A tall young soldier swung off the bus at its terminal and walked briskly up Wolverton Drive.
He was a handsome soldier, though he did not seem at all conscious of it. He had strong, well-chiseled features, heavy dark hair, and fine eyes. He walked with a kind of grave assurance, as if this was something he had fully made up his mind to do, though not as if this broad avenue were an old haunt of his; more as if he were driving himself to a sacred duty.
Oh, it wasn't the first time he had walked that way, of course. In his school days he had passed up that road, had carefully studied its substantial houses, admired them each, and later come to search out and be interested in one particular house. He had never stepped within one of them, for his life had not been blessed with wealth and luxury, but he had admired a girl in school who lived here, and he had taken pains to find out where she lived. Not that he had a personal acquaintance with that little girl in the grade school. Oh no! They had been only children then, with but the passing acquaintance of classmates as the years progressed. But he had been interested enough to find out where she lived, and when he had found her house he had been glad, as his eyes took in the lines of the fine old stone mansion. There had been no envy in his glance. He was glad she had a background like that. It was satisfying to know it. It seemed to finish out the picture for him. But he had known then, and equally he knew now, that he did not belong in this setting. He even knew that the circumstance that had brought him here now might not be recognized by anyone belonging to her as justifying his coming. Nevertheless, he had come, and having started he was not to be turned back now at the last minute by any qualms of reason or conscience that might have made him hesitate in the past.
At the third corner the soldier turned sharply into a broad driveway sweeping up in a pleasant curve to the old gray stone house that gave evidence of having been built a goodly number of years before.
As if he were accustomed to treading this way, he walked quickly without hesitation, mounted the stone steps, and passed within a stone arch.
As he stood awaiting an answer to his ring, he cast a quick comprehensive glance up and down the broad veranda, with a look in his eyes as if the quiet elegance of the place was pleasant to him. There was satisfaction in his expression.
As he stood there he looked as if he might fit into that setting very easily. There was courtesy, strength, grace in his whole bearing, and the elderly servant who opened the door did not seem to see anything incongruous in his being there. These were days when men of the army and navy were honored guests everywhere. Moreover, his attitude and manner showed the culture of one to the manner born.
"I would like to see Miss Blythe Bonniwell," he said, stepping into the hall as the servant swung the door wide and indicated a small reception room where he might sit down.
"She's still in," said the woman. "She's gone up to get ready to go to her Red Cross meeting."
"I'll not keep her long," promised the soldier understandingly.
"Who shall I say is here?" asked the woman.
The young man turned on her a winning grin.
"Why, you can tell her it is Charlie Montgomery. I'm not sure she'll remember the name. It's been some time. Just tell her I'm an old schoolmate and I'd like to see her about something rather important. That is, if she can spare just a minute or two."
"Mr. Montgomery, did you say?" asked the woman with dignity.
"Yes, I suppose you might call it Mr. But I doubt if she would identify me that way," said the soldier with a grin. "It wasn't the way I was known, but it's all right with me if she remembers."
"Just sit down," said the woman, with a disapproving air. "I'll call her. She'll likely be down in a short time."
The young man entered the room indicated and sat down in the first chair that presented itself, dropping his face in his hands for an instant and drawing a quick breath almost like a petition. Then he straightened up, but he did not look about him. This was her home, her natural environment, that for long years he had often wished he might see, but he did not wish his mind to be distracted now. He must be alert and at attention when she came. This was probably a crazy thing he was doing, and yet he felt somehow he had to do it.
He heard a light step, and glancing up he saw her coming down the wide staircase that he could just glimpse through the open doorway. She seemed so like the little girl she had been long ago. The same light movement, as if her feet had wings, the same curly brown hair with golden lights in it, the same ease and poise and grace of movement.
She was wearing a slim brown dress that matched the lovely brown of her eyes, and there was a bright knot of ribbons in her brown hair, green and scarlet, that looked like berries and a leaf. It was like a jewel in a picture. His heart quickened as she came, and he felt abashed again at the errand that had brought him here.
She entered the room eagerly, and an interested smile dawned on her sweet face.
