THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITHTHE STARS AND STRIPESCHAPTER IThe Call
THE RED CROSS GIRLS WITHTHE STARS AND STRIPES
BARBARA THORNTON stood at the window of her little drawing-room in New York City looking over toward Central Park.
It was a charming room and this afternoon was filled with flowers sent from her mother-in-law’s country place on Long Island. Perhaps as an expression of his patriotism, the gardener had cut only red, white and blue flowers, for among the white and red of the fragrant roses were tall stalks of deep, blue-starred delphiniums.
A table was arranged for tea, but because it was summer time, there were tall frosted glasses instead of cups and a big cut-glass bowl to be used later for ice.
Barbara herself was dressed in a thin, white china silk, as if she were expecting guests. She had now been married to Richard Thornton a good many months, and yet looked very little older than the Barbara who had appeared so unexpectedly at the Thornton home, nearly three years before, on her way to do Red Cross nursing in France.
Of course Barbara felt a good deal older. No girl can pass through the experience of war nursing and come out of it unchanged. Moreover, Barbara within three eventful years had also married and had a baby.
Yet this afternoon, amid her lovely surroundings, Bab, who was ordinarily the most cheerful of persons, did not appear to be happy. Her cheeks were more deeply flushed than usual, and every once in a while, in spite of the fact that she was alone, she would wipe the tears furtively away from her fine eyes with a tiny, white lace handkerchief.
For Barbara did not desire the visitors, whom she was expecting at any moment, to discover that she was troubled.
When the ring came at her front door bell, giving herself a hurried glance in the mirror and forcing a smile, Barbara reached the door just after her little Irish maid had opened it.
Standing outside were three persons, one of them an older woman in an exquisite costume of blue and silver, the colors of her eyes and hair, another a young girl of about sixteen and the third a young man.
“Oh, Sonya, I am so glad to see you. It has seemed such ages and so strange to think of you and Nona in Italy without the old group of Red Cross girls! But where is Nona? I thought she was to be with you.”
In the beginning of her speech, Barbara Thornton had taken her guest’s hand and kissed it with characteristic swiftness and sweetness. Now, before Sonya Valesky could reply to her, she had turned to her other visitors.
“Forgive me if I was rude. I am so glad to see you, although we have never met one another before, I am sure I know who you are. This is Bianca and this isMr. Navara. You see, I have had letters about both of you from Italy.”
And then Barbara led the way into her drawing-room, while Sonya explained.
“Nona will be here presently. She had to attend to some important business. I believe she wishes to stay after we have gone and talk the matter over with you, Barbara. I don’t like to tell you what it is, but I hope you will try to dissuade her.”
“Something about which you have tried and failed?” Barbara inquired. “Then I am sure I shall not be successful. You see, Eugenia always said that Nona was the most difficult of us all to influence because she seemed to be the gentlest.”
Barbara had seated herself at her tea table and was now trying to serve her guests; the maid had immediately brought in the ice, and cold and hot tea as well. Barbara wished that she had not so much to occupy her as she would like to have been able to devote more attention to studying her guests.
Bianca, the little Italian girl whom Sonya had brought home with her to theUnited States as a protégée, Barbara found less interesting than Nona’s description of her had led one to expect. Bianca was very pretty, of a delicate, shell-like type that one would not expect in an Italian. At present she seemed either very shy and frightened, or else she was merely demure. Then Barbara remembered that this was exactly what Nona had written was especially characteristic of her. Bianca was not all Italian, her father having been an American, and one must not judge her wholly by appearances.
Moreover, if, as Nona had also said, Sonya had returned to the United States partly because she wished to see less of the young Italian singer whom she had cared for during his convalescence in Italy, apparently she had not been successful thus far.
Even as she looked after her tea party Barbara could see that Carlo Navara, if it were possible, never looked in any other direction than toward Sonya. He was, of course, a great deal younger than Sonya and it was immensely tragic that infighting for Italy a wound had destroyed the beauty of his voice; nevertheless, Barbara could not but feel that his attitude was delightfully romantic.
