GI Brides (69 page)
Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
A fleeting smile crossed the gravity of the silent woman, and Blythe followed it up. Quietly, so that the attention of the other woman would not be called to her words.
“Mind if I sit by you?” she asked pleasantly. “I think there is a little more light by this window, and I thought you looked as if you would be a pleasant person to sit beside.”
The little woman looked up, surprised.
“Why, you’re quite welcome of course,” she said cordially. “But I’m only a very unimportant person. I’m just Mrs. Blake, and I don’t live in a very fashionable quarter of the city. In fact, I think my house is just over the edge in this section, and I don’t really know these ladies. I’ve thought perhaps they rather resented my being here. I don’t know. But this was where I was told to come, so I came.”
“Why, of course,” said Blythe, with a tone of merriness in her voice. “And why should anybody resent anybody else in the world, no matter on which side of an imaginary line they live? We’re in a war. We have no time for silly trifles like that. Do you think we have?”
Mrs. Blake looked up, astonished again.
“Why, no, I don’t suppose we have, but you can’t change the way people think about such things just because there’s a war, can you?”
“I don’t know why not. It seems to me when almost everybody has some dear one in that war, either far away or on the way somewhere, that we all feel for one another and love one another, at least a little bit more than we used to do. Isn’t that the way it should be?”
Blythe lifted her eyes and Anne Houghton came into her range of vision, and it came to her suddenly that she didn’t love Anne Houghton, or feel for her a bit more than she used to do. In fact, she was in a fair way to hate her because of the way she was acting. Well, she’d got to check herself up on that. But she went on with her conversation with the quiet little woman by her side who somehow interested her greatly.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Blake with a quick-drawn sigh, “I guess that’s the way it ought to be, but I’m not sure it is always, even yet.”
“Perhaps not,” said Blythe thoughtfully. “But I think we
ought
to be that way. Now take yourself. I’ll have a guess that you have somebody in the service. You seem so interested.”
Mrs. Blake was still for a minute, and then she said with another sigh, “Yes, I’ve got somebody in the war. I’ve got three somebodies in it. In fact, there were four till my husband got hurt in the munitions plant where he was working, and that laid him aside in the hospital. But he still hopes to get well and get back to his job. He thinks it was sabotage that caused the accident that put him on his back, and it’s hard not to hate the people who would do a thing like that, isn’t it?”
“Why, of course,” said Blythe. “I guess that’s the kind of thing we were meant to hate, isn’t it? That’s devilish. That’s just what the war’s about.”
“Yes, I feel that way,” said little Mrs. Blake, snapping off her thread and putting a knot in the end for another seam.
“But you said you had four somebodies in the war. Who are the other three?” asked the girl, starting in on another buttonhole.
“Yes,” sighed the mother. “There’s Floyd. He’s in Guadalcanal in the hospital. But they say he’s getting better. He’s hoping to get back into the service soon. I don’t know where they’ll send him next. And there’s Johnny, he’s in Africa; that is, he was the last time we heard. And there’s Walter, he’s in camp, getting ready to go somewhere. He thinks maybe it will be Iceland. But they’re all fighting in the war, thank God, and so I come here the only free time I have to sew a little while. It’s all the time I have free to give. You see, I work in a munitions plant myself afternoons and evenings, and I have to take a little time to keep our two rooms tidy for me and my little girl who is in school yet. So when I come here, I have to work hard and fast to get as much done as possible.”
“My dear, I think you’re wonderful!” said Blythe, with true admiration in her eyes.
“Oh no, I’m not wonderful! I’m just a common wife and mother doing her best to help her family keep right and brave and with the war. But tell me about you. They say you make wonderful buttonholes, but something tells me that’s not all you do. Have you got somebody dear to you over in that war?”
Blythe’s cheeks flamed rosy for an instant, and a very sweet look came into her eyes as she lifted them to the new friend she had found in this unpopular corner of the room.
“Yes, I have,” she said softly. “Somebody
very
dear!”
She paused a minute, and then added in a still softer tone, “He’s not a father or husband or son, nor even a brother. He’s just a friend. A very dear friend.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Blake understandingly. “I used to feel that way about Jim, my husband, before he was my husband. When he went away to France in the last world war. I know just how it is. And—does he know you care? Or perhaps I ought not to ask that. Excuse me for being so forward.”
