The Next of Kin Part 12

"Yes, I think he does, but not any more than the poor fellows in the trenches miss their wives. He is not able to go to the front himself and he is only too glad to leave me free to do all I can."

"But surely some other woman could be found," said Mrs. Winters, "who hasn't got as many family cares as you have."

"They could," said the president, "but they would probably tell you that their husbands like to have them at home--or some day would be stormy and they would 'phone down that 'Teddy' positively refused to let them come out. We have been busy people all our lives and have been accustomed to sacrifice and never feel a bit sorry for it--we've raised our six children and done without many things. It doesn't hurt us as it does the people who have always sat on cushioned seats. The Red Cross Society knows that it is a busy woman who can always find time to do a little more, and I am just as happy as can be doing this."

Mrs. Winters felt the unintentional rebuke in these words, and turned them over in her mind.

One day, three months after this, the Doctor told her that it was quite probable he would not be going overseas at all, for he was having such success recruiting that the major-general thought it advisable to have him go right on with it. "And so, Nettie," he said, "you had better cancel your application to go overseas, for of course, if I do not go, you will not."

For a moment she did not grasp what he meant. He spoke of it so casually. Not go! The thought of her present life of inactivity was never so repulsive. But silence fell upon her and she made no reply.

"We will not know definitely about it for a few weeks," he said, and went on reading.

After that, Mrs. Winters attended every recruiting meeting at which her husband spoke, eagerly memorizing his words, hardly knowing why, but she felt that she might need them. She had never been able to argue with any one--one adverse criticism of her position always caused her defense to collapse. So she collected all the material she could get on the subject of personal responsibility and sacrifice. Her husband's brilliant way of phrasing became a delight to her. But always, as she listened, vague doubts arose in her mind.

One day when she was sewing at the Red Cross rooms, the women were talking of a sad case that had occurred at the hospital. A soldier's wife had died, leaving a baby two weeks old and another little girl of four, who had been taken to the Children's Shelter, and who had cried so hard to be left with her mother. One of the women had been to see the sick woman the day before she died, and was telling the others about her.

"A dear little saint on earth she was--well bred, well educated, but without friends. Her only anxiety was for her children and sympathy for her husband. 'This will be sad news for poor Bob,' she said, 'but he'll know I did my best to live--I cannot get my breath--that's the worst--if I could only get my breath--I would abide the pain _some way_.' The baby is lovely, too,--a fine healthy boy. Now I wonder if there is any woman patriotic enough to adopt those two little ones whose mother is dead and whose father is in the trenches. The baby went to the Shelter yesterday."

"Of course they are well treated there," said Mrs. Winters.

"Well treated!" cried the president--"they are fed and kept warm and given all the care the matron and attendants can give them; but how can two or three women attend to twenty-five children? They do all they can, but it's a sad place just the same. I always cry when I see the mother-hungry look on their faces. They want to be owned and loved--they need some one belonging to them. Don't you know that settled look of loneliness? I call it the 'inst.i.tutional face,' and I know it the minute I see it. Poor Bob Wilson--it will be sad news for him--he was our plumber and gave up a good job to go. At the station he kept saying to his wife to comfort her, for she was crying her heart out, poor girl, 'Don't cry, Minnie dear, I'm leaving you in good hands; they are not like strangers anymore, all these kind ladies; they'll see you through. Don't you remember what the Doctor said,'--that was your husband, Mrs. Winters,--'the women are the best soldiers of all--so you'll bear up, Minnie.'

"Minnie was a good soldier right enough," said the president, "but I wonder what Bob will think of the rest of us when he comes home--or doesn't come home. We let his Minnie die, and sent his two babies to the Children's Shelter. In this manner have we discharged our duty--we've taken it easy so far."

Mrs. Winters sat open-eyed, and as soon as she could, left the room.

She went at once to the Shelter and asked to see the children.

Up the bare stairs, freshly scrubbed, she was taken, and into the day-nursery where many children sat on the floor, some idly playing with half-broken toys, one or two wailing softly, not as if they were looking for immediate returns, but just as a small protest against things in general. The little four-year-old girl, neatly dressed and smiling, came at once when the matron called her, and quickly said, "Will you take me to my mother? Am I going home now?"

"She asks every one that," the matron said aside.

"I have a little brother now," said the child proudly; "just down from heaven--we knew he was coming."

In one of the white cribs the little brother lay, in an embroidered quilt. The matron uncovered his face, and, opening one navy-blue eye, he smiled.

"He's a bonnie boy," the matron said; "he has slept ever since he came. But I cannot tell--somebody--I simply can't."

Mrs. Winters went home thinking so hard that she was afraid her husband would see the thoughts shining out, tell-tale, in her face.

She told him where she had been and was just leading up to the appeal which she had prepared, for the children, when a young man called to see the Doctor.

The young fellow had called for advice: his wife would not give her consent to his enlisting, and his heart was wrung with anxiety over what he should do.

The Doctor did not hesitate a minute. "Go right on," he said; "this is no time to let any one, however near and dear, turn us from our duty.

