GI Brides

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “I believe she did,” said Anne, with utmost indifference.

  “Well, then, of course she’s here,” said Dan.

  “Why ‘of course’?” said Anne amusedly. “Personally, I’d be surprised if she came.”

  “I guess you don’t realize she’s one of my very oldest friends. Of course she’s here,” said the bridegroom fiercely.

  “It may be so,” said Anne with another shrug. “I don’t recall having seen her. But then, she isn’t one of my very oldest friends.” And Anne gave a little disagreeable laugh.

  Dan motioned to a servant.

  “Find Miss Bonniwell and bring her here,” he demanded arrogantly.

  “Aren’t you making her rather conspicuous?” said the bride of the hour. “But then she probably likes that sort of thing. That’s likely why she does it.”

  Mrs. Felton turned sharply from talking with Mrs. Seavers and answered Anne:

  “Why, is it possible you hadn’t heard?” she asked mildly as from superior knowledge. “Didn’t you know that Mrs. Bonniwell was taken very ill this morning? Blythe was called home from the hospital to nurse her mother till another nurse could be found.”

  “Oh! Really?” said Anne affectedly, with that haughty air of discounting the news. “But I suppose that’s nothing but an alibi, isn’t it? It might have been embarrassing for her to come, you know.”

  Mrs. Felton eyed the bride thoughtfully, like a cat contemplating homicide, and then she bared her nice little teeth and pounced:

  “No,” she said gravely, “it’s not an alibi. I just met the doctor coming out as I was coming in here, and I stopped to ask how she was. He says she is very low. They are not sure she will live through the night.”

  Dan turned with a whirl on her.

  “What’s that? Who are you talking about? Who is not expected to live through the night, Mrs. Felton?”

  Mrs. Felton looked the bridegroom over sharply.

  “I was speaking of Mrs. Bonniwell,” she said coldly. “You knew she was taken very ill this morning, didn’t you? The doctor told me just now that she may not live through the night. ‘She’s a very sick woman, Mrs. Felton,’ he said. ‘You see, she has been going too hard with her war work and all, and not stopping for proper rest.’”

  “You mean that was Bonny they were talking about? Do you mean that was Bonny the doctor said might not live through the night? If that’s so, why didn’t somebody tell me? Why, she’s one of my best friends. I ought to run right over there and see her.”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake!” said the bride. “Can’t you shut up? You’ve had too many drinks. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself, whatever you do.”

  “But Bonny is sick, Anne, and she’s one of my best friends!”

  “Keep still, I tell you,” said the bride in a low tone. “It’s probably just an act. Can’t you see? She would choose a time like this to get sick when she could take the attention away from us. This is some of that Blythe’s doings, and I don’t mean mebbe. I certainly will get even with her one of these days.”

  But Anne had her hands full that night to keep her tipsy husband within bounds, for constantly he kept returning to the subject, and it was plainly evident that it had greatly upset him to know that the Bonniwell family were permanently out of the picture, with a reason that everybody but himself seemed to have known all about.

  “This is awful!” he said, more than once, as he mopped his forehead and cast his eyes about to be sure that Blythe wasn’t there somewhere.

  But at last the festivities drew to a close, the bride retired to change to traveling garments, the guests assembled and made ready to catch the bride’s bouquet and pelt the newlyweds with rice and rose petals, and Dan’s mother, still searching angrily to find a Bonniwell in the crowd, gave a hopeful glance at her husband and thought that it was almost time to go home and weep some more. It was done. This great awful farce was over, and she could never again lift up her head proudly, for there would always be that terrible daughter-in-law!

  Then the going away was over, and the guests who did not remain to dance went out into the cool moonlight to pass that quiet Bonniwell house among its trees, with its night lights burning and the doctor’s car standing ominously outside the door. And then some of those guests looked at one another said, “Why, it must have been true. I thought they were telling it about as a joke, didn’t you? Anne didn’t seem to make much of it.”

  And then they walked by with more reverent tread. In the morning, with shocked voices, they called up the doctor, whose only response was, “She is still living, that is all.”

  Chapter 19

  Then began days of tense anxiety for Blythe and her father, day after day the beloved one hanging between life and death, and death seemingly waiting impatiently at the door to take her.

  Mr. Bonniwell spent much of the time in his home, even after the doctor gave a hope of recovery, for the hope was so slight that death was still hovering near, and the tide might turn at any hour. The business could practically carry itself now if they only had their full number of trained workers. But of course, like all other businesses, their workers were few, so many having gone into the war, or war work. But business or no business, Blythe’s father hovered very near the wife of his youth while any danger threatened. So Blythe was not alone in her anxiety, and during that time of anxious waiting the father and daughter grew very close to one another and often opened their shy hearts to speak of the things of eternity, which had up until now been a closed topic so far as the family conversation was concerned. And often, when one or the other had been absent from the sickroom for a little while and would return, it was not unusual for the one who had stayed there to be found sitting with bowed head and closed eyes. They came to understand that this meant an attitude of prayer, and that the prayer was an earnest petition for the life of the dear one. This prayer was gradually modified to include a clause, that at least the mother might live to know the Lord as they were beginning to know Him.