Sonya treated him almost as she did Bianca, in a half maternal, half friendly fashion, and yet Barbara wondered if she felt in the same way toward them both. As Barbara had not seen the young Italian-American during the crossing to Italy, when he had seemed to be merely a crude, vain boy, she could not appreciate what Sonya’s influence had done for him. Barbara now saw a remarkably good looking young fellow of perhaps something over twenty, with dark eyes and hair, charming manners and an expression of quiet melancholy which his tragic loss rendered appealing. At present there was little in Carlo’s artistic face and manner to suggest his origin, or the little Italian fruit shop in the east end of New York City, where his parents worked and lived and where Carlo was also living at this time.
“I suppose Nona intends returning to France to nurse once again and you donot wish her to make the trip so soon?” Barbara Thornton remarked, as if she had been following but one train of thought, rather than making a careful and critical study of her guests at the same time.
Sonya Valesky was sitting in a tall carved chair drinking her tea from a clear glass in Russian fashion. She was always perfectly dressed, for she had the art of making whatever costume she wore appear the ideal one. But today she seemed even more so than usual. With her partly gray hair, her deep blue eyes with their dark brows and lashes, and the foreign look she never lost, she was an oddly arresting figure.
She smiled now at her hostess and then shook her head.
“Of course that is true, Barbara, and I am not much surprised at your guessing. But since this is what Nona herself wishes to talk to you about, we had best not discuss it, or she may feel I have tried to influence you. Of course I understand her great desire to help nurse her own countrymen, for Nona has so long hopedthe United States would join the Allies. But I don’t think Nona has rested sufficiently long since our return from Italy. You may see a change in her, Barbara, and I can’t be cross with her just now. I have not yet found a school for Bianca and I cannot leave her alone in a strange county. When fall comes it will be different, as her mother especially wished her to enter an American school.”
This speech was made in a perfectly simple and matter-of-fact fashion with no suggestion of mystery or misfortune. Nevertheless, Barbara Thornton observed a slight change in the expression of the youngest of her three guests. One could scarcely assert that the young Italian girl flushed, or that she made any very perceptible movement. It was merely that her delicate eyelids drooped over her wide blue eyes and that her lips parted with the quick in-taking of her breath. She seemed not so much to mind what had been said as to fear a further discussion of the subject. This is ordinarily true of most of us when there is in our lives any fact which we hope to keep secret.
Barbara Thornton was aware that Bianca’s mother was an Italian peasant who was now a fugitive, having sold Italian secrets to a German agent in Florence. Since her disappearance no one knew whether Nannina was alive or dead, so it was small wonder that Bianca should appear unhappy at the mention of her mother’s name. However, she answered gently and submissively:
“I am sorry to have the Signora Valesky allow me to interfere with her plans. Beyond anything I too would like to be allowed to do something for the wounded solders. I cannot nurse, but I am stronger than I look and there are so many things to be done,——”
But no one answered or paid any attention to Bianca, for at this instant Nona Davis came into the room. Forgetting all her other visitors Barbara at once jumped up and ran forward to greet her.
This summer afternoon Nona had on a dark-blue silk dress which accentuated her slenderness and fairness. In truth, she did look too worn out to be planningto start off, almost immediately, to continue her Red Cross nursing. With only one real holiday, Nona Davis had been nursing almost continuously since the outbreak of the war. As a matter of fact she had the strength which so often seems a characteristic of delicate, ethereal persons.
After embracing Barbara and nodding to her other friends she dropped into a big leather chair, in which she appeared lost, except that it accentuated the shining quality of her pale, yellow hair and the blueness of her eyes, which looked darker, because of the rather strained, whiteness of her face.
“Please give me tea, and tea, and tea, Barbara, more than Eugenia ever allowed us to drink even in our most enthusiastic tea drinking days at the old château in southern France. I think I have been all over New York City this afternoon and seen a dozen people on business.”
At this Nona turned with an apologetic glance toward Sonya.
“Don’t be vexed, Sonya, please, but I’m sailing for France in a week or ten days.Of course we can’t tell just when, or any other details of our departure. But I find I am very much needed, in spite of all the other Red Cross nurses who have already gone. Why, every few days another Red Cross unit sails! Still, with more and more American soldiers going over every week, until we cannot guess what the number may come to be some day, it may yet be difficult to find enough nurses with experience to care for them.”