The soldier rose and stood awaiting her. A salute—that was her due, yet he didn't want to flaunt his position as a soldier. But she was putting out her hand, both hands, as if she had a warm welcome for him. It occurred to him that perhaps she did not remember him—had possibly taken him for someone else. Or was it her habit to welcome all soldiers in this war-hearted gracious way? But no, she just wasn't that free kind of a girl. She was welcoming him as someone she knew intimately and was glad to see.
The look in her eyes, the warm touch of her hand, seemed so genuine that his own plans for distant courtesy seemed somehow out of place. And so for a moment he could only stand there with her hands in his and look down at her as she spoke.
"I'm so glad to see you!" she said. "It's a long time since we met."
"You remember me?" he asked in wonder. "You know who I am?"
"Why, of course!" said the girl, with a happy little lilt in the turn of her voice. "You're the boy who sat in the very last seat in the first row in our senior high school year. You're the one who always knew all the answers all the way through our school years. Because you really studied, and you cared to know."
He looked at her in astonishment.
"Did I seem like that to you?"
"Oh yes," she said, drawing a happy little breath. "You seemed to be the one student in our room who really cared. I wondered whatever became of you. Did you go away to college, or go to work, or what?"
"Oh, I went to college," he said modestly, not even showing by so much as a glint in his eyes what a march of hard work and triumph that college course had been. This young man was one who took the next thing in his stride and did his best in it as he went.
"And now you're in the army," she said, her glance taking in the insignia on his uniform. "You're—?" She paused and gave him a troubled look. "You're going overseas pretty soon?"
"Yes," he said, coming back to his purpose. "Yes, if it hadn't been for that, I would scarcely have ventured to come to see you."
"And why not, I'd like to know?" asked the girl, lifting her lovely eyes and bringing into her face all the old interest she had had in this fellow-student who had been so much of a stranger to her, bringing a light of genuine understanding and admiration.
"Why not?" He laughed. "Why, I had no acquaintance with you. You belonged in a different class."
"Oh no," said the girl, with a twinkle in her eyes, nestling her hands in the big strong ones that still held hers. "Have you forgotten? You were in my class all through school. And what's more, you were the very head of the class. It was my main ambition to try and keep up with you in my studies. I knew I ever could get ahead, but I wanted to be at least second in the class! So don't say again that you weren't in my class."
He laughed, with an appreciation of the way she had turned the meaning of his words, and the fine color rolled up into his face gorgeously.
"You know I didn't mean that," he protested. "I knew you were the lovely lady of the class, and that you gave me a wholesome race as far as studies were concerned. But even so, that didn't put me into your class. You, with your lovely home, and your noble father and mother, and your aristocratic birth, and your millions, and your fashionable friends."
"Oh," said the girl, with almost contempt in her voice, "and what are they to separate people? Why should just things like that have made us almost strangers, when we could have been such good friends?"
He looked at her with a deep reverence.
"If I had known you felt that way, perhaps it wouldn't have taken me so long to decide whether I ought to come to you to-day."
"Oh, I am so glad you came!" she said impulsively. "But come, let's sit down!" Blythe, suddenly aware that her hands were still being held closely, flashed a rosy light into her cheeks as she drew the young man over toward the couch and made him sit down beside her.
"Now," she said, "tell me all about it. You came for some special reason, something you had to tell me, Susan said when she announced you."
"Yes," said the soldier, suddenly reverting to his first shyness and to the realization of his appalling impertinence in what he had to say. "Yes, I have something special to tell you. I know I'm presuming in speaking of it, and perhaps you will think me crazy for daring to tell you. I'm sure I never would have dared to come if it hadn't been that I'm in the army and that I have volunteered to undertake a very special and dangerous commission about which I am not allowed to speak. It is enough to say that it means almost certain death for me. And that's all right with me. I went into it with this knowledge, and it's little enough to do for my country. But when I came to look the fact in the face and get ready for my departure, which is probably to be to-night, I found there was something I wanted to do before I go. There was just one person to whom I wanted to say good-bye. And that was you. I have nobody else. My mother has been gone two years. She was all I had. My other relatives, the few that are left, live far away and do not care anyway. But there was just one person whom I wanted to see before I left, and that was you. I hope you don't mind."
"Mind?" said Blythe, lifting dewy eyes to his. "I think that is wonderful! Why should I mind?"