“There’s nothing to excuse,” said Blythe gently. “Yes, he knows. And
he
cares, too!” she added softly.
“That makes it nice,” said Mrs. Blake. “You’ve something to look forward to.”
Blythe was silent a moment, and then she lifted sad eyes.
“I’m afraid not,” she said sadly. “You see, he’s gone on some very special mission. And he thinks it is pretty sure death! He seemed to think he might not come back. In fact, he was sure there wasn’t a chance. I don’t know where he is. It’s a military secret.”
“Oh,
my dear
!” said the little woman sadly, with a great tenderness in her voice and eyes. “I’m sorry for you!”
“Thank you,” said Blythe, with a catch in her voice. “You’re the only one I’ve told about this—but I knew you wouldn’t say anything.”
“No, of course not, child. But I’m greatly sorry for you, and I’ll be praying for you—and him!”
“Oh, thank you!” said Blythe, brushing at a quick tear that was trying to get out. “I’ll remember that always!” And suddenly her lovely smile bloomed out like a rainbow in the rain.
The gathering broke up just then, everyone hurrying away to lunch.
“I must go,” said Mrs. Blake. “I mustn’t be late to my job. But I’ll not be forgetting to pray for you—and him!” And she hurried away.
Blythe smiled sweetly at her and then looking up, saw Anne Houghton’s scornful glance upon her.
“Getting quite chummy with our slum-lady, aren’t you?” she sneered. “Not trying to hire her for something, are you? I’m sure I don’t see why they put a woman of that sort in with our crowd. She just doesn’t belong, and she really lives out of the district. Somebody ought to write to headquarters and have her sent to another group.”
“
Don’t!
” said Blythe sharply. “She’s very sweet, and Anne, she has three boys in the service.”
“She would, of course, but they’re just the common herd, children of a woman like that! That’s all those common boys would be fit for, anyway, to go out and fight.”
Blythe looked at the other girl, appalled, and could not think of words to express her indignation, so she turned and walked away, wishing she knew how to make Anne understand what an utter snob she was, but realizing that utter silence was probably the best rebuke she could give her.
On her way home Blythe began to wonder at herself for telling this strange woman about the sweetest thing in her life, her love for Charlie. How was it that she could tell this stranger, and she hadn’t yet mustered courage to tell her own dear mother? Oh, if she could only be sure that her mother would take it in the sweet sympathetic way that the stranger woman had listened. What made the difference? Not just the fact that Mrs. Blake lived on the wrong side of the township line, or wore plain clothes and worked hard for her living. Was it because she had children in the war, and knew what war possibilities were? Oh, war did make a difference. And maybe her mother would begin to realize that soon, and she could bring her sweet secret and share it with her precious mother.
And then she went into the house and found there a letter from her beloved, the first one he had written and mailed just after talking to her on the telephone that first time. She was glad that there was no one about, not even Susan, and she might, unquestioned, steal up to her own room and read her letter undisturbed. Her first wonderful letter!
B
lythe was trembling as she settled down in her chair to read her letter, grasping it tenderly as if it were something fragile, something almost elusive that might take flight from her hand even yet.
Carefully she opened the envelope, studying the formation of her own name in Charlie’s handwriting. It seemed so much like a miracle that he should be writing to her. She laid her face softly against the folded letter and closed her eyes an instant, with a soft little smile on her lips. Then she unfolded the letter and began to read:
To the most wonderful girl in the world.
My Dearly Beloved:
I am filled with an almost heavenly joy to be writing to you, with your permission, and to know that you are letting me love you and take your own love with me as I go out into a world of sin and death and uncertainty, with practically no chance that I can ever return.
But I want this to be a happy letter, because you have given me so much joy by taking my intrusion into your life in such a beautiful way. So, may I go back through the years and tell you what you have meant to me?
The first day I went to school in your city, I looked around the room, and saw you almost at once. You wore a yellow dress, and there was sunshine on your curls that gave them a golden glow, and sunshine in your happy smile. I thought you were the most beautiful little girl I had ever seen. I went home and told my mother that you looked just like an angel. If my dear mother were living on earth now she would delight to tell you about that.
