“Are you alone?” Again the voice was very guarded, low. Even the most attentive listener could not have understood what came from the other end of the wire, for Blythe was cupping her hand about the receiver, which was most annoying to Mrs. Bruce. She severely shook her head at Mrs. Felton, who ventured to interrupt the performance by asking a question about which buttons were to go on the little nightgowns they were making.
But Blythe’s voice was clear, without confusion.
“Oh no, I’m sorry!” she answered brightly. “But—you weren’t late, were you?”
“No, I got here in plenty of time. The train was late, I found I had a few minutes to spare, and I wanted to hear your voice again, even if we couldn’t speak privately.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you!” said Blythe graciously. “Don’t forget to write that down for further reference,” and she rippled out her bewildering laughter again.
“No, I won’t forget,” came the man’s voice, louder and clearer than before. “I’ll write that down as soon as I get on my way, and I’ll see that it gets to the proper person. And by the way, will you kindly think over what I told you, and see if you can possibly respond to my suggestion?”
“Oh—yes—I’ll do that,” said Blythe in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’ll take pleasure in doing that, and I’ll let you know later what I think.”
Blythe was talking in a very off-hand tone, and she had a feeling that her eyes were twinkling over her words and across the space between them, as if he could see her and understand why she was speaking in such veiled language. But her heart was warm and happy over his voice, even though she had to strain her ears to identify every word.
“That’s good of you,” said the man’s voice, falling into the game easily. “I’m glad to have had this little talk with you—this chance to explain.”
“Yes,” said Blythe, smiling into the receiver. “It was so good of you to call. But how did you know where to find me?”
“Oh, I called the house first and the servant gave me the number,” he explained.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Blythe, letting her voice linger, glad to have the brief interlude drawn out to its utmost, knowing the listeners would not understand. “Well, it was nice of you to take all that trouble to find me and let me know.”
‘Oh, it was a pleasure, I assure you,” spoke the young man. “And you are sure you won’t forget?”
“Oh no, I won’t forget,” lilted Blythe. “And—I hope you—are successful!” Those last words were spoken guardedly, very low, her tone full of feeling, as she gave a quick glance about the silent room full of women, sewing steadily without a word.
Suddenly the man’s voice spoke sharply, almost breathlessly:
“Well, I hear it coming! I must go! Is there any chance you might be at home later in the day or evening, if I had the opportunity to call again?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed softly, “after two o’clock and all the evening. Yes, I’ll be at home.”
“Of course it may not be possible for me to call, but I’ll try. Good-bye—dearest!”
Could that last whispered word be heard by the audience? Blythe held her head high and didn’t care. What did all these women know or care about her and her precious, beautiful affairs?
Then she hung up the receiver, and walked steadily over to Mrs. Bruce.
“Have you one of those buttons I’m to make buttonholes for, Mrs. Bruce? I must get to work and make up for lost time.”
She took the proffered button and went smilingly over to an empty chair, without a sign of the lovely tumult in her heart.
Then those frustrated women sat and sewed away, and occasionally lifted baffled eyes and glared at one another, as much as to say, “Does that Blythe Bonniwell think she can get away with a thing like this as easily as all that?”
And at last Anne lifted her head with a toss and sang out clearly for them all to hear. “Well, who was your friend? It was Dan Seavers, wasn’t it? I was sure I knew his voice. Are you and he going to the benefit concert at the arena tonight? I suppose that’s what he called up about. I don’t see why you had to hedge about answering him that way. I’m curious to know if he succeeded in getting tickets after waiting all this time. And I think I know where he could get a couple if he didn’t. I know somebody who has some who has to leave town tonight. Do you think he would like them?”
Blythe looked up with a distant little smile.
“Why, I wouldn’t know, Anne,” she said. “That wasn’t Dan calling.”
“Well, who was it then, with a voice so much like Dan’s?”
“Oh, it was just one of my friends in the air corps,” said Blythe easily. “I don’t think you would know him. He was only here on a brief furlough.”
Anne looked at her curiously.
“Oh, yes?” she said contemptuously, but Blythe was too happy to be ruffled by her contempt and went on making buttonholes with a radiance upon her lovely face that defied the scrutiny, furtive or open, of all those women. She went happily through the morning, thinking her pleasant thoughts. True, Charlie Montgomery was going from her, but he was leaving his love in her heart, and for the present that was all she needed to give her joy.
And thus, thinking her happy thoughts, Blythe’s morning went forward with its business, and at last was over, so that she was free to go on to her home and wait for whatever might be in store.
Dearest. Had he really said that? She hugged the memory to her heart.
But back in the room she had left, where the other women were purposely idling about, putting on their wraps, and getting ready to leave, there was a significant silence until the sound of her footsteps died away in the distance and the ordinary routine noises of the street assured them that Blythe was well out of hearing. Then they relaxed almost audibly.
“Well,” said Mrs. Bruce grimly, “she certainly has more brass! Imagine her sitting here sewing after she had been through that playacting on the telephone. Was that really Dan who called her, Anne?”
Anne Houghton shrugged her shoulders.