"But we are practically strangers, you know," he said with hesitation. "And in the ordinary run of life, if there were no war and things were going normally, we would probably never have been anything but strangers. I am not likely ever to become one whom your family would welcome as one of your friends——"
"Oh, but you don't understand my family," said the girl, putting out an impulsive hand to touch his arm. "My family is not like that. They are not a lot of snobs!" She was speaking with intense fervor, and her eyes implored him to believe.
"Oh no," he said, "I would not call anything that belonged to you by such a name. I don't want you to think that, please! It was never even in my thoughts. I have only thought of them as being fine, upstanding, conservative people, with a high regard for the formalities of life. It would not be natural for them to pick out a ‘poor boy' as a friend for their cherished daughter. But I thought, since this is probably the last time that I may be seeing you on this earth, it would do no harm for me to tell you what you have always been to me. You have been an inspiration to me from even my little boyhood when I first saw you in school, and I have loved to watch you. And in my thoughts I have always honored you. I felt as if I would like to tell you that, before I go. I hope it will not annoy you to be told, and that you will remember me as a friend who deeply admired—and—yes, loved you from afar, and who for a long time has prayed for you every night. Will you forgive me for saying these things?"
Impulsively he put out his hands, laid them upon hers again, and looked at her with pleading eyes. But her own eyes were so filled with sudden tears that she could not see the look in his.
"Forgive!" she said in a small, choking voice. "Why, there is nothing to forgive. It seems very wonderful to me that you should say these things, that you should have felt this way. And of all the beautiful thoughts, that you should pray for me! Why, I never knew you even noticed me. And I'm glad, glad, now, that you have told me! It seems the loveliest thing that ever came into my life. But oh, why do you have to go away? When do you have to go?"
He gave a quick glance down at his wristwatch and said with distress in his voice, "I ought to be on my way now. I have things to do before I take the noon train. I waited on purpose until the last minute, that I might not be tempted to stay too long and annoy you."
He sprang to his feet, but her hands clung to his and she rose with him.
"Oh, but I can't let you go like this," she pleaded, her eyes looking deep into his, her face lifted with the bright tears on her cheeks. "I can't let you go. You have just told me that you love me, and we must have a little time to get acquainted before you go. I—oh—I think I must have been loving you, too, all this time." Her own glance dropped shyly. "There was no one else ever who seemed to me as wonderful as you were, even when I was a little girl. Please don't go yet. We must have more time to get our hearts acquainted."
He looked down at her, his very soul in his eyes, his face deeply stirred, and then suddenly his arms were about her and he drew her close, his face against her tear-wet cheek, his lips upon hers.
"Darling!" he breathed softly.
She was clinging to him now, trembling in his arms.
"Darling, if I had dreamed it could be like this!"
Again he held her close.
"God forgive me! I've got to leave you. I'm a soldier under orders, you know."
"Yes, I know," she said softly. "I must not keep you. But oh, I wish you had come sooner, so that we might have had a little time together."
"I'm afraid my coming has only made you unhappy!"
"No, don't say that! It is a beautiful happiness just to know what you have told me. And you know—I shall be praying, too. May God take care of you and keep you and bring you back!"
He took her in his arms again, and their farewell kiss was a precious one to remember. And then suddenly a clock above the stairs with a silvery chime told the hour, and he sprang away.
"I must go at once!" he said.
"Yes, of course," gasped the girl sorrowfully.
It was incredible how hard it was to separate when they had only just come together. It was breathtaking.
Hand in hand they went out to the hall, to the front door, trying to say many last things for which there wasn't time, things that had just begun to crowd to their attention.
"But you will write to me?" said Blythe, lifting pleading eyes. "You will write at once?"
He looked at her with a sudden light in his eyes.
"Oh, may I do that?" he asked, as if it was more than he had dared to hope. "I hadn't planned to hang on to your life. I don't want to hinder you in any way. I want you to have a happy time, and—to—well, forget me. Think of me just as somebody who has gone out of your life. I mean it. I don't want the thought of me and of what I have said to hinder you from having friends and going places. I want you to be your dear happy self, just as you have been all through the years before you knew I cared. That will be the best way to keep me happy and give me courage to go through with what I have undertaken. I mean it."
Her hands quivered in his and clung more closely.