We have ceased to exist as individuals--now we are a Nation and we must sacrifice the individual for the State. Your wife will come around to it and be glad that you were strong enough to do your duty.

No person has any right to turn another from his duty, for we must all answer to Almighty G.o.d in this crisis, not to each other."

The next day, while the Doctor was away making a recruiting speech in another town, the delivery van of the leading furniture store stood at his back door and one high chair stood in it, one white crib was being put up-stairs in his wife's bedroom, and many foreign articles were in evidence in the room. The Swedish maid was all excitement and moved around on tip-toe, talking in a whisper.

"There ban coming a baby hare, and a li'l' girl. Gee! what will the Doctor man say! He ban quick enough to bring them other houses, no want none for self--oh, gee!"

Then she made sure that the key was not in the study door, for Olga was a student of human nature and wanted to get her information first-hand.

When the Doctor came in late that night, Mrs. Winters met him at the door as usual. So absorbed was he in telling her of the success of his meetings that he did not notice the excitement in her face.

"They came to-night in droves, Nettie," he said, as he drank the cocoa she had made for him.

"They can't help it, Fred," she declared enthusiastically, "when you put it to them the way you do. You are right, dear; it is not a time for any person to hold others back from doing what they see they should. It's a personal matter between us and G.o.d--we are not individuals any more--we are a state, and each man and woman must get under the burden. I hate this talk of 'business as usual'--I tell you it is nothing as usual."

He regarded her with surprise! Nettie had never made so long a speech before.

"It's your speeches, Fred; they are wonderful. Why, man alive, you have put backbone even into me--I who have been a jelly-fish all my life--and last night, when I heard you explain to that young fellow that he must not let his wife be his conscience, I got a sudden glimpse of things. You've been my conscience all my life, but, thank G.o.d, you've led me out into a clear place. I'm part of the State, and I am no slacker--I am going to do my bit. Come, Fred, I want to show you something."

He followed her without a word as she led the way to the room upstairs where two children slept sweetly.

"They are mine, Fred,--mine until the war is over, at least, and Private Wilson comes back; and if he does not come back, or if he will let me have them, they are mine forever."

He stared at this new woman, who looked like his wife.

"It was your last speech, Fred,--what you said to that young man. You told him to go ahead--his wife would come around, you said--she would see her selfishness. Then I saw a light shine on my pathway. Every speech has stiffened my backbone a little. I was like the mouse who timidly tiptoed out to the saucer of brandy, and, taking a sip, went more boldly back, then came again with considerable swagger; and at last took a good drink and then strutted up and down saying, 'Bring on your old black cat!' That's how I feel, Fred,--I'm going to be a mother to these two little children whose own mother has pa.s.sed on and whose father is holding up the pillars of the Empire. It would hardly be fair to leave them to public charity, now, would it?"

"Well, Nettie," the Doctor said slowly, "I'll see that you do not attend any more recruiting meetings--you are too literal. But all the same," he said, "I am proud of my convert."

Olga Jasonjusen tiptoed gently away from the door, and going down the back stairs hugged herself gayly, saying, "All over--but the kissing.

Oh, gee! He ain't too bad! He's just needed some one to cheek up to him. Bet she's sorry now she didn't sa.s.s him long ago."

CHAPTER XII

THE WAR-MOTHER

I saw my old train friend again. It was the day that one of our regiments went away, and we were all at the station to bid the boys good-bye.

The empty coaches stood on a siding, and the stream of khaki-clad men wound across the common from the Fair buildings, which were then used as a military camp. The men were heavily loaded with all their equipment, but cheerful as ever. The long-looked-for order to go forward had come at last!

Men in uniform look much the same, but the women who came with them and stood by them were from every station in life. There were two Ukrainian women, with colored shawls on their heads, who said good-bye to two of the best-looking boys in the regiment, their sons. It is no new thing for the Ukrainian people to fight for liberty! There were heavily veiled women, who alighted from their motors and silently watched the coaches filling with soldiers. Every word had been said, every farewell spoken; they were not the sort who say tempestuous good-byes, but their silence was like the silence of the open grave.

There were many sad-faced women, wheeling go-carts, with children holding to their skirts crying loudly for "Daddy." There were tired, untidy women, overrun by circ.u.mstances, with that look about them which the Scotch call "through-other." There were many brave little boys and girls standing by their mothers, trying hard not to cry; there were many babies held up to the car-window to kiss a big brother or a father; there were the groups of chattering young people, with their boxes of candy and incessant fun; there were brides of a day, with their white-fox furs and new suits, and the great new sorrow in their eyes.

One fine-looking young giant made his way toward the train without speaking to any one, pa.s.sing where a woman held her husband's hands, crying hysterically--we were trying to persuade her to let him go, for the conductor had given the first warning.

"I have no one to cry over me, thank G.o.d!" he said, "and I think I am the best off." But the bitterness in his tone belied his words.

"Then maybe I could pretend that you are my boy," said a woman's voice behind me, which sounded familiar; "you see I have no boy--now, and n.o.body to write to--and I just came down to-night to see if I could find one. I want to have some one belonging to me--even if they are going away!"