THE MESSENGER
"COME on, do, Nancy," urged Judith; "it's on Friday, there is nothing
else doing and it's sure to be interesting, for there are to be pictures
of the work in Italy and in Russia. Miss Ashwell's going to take us. I'm
going to be her partner," she added importantly.
"Well, that settles it," said Nancy; "you and your Miss Ashwell! I won't
go if I can't go with you. It's a long walk from the University to the
cars and I'm tired of Red Cross, anyway."
Judith and Jane were curled up on Nancy's couch eating chocolates; Nancy
had just had a birthday and Jack had sent her a gratifyingly large box
of candy with the injunction to go "fifty-fifty" with Judith and thus
save herself from a bilious attack.
"I can't see why you are so keen on another Red Cross meeting, Judy. I
should think you'd be tired of the subject after writing that long essay
for Miss Kingston--but I forgot about your Uncle Brian.--Get off my
foot, Jane, do."
Jane selected another chocolate, and said with a chuckle:
"You should have been in our French division this morning! _Dear_ Miss
Watson, how she hates me."
"I don't wonder," said Catherine, who was on the window-seat mending a
lace ruffle. "Don't tell me that you've been tormenting her again."
"Certainly; we always do at the beginning of term, though we get tired
of it after a while. We had verbs this morning with lots of _r's_ in
them--accourir and servir and reconnaître--so I winked to Althea and
Maggie and we had a dandy time. It saves lots of work," she added
reflectively. "Every time Miss Watson rolled an _r_, one of us put up a
hand and asked to have the word repeated. We just couldn't understand
her. We made it last for most of the period, and the poor dear didn't
get to the exercise at all."
"I'd have sent you packing, the whole lot of you, to Miss Meredith. You
deserve it, and then I guess you'd be sorry, you little worms!"
"Oh, would you?" retorted Jane shrewdly; "not if you had reported us all
two days ago for setting a metronome going in class. That _was_ fun!
Miss Meredith is getting tired of Miss Watson's returned lessons and bad
marks, though she gave us a jolly good scolding, I must say. No, I think
we are pretty safe for this week." And she chuckled reminiscently.
"Choose some one your own size, Jane," suggested Catherine, hunting for
a piece of chocolate ginger; "'t isn't sporting to pick on Miss Watson
like that."
"Well, why not?" demanded Jane. "She isn't on her job--she's just plain
stupid--I don't believe she ever thinks about anything."
"Well, you're wrong there--she's just crazy about reading--she reads
everything--her room is full of books, and Miss Ashwell says she knows
more about Russian literature than most people in this country. None of
you children been bothering Miss Ashwell, have you?"
There was an indignant denial, and Judith, remembering that she had seen
her friend and comforter looking very much as if she herself stood in
need of comforting, asked quickly:
"Why do you ask, Cathy?"
"Oh, well, she seems bothered," was the rather vague answer.
Judith ran down to Miss Ashwell's room at visiting time that night, and
tapping at the door put in her head and enquired, "May I come in?"
"Not just now, Judith," said Miss Ashwell, "I'm busy."
Judith with a mumbled apology disappeared at once, but not before she
had seen that Miss Ashwell's busy-ness had to do apparently with the
snapshot of a handsome soldier propped against the reading-lamp--a
despatch case lay open on the floor beside her and there were letters
strewn over the table and in Miss Ashwell's lap.
"Now, wasn't that too bad of me to rush in like that," thought Judith,
as she hurried away. "I wonder if that's the picture she showed me the
other day--she was probably going to write to him--wouldn't it be
exciting?"
Miss Ashwell looked complacently next day at her line of forty girls as
they were ushered into reserved seats near the front of Convocation
Hall. They might some of them look like young hoydens in middy blouses
and gymnasium bloomers--which costume most of them affected during
school hours--but now, in their trim serge suits and _chic_ little hats,
they were a credit to their chaperon, and as it was considered bad form
to misbehave "in line" at church or concert or lecture, Miss Ashwell
settled down and gave herself up to the luxury of her own thoughts.
