Jean toiled up Laura Brookman’s broad stairway. She stood for a moment at the top, uncertain in which direction to go, when the sound of a child’s voice reached her and she went toward it, pushing open the door of the children’s bedroom.
“May I come in?” she asked from the threshold.
“Why, it’s Jean,” cried Mrs. Brookman, dropping the brush with which she was curling her little daughter’s hair, and going quickly to meet the girl. “Draw up a comfortable chair for Jean, Elsie. Tired, dear?”
“Tired? Me? Yes, I believe I am—I can’t imagine why,” echoed Jean, opening her eyes wide, and sinking into the low rocking-chair Elsie dragged toward her. “But one would think I were ill or dying by the way you look at me. You’re getting me mixed up with Uncle Daniel, aren’t you? He is the one on whose account we are going away—that dreadful insomnia, you know. No, don’t unbutton my jacket, Elsie; I’ve only dropped in for a minute to say good by. We are going to-morrow morning at eight and—oh, Elsie, why are you having your hair curled, and what may the gorgeous array on the bed portend?” She leaned back, pale, but animatedly interested.
“Mrs. Baker is giving a tea this afternoon for the benefit of the Red Cross Society,” explained Elsie’s mother, resuming her task, “and Elsie has been asked to sing. Where have you been, Jean? Doing a lot of walking?”
“Oh, no. I’ve just made a few good-by calls—I wanted to see some of the soldier boys’ mothers before I leave. I heard that Mrs. Levison has grown so downcast, now that the troops are about to go. You can’t draw a smile from her, although the girls are doing their best to cheer her with patriotic orations. ‘Talk away,’ she snapped, grimly, this afternoon. ‘For me, I’d rather have a live coward every day than a dead hero any day.’ But we finally got her to admit she didn’t mean exactly that, although, through her tears, we couldn’t just make out what she did mean. Out at Mrs. Arnstein’s, who has been a brave Spartan mother all along, they told me how she began to cry last night during dinner when the dessert was brought on, because Ben couldn’t have any—and it was his favorite pudding! Think of it, Elsie! Isn’t that shocking?”
“I wouldn’t cry about an old pudding,” answered the child, contemptuously, her cheeks and eyes glowing.
“You and Jean would make good drummer-boys,” said Laura Brookman, letting a heavy silky spiral droop to her daughter’s waist. “And all this patriotism in the abstract, Miss Willard, is very high and brave, and unselfish, but I doubt if you would sing the same song if some one dearer to you than—”
“You don’t believe that, Laura,” returned Jean, gently. “You know if I had any one very close to me, which I haven’t, who could, and didn’t want to, join the army, I’d be ashamed to claim him as my own.”
“Nonsense. You have sung that song to the echoes,” said Laura, harshly. “I should think the responsibility would make an eloquent girl like you hesitate once in a while from expressing herself so carelessly. You have influenced quite enough young recruits.”
Her eyes flashed for a moment upon her friend.
The girl put her hands to her temples. “Do you know, I really think I have a headache,” she said, surprisedly. “Or was it your horrid words, Laura, that sent such a throb—dear me; how everything swings! There, it’s gone. What do you think happened to me last night? I almost fainted when I was saying good by to Paul, and if that—why, Elsie, sweetheart, what is the matter?”
“Mamma pulled my hair,” sobbed the little one, putting her head down on her knees.
Mrs. Brookman had the little face against hers in a minute. “Hush,” she whispered, imperatively. “As though mamma wouldn’t rather hurt herself than you.”
A rush of miserable understanding thrilled through Jean. “Don’t be a cry-baby, Elsie,” she said, coming to the rescue, “and I’ll tell you what Charlie Taylor did night before last to help his country. You know Charlie Taylor, the boy who lives across the street from me? Well, his brother, Lieutenant Taylor, has gone to the front, and Charlie promised to look after the ladies for him while he is at the war—a real squire of dames is he, like those they used to have years ago, you know. Now, Lieutenant Taylor has a young wife who isn’t very well, and she is living with her mother away out on Scott Street, and the last command the lieutenant gave Charlie was that his wife, Edith, was not to be frightened about him. Well, night before last, one of those fake-extra newsboys began suddenly to make night hideous with his war-cry, and just as I ran to the door to hear what he was saying, there was a sudden silence, and a moment later Charlie Taylor, hatless, with golden hair flying in the breeze, appeared around the corner like a beautiful young St. Michael. ‘Why, Charlie,’ I called, ‘what have you in your arms?’ ‘All that fellow’s extras,’ he shouted back. ‘I bought ’em. Now he can’t frighten Edith.’ So he’s my Captain Charlie.”
