a most unexpected way. Old Mr. Carver telephoned that he needed me dreadfully in the office. Could I come and help him hold the fort for awhile? His son was very ill and had been taken to Boston for an operation. The draft had called so many men that practically the whole office force was new, and his stenographer had just left to take a government position.
Much as Barby wanted me with her, she said that that settled it. Nothing a girl of my agecould find to do in Washington was as important as that. Fish is a big item in the Nation's food supply and anything I could do to help carry on that business helped carry on the war. Also some of our income depended on the success of the Plant, and if old Mr. Sammy broke down under the responsibility, strangers would have to step in. Besides, Father would be gratified to have me called on in the emergency, just as Titcomb and Sammy III would have been if they were not in training camp.
It was wonderful the way that old man rose up and took the reins again, after having been little more than a figurehead in the business for some years. He seemed to be in a dozen places at once, and he found many places to use me besides at the typewriter; sending me to bank, and helping the new bookkeeper fill out checks for the pay-roll, etc. I had the surprise of my life when I found my own name on the pay-roll. I had gone in to help out in the emergency, just as I would have gone to a neighbor's house in time of sickness. Also it was partly for our own interests, and I was being more than compensated by the feeling that I was doing something worth while filling in in place of drafted employees. I had no thought of being paid for it, nor of being wanted more than a few weeks.
But Mr. Carver said I was worth more to him than an ordinary stenographer, even if I had forgotten a lot and lost my speed. I could answer many of the letters without dictation, and I knew so much of the inside workings of the business, he could trust me with confidential matters, and he could blow off steam to me when things went wrong. In other words, I could keep up his morale. Poor old fellow, he needed to have somebody keep it up, as time proved. His son had a relapse and there were weeks when he was desperately worried over his condition. He blew off steam principally about his daughter-in-law, whom he held responsible for the relapse.
"Always a-crying and a-fretting about those boys," he would fume. "Min's a good woman and a good mother, but she's a selfish slacker with Sammy. Doesn't seem to think that a fatherhasany feelings. Doesn't realize that those boys are the apple of his eye. All her goings on about them, and how it's killing her, knowing they will surely be killed, when he's as weak as he is—it's a downright shame. She's only one of many, why can't she do like a million other mothers, keep her own hurt out of sight, at least till his life's out of danger."
Well, when I found I was to be paid for my work, that he really thought I was worth the salarythe other girl got, and that he wanted to keep me permanently, I was the happiest creature that ever banged the keys of a typewriter. For while I banged them I was counting up all the Liberty Bonds I could buy in the course of a year, and how much I'd have for the Red Cross, and how much for all the other things I wanted to do. Of course, I've always had my allowance, but it's nothing to the bliss of earning money with your own fingers, to do exactly as you please with.There is no other sensation in the whole universe so gratifying, so satisfying and so beatifying!
When the noon whistle blew I ran down the wharf and all the way home to tell Barby, then I put a big red ring round the date on the calendar. Before nightfall I put another ring around that one, for the postman brought me a long letter from Richard, a letter that made me so happy I felt like putting a red ring around the whole world.
It was somewhat of a shock to find that it was written in a hospital, although he assured me in the very first paragraph that he was perfectly well, and over all the ill effects, before he went on to say ill effects ofwhat. This is part of it:
"Lieutenant Robbins and I went out for an observation flight over the enemy ports last Monday. Coming back something went wrong with the engineand we were compelled to drop at once to the sea. It was unusually rough and the waves so high there was danger of our light seaplane being beaten to pieces before we could be rescued. There was one chance in a thousand that some cruising patrol vessel might happen along near enough to sight us, but there were all sorts of chances a submarine might get us first. The wireless apparatus wouldn't work. We had been flying so high to get out of the bumps of air currents, and had been up so long that we were not in any shape to stand a long strain. Our chief hope of rescue was in the little carrier pigeon we had with us. We always take one, but this one had never made a trial trip as long as the one it would have to take now, and we didn't know whether it would fail us or not.
Imagine us tossing about in that frail bit of wood and canvas, the waves washing over us at intervals, and land nowhere to be seen, watching that white speck wing its way out of sight. There was a while there when I'd have been willing to change places with old Noah, even if I had to crowd in with the whole Zoo. Well, we tossed around there for ages, it seemed to me, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone. All that night, all next day, and till dark again, we hung on desperately before a searchlight swept across us, andwe saw a cruiser coming to our rescue. It had been hunting us all that time, for the bird went straight as an arrow with our S. O. S. call.
"The other man was past talking when they found us, and I could barely chatter. We were both so exhausted we had to be hauled aboard like a couple of water-soaked logs. But a while in the hospital has put us back to normal again, and here we are as good as new and ready to go up again. We report for duty in the morning.