Judith, sitting beside her and looking eagerly at the portraits of
founders and benefactors, decided that they could not be very happy
thoughts, for she heard one soft little sigh and then another. Miss
Ashwell was unhappy again! Something pathetic about the droop of her
lips made Judith feel sudden anger against the unknown cause of Miss
Ashwell's melancholy. It might, of course, have been a large millinery
bill, or indigestion, or a blouse that wouldn't fit, but Judith's
romantic soul would have none of these. It must be that man in the
Italian snapshots. How pretty Miss Ashwell had looked that day when she
had showed Judith the Italian pictures! How her eyes had deepened until
they were almost violet, and how her cheeks had glowed! Perhaps he was
an unfaithful lover, perhaps he had married an Italian girl, or even a
German in a sudden impulse of pity, and now could not come home to
Canada to face his old love. No, not married, just betrothed, because of
course he must come home, and Judith was already staging Miss Ashwell's
wedding when the President and faculty members, together with
distinguished guests and officials of the Red Cross Society, took their
places on the dais.
Judith leaned forward eagerly. How delightfully the red and blue
splashes of colour of the professors' academic hoods showed up against
the old-oak panelling. That must be an Oxford hood, and there was an
Edinburgh one. Daddy had showed her one like that--but the President was
speaking. He regretted that Dr. Johnson, who was to have lectured this
afternoon, was unavoidably absent through illness, but a distinguished
graduate of their own, who had been with the Intelligence Staff in Italy
and had won the Military Cross because of a particularly brilliant piece
of work there, who had been a prisoner in Russia for nearly a year, and
who had recently been engaged in relief work in Serbia, had been
prevailed upon to take Dr. Johnson's place. He had much pleasure in
introducing Major David Phillips.
The York Hill line bent forward eagerly--an M.C.--a Russian
prisoner--name David--David was a favourite name just then--one of their
own University boys, wounded, tall, thin, dark hair turning grey at the
temples in the most approved fashion! How satisfactorily romantic!
But just how romantic, not one of the forty guessed but Judith. She
alone heard the quick intake of Miss Ashwell's breath, she alone saw the
flood of colour sweep over Miss Ashwell's face, she could almost hear
the thumpings of Miss Ashwell's heart, and Judith guessed at once that
the here who was being enthusiastically applauded was the hero of the
Italian snapshots, and Miss Ashwell's face was sufficient confirmation.
How thrilling, how wonderful! He was home again, Miss Ashwell would be
happy, everybody would be happy! Probably they would be married right
away--she had forgotten the imaginary German bride--and maybe Miss
Ashwell would let her help her in her shopping. She could go down on
Saturday mornings. Aunt Nell knew an awfully good shop for linens, an
Irish shop.
"Say, Judy," whispered Frances, "isn't that your Uncle Tom in the back
row on the platform?"
Yes, it was. Judith blushed with vexation. Why couldn't Uncle Tom be
more careful? His tie had slipped its moorings and was gradually working
its way to the top of his collar. Really, relations ought to be less
conspicuous unless they could be more presentable; she hoped Catherine
wouldn't see him. He did look ridiculous. Whatever had he done to his
hair? It looked as if he had gone to sleep in it, thought Judy
indignantly.
Judith stole another glance at Miss Ashwell; the colour had faded and
her face was white; it looked almost stern. Whatever was the matter? The
lights went off for the lantern slides and Judith, greatly daring,
whispered:
"Isn't that the Major Phillips you used to know, Miss Ashwell? The one
who was with Uncle Brian in Italy?"
"Yes, I used to know him, Judith, a long time ago," in stiff, cold,
dignified tones.
Judith felt dazed for a moment; then a happy inspiration came to her; a
lovers' quarrel--that's what's the matter. Now, if they could just meet
again without either of them having to give in, they would be sure to
make it up.
It was very trying having no one to talk to. She wished fervently that
Nancy or Sally May or Josephine or Joyce or some one other than Frances
were beside her; she must think hard. Miss Ashwell was in love with
Major Phillips, that was clear. Major Phillips must be in love with Miss
Ashwell, that went without saying. Miss Ashwell was unhappy. Of course
it wasn't her business at all, at all, but Judith didn't think of that.