It wasn’t many days before I discovered that you were a very bright little girl who always knew your lessons and could answer the questions the teacher asked, quickly, as if you understood what she was talking about. It made me eager to study and do my best, too. I didn’t want you to think I was dumb. You see, you were a great inspiration to me. Though I had no idea I would ever get to know you or have an opportunity to tell you these things, of course. You were just like a beautiful angel living up near heaven somewhere, out of my world.
I shall never forget the day when we were both sent to the blackboard to work out a problem in algebra, and stood side by side for a little while. We were told to compare our work and explain it to one another. I was so thrilled at being so near to you that my brains would scarcely work, and to look into your beautiful eyes and hear you talking to me with your sweet voice made my heart beat so that I had hard work to control my own voice to answer you. Just thinking this over afterward brought me great happiness. And once when you stood near me in class, you dropped your little scrap of a handkerchief and I picked it up and handed it to you, and as you took it, your fingers touched mine and swept the most wonderful thrill of joy over my soul. You wouldn’t have noticed that touch perhaps, but it meant a great deal to me, and I thought of your lovely hands with the utmost reverence. Your touch seemed to me like the breath from an angel’s wing.
Do you think all this language is silly? But I wanted to let you see into my heart and know what you have been to me all these years, even from very early childhood. It sort of explains, and perhaps just a little excuses, my temerity in coming to tell you of my love at this, the last minute. My heart somehow ached to let you know.
For, you see, when high school days came, and you and I were even further apart than we had been as children, there was less opportunity even to see you, for social life, in which I had no time to take any part, had come in to make a greater separation.
But I can recall the lovely vision of you that I had in those days, brief glimpses. You wore enchanting garments and seemed a picture in each one. I used to rejoice that you were not all painted up with lipstick and rouge like so many other girls. You were fine and different.
So that was the background for my great love for you, which grew and grew through the years, even after I went away to college and didn’t see you anymore. Till one day it came to me that I loved you, with a great deep love that filled all my being.
Yet I never presumed, even in my mind, to look forward to having you for mine. Your people were cultured and wealthy, and mine were poor, and what culture they had was not from worldly advantages. I was a poor boy, and while if the war had not claimed my services, I might have tried to get up in the world and do something worthwhile, I never dared to hope that I would be in a class where your people would like to have me for their daughter’s intimate friend.
So that was how it all began for me, and I think you have a right to know, and to know that I have always thought of you as one for whom I was trying to keep myself fine and pure and true in my daily life; that I might be worthy to love you, even from afar, even though you might never know it.
I do not think this is much of a love letter, yet I felt you had a right to know all this.
And now, because this may be the last letter I can write that I am sure will go uncensored, I must tell you again of my great love for you, which has been growing and growing for so long, that it finally drove me to find you and tell you about it before I went away.
I want you to know how your sweet presence is going with me, wherever I am, and the joy of your precious lips on mine will thrill me again and again when things grow hard and fearful. My hungry arms will remember how it felt to hold you close, with your dear face against mine, your lovely hair touching my cheek. It will be a precious memory that I shall hold reverently as long as I live. I have always looked upon you as very sacred, have always had the utmost reverence for you. My mother used to tell me when I was just a small kid that someday God might send a girl who would seem that way to me, and I must take care that I kept myself fine and clean for her in spirit as well as in body. Perhaps almost unconsciously I have remembered that, and I have definitely kept it in mind several times when you seemed to me to be high above all other girls.
Well, and that’s what you seemed to me all through our school days. Do you wonder that I dared at the last minute before I said good-bye to my native land, to come to you and lay my love at your feet, as a tribute to what you have been to me?
But there is one thing I want to make clear, and that is that I do not want my love to be a hindrance to you in your life in any way. And if I do not come back and the future should bring you another love, do not feel you must send him away because you have told me that you love me. The joy of love is that the loved one shall be happy. Only this way can I go contented to whatever my duty has in store for me. I am sure you will understand that I had to say this, even though for the time being it may sadden you. But don’t be sad. Be glad that we had the joy of one another for at least a few moments.
If in any future letters I do not speak of my love so plainly, remember that I am conscious of a censorship that seems to me a sort of desecration of our precious love. But you will understand.
So, to bring my letter to a finish, I am closing my eyes and feeling your lips upon mine, my arms about you, my darling!
Yours forever,
Charlie