The child forgot her tears, listening to the bright, enthusiastic voice, and Laura Brookman regained her composure. But the girl sprang restlessly to her feet. “I must go,” she said, looking at her watch. “Don’t forget you are to be my squire at the Boys’ Club, Laura, while I’m gone, and don’t forget my soldier boys. Oh, how I hate to go away—now.”
She kissed them good by, and was soon out in the sunshiny, windy street, where every house was bright with flags. Now and then a soldier passed, Jean nodding to each in the camaraderie born of the hour, which was never misunderstood or abused. A rag-tag regiment of tots was having a council of war in a sand-lot, as to whether it should be a land or naval battle that day; two solemn-looking youngsters in infantry-striped overalls were bearing a wounded comrade off the field of battle. The starry-eyed girl passed along among this toy war, her thoughts wistful and far away from it all. Two schoolgirls, holding hands, came by, softly singing “Tenting To-night.” She had passed these same singing schoolgirls before, and now she smiled absently into their eyes, while almost running into a tall, lanky blue-coat at the corner.
“Why, Paul!” She held his hand while he lifted his gray campaign hat. “Once again, for luck.”
“I hope so. Where are you bound for?”
“Just around the corner, home. And you’ll come and dine with us.”
“Not to-night. But I’ll walk down to the house with you.” They strolled along together.
“How many subscriptions did you get up to-day?” he asked, looking fondly down into her deeply shadowed eyes. “How many more Jewish volunteers did you count—how many hungry souls did you feed and how many soleless souls did you console? How many romantic hearts did you—”
“Silly fellow, keep still. I haven’t accomplished a thing to-day. Oh, yes, I attended a meeting this morning—and thereby hangs a tale.” She laughed a short, embittered laugh.
“Well?”
“Well, a vote of thanks was offered to all the ladies who had given assistance to the soldiers, especially for the splendid patriotism shown by the Jewish and colored ladies.” Her eyes flashed in her pale face.
Paul smiled. “Evidently you don’t like fine distinctions,” he mused, amusedly.
“They’re not fine—under that,” she said, swiftly, nodding toward a flag which fluttered out in the breeze.
“But it was meant most kindly. Jean, Jean, don’t be forever butting your head against a stone wall. It’s no use. The long and short of it is—well, there’s that,” he indicated the flying colors, “and here we are—answering; with no spread-eagleism, only in common decency, wiping out, perhaps, an old-time unjust accusation—with our lives. On the battlefield all blood flows red.” He took both her hands in his, having reached her doorstep.
“I won’t tell you to be brave, Paul,” she said, looking into his strong, kind eyes. “But oh, my dear, take care of yourself.”
He threw back his head, laughing aloud. “That reminds me of a popular song we sang long before your day:
“‘Mother, may I go out to swim?
Yes, my dearest daughter;
Hang your clothes on the hickory limb,
But don’t go near the water.’
Which is all very loving and foolish, and therefore human. Well, friend o’ mine, once again, good by. Be good to yourself—and to all our own.” His hands gripped hers tensely.
“I will, Paul,” she responded, truly. “Now I’ll stand here and watch you to the corner.”
“That’s like you,” he returned, gayly, swinging off. But the next minute he was back again.
“It seems as though I couldn’t leave you,” he laughed, hurriedly. “But it just occurred to me that some news I heard at camp might lessen your solicitude for yours truly. Colonel Smith told me this morning that our eminent friend, your quondam neighbor, Dr. May, has offered his services, been appointed, through his friend, the Governor, an acting assistant surgeon, and sails with us on Wednesday for Manila—so—. What, Jean, you’re not going to faint again!” He put out a startled hand.
“I never do more than make a feint at it,” she reassured him, smiling through her pallor. “It must be the sun in my eyes. Yes, you’ll be in skillful hands.”
“No doubt of it. Well—so long!”
At the corner he turned. The great flag on the staff fluttered out in the stiff breeze toward him. The westering sun illumined him as he raised his hat high. It was thus that Jean ever after remembered him.
“I am not going in,” she thought, dazedly. “But what was I going to do? Oh, it doesn’t matter—I’ll just walk down the street—perhaps I’ll meet uncle.”
She strolled away.