There was something appealing about Miss Ashwell at all times, and Miss
Ashwell in trouble made Judith certain that something must be done. She
hardly heard a word the lecturer said, but sat frowning, thinking hard;
then her face cleared; she had a plan. She would make a dash for the
platform and Uncle Tom the minute the last picture was put on the
screen, and beg him to introduce her to Major Phillips, and she would
ask him if he would speak at the Arts and Letters Club, for she knew
they wanted some one for next week. Probably Miss Ashwell would be very
much annoyed and would come after her, and then--further than that
Judith didn't go, for she was immediately involved in the difficulties
of how to get away from Miss Ashwell in order to make her dash for the
platform. The York Hill girls would wait, of course, a few minutes
until some of the people had gone before they tried to leave the
building; perhaps by that time Major Phillips would have disappeared.
Judith was still struggling to think of something plausible to say to
Miss Ashwell when the lights came on again; and when the organist began
"God Save the King" and the audience rose, Judith knew that she must act
quickly if she were to to save the situation. Her heart thumped so
loudly that there was a buzzing in her ears and her hands were icy cold.
Miss Ashwell would be angry; she might even report Judith to Miss
Meredith; Judith quailed at the thought; the last note sounded.
"Excuse me, Miss Ashwell, but there's Uncle Tom. I simply _must_ speak
to him." And before an astonished and, it must be confessed, a dreaming
Miss Ashwell could say yea or nay, Judith had slipped past her down the
aisle and was making her way to the platform. The line was transfixed
with horror.
"Judith Benson! Who does she think she is, anyway, going right up there
amongst all those 'brass hats?' Is she crazy?"
Judith was lost to York Hill eyes as she disappeared into the group of
people at the back of the platform, who were apparently waiting to have
a word with the speaker. She clutched Uncle Tom's arm with both hands,
and if the warmth of her greeting astonished him he made no sign.
"Why, yes, I know him," he replied in answer to her eager questioning.
"What you doin' here by yourself? Oh, are they?"--and he turned to get a
view of the line. "Arts and Letters Club, eh? Sounds frightening. I
don't know whether he'd dare." This in Uncle Tom's facetious manner.
"Hey, Phillips"--to the hero who was making a determined effort to
escape his questioners--"Here's a young lady who is a hero-worshipper."
And as he made the necessary introduction, he added, to Judith's huge
disgust, "She wants your autograph or something."
Judith made her request politely and, as with sinking heart she saw that
he was going to refuse, she added clearly, "Miss Elizabeth Ashwell is
waiting down there for us with the others--the line I mean." Judith was
thrilled at the change in Major Phillips's face.
"Oh, then, you are Miss Ashwell's messenger," he said eagerly.
"Not exactly," stammered Judith; "but she's waiting for us," she
repeated firmly.
Major Phillips lost no time.
"In that case we had better go, not keep a lady waiting, eh, Mr. Hilton?
Perhaps I ought to say forty ladies," he continued as they made their
way down the aisle.
Judith's knees were trembling. She didn't dare lift her eyes, as Uncle
Tom greeted Miss Ashwell and she heard him say,
"Major Phillips I believe you know already."
Major Phillips had Miss Ashwell's hand in his and was clearly paying no
attention to Uncle Tom. The line was divided afterwards as to whether he
shook her hand eagerly or just held it. The majority favoured the latter
opinion, but all agreed that he looked right into her eyes and that his
voice was "as different as anything from what it was before."
Somehow or other they started on their homeward way with Miss Ashwell
and Major Phillips bringing up the rear, for Williams the janitor had
magically appeared with the latter's stick, and Uncle Tom thoughtfully
made his adieus and departed.
If Major David Phillips hadn't been too ecstatically happy to notice
anything except the curve of Miss Ashwell's pink cheek and the length of
her eyelashes and a soft little curl which hung in front of her ear, he
might have been surprised at the extreme quiet of the forty girls in
front of him; they might have been walking to a funeral. What he
wouldn't have guessed was that every ear in the line was stretched
backwards to catch his slightest word or he might have lowered his
voice. As it was at least half the line could hear him:
Yes, he was glad to be back in Canada.
Yes, two months ago.
He'd been delayed in England over the Serbian work.