"It bowled me over when I heard what happened to our brave little pigeon. Some fool took a shot at it, somewhere near the station probably, for it managed to keep going till it got home. Then, just as it reached the floor of its loft, it fell dead. A bell always rings as a carrier alights on the balanced platform. When the attendant answered the summons he found the pigeon lying there, one foot shot away, and blood on its little white breast. It had managed to fly the last part of its way, mortally wounded. Lucky for us it wasn't the leg with the message that was hit. I tell you it makes me feel mighty serious to think that but for those little wings, faithful to the last beat, I wouldn't be writing this letter at this present moment of A. D. 1917.
"Two things kept coming into my mind, while numb and exhausted. I clung to that busted plane,expecting every minute it would give way under us. I saw that old wooden figurehead of "Hope" that sits up on the roof of the Tupman's portico at home. Probably I was going a bit nutty, for I could see it as plain as day. It opened its mouth and called to me over and over, that saying of Uncle Darcy's that you are always throwing at people. 'As long as a man keeps hope at the prow he keeps afloat.' It kept holding its old green, wooden wreath out at me as if it were a life preserver, and I'll give you my word it shouted loud enough for me to hear across the noise of the wind, 'as long as a man'—'as long as a man,' until I began to try to concentrate my mind on what it was saying. I actually believe the illusion or whatever it was helped me to hold on, for I began to obey orders. I hoped that the bird would reach home and hoped it so hard and long that it kept my wits awake. I was just at the point of letting go from sheer exhaustion and dropping into the sea, when it loomed up on the horizon.
"Then a star came out in the sky, and I thought in a hazy way of the one in your service flag that stands for me, and I felt that if I didn't manage to hang on and get back to you in some way, you'd think I wasn't 'true blue.' Then as I kept on staring at it, gradually I began to confuse it with you. But that's not to be wondered at. Eversince I've known you I've unconsciously steered my course by you. You're so dependable. That's one of your finest traits. No matter what happens you'll just go around in the circle of your days, true to your ideals and your sense of duty.
"And though everything was getting sort of confused to me out there in the black water, staring death in the face, there was an underlying comfort in the belief that even if I didn't get back you wouldn't go into a cloud of mourning for the rest of your days. You'd live out your life as it was intended, just like that star. I saw it again last night from the hospital window. It rises here before daylight has entirely faded. The astronomers may call it Hesperus if they want to, but I'll never see it again without calling ityou."
I have read that letter till I know it by heart. It is getting worn in the creases. But last night when the tolling of the fog-bell awakened me, I groped for it under my pillow and read it once more by the glow of my little flashlight. I wanted to see the words again in his own handwriting. I cannot read often enough the part that calls me "Star." That has always been the most beautiful of names to me, even when I gave it to one who wasn't worthy of it. I wonder if it would be possible to live up to it, though, if Richard should never come back to me. How could I endure theordinary orbit of my days? Yet how could I disappoint him?
Next day a package came which should have reached me with the letter. It was the little link of aluminum they took from the leg of the dead pigeon. Fastened to it was the cartridge that held the message. Brave little bird! It gave its life in the cause of liberty just as truly as any man in the trenches. I wish its deed could be immortalized in some way. It makes me shudder to think on what a frail thing Richard's life depended, just those little white wings, speeding through trackless space on their mission of rescue.
woman in star
"MISSING"
January1, 1918.—I came up to my room tonight, thinking I'd start the New Year by bringing this record up to date; but when I look back on the long five months to be filled in, the task seems hopeless. It was Thanksgiving before Mr. Sammy was able to come back to work. Since then I've had shorter hours at the office, because they don't have so much work for a stenographer in the winter, but the extra time outside has been taken up by one breathless chase after another. When it isn't selling Liberty Bonds it is distributing leaflets about food conservation and the crime of wasting. Or it's a drive for a million more Red Cross members or a hurry call for surgical dressings. Then every minute in between it's knit, knit, knit everlastingly.
Barby did not come home Christmas, and we did not keep the day for ourselves. We had our hands full doing for the families of the fishermen who were drowned last summer, and for the boysat the front and in the camps at home. I hope Richard got his box all right, and that Doctor John Wynne enjoyed the one Tippy packed for him, and the round-robin letter that Miss Susan and some of the Wellfleet people sent him. They started on their way before Thanksgiving.
I saw "Cousin James" a few minutes to-day. He came down to take a look at his premises. The bungalow has been boarded up ever since last fall, when he joined the class of "a dollar a year" men, working for the government. We had such a good time talking about Richard. He's so optimistic about the war ending soon, that he left me feeling more light-hearted than I've been for months. It will, indeed, be a happy New Year if it brings us peace.
Washington's Birthday.Shades of Valley Forge! What a winter this is! It will go down in history with its wheatless and meatless days, and now that the fuel shortage is pinching all classes of people alike, the ant as well as the grasshopper, the heatless days make the situation almost hopeless.
Tippy and I are living mostly in the kitchen now, because we are nearly at the end of our coal supply, and the railroads are not able to bring in any more. The open wood fires make little impressionon the general iciness of the house. I am sitting up in my room to-night with furs and arctics on, and a big lamp burning to supplement the efforts of a little coal-oil heater. With all that it's so cold that I can see my breath. My fingers are so numb that I can scarcely manage my pen, but I must make a note of the news which came to-day. It's about Doctor Wynne.