  The two did not talk much about these things, but now and again a word would pass between them that showed the trend of their thoughts, and a beautiful bond of sympathy grew sweet and strong between father and daughter.

  There were several changes in the Red Cross class. Of course, Anne Houghton was no longer there, and Blythe Bonniwell had been gone even longer from her place beside the window where Mrs. Blake usually sat.

  Mrs. Blake was still there, as quiet as ever, but very friendly with all the ladies. She was counted an old member now, and a certain halo shone above her from her friendship with the departed Blythe. Everybody respected the Bonniwells, especially now that there was no Anne Houghton to disparage her and sneer at the woman with whom she had been friendly.

  For Anne Houghton was no longer a poor relative in a stingy household. She was young Mrs. Dan Seavers, the wife of the handsome new officer at the camp, and she was engaged in arrogantly feeling her way into a new group and making an impression that would serve her as long as she stayed in the place. But neither was she mourned in the Red Cross class she had left behind her, and the place seemed far more friendly since she had left. People suddenly began to know that the quiet, despised Mrs. Blake was a most useful and helpful member of the class, for she could not only do well almost everything that had to be done, but she was quite willing to show them the best and swiftest ways to do it. Mrs. Felton was one of the first women to recognize this. Moreover, it turned out that it was through Mrs. Blake that the latest and most accurate news of how Mrs. Bonniwell was progressing could be learned, for she was in daily contact with Blythe, and that added to their respect for Mrs. Blake. She seemed to be one who was a regular friend at the Bonniwell house, and so it was through Mrs. Blake that the Red Cross finally sent gorgeous flowers to Blythe when it was learned that her mother was decidedly on the mend, although it might be months before she could hope to be around again, as in the past.

  But in the meantime, most amazing things were going forward
on the “home front,” as Blythe called heir home life. The Bonniwell family were living as a family in a simple, home-life way, as they had not done since the years when Blythe was a little girl and they used to gather at night around her little crib to hear her say her nightly prayer. But that was years ago, Blythe would have told you, and she scarcely remembered it herself. There hadn’t been any gatherings for prayer in that household since.

  But one night, the night that Mrs. Bonniwell was first allowed to sit up against her pillows for five minutes before she went to her night’s sleep, the most unexpected change came about in that home.

  The five minutes were up, and Blythe had rearranged the pillows for the night. The father was sitting in the big chair near the bed, as he usually sat while the mother was dropping off to sleep. And now Blythe was putting away a few things. Then suddenly the father’s voice broke the quiet:

  “I’m going to read a few words, Alice. Listen. I think they will help you to sleep. Call them a pillow for your head.”

  And then his voice dropped pleasantly into words they all knew well, but hadn’t been thinking about of late years.

  “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the LORD, he is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday…. There shall be no evil befall thee, neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”

  Blythe had softly settled down in a chair near the door as soon as she recognized what her father was reading, and she watched the quiet face of her mother and wondered how she would take this. But then, she knew, of course, she would accept it in her sweet gracious manner just as she took her orange juice or glass of milk, something beautiful done for her because they loved her, something in perfect harmony with a lovely life.

  And then suddenly, even Blythe was surprised, for her father bowed his head, and in the same gentle tone that he would have spoken to her mother or herself he said, “Oh Lord, we do feel to thank Thee tonight that we have passed a blessed milestone on the way toward the recovery of our dear mother, and we know that it has been in answer to our prayers that Thou art bringing health and strength back to our beloved one. We thank Thee for the verses we have read, precious promises that Thou hast made good to us. We ask Thee to help us henceforth to live a life that is pleasing to Thee, and that shall give glory to Thy name. Thank You, dear Lord. Amen.”

  There was an instant of silence, and then Blythe softly slipped from her chair and turned out all but the small night-light as usual. But before she left the room she glanced at her mother to see if she was entirely comfortable, and she caught the vision of her mother’s eyes opening, looking full at her husband, and her wan face was wreathed in a lovely smile. Blythe’s heart leaped up with joy. Mother not only had not minded, she had thought it beautiful! Could any joy be more desired just now than this?

  And then she saw her father’s hand reach out and take his wife’s frail hand in a close warm clasp, and Blythe slipped away, wishing there were some way she might tell Charlie about it all, it was so wonderful. Her mother and father’s love story! Charlie would understand and love it, too. Would it be too late in heaven to find pleasure in talking over the beautiful things of the earth that had been left behind?

  That night before she slept Blythe wrote another letter to Charlie, to add to the little pile in a lovely leather box that she kept locked and hidden away in a locked drawer of her desk. She liked to pretend to herself as she wrote, that these letters were going to Charlie on the next mail, although she knew that these were no letters for the eye of a censor. They were about intimate family affairs and must be held with a number of other precious confidences to talk over with Charlie in case he ever came back to claim them. These letters in the box were pieces of her own heart that she was putting in permanent form to read over perhaps in the years to come, when the mystery of death had been solved, or when she no longer could even hope that Charlie would come back to her on this earth.