No, he wasn't in town. He had a cottage, really a little old farmhouse,
about ten miles out of the city. His Aunt Joan had died while he was
away and had left him "White Cottage." He was living there with his
batman, who was awfully handy and did the cooking and everything, and
between them they had turned the parlour and the spare bedroom into a
studio. They had made a great northern window and Jennings was now
building a piazza. Elizabeth must come and see it. However, she would
have to come soon, as he was going to France in June.
"Elizabeth," said the line to itself, "and she didn't call him David?"
They felt they wouldn't have been so behind-hand.
Judith meanwhile, being partnerless, had wormed her way down to the
prefects who were leading the line.
"Cathy," she whispered urgently, "do go slow, please; he's limping, you
know, and don't stop when we get to the cars. Please, please, just walk
on slowly, and perhaps Miss Ashwell won't notice. I'll tell you why
later. It's awfully important."
"Right you are, Mr. First Mate," answered Catherine, and Judith, not
without some whispered chaffing, got back within earshot.
Major Phillips was talking about his experiences in the Russian prison
and Judy needn't have worried lest Miss Ashwell should notice when they
reached the cars; Miss Ashwell was in another world entirely; the line
did not exist for her. They walked on and on and Major Phillips's voice
became lower. The line began to feel rebellious.
"Fourteen blocks," said Frances Purdy to her neighbour. "I'm nearly
dead. I shouldn't wonder if we had to walk all the way."
And they did. Miss Ashwell didn't "notice" till they began the ascent of
the hill and Major Phillips was obliged to go very slowly, indeed. Miss
Ashwell was full of remorse. His leg must be hurting, but the school was
in sight. He must come in and rest. He had walked too far, and lines of
pain and fatigue were plain to be seen. Miss Ashwell decided that she
must take him to the common room, and then get Mrs. Bronson to make him
some hot tea. But probably he couldn't walk so far! Perhaps he would
faint. Whatever should she do? Suddenly to her great relief she saw Miss
Meredith in her car evidently returning from town. Miss Ashwell moved
over to the side of the road, Major Phillips limping after her, and the
line stood still awaiting developments. Miss Ashwell explained her
predicament to an amazed Head Mistress. Miss Meredith thought and acted
quickly. Major Phillips was welcomed with both hands and tucked into the
car. Catherine was summoned.
"My compliments to Mrs. Bronson, Catherine, and please ask her if she
can provide you all with hot cocoa and cake after your walk. Miss
Ashwell is coming home with me for tea."
The car drove off, and though the line moved on decorously towards the
much-desired rest and cocoa, Major Phillips would have been considerably
surprised if he could have heard its sudden galvanization into speech.
Catherine, who took Miss Ashwell's place at the end of the line, was
obliged to send a runner ahead with the request,
"Less noise till we reach bounds, please."
But the instant they reached the school gates the line dissolved and
Judith was surrounded by an excited mob.
"Oh, go on, tell us, Judy."
"Whatever were you doing on the platform?"
"Who is he, anyway?"
"Don't be a piker! Tell us, Judy."
"Fancy Miss Meredith whisking him off like that."
"Is he really Miss Ashwell's?"
But Judith, though triumphant, was loyally discreet. He was an old
friend of her Uncle Brian's. She had to speak to Uncle Tom, and then
Uncle Tom and Major Phillips came down to speak to Miss Ashwell.
There were some who felt that this was not all, but Catherine supported
Judith and adjured them not to go into their own houses and spread
romantic tales.
But there are some things which even a popular prefect cannot achieve.
The affair was discussed in all its details by the tired forty as they
consumed much cocoa and cake in the sitting-room, and even later, when
the running of many bath-taps proclaimed loudly the fact that forty
tired bodies were being refreshed, scraps of conversation floated over
the bath partitions.
"Good thing it's his left arm that's hurt."
"Isn't his hair lovely? I adore hair that is slightly greying!"
"Is it a V.C. he's got?"
"When do you suppose they'll be married?"
"Did you say he was an artist or an engineer?"
"Won't she look lovely in a wedding gown?"
"_I_ wouldn't be married in anything but white."
"Judith Benson thinks she's _it_. What is she doing in it anyhow?"
Judith smiled happily in her bath. She had decided on her bridesmaid's
frock.