“Well, I certainly thought it was. But why on earth she considered she had to tell a lie about it, I’m sure I don’t know. It wouldn’t of much importance, would it? We all know she runs after him day in and day out.”
“I don’t think she does,” said Mrs. Felton. “She’s too well bred to run after anybody. Remember, Anne, her mother is a lady.”
Anne shrugged again. “That’s not saying she is one,” she said.
“What makes you hate her so?” asked Mrs. Felton, looking gravely, steadily at Anne.
“Oh, I don’t hate her,” laughed Anne. “I don’t give the matter that much importance. I merely think she’s so smug, and she does like to give big impressions about herself. See today how determined she was to let us think that was some soldier she was talking to, one of those soldiers she’s hostess to up at the canteen. She wants us to think that she can flirt around like the other girls.”
“She doesn’t flirt at the canteen,” said Mrs. Stanton gravely. “I go there every night, and I’ve never seen her do anything out of the way.”
“And I guess you’ll find that Blythe is busy some nights doing evening hospital work or something of that sort. Isn’t she? I’m sure I heard that,” said Mrs. Felton.
“Oh, really? I think you must be mistaken. I saw her out with Dan Seaver last night and also the night before.” That from Anne.
“Well, I suppose she must have some nights off. Most of them do, don’t they?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” said Anne coldly. “But for heaven’s sake, don’t let’s talk about that girl anymore. I’m fed up with her. She gets on my nerves every time I see her. Just say she’s a paragon and let it go at that. If that’s what you like in a girl, then that’s what you like. Good-bye. I’m going out to lunch and I’m late now.” Anne slammed out of the door, her high heels clicking as she hurried away.
Mrs. Felton and Mrs. Bruce walked slowly down the s
treet behind Anne and watched the arrogant swing of her shoulders till she vanished around the next corner. Then after a pause Mrs. Felton said, “Young people are awfully rude nowadays, don’t you think?”
“I certainly do,” said Mrs. Bruce, with a heavy sigh. “It’s the one thing that makes me glad my daughter died when she was a child, so she wouldn’t have to live to grow up in this impudent age.”
Mrs. Felton uttered a sympathetic little sound and walked thoughtfully on until they parted.
Chapter 4
The telephone was ringing as Blythe entered the front door, and she hastened to answer it, wondering if it could possibly be Charlie again so soon. But it was only a tradesman calling up about something that had been ordered that he couldn’t supply yet, and she turned away with a sigh.
Upstairs, her mother met her in the hall, smiling.
“Oh, you’re back, Blythe,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d be here for a half hour yet. Well, I just made a tentative engagement for you for this evening. Dan Seavers called. He wanted you to go somewhere with him tonight. I forget where. But I told him I was sure you’d be glad to go.”
“Oh Mother!” said Blythe in dismay. “Not this evening! I really can’t go this evening.”
“Why, why not, child? If it’s that hospital-office work, I think you give entirely too much time to that. It isn’t good for your health, after you have sewed all the morning. And you really ought to take some days off and not slave all the time, even if it is wartime. The government doesn’t want to kill anyone, and there’s no need to go to excess, even in a good thing.”
Blythe was silent and thoughtful for a moment, then she looked up.
“Is Dan going to call up again?”
“No, I think not,” said her mother. “He’s going to be away this afternoon, but he said you could call and leave word with the butler what time you would be ready. And he’ll be here as early as you say.”
“All right,” said Blythe after an instant’s thought, “I’ll attend to it.”
Her mother turned away, smiling, satisfied. After all, Mother didn’t know, couldn’t understand, why she must stay at home tonight. She better engineer this thing herself. Later, when she could talk about this, she would tell her mother all about Charlie Montgomery. But not now, not till it was more a part of herself so that she would be able to answer questions and make her mother fully understand.
She watched her mother get ready to go out to her war work, watched her down the street, and then she went to the telephone and left a message with the Seavers’s butler.
“Please tell Mr. Dan that Miss Bonniwell cannot possibly accept his kind invitation for this evening. Something else was already planned. Thank him for the invitation.”
Then Blythe went contentedly to her room and sat down to await the ring from the telephone. Would Charlie call? Could he call? She was sure he would if he could.
And it was then she had her first uninterrupted time for going over, step by step, the beautiful experience of the morning. It was then she could close her eyes and visualize his face when he rose from his chair to meet her as she came downstairs. That fine lifting of his head, the sparkle in his eyes, the old humble, yet assured manner he had as a boy in school. Charlie! The same Charlie she used to watch and admire as a lad in school days. Charlie, come to tell her that he loved her! It was almost beyond belief! He had never seemed to look her way before. How did he know that he loved her? He had seen her so seldom.
All the sweet, hurrying, eager questions rushed upon her, each demanding to be answered at once, yet none of them shaking her faith in his love, even for an instant. The breathtaking memory of his arms about her, folding her close. Why, she had never dreamed what love like this could be!
She had read many beautiful love stories of course, had delighted in them, yet none of them came up to the sweetness of those all-too-brief blissful moments while Charlie was with her. Her own beloved!