"How could you think I could forget you and go on being happy? You have told me that you love me, and it has—well, just crowned my life!" She looked up at him with a kind of radiance in her face that beamed on his heart like a ray of sunshine and warmed him through and through. He had been so humble about telling her, that he hadn't dreamed it would bring this response. It thrilled him indescribably.
"Darling!" he breathed softly and caught her to him again, holding her close.
Then upstairs another clock with a silvery voice chimed a belated warning, and they sprang apart.
"You must go!" It was the girl who said the word. "You mustn't let me make you late. And—how can I write to you? We have so much to say to one another."
"Oh, yes, I forgot!"
He plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a card.
"A letter sent to this address will be forwarded to me wherever I am. Good-bye, my precious one! You have given me great joy by the way you have received me, and you haven't any idea how hard it is for me to leave you now."
He touched his lips reverently to her brow and then dashed out the door.
She watched him flashing down the street, her heart on fire with joy and sorrow. Joy that he loved her, sorrow that he must go away into terrible danger, or what he was supposed to be going to do, but he had spoken as if it were plenty. "Probable death!" he had said, and yet even that terrible prospect had not been able to still the joy that was in her heart. Whatever came, he was hers to love, she was his! Whatever came there was this, and for the present she could only be glad. By and by she knew that anxiety would come, and fear, and anguish perhaps, but still, he would be hers.
How strange that she should feel this way about that boy with whom she had scarcely had a speaking acquaintance. A word, a look, a hovering smile, all the most formal, had been their intercourse thus far. And yet he had loved her so that he could not go away into possible death without telling her how he felt. And she had loved him well enough to recognize it at once, though she had never used that word even in her thoughts with regard to him. It seemed as if it were something that God had handed to her as a surprise. Something He had been planning for her all through her life, and she hugged the thought to her heart that she had always admired him, even when he was a little boy. He had beautiful, intelligent eyes that always seemed to understand, a tumble of dark curly hair, and a way of disappearing into thin air as soon as the business of school was over for the day. He never seemed to take part in social affairs of the school—he just vanished. But his location in the room had always seemed to Blythe like a light for the whole class. Something clear and dependable to give their grade tone. It had been that way right along through the grades.
Just once in those years they had stood side by side at the blackboard working out a problem, their chalk clicking, tapping along almost in unison, driven by sharp brains, quick fingers—and they had whirled around with lifted hands almost at the same instant, the only two in the class that had finished. They had given one another a quick look, a flashing smile, and that smile and look had lingered in Blythe's memory like a pleasant thing, and helped to complete the picture she had of that wise young scholar with a well-controlled twinkle of merriment in his eyes.
The memory flashed at her now as she stood on the steps of her father's house and watched him stride down the driveway. She followed down to the end of the drive and watched him away down the sidewalk. Then she saw the bus coming. Was he going to make it? She held her breath to watch. Oh, had she made him late to something most important? That would be an unhappy thing to remember, if she had.
Then she saw him swing on inside the door just as it was about to close. Was he looking back? He was too far away for her to see.
But there were footsteps. Was someone coming? There were also tears on the verge of arrival. She turned like a flash, hurried up to the house, and vanished inside just as one of her friends reached the gateway and called out to her. But she was gone. She couldn't, couldn't talk to anyone now. Not after what had happened. Idle chatter of friends and neighbors would put a blur over the precious thoughts that were in her heart, if she allowed them to come now, before they were firmly fixed in memory. The morning was too rare and precious to be mingled with the commonplaces of life. She must get away by herself and savor this wonderful thing that had come to her.
So Blythe sped to her room and locked her door on the world that might have interfered.
For a moment she paused with her hands spread behind her on the closed door and looked about her. It was the same room it had been a few minutes before. There lay her coat and hat across the chair, just where she had dropped them when Susan told her she had a caller. There on the bureau lay her handbag. She had been all ready to go down to that Red Cross class, and of course she ought to be going at once. But she couldn't just walk out and go down to sew, until she had a chance to catch her breath and realize what had happened. Anyway, there were women enough there to run the class without her. It would be all right for her to wait just a few minutes and get her poise again. If she went down at once there would be a kind of glory-shine in her face that everyone would see. She was sure some of those catty women who had so much to say about other girls would ask her about it. They never let any little thing go by. It seemed sometimes as if they were putting a magnifying glass over her to study her every time she came into the room. The questions they asked were impertinent questions about her home life, her family and friends, just so they would be able to tell about it afterward. "My friend Miss Bonniwell went to the orchestra concert last night. Yes, she went with young Seavers. You know. They run around together a lot." She could fairly hear them saying things like that. In fact, she had overheard some of their talk that ran a good deal after that fashion, and she couldn't bear the thought that they should look into her face to-day and, by some occult power they seemed to possess, search out that grand and glorious thing that had happened to her this morning.
