GI Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “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.

  Chapter 3

  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 th
at 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 today.”

  “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.”

  Blythe’s glance went swiftly to the shelf over Mrs. Bruce’s head.

  “But—why, there they are! Just where I told you they were!” she said triumphantly.

  “What do you mean?” snapped Mrs. Felton. “I don’t see any needles.”

  “Why, in that blue box. Don’t you remember, we took the whole box because we were afraid we wouldn’t be able to get more later when we needed them.”

  “That blue box?” said Mrs. Felton, jumping up and going over to seize the box from the shelf. “Why I supposed those were safety pins. I don’t understand.”

  She took down the box and opened it, and her face took on a look of utter amazement.

  “My word!” she said slowly. “I certainly don’t understand. I supposed, of course, these were safety pins that Mrs. Huyler brought. Well, then, where are they?”

  “She took them home again when she found this wasn’t a nursery,” said Mrs. Bruce grimly. “She said she would take them to a place she knew needed them.”

  “Well, upon my word!” said Mrs. Felton again. “I guess you’re right, and I was the one to blame. I certainly ask your pardon, Blythe.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” laughed Blythe, swinging off her coat and hat and taking the first empty chair that presented itself. “Now, where do I begin? Do you need
more buttonholes made, or shall I run a machine?”

  “Make buttonholes,” snapped Anne, handing over the baby’s nightgown she had been set to finish. “I just hate them, and anyway, I always make them crooked. I don’t see why poor babies have to have buttonholes anyway. Why can’t they use safety pins? I’d rather buy a gross of them and donate them than have to make a single buttonhole.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind buttonholes,” said Blythe pleasantly. “That was one thing I learned to do when I was a little girl. We had a seamstress who made beautiful ones, and she taught me.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’re welcome to do them all for me,” said Anne disagreeably.

  And it was just then that the telephone rang, and Anne, being on her feet, answered it. She always liked to answer the phone. It gave her a line to other people’s business, and that was usually interesting.

  “Yes?” she drawled as she took down the receiver. “Red Cross Sewing Class. “Who? Who did you say? Miss Bonniwell? Yes, she’s here. Who shall I say wants her?”

  But Blythe, with cheeks like lovely roses, was on her feet beside the telephone.

  “I’ll take it,” she said smiling, as she gathered the receiver into her hand.

  “Well, you needn’t snatch it so,” said Anne, turning angrily away just as she was trying to identify the voice as Dan Seaver’s.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” said Blythe, her cheeks flaming crimson. “I didn’t mean to snatch.”

  But Anne turned away with her head held high and went over to select a needle for her own use.

  So the room held its breath to listen to the telephone conversation.

  “Yes?” said Blythe quietly into the instrument, though she couldn’t keep the lilt out of her voice, for she hoped she knew just who was calling her, though, of course, it might be her mother or Susan from home.

  “Is that you, Blythe?” The voice on the wire was cautious, tentative.

  “It certainly is,” said Blythe, with a light ripple of a laugh.