From its original pallor, Nona’s face had changed and was flushed deeply with excitement as she talked.
Both to Barbara and Sonya it occurred as they now watched her, however, that she was trying to show more self-control than she actually felt.
Always, Nona had been intensely interested in her Red Cross work and had thrown herself into it with all the ardor and devotion of her southern temperament. But since the entry of the United States into the great European conflict she had undoubtedly developed an added enthusiasm and sense of responsibility.
Just how much she was doing this to aid her in forgetting Eugino Zoli’s death and her experience with him in Italy, Sonya Valesky, who had been her companion in Florence, could not guess. Of her friend’s interest in the young Italian aviator, Barbara Thornton understood nothing beyond Nona’s occasional casual mention of his name in her Italian letters.
“But must you go so soon, Nona? Really I don’t think it wise,” Sonya remonstrated in response. However, she scarcely spoke as if she expected her advice to be heeded. For in regard to her nursing, Nona was strangely obstinate and unmindful of herself and of other people.
Nona nodded. “Yes.” Then she added immediately, “Please do not let us continue to talk of my plans. I am to have old friends, or almost old friends go with me. Molly Drew and Agatha Burton are home from Italy and are crossing with me to France.”
Nona turned toward her hostess.
“I think I wrote you, Barbara, aboutthe three new Red Cross girls who made the voyage to Italy with us and later were at the American Hospital in Florence. I learned to like them very much, although we were never so intimate as our first group of Red Cross girls. The third girl was Dolores King from New Orleans. I don’t know where she is at present; perhaps she has remained in Italy.”
“I don’t like Miss Burton. I should prefer not to nurse with her,” an unexpected voice exclaimed at this instant.
But, as the voice was only Bianca’s and as Sonya had almost at the same instant risen to say farewell, no one paid any notice to her speech. Indeed, no one except Barbara Thornton really heard or remembered it. Moreover, Bianca had seen the girl she now mentioned, scarcely more than three or four times.
Sonya was anxious to leave the two old friends alone and therefore hurried Bianca and Carlo away with her, now that tea was over.
As soon as Barbara had said farewell to them and returned to her drawing-room,Nona went straight up to her and placed her hands on the smaller girl’s shoulder.
“What is the trouble, Barbara dear? You do not seem so radiant as when I went away. Don’t tell me unless you like, but haven’t you everything in the world to make you happy? Better be happy when you can,Barbara mia. You know Eugenia and Mildred and I used always to count on you as the gayest of the four of us and I want to give only a good report to them, when I see them in France.”
Barbara drew away slightly.
“So you have started in ahead of me, Nona, in asking questions! I do not see how I could have permitted it when I had such dozens to ask of you. But how can you expect me to be selfish enough to be happy when Poor Mildred and Eugenia are having such tragic times. You know, of course, that Eugenia’s husband, Captain Castaigne, has been reported missing. She does not know whether he is a prisoner or dead. Then, too, General Alexis has been arrested by the new Russian Government.He was a friend, you remember, of the Czar and is suspected of favoring the old régime. Sometimes I wonder if he and Mildred will ever marry. He is so much older and they are so many miles apart. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton, and even Dick, have written to urge Mildred to come home, but she will not leave Eugenia. I suppose they are a comfort to each other in their sorrow.”
Barbara walked a little apart from her friend.
Nona was now looking quietly about the charming room filled with books and flowers and soft, rose-colored hangings.
“I did not mean to be inquisitive, Bab, forgive me,” she said softly. “I think I must have been thinking of the old days in Europe when we used to share one another’s confidences. We were more intimate even than sisters when we were together out there.”
Then Nona laughed as if she were making the most inconceivable suggestion in the world:
“Anyhow I don’t suppose anythingserious has happened. You are not leaving Dick and you would have told me if the baby was not well.”
At this speech Barbara Thornton’s entire expression and manner changed. Nona saw that her eyes were wide open and that there was a deeper look of pain in them than she had so far realized.
“No,” Barbara answered her quietly; “but then Dick is leaving me, so perhaps it amounts to the same thing. And I did not believe we could ever disagree on any subject after we were married.”