She sank into her easy chair and put her head back happily. This was her own haven. No one had a right to call her out from here.
Then she closed her eyes and drifted back to the moment when she had gone downstairs, scarcely able to believe the message Susan had brought, that Charlie Montgomery, her childhood's admiration, was really down there and had come to see her.
Oh, she had thought, it probably wasn't anything that mattered—some technicality, perhaps, about the business of their alumni. Though she couldn't remember that he had been interested in their plans about the alumni, but perhaps they had drawn him into it in some way. Those had been her thoughts as she hurried downstairs with her hands out. Had she been too eager, shown her pleasure too plainly at first?
But no. He loved her! He had come to tell her that he loved her. Amazing truth! That anything so unforeseen should have come to her. The joy in her heart seemed almost to stifle her.
And then she went over the whole experience, bit by bit. Her delight when she recognized him. Her instant knowledge of her own heart, that he was beloved! Her hands held out to greet him, the touch of his hands, the thrill! Was she dreaming, or had this all been true? Oh, if he could but have stayed a few minutes longer. Just so that they might have talked together and gotten their bearings. And he was going away, into what he seemed to think was pretty sure death! Could it be that they would have to wait for heaven to talk together? Oh, the joy and the sorrow of it! The memory of his arms about her, his lips on hers! It was wonderful! It was beautiful!
And it wasn't anything she could tell anyone about! Not yet, anyway. Not even her mother. Her mother wouldn't understand a boy she never had known telling her he loved her. She couldn't bear to bring the beauty of that newfound love into the light of criticism. And that would be inevitable if she tried to make it plain. They would only think he was one of those "fresh" soldiers, as her mother frequently disapproved of some of the very young, quite exuberant boys at the canteen. And her mother would never understand how she could have so far forgotten her upbringing as to let a stranger kiss her, hold her in his arms, even if he had gone to school with her years ago. No, this was something she would keep to herself for the present. Herself—and God—perhaps. She didn't feel that she knew God very well. She would want to pray to Him to guard her beloved as he went forth into unknown perils. She would have to learn to pray. She would want to do this thing right, and she did not feel that she knew much about prayer, that is, effectual prayer! Oh, of course she had said her prayers quite formally ever since she was a tiny child, quite properly and discreetly. But seldom had she prayed for things she really needed. She had seldom really needed anything. Needs had always been supplied for her before she was even aware that they were needs. But now, here was a need. She wanted with all her heart to have Charlie safe and to have him come back to her. She wanted to feel his arms about her again, to see him look into her eyes the way he had done when he told her so reverently that he loved her—that he had prayed for her.
Where could she learn to pray right? Since she could not tell anyone else of her need, would God teach her?
And just then Susan tapped at her door.
"You're wanted on the telephone, Miss Blythe," she said, and Blythe's heart leaped with sudden hope. Could it be possible that Charlie had found a way to telephone her?
"Coming, Susan," she sang out, springing from her chair and hurrying to the door.
Charlie Montgomery, striding down Wolverton Drive, was quickening his pace with every stride until he was fairly hurling himself along, straining his eyes toward the highway. Was that the bus coming? Yes, it was. And he must catch it! He couldn't possibly do all that was to be done before he left unless he did.
But the glad wonder was in his heart even though he hadn't time to cast a thought in its direction. Was he going to make it? He scarcely had breath for the shrill whistle that rent the air and arrested the driver as he was about to start on his route, but it reached the driver's ear, and looking around, he saw the soldier coming. One had to wait for a soldier these days, of course.
Just in time Charlie swung onto the bus and was started on his way; and not till then, as he dropped into the seat that a smiling old gentleman made beside him, did his mind revert to the great joy that he was carrying within him.