  So tonight she wrote a tender letter that was like painting a masterly portrait of her parents, with all the soft lights and shadows of the years in their faces, culminating in that few moments with the blessed words on the air, and the bowed heads, and that wonderful humble grateful prayer, like a golden atmosphere of praise sifting into the quiet evening silence. She painted it with pigments taken from her heart life, showing even the divine reflection that had come into her father’s face and glowed like a light in the darkened room while he was reading and praying. Charlie hadn’t known that father and mother through the years, and she wanted him to know them and understand them.

  So she wrote her letter and locked it in the secret box, and then she knelt to thank God for that little holy time before her mother slept.

  And in the room where Mr. Bonniwell sat long beside the bed with his wife’s frail hand lying softly in his, it may be that God was there speaking to hearts that were tender and were thinking of Him.

  Chapter 20

  All day the thunder of battle had been raging. There had been no letup from sickly gray dawning to the terrifying set of sun. A bright brass sun, trying to set in the normal way through putrid black and green and purple snarls of clouds, the sky heavily frowning to a black night and shaking a warning head at a cool slice of silver moon that occasionally gave a fearsome glance between the tattered clouds, just long enough to suggest what a night might be if peace were once restored. Was this sunset accomplished at the instigation of the enemy?

  The enemy had brought fresh troops across that little winding river. Where did they get so many? Word had come from time to time through their intrepid informer that there was to be no rest that night. More troops were coming all the time. The darkness was making it possible for them to come in droves. There appeared to be endless numbers. The enemy had determined to hold this location, and the road to which it was the key, at all costs. And the costs would be plenty on both sides.

  Hour after hour the intelligence continued to come, warnings of the next enemy move.

  “That fellow’s a wiz,” Walter heard his captain say in a low tone to a fellow officer in a momentary lull of fighting. “I don’t see how he stands it. He’s been on alert since midnight last night. By all the rules of health he should have been dead long ago.”

  “Who is it? Some fellow you know?”

  “I think they call him Charlie, though we’re not sure. He never comes out for us to see.”

  “But how does he manage to get his intelligence across the enemy line to you?”

  “He has three points of contact. Two are up in tall trees, and when he can’t give information from one treetop or the other, he gives a flash from that far mountain over beyond, or speaks it over a telephone contraption down in his foxhole, some contrivance of his own. No one knows exactly but himself, perhaps. Mostly I guess he stays in that foxhole all day, possibly altering its location from day to day, sometimes almost under the feet of the enemy.”

  “But what does he live on? Surely the enemy does not feed him?”

  “No, I think he took a lot of those pill-foods, vitamins and the like, with him. Now and then they say he gets across to our own camp in the night when things are quiet probably, but always on the double quick to get back before he can be discovered. But he’s been going a long stretch of hours this time, and scarcely a minute when there wasn’t some news of some sort. After all, he’s human, and man can’t stand everything. But I understand he volunteered for this and expected to die when he came in. A pity a man like that has to be lost to the world because of these di
rty dogs of enemies. But he’s clever all right. Nearly all his means of service are his own device, and if he can’t get us word by one method he’ll find another. But he’ll get to the end pretty soon. If all the hints he’s given us today come true, this night will almost see the finish, of this engagement at least. He says the enemy is determined to hold this point at all risks, and we’ll have to have reinforcements ourselves if the enemy continues to bring new troops. We must win this location! And Charlie can’t continue to stand up in a tree getting news if a moon like that looks over a cloud for even only a second at a time, without getting caught by some sniper. Sometime soon the intelligence will cease, and we’ll have to go on our own, and that will be good-bye for Charlie! But there’s no doubt about it, we wouldn’t have won all we have in this sector if it hadn’t been for Charlie’s magnificent work.”

  Walter moved quietly on in the darkness, his heart swelling with pride at what his captain had said of Charlie. Walter had been convinced for some days that the work that was being done out there somewhere between the enemy and their own men was Charlie’s work, but this was the first time that he had heard the fact openly acknowledged. So, his captain had looked up the old friend from the hometown, after all, but he hadn’t told him. Probably wasn’t sure but he, Walter, might lose his head and go out after Charlie and give him away, perhaps. But there was a warm feeling around Walter’s heart as he thought that his captain was acknowledging the worth of his hero, too. And now, if anything happened to Charlie, and the intelligence should suddenly cease, he, Walter, would search among the dead most carefully for his beloved idol.

  That night as the firing began again and the young soldier listened to the orders given, he knew that the worst was on its way, and if Charlie would ever need his help, it would likely be tonight.

  The fighting was bitter indeed, and grew worse as the darkness drew on. Company after company of enemy troopers poured into the enemy ranks. There came planes, and other instruments of warfare, and now and again as Walter’s duties led him back to the captain’s tent he found that everything was happening as had been told them by Charlie that it would happen. Charlie was doing great work.