There would come a time, of course, when she must bring all this out in the open, must tell her mother and father. Or would there? Must she? If anything happened to Charlie, if he did not come back, she would keep it deep in her own heart. Never would she allow even her dearest ones to speculate on what Charlie was, and what he had intended to do about all this. That was her part, and for the present it must be kept so. Precious. Just between themselves. And so, whatever came in the future, this afternoon was hers to be with Charlie in her thoughts. To knit up all the years that had been so empty and barren for them both before the knowledge of their mutual love had come to make it shine like a light.
And then she turned in her mind to face that other thought, that terrible thought, that perhaps he might not come back. Not ever! He had spoken as if that was a sure thing. In fact, it was the only reason, apparently, that had given him the courage to come and tell her of his love, as if it were just a kind of spiritual thing that could last through eternity but could not be used on this earth. It seemed a beautiful, awesome way to look at life, to reach such heights of sacrifice that he could smile as he said it. Would she ever reach that height, too? Oh, she could not, must not, think of that now. She must only think how he was going to try to call her up sometime, today, or this evening, and she must be at home and be ready for it. She must have heartening words ready at the tip of her tongue, for his time to talk with her might be very short, if it came at all. Just between trains, or a stop at some station for connection or some needed repair. She must think of all those things and be ready not to waste the time. She must have a pencil and paper ready in case he wanted her to write down an address or something. But she must have some brief sweet messages ready for him to take with him in his memory; things he would like to hear her voice saying, ringing in his heart sometime when he was far away and needed comfort or strengthening.
And so she sat and dreamed it out, as if she were communing with him, knitting up those past years when they had never talked except a few scant words concerning an algebra problem.
It might have seemed to an outsider like a monotonous little round of thoughts to be so sweet and absorbing, but they were precious to the lovely girl who sat and thought them. Like some potent charm that works a change on words written long ago brings out clearly what was invisible before, so these tender thoughts were painting over the past years and bringing out the meaning of a young love that had grown up unknown and unacknowledged. And now she could remember glances, furtive shadowed smiles, little acts of kindness and courtesy, like picking up her examination paper that a breeze from the window had caught and fluttered across the aisle down to his vicinity. She could read the look in his eyes, the flush on his cheek that before might have only meant embarrassment, shyness. Oh, it was wonderful, this thinking, in the light of the knowledge of that confession of his that he loved her!
Into the midst of these happy dreams, that were as yet not consciously tinged with the coming fears of possible pain and sorrow, there came the ringing of the telephone.
Blythe sprang from her chair and hurried to the instrument across the hall in her mother’s room, lovely anticipation in her face. Could this be Charlie?
But no, it was only some tiresome woman who wanted to persuade her to undertake the management of a play to be given for the benefit of a day nursery.
Feverishly, because she didn’t want the telephone to be in use when Charlie called—if he called—she tried to decline, but the woman only urged the harder.
“But such things are not in my line, Mrs. Basset. I never got up a play in my life, wouldn’t know how to go about it, and besides, just at present I’m doing all the war work I can possibly manage, without undertaking anything else. No, I’m sorry. I can’t possibly do it. Think it over? No, I’m sorry I can’t promise to do that even, for I wouldn’t, under any circumstances, undertake to put on a play anywhere, and I’m quite sure there are more important things to do for the war than to get up a play. No, Mrs. Basset, you’ll have to count me out.”
She
hung up at last with a sigh and glanced at the clock. Five whole minutes wasted that way! What if he had tried to call during that time, and might have no other opportunity! But there! She must not get hysterical over this.
Quietly she went back to her room and read over the notes she had been writing down. Why, they were almost a letter, for the words came directly from her heart! She would go on writing, and when he did call, she would tell him she was just writing him a letter.
With this thought in mind she went back to her writing, a light in her eyes and a sweet smile on her face.
The next interruption was from her mother, calling to say that neither she nor Blythe’s father would be at home to dinner tonight, as they had met an old friend who was leaving town at midnight and wanted them to dine with him at his hotel so they could have an old-time visit.
“Why don’t you call Dan and ask him over to dinner with you tonight? That will probably just fit in with his plans,” said her mother.
“No,” said Blythe sharply. “I don’t want to, Mother. I’ve got letters to write and a lot of other things to do. I’ll be all right, and I’ll tell Susan. You needn’t worry. What’s one dinner, after all? And I’m tired, I really am. Have a good time, Mother dear.” Then Blythe went back to her pleasant thoughts and her first happy letter.
It was five minutes of six when the telephone rang again and Blythe flew to answer, sure now it must be Charlie. But instead she heard Dan Seaver’s angry voice.
“What in the name of time is the matter with you, Bly? Can’t go? Of course you can go! I’ve been planning to take you to this picture for weeks. You know I’ve spoken of it several times.”
“Oh,” said Blythe, “I’m sorry, Dan, to disappoint you, but you said nothing about going tonight, and I really can’t do it. I made other plans!”
“Plans! Plans! What are your plans? Change them, then! Call off whatever you’ve promised to do. This comes first, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Blythe drew a weary little sigh and looked with anguished eyes toward the clock. Suppose Charlie should call now? It might be likely. It would be so near the dinner hour, surely his train would stop somewhere at this time, or would it?
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