He had come this way full of fear and trembling lest he was doing the wrong thing. Lest he would be laughed at, scorned, for daring to call on the young woman upon whom his heart had dared to set itself. She had not only received him graciously, warmly, gladly, but she had listened to his words, had owned that she loved him, had let him hold her in his arms and kiss her. That much was the theme of his joy-symphony. It was enough for the first minute or two till he got his breath.
"Well," said the kindly old gentleman next to him, "you going back to your company?"
Charlie suddenly became aware that someone was addressing him. He turned politely and gave attention.
"Why, yes," he answered hesitantly, recalling his thoughts from the house up Wolverton Drive and the girl he had gone to see.
"Where are you located?" asked the old man with kindly interest.
"I've been in Washington taking some special training," he said evasively.
"Yes? That's interesting. What special service are you doing?"
Charlie twinkled his eyes.
"I'm not supposed to discuss that at present," he said. "Sorry. It's kind of you to be interested."
"Well now, I beg your pardon, of course," said the old man, and he looked at the young soldier with added respect. "But I—I really didn't know that a question like that couldn't be always answered."
"It's all right, sir," said Charlie, with his charming smile. "It's not my fault, you know. And, I beg your pardon, this is where I change buses. You'll excuse me, please." He swung off the bus as its door opened and tore across to another that was standing on the opposite corner. Fortunate that he could catch this one. He had been expecting to have to wait ten minutes more for the next one, and that would have given him little time to pick up his luggage and catch his train.
And now, when he found himself almost alone in a bus, with time to get back to his happy thoughts, it already seemed ages since he had left the girl he loved. He began to wonder if it had surely happened? Perhaps he just dreamed that he had been to the Bonniwells's and talked with Blythe. And then suddenly the sound of her voice whispered in his heart, her eyes seemed to look into his, the feeling of her lips on his! No, it was not a dream! It was real. Joy, joy, joy!
Just at present, in the midst of his tumult of realization that memory brought, the possibility of his own probable death in the offing, the fact that had loomed so large before he had dared to come to her, seemed not to count at all. He was simply rejoicing in the unhoped-for love that had been given him, and could not think of the days ahead when earth would probably come down and wreak its vengeance. He was just exulting in the present, with no thought or plan for the future, as a normal lover would have done. It was enough for the present moment that she loved him and was not angry that he had told her of his love. It made her seem all the dearer than he had dreamed; it gave a glimpse of what it might be to have her thought, her love to carry with him on his dangerous mission. It was enough that he could sit back in that bus and close his eyes and remember the thrill of holding her close in his arms, his face against hers.
With such thoughts as these for company, the ride seemed all too brief, till the bustle and noise of the city brought him back to the present moment and its necessities. Tenth Street, yes, here was the corner where he must get off and pick up those packages he had ordered yesterday over the telephone, to be ready this morning. And over on Chestnut Street was the place where he had promised to stop and pick up a book some kindly stranger had offered him. He didn't think he would be likely to want the book, but he did not like to hurt the man's feelings, for the man had a few days ago gone out of his way to get an address for him that he wanted. Well, it wouldn't take but a minute. He glanced at his watch. There was time. He could give the book away, or conveniently lose it if it proved a bore. He didn't at all know what the book was. The kindly friend had not told him. Just said it was a book he might like to have with him, and it was small, wouldn't take up much room. So, well, he would stop in case the first packages were ready on time.
And then to his surprise the packages were not only ready but waiting near the door for him, and a smiling proprietor handed them out with a few cheery words, and it suddenly came to Charlie to realize how exceedingly kind everybody was to men of the service now. The world had really taken on an air of kindliness. Was it only for the soldiers and sailors, or was it everybody?
He hurried over to his other stopping place and was handed a small, neat package with a letter strapped on with a rubber band. The man himself was out, but the salesman handed it out smiling. More kindliness!