In January Tippy had a letter from him, a charmingly written account of Christmas in the trenches, and a grateful acknowledgment of the box and the letter. This morning a small package came to me, addressed in a strange hand. An English nurse sent it. Inside she wrote:
"Captain John Wynne asked me to send you the enclosed. He was in this hospital three weeks, and died last night from the effect of injuries received in doing one of the bravest things the war has yet called forth. He faced what seemed to be instant and inevitable death to avert an explosion that would have killed his Major and many men with him. In the attempt he was so badly wounded that it was thought he could not live to reach the hospital. But maimed and shattered as he was, he lived until last night.
"He was one of the most efficient surgeons we had at the front, and one of the best beloved. His fortitude through his time of intense suffering wasa marvel to the whole hospital staff, accustomed as we are to nurse brave men. It really seemed as if he were sustained by some power other than mere human endurance, some strength of the spirit few mortals attain.
"It was a source of regret to all who knew of his case that the decoration awarded him did not arrive until after he lapsed into unconsciousness. But he knew he was to receive it. His Colonel told him he was to have the highest award for valor that your country bestows. He had already told me what disposition to make of his effects, and when I asked him in regard to the expected decoration he gave me your address whispering, 'She will know.'"
Ididknow. It is hanging now where he knew I would put it. This afternoon when I came home I brought with me a little gold star to take the place of the blue one on the service flag under his mother's picture. And over it I hung the medal—that other star, bronze and laurel-wreathed, with its one word "Valor," surmounted by its eagle and its bit of ribbon.
Tippy, watching me, suddenly buried her face in her apron and went out of the room, crying as I have never seen her cry before. I knew it wasn't the thought that he was gone which hurt her so keenly. It was the fact that the little token of hiscountry's appreciation reached him too late. He missed the comfort of it himself, and there was no one of his own left to know the honor done him and to take pride in it.
I had been feeling the hurt of it myself, ever since the news came. But it left me as I stood there, looking at the pictures in the little antique frame. The winter sunset, streaming red across the icicles outside the western window, touched everything in the room with a tinge of rose. It lighted up both faces, and, as I looked at his, I whispered through tears:
"What does a little guerdon matter to a soul like yours, John Wynne? The deed was all you cared for." And when I looked into his mother's face and recalled what the nurse had written, I dried my eyes and smiled into her eyes, that were looking so steadfastly out at me. Iknewshe had helped him at the last. In some way her comfort had been with him, as the hosts "were round about Elisha in the mountain."
St. Patrick's Day.March came in like a lion, but we're comfortable now, thank goodness, in spite of the fact that the winds are still keen and there is much ice in the harbor. The coal cars reached town at last, and the big base-burner in the hall sends waves of delicious warmth allthrough the house. This past winter has been a nightmare of discomfort for nearly everybody.
Babe says her experiences since 1918 set in would make the angels weep. She's been doing the housekeeping since New Year, because her mother simply cannot adjust herself to war conditions. Mrs. Dorsey announced that she was born extravagant and it wasn't her nature to save, but if Babe thought it was her duty and was willing to undertake it, she'd put up with the results no matter how harrowing. They get along pretty well when Mr. Dorsey is off on his trips, but I imagine harrowing is the right word for it when he's at home. He simply won't eat cornbread, and he swears at the mere sight of meat substitutes, such as mock turkey made of beans and peanut butter and things.
Babe, having married into the Navy, feels that she is under special obligation to Hooverize to the limit. She wants to end the war as soon as possible on Watson's account. In fact, she makes such a personal matter of it that she's getting herself disliked in some parts of town, and some people seem to think she is in a way responsible for the whole thing. A Portuguese woman asked Tippy the other day how long she supposed that "Mrs. Tucker's war" was going to last. She said Babe is down in their back yards every few days,looking into their slop-pails and scolding something fierce if she finds the potato parings thicker than she says they can be. Poor Babe! Between the demands of her patriotism and the demands of her difficult parents she is almost distracted at times.
I wish I could write down in these pages all the funny things that happen. Never a day goes by, either at the office or the Red Cross work-rooms, that something amusing doesn't come up. But by the time I've told it in one letter for Barby to pass on to Father, and in another to make Richard laugh, I haven't the patience to write it all out again here. The consequence is I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression of these last few months. One would think there have been no good times, no good cheer. That it's been all work and grim duty. But such is not the case. My letters will testify to that, and it's only because so much time and energy have gone into them that things have to be crowded into a few brief paragraphs in this book.
Despite all the gruesomeness of war and my separation from my family, I am so busy that I'm really and truly happy from morning till night. I enjoy my work at the office and my work at home and all the kinds of war-work that come my way. It's a satisfaction merely to turn out clean, well-typedpages, but it's bliss unalloyed to know that the money I'm getting for doing it is going to buy bread and bullets to bring about the downfall of the Kaiser.
Sometimes when old Mr. Sammy is feeling especially hopeful and there's nobody in the office but me, he begins to hum an old camp-meeting tune that they sing at his church: