"What are you ******?" asked Joan.
The little withered face lighted up. "Guess," she said, as she unfolded and displayed a tiny garment.
"I so love ****** them," she said. "I say to myself, 'It will all come right. God will send more and more of His Christ babies; till at last there will be thousands and thousands of them everywhere;and their love will change the world!'"
Her bright eyes had caught sight of the ring upon Joan's hand. She touched it with her little fragile fingers.
"You will let me make one for you, dearie, won't you?" she said.
"I feel sure it will be a little Christ baby."Arthur was still away when she arrived home. He had gone to Norway on business. Her father was afraid he would find it difficult to get back. Telegraphic communication had been stopped, and they had had no news of him. Her father was worried. A big Government contract had come in, while many of his best men had left to enlist.
"I've fixed you up all right at the hospital," he said. "It was good of you to think of coming home. Don't go away, for a bit."It was the first time he had asked anything of her.
Another fortnight passed before they heard from Arthur, and then he wrote them both from Hull. He would be somewhere in the North Sea, mine sweeping, when they read his letters. He had hoped to get a day or two to run across and say good-bye; but the need for men was pressing and he had not liked to plead excuses. The boat by which he had managed to leave Bergen had gone down. He and a few others had been picked up, but the sights that he had seen were haunting him. He felt sure his uncle would agree that he ought to be helping, and this was work for England he could do with all his heart. He hoped he was not leaving his uncle in the lurch; but he did not think the war would last long, and he would soon be back.
"Dear lad," said her father, "he would take the most dangerous work that he could find. But I wish he hadn't been quite so impulsive.
He could have been of more use helping me with this War Office contract. I suppose he never got my letter, telling him about it."In his letter to Joan he went further. He had received his uncle's letter, so he confided to her. Perhaps she would think him a crank, but he couldn't help it. He hated this killing business, this ****** of machinery for slaughtering men in bulk, like they killed pigs in Chicago. Out on the free, sweet sea, helping to keep it clean from man's abominations, he would be away from it all.
She saw the vision of him that night, as, leaning from her window, she looked out beyond the pines: the little lonely ship amid the waste of waters; his beautiful, almost womanish, face, and the gentle dreamy eyes with their haunting suggestion of a shadow.
Her little drummer played less and less frequently to her as the months passed by. It didn't seem to be the war he had looked forward to. The illustrated papers continued to picture it as a sort of glorified picnic where smiling young men lolled luxuriously in cosy dug-outs, reading their favourite paper. By curious coincidence, it generally happened to be the journal publishing the photograph. Occasionally, it appeared, they came across the enemy, who then put up both hands and shouted "Kamerad." But the weary, wounded men she talked to told another story.
She grew impatient of the fighters with their mouths; the savage old baldheads heroically prepared to sacrifice the last young man;the sleek, purring women who talked childish nonsense about killing every man, woman and child in Germany, but quite meant it; the shrieking journalists who had decided that their place was the home front; the press-spurred mobs, the spy hunters, chasing terrified old men and sobbing children through the streets. It was a relief to enter the quiet ward and close the door behind her. The camp-followers: the traders and pedlars, the balladmongers, and the mountebanks, the ghoulish sightseers! War brought out all that was worst in them. But the givers of their blood, the lads who suffered, who had made the sacrifice: war had taught them chivalry, manhood. She heard no revilings of hatred and revenge from those drawn lips. Patience, humour, forgiveness, they had learnt from war. They told her kindly stories even of Hans and Fritz.
The little drummer in her brain would creep out of his corner, play to her softly while she moved about among them.
One day she received a letter from Folk. He had come to London at the request of the French Government to consult with English artists on a matter he must not mention. He would not have the time, he told her, to run down to Liverpool. Could she get a couple of days' leave and dine with him in London.
She found him in the uniform of a French Colonel. He had quite a military bearing and seemed pleased with himself. He kissed her hand, and then held her out at arms' length.
"It's wonderful how like you are to your mother," he said, "I wish I were as young as I feel."She had written him at the beginning of the war, telling him of her wish to get out to the front, and he thought that now he might be able to help her.
"But perhaps you've changed your mind," he said. "It isn't quite as pretty as it's painted.""I want to," she answered. "It isn't all curiosity. I think it's time for women to insist on seeing war with their own eyes, not trust any longer to the pictures you men paint." She smiled.
"But I've got to give it up," she added. "I can't leave Dad."They were sitting in the hall of the hotel. It was the dressing hour and the place was almost empty. He shot a swift glance at her.
"Arthur is still away," she explained, "and I feel that he wants me. I should be worrying myself, thinking of him all alone with no one to look after him. It's the mother instinct I suppose. It always has hampered woman." She laughed.
"Dear old boy," he said. He was watching her with a little smile.
"I'm glad he's got some luck at last."