He put the little book in his pocket, thankful it was not large, and went on his way. A glance at the clock told him he had plenty of time to telephone. Should he, dared he, telephone Blythe? He hadn't dared think of that before, but now the longing to hear her voice once more was too much for him. Passing a place where there was a telephone booth, he went in and looked up her number, even now hindered by a shyness that had kept him for days deciding whether to go and see her before he left. Perhaps someone else would answer the phone—that dour servant woman, or even possibly her mother. What should he say? Was this perhaps the wrong thing to do? Was there a possibility that it might spoil his happiness? But no, if such a thing could be possible, it would be better to find it out now than to go on dreaming in a fool's paradise. So he frowned at the number and dialed it quickly before he could change his mind, for now the longing to hear her speak was uncontrollable. It was going to be simply unspeakable if she was gone anywhere and he couldn't get her in time.
It was the dour Susan who answered.
No, Miss Bonniwell was not in. She had just gone out to her Red Cross class.
He felt as if the woman had slapped him in the face, but of course that was foolish. There was an instant's silence, and then Susan asked, "Who shall I tell her called?"
Charlie came to himself crisply. "Montgomery is the name. Is there any way that I can reach her at that Red Cross class?"
"I suppose you might," said Susan disapprovingly. "She's always pretty busy though. Still—if she chooses, of course—the number is Merrivale 1616."
"I thank you," he said with relief in his voice. "It's rather important. I'm leaving in a few minutes. I wouldn't be able to call her later."
He began to dial Merrivale 1616 as if it were some sacred number.
Of course, he did not know how reluctant Blythe had been to go to that class. How eagerly she had flown to the telephone a few minutes before, hoping, praying, that it might be him calling, although he had not said he would—and of course he wouldn't have time, she knew.
"Who is it, Susan?" she had asked eagerly, as she passed the servant in the hall, dusting.
"It's one of them Red Cross women," answered Susan sourly. "They act as if they owned you, body and soul. They said they had to speak to you right away that minute."
"Oh," said Blythe in a crestfallen tone. "I suppose I ought to have gone to that class, but they had so many, I thought they could get along without me for once."
"And so they could!" encouraged Susan indignantly.
"I suppose I could send a message by you that I have something else important to do this morning."
Blythe lingered on the stairs looking hopefully at Susan, for the woman had often helped her out of unwanted engagements, but this time Susan shook her head.
"No, Miss Blythe, you couldn't. I asked them did they want me to give you a message, but they said no, they must speak with you. They seemed in some awful hurry."
Blythe gave an impatient little sigh and hurried down to the telephone in the library.
Mrs. Felton and Mrs. Bruce had arrived early at the Red Cross room, had hung their wraps in a convenient place and settled down in the pleasantest situation they could find.
They arranged their working paraphernalia comfortably and looked around with satisfaction.
"I wonder where Blythe Bonniwell is," said Mrs. Felton as she took out her thimble and scissors and settled her glasses over her handsome nose. "She's always so early, and she seems so interested in the work. It's unusual, don't you think, for one so young and pretty to seem so really in earnest."
"Well, of course, that's the fashion now, to be interested in anything that has to do with war work. They tell me she's always at the canteens evenings. She's very popular with the young soldiers," said Mrs. Bruce, with pursed lips. "She won't last, you'll see. I'm not surprised she isn't here."
"Well, somehow, I can't help feeling that Blythe is somewhat different from the common run of young girls. I don't believe she'll lose interest," said Mrs. Felton, giving a troubled glance out the window that opened on the street.
"Well, she isn't here, is she? You mark my words, she'll begin to drop out pretty soon. They all do, unless they have really joined up with the army or navy and have to keep at it. This is probably the beginning already for Blythe."
"I hope not," signed Mrs. Felton. "I'm sure I don't know what we'll do if she doesn't come to-day."
"Why is she so important?" demanded Anne Houghton, who had just come in and was taking off her hat and powdering her nose. "I'm sure she doesn't do so much more work than the rest of us." There was haughtiness and almost a shade of contempt in Anne's tone.
Mrs. Felton gave her a quick inspecting glance.
"Why, she put away the materials last night, and I don't see what she has done with the new needles. I can't find them anywhere, and we can't sew without needles. The one I have has a blunt point."
"Oh, I see!" said Anne. "Well, I should think she was rather presumptuous, taking charge of all the needles. She sat down in the third best chair in the room. "Who does she think she is, anyway? Just because she's Judge Bonniwell's daughter and has plenty of money and has Dan Seavers dancing attendance on her at all hours. I can't think what he sees in her, anyway, little colorless thing, so stuck on her looks that she won't even use the decent cosmetics that everybody else uses. She'd be a great deal more attractive if she would at least use a little lipstick."
Mrs. Felton gave Anne another withering glance and went to the sewing machine to oil it and put it in running order for the day, not even attempting an answer.
"Well, what do you suppose she can have done with those needles?" asked Mrs. Bruce, rising to the occasion. "My needle has a blunt point, too. I don't see how so many of them got that way. They can't be very good needles."
"Well, if you ask me," said Mrs. Noyes, who had just come in, "I think it was that child Mrs. Harper brought with her yesterday. He picked up every needle and pin he could find in the place and drove them into the cake of soap they gave him to play with—the idea! Soap! For a baby! And scarce as soap is now in wartimes!"
"Well, but soap ought not to make needles blunt," said Mrs. Felton.
"Oh, he didn't stop at the soap," said Mrs. Noyes, with a sniff. "He had a toy hammer with him, and when he got his cake of soap all full he started in on the table and the floor and tried a few on the wheel of the sewing machine. I declare, I got so nervous I thought I should fly. I was so glad when she decided she had to take her child home for his lunch. I don't know why he needed any lunch, though. He had bread and butter and sticky cake and chocolate candy and a banana along, and he just ate continually, and kept coming around and leaning over my sewing and smearing it with grease and chocolate. I had to take that little nightgown I was working on home and wash it out before I could hand it in. I don't think we ought to allow women to bring their children along. They're an awful hindrance."
"But some women couldn't come without them. They have no one to leave them with at home," said another good woman.
"Let them take their children to the nursery then," said Mrs. Noyes, with a pin in her mouth. "Mrs. Harper thinks her child is too good to go to a nursery with the other children!"
"What I want to know is, what are we going to do about those needles?" said Anne Houghton. "Here I am ready to sew, and no needles!"
"I think I'll call up Blythe Bonniwell and ask what she did with them," said Mrs. Felton. "I've looked simply everywhere, and I can't find them. She must have taken them home with her."
And without further ado Mrs. Felton went to the telephone, while all the room full of ladies sat silent, listening to see what would happen.
"What did you do with the new needles last night, Blythe?" asked Mrs. Felton severely, getting so close to the phone that her voice was sharp and rasping. "I've looked simply everywhere for them. And you know we can't work without needles. You must have taken them home with you."
"The needles? Why, no, Mrs. Felton, I didn't take them home. They are right there on the shelf where you had them before," said Blythe pleasantly.
"The shelf?" said Mrs. Felton more sharply. "What shelf?"
"Why, the shelf right over where you were sitting yesterday, Mrs. Felton."
"Well, you're mistaken, Miss Bonniwell. There isn't a needle in sight, and I'm looking right at the shelf."
"Oh, Mrs. Felton. But I'm sure I put them right there in plain sight. Someone must have moved them."
"No," said Mrs. Felton coldly. "No one could have moved them, for there hasn't been anyone here to move them, and we have looked just everywhere. I wish you would come right over and find them. You know we have simply got to have those needles, for there is not another one to be had in this town, and we haven't any of us time to go into the city after them. You know needles are scarce these days. I wish you'd look in your handbag and see if you didn't take them home with you."
"No, I didn't bring them home," said Blythe decidedly. "I know I didn't."
"Very well then, come over here at once and find those needles! I shall hold you personally responsible for them."
"All right," said Blythe indignantly. "I'll be right over!"
So Blythe caught up her hat and coat, snatched her handbag from the bureau where she had put it last night when she came in, and hurried away, calling to Susan that she was going to her Red Cross work.
When she walked into the Red Cross room, the ladies were all sitting there in various stages of obvious impatience. They had purposely so arranged themselves for a rebuke as soon as Anne Houghton announced, "There she comes at last! My word! It is high time!"
But Blythe was anything but rebuked as she entered with that delightful radiance on her happy face, for she had been thinking about her new joy all the way down, and her thoughts had lent wings to her feet.
So, as she entered, the ladies sat in a row and blinked, for perhaps the brightness of her face dazzled them for an instant.
"Well, so you've come at last!" said Mrs. Bruce disagreeably. "Now, get to work, and find those needles if you can. We